Final Fix (Rachel Ryder Book 8), page 10
“Damian, I see we’ve got guests,” he said with a smarmy smile aimed as Bishop and me. “You’ve got work to do. I’m happy to talk with them.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Baxter.” Damian gave us a nod, but his eyes said he wasn’t happy. I made a mental note to have Bubba get his contact information.
Emma had probably let her father know we were there. His showing up immediately didn’t win him any points, though he didn’t have many to win in the first place. “Mr. Baxter,” I said. “I’m Detective Ryder and this is Detective Bishop. We’re looking for information on Sean Higgins.”
Mason Baxter sighed. “Sad news. I didn’t know Sean well, but I knew he’d had some struggles as of late.”
Lie number one.
“What kind of struggles?” Bishop asked.
Baxter studied me, the right side of his upper lip raised a bit. Maybe he didn’t like my blue jeans and long-sleeved Hamby PD shirt? Or maybe it was my Doc Martens? Either way, I didn’t care. I flashed him a toothy grin while he answered.
“Well, drugs, I assume. That’s what killed him, after all.” He crouched down and dusted the dirt off his shoes.
Good luck with that buddy. It’s a horse ranch. Should have changed before you came to check on us.
“There’s been no cause of death determined at this time,” I said. Barron had said it was drugs that killed Sean, and that had been made public, but an overdose hadn’t, and no one had said that to Sean’s family. We’d secured the crime scene well enough to keep anybody from seeing Sean, so unless an officer leaked the information, which was possible, there's no way Baxter would have known what killed him.
Damn. His buddy, the mayor. My heart rate soared into the anaerobic zone. If the mayor and this man were out trash-talking Sean around town, we’d have a problem. No, they’d have a problem. I wasn’t a fan of the mayor. In my opinion he made more trouble than he was worth.
“You said you’re aware of a history of drug use with Mr. Higgins?” Bishop asked. “What do you know about that?”
He exhaled. “I don’t like to talk about people negatively.”
There was a “but” coming.
“But there’s been some talk. Perhaps that’s why he’s stopped buying horses? I understand he was telling people he doesn’t like the quality available, but I’ve not had any trouble.”
“Except for the ones who’ve died,” I said.
“Those had genetic issues. It happens.”
“So, you never saw him doing drugs?” Bishop asked.
“Did he ever do them around me? No, of course not, but I did see him high multiple times. In fact, he recently approached me at Rucker’s. I saw the glazed over eyes and knew something was up. When he started an argument, I did my best to keep him at arm’s length.”
“What was the argument about?” I asked.
“Sean wasn’t a fan of competition. As I said, he hadn’t bought horses in some time, and I think he was upset that I’ve invested in quality ones. Our training business has picked up. We’ve got the horse racing community locked in, and our reputation is stellar. It’s hard to compete with a ranch of our stature, so combine that with drugs, and you’ve got someone destined for suicide.”
I clenched my fists. Did he think we were idiots? There was no way he could buy horses to sell for racing. Not unless he was faking the paperwork, which was complicated but possible. Stiff and regulated procedures had been created for racehorses because so many scammers had sold horses not cut out for racing.
Bishop cleared his throat, likely knowing I was about to lose it. “As my partner said, there’s been no cause of death determined for Mr. Higgins at this time. We’re doing our due diligence to assist the medical examiner with his final determination.”
“Maybe I used the wrong term. Accidental overdose, perhaps?” He looked behind me. “Didn’t he overdose on something laced with fentanyl?”
We hadn’t received any information on the drug from Barron yet. “It can take weeks, even months, for blood tests to come back,” I said. “Where did you hear that?”
He blinked. “One of my guys mentioned it. Ranching is a tight community. The employees are all connected. As I said, I guess it could have been an accidental overdose, which I'm assuming in your line of work is different than suicide. Either way, drugs killed him. If you're asking me if anyone here might have been the one to sell him the drugs,” he shook his head. “I'd say no. I run a tight ship, and I don't have time for drugs or drug users.” His eyes shifted to Bishop. He smiled, then moved his smile in my direction. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get to a meeting in the city in an hour, and you know how traffic is around here.” He pointed to my Jeep. “You can go out the same way you came in.”
“Hold up,” I said. “Which one of the guys told you Sean’s death was fentanyl related?”
He blinked. “I can’t remember, but that’s the thing these days, right? Lacing everything with fentanyl?” He turned to leave.
“Mr. Baxter,” I said. “One more thing. Is it possible drugs killed your horses?”
He pivoted back to us, his cocky smile replaced by a frown. “Drugs? Are you implying I drugged my horses?”
“I’m not implying anything.”
“It’s not possible. Not in the least, detective.”
“His daughter called him,” I said to Bishop in my vehicle. I squeezed the steering wheel tightly, making my knuckles turn white. “Everything he said was a lie. He knows what happened to Sean. I’ll bet he talked to his buddy the mayor, found out it was a drug overdose, and spread it around like wildfire. I swear, if Sean’s blood tests come back with fentanyl, we’re bringing Baxter in.”
Bishop connected his seatbelt, let it snap back toward him, and then pulled on it to loosen it. “Agree.”
“We need to call Barron and get a rush on those tests. I think we just found our murder suspect.”
15
“Xylazine,” Barron said.
“What is xylazine?” I asked.
“An animal tranquilizer,” Bishop responded.
“Damn,” Bubba said.
“He’s right,” Barron said over the phone. “But that’s not it.” There was a slight pause, as if he was carefully choosing his words. "The blood analysis showed a combination of fentanyl and the Xylazine, commonly referred to as tranq dope, in Mr. Higgins’s system."
Levy and I made eye contact. She tilted her head down and raised her eyebrows. She knew what I knew. Sean didn’t inject that cocktail into his arm, at least not willingly.
“That son of a bitch,” I mumbled under my breath. Baxter played the wrong card. What was he thinking? Was he so arrogant he thought he could get away with it? He would go down for Sean’s murder. I’d make sure of it.
“Is this common?” Levy asked.
“More so than before,” Barron said. “The government now considers it an emerging drug threat and a public health crisis.”
I whispered to Bishop, “How did I not know this?”
“It’s not well publicized,” he said. “I’m sure Kyle knows about it.”
“It’s been shoved under the rug for some time,” Barron said. “But given the importance of xylazine for veterinarians, it’s next to impossible to list it as a controlled substance.”
“Would that even matter?” I asked. “Given even a small amount of fentanyl is enough to kill someone.”
“Yes, however overdosing on xylazine also leads to death.”
“So, which killed him?” Bishop asked.
“He had 9.1 milliliters of fentanyl in his system. That’s almost twice the lethal dose,” Barron said.
I was going to end up on high blood pressure medicine if I didn’t calm myself. I took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Sean wouldn’t knowingly inject that crap into his system.”
“I can’t say one way or another. That being said, given this and other factors, I’m not comfortable marking him as an accidental overdose just yet. I think it’s worth more investigation on your part,” Barron said.
My shoulders relaxed. Jimmy was also in the room and heard it straight from the doctor’s mouth. “What other factors?” he asked.
I knew what he wanted to say. Me. Because I believed Sean wouldn’t do that, and neither did his family, but that wouldn’t be enough for Jimmy.
“Nothing in his test results indicates Mr. Higgins had a history of drug use. As we discussed at the autopsy, his organs all looked healthy, and as I expected, they showed nothing life-threatening on any reports. In all aspects, he appeared to be a healthy man in his thirties.”
“People die from fentanyl every day,” Jimmy said. “They think they’re buying painkillers on the street, but they’re straight fentanyl.”
“Sean didn’t buy pills off the street. Someone shot them into his blood,” I said.
“We can’t prove Sean didn’t do this himself,” Jimmy said. “Accidental overdose.” He rubbed his temples. “We need evidence that can, without any doubt, prove this was murder, or we’ll have our asses handed to us on a platter by the district attorney’s office.”
“You said the assistant DA wanted to move forward,” Bishop said.
“Because he thought horses were being pumped with performance drugs, and now you think that’s not the case. I can’t sell this to the DA’s office, and you can’t either. I’m sorry.”
“Just a few more days,” I pleaded. “Please, Jimmy. We know Baxter is rolled up in this somehow. Just give us time to figure it out.”
He exhaled then said, “Thanks, Doc. We appreciate the information.”
Barron said he’d send the report via email, and we ended the call. Jimmy closed his eyes. “A couple days. If you don’t have something by then, we’re done.”
I placed my elbows on the investigation table and pressed my palms into my forehead. I needed a minute to let that all sink in, to process it and connect the dots, if that was even possible.
Bubba tapped away on his laptop. “Xylazine can cause reduced heart rate and blood pressure in horses.” He jabbed his keys faster. “And respiratory depression. If given too much, the horse’s heart can stop.”
Bishop’s fingers traced an imaginary pattern on the table. “And look like heart disease.”
Levy, sitting opposite Bishop, absentmindedly fiddled with a paper clip, twisting it between her fingers.
I clenched and unclenched my fist. “What if Haverty’s horses were being used to smuggle fentanyl into the states, and the tranq drug was used during surgery to remove them?”
"Damn," Michels exclaimed, his hands gripping the edges of the table. "Or somehow the fentanyl got into their system?”
“What are they doing? Forcing the horses to ingest bags of the stuff?” Bishop asked.
“We can find out,” I said.
Levy, still toying with the paperclip, raised an eyebrow. "Sean expressed concern about the quality of horses of late, so Rachel’s theory is valid. It's possible they were being used to smuggle fentanyl from Mexico into the states.”
Michels, his hands now resting on the table, nodded in agreement. "Right. They drop off the horses in Texas, eliminate any traces of drugs, and then sell them off to unsuspecting ranchers like Baxter."
“Or,” Levy said. “They’re not sold off, just transported to other states where the rancher or someone on the ranch retrieves the drugs and distributes them to the cartel but doesn’t care about the horses after the job’s complete.”
“That sounds more like Mason Baxter,” Bishop said.
“And Sean figured it out,” I said.
“We need to find out where they’re getting the horses from, how they’re being transported, who’s doing the purchasing and transporting, and how often they’re getting them,” Bishop said.
“I’ll get copies of the vet reports on them,” Bubba said.
“We need someone working on that ranch,” Michels said. “Someone undercover who can bond with the employees and watch what’s going on.”
It came to me then. “I think I have just the person.”
Bishop side-eyed me. “Kyle’s still recovering from his injuries, and I doubt the DEA would let him assist.”
“Not Kyle. Garcia.”
“Your old partner?” Levy asked. She found two additional paper clips and connected them together to create a small chain.
“Yes. He’s independent now.”
“We could use someone undercover from the department,” Jimmy said. “Less expensive.”
“Garcia’s Hispanic. He’s worked undercover multiple times in Chicago, and he’ll come cheap,” I said, my tone bordering on begging. “How many Hispanic officers with undercover experience do we have at Hamby?” The answer was none.
“You’ve made your point,” Jimmy said. “I’ll pay three hundred a day. If you get me something in the next few days, and we can move forward, I might up it. If you can’t close it by shortly after that, he’s done.”
“We’ll close it before then,” Bishop said.
Jimmy nodded then left the room.
“Call him,” Bishop said.
16
“He’s getting on a plane in two hours,” I said after hanging up with Tony. “He reminded me that he worked on a farm as a teenager, which has always amazed me, but it’ll help.” I stared at the growing stack of case files before me. “We need to figure this out.”
Bishop leaned against the wall. “If this is cartel related, Kyle’s got to have something more to say.”
“Actually,” I said remembering our brief conversation. “He was checking into something.” I picked up the department line and called him.
“Yeah,” he said. “We had a tranq drug case. I can come by and tell you what I know.”
My shoulders stiffened as I kicked right into protective girlfriend mode. “You can tell us on the phone. I don’t want you out and about too much.”
Bishop cleared his throat. I’d been overly protective of Kyle, and rightfully so in my opinion, but no one except for Michels agreed with me, and he only did because he’d been the same with Ashley.
I gave my partner the side eye. “Fine,” I said, my eyes glued on Bishop. “How long till you can get here?”
“I’m getting in my car now,” he said.
“See you in a bit.” I turned toward Bishop before he griped about Kyle being a big boy and all that. “I know. Don’t say it.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You’re a horrible liar,” I said.
“Cathy says that as well.”
“Oh, I meant to tell you Jessica’s father texted me. He said he didn’t know anything else, and he asked to leave him alone so he could focus on his daughter.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Not sure that’s the route I’d take. Not that I wouldn’t want to take care of my kid, but I’d want to be informed on the progress of the investigation.”
“Agree,” I said.
“If he knows more but he’s not saying, it could be because he’s worried about her safety. You want to give him a surprise visit?” Bishop said.
“Not yet. Let’s see what else we can learn first. If we have more information, and he does know something, he might be more willing to tell us,” I said.
Fifteen minutes later, Kyle stood in front of the white board in the investigation room giving us the 411 on the tranq drug. The team was scattered around the table, our attention fixated on him as he shared details about an investigation in Florida over a year before. He wasn’t involved, so he’d had to access the DEA system, which would likely come back to bite him in the ass, but he didn’t seem to care. "This was a high-stakes operation involving the Mexican cartel smuggling fentanyl from Mexico to the US.”
Levy stood to stretch, then sat again, her pen poised to take notes. She gestured for Kyle to continue, her eyes focused on him.
"They had been tracking this cartel for months, gathering intel from informants and collaborating with various agencies," he explained. "The main lead came from a confidential informant who tipped off the DEA about a key figure within the cartel, a man named Ramiro Hernandez. He was responsible for overseeing the production and distribution of the tranq drug for that particular cartel.”
Bubba’s fingers raced across his keyboard. He pulled up a photo of Ramiro Hernandez on the screen. "Doesn’t look like a drug dealer.”
“They usually don’t,” Kyle said. “They play the role of regular citizens, typically living in wealthy neighborhoods in suburbs like Hamby, feigning executive management positions in large companies. The fronts are rarely questioned by people in the community. The companies are even real most of the time. The point is no one checks.”
“Because they’re Hispanic and no one wants to appear racist,” Levy said.
Kyle pointed his dry erase marker at her. “Exactly. They live these wealthy lives managing billions of dollars in drug trafficking, socialize with their neighbors and kill their kids.”
“Dear God, “Bishop said. “When you put it that way it’s worse than people imagine.”
Kyle nodded. “It’s a simple process, and those are the ones that are usually brilliant. They fly under the radar for years before we figure them out.”
“And they used horses to smuggle drugs into the states?” Bishop asked.
“Sometimes, yes. They set up a ranch in Davie, Florida. Fully functioning, with real business, and of course, their drug smuggling. They developed relationships with ten livestock veterinarians in Kentucky and Tennessee—"
“Relationships?” Levy asked.
“Blackmailed and bullied them into recommending their ranch to the clients. When the clients bought the horses, the vet would come to check them and remove the drugs. Usually, they’d had them in baggies in their anus.”
Nikki blanched. “That’s disgusting.”
“But effective,” Kyle said. “Who wants to check a horse’s ass at border patrol?”
“They didn’t?” Michels asked. “Wouldn’t that be required?”
