Hard To Breathe, page 19
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
Rachelle kept her guilt about the marriage hidden. Drake rarely shared his troubles and had told her little about his past. They both carried secrets but they reveled in one another.
Rachelle looked at the pink, thickened tissue of her hands and wrists. She’d gotten stronger. Scarred but functional. Several days earlier, she'd completed her first painting since the grafts. It had been one of her best works yet.
But now that calm had disappeared. Her mind thrashed like a blender on high. The red pill in her hand would bring the fuzzy disconnect she craved.
Tears trickled down her cheeks. She raised the pill and put it in her mouth.
She could hear Kaye's words, “...try not to worry so much.”
Rachelle's response wailed in her mind. I can't stop.
She thought of her mother. Her stomach clenched and she placed a hand over the scar on her neck. No!
She spit the pill into her hand.
Chapter 42
Downtown Minneapolis
“It's this lot, Kip. Pull in.”
The open-air parking lot had an automated lift arm blocking entry.
“A pay lot?” Kip said.
“Right. Just hit the button and grab the ticket.”
“What's the minimum cost?”
“Whatever.” Drake's thoughts were on the events of the morning.
“Whatever? Screw you. I'm not paying,” Kip said.
Drake looked over at Kip. His expression proved him serious.
“I'll pay, Kip.” Holy crap, yet another weird trait.
“Hell yes, you will.” The medical examiner pushed the button and grabbed the ticket the machine spit out. “These lots aren't cheap.”
I just learned who is. Drake's thoughts flashed back to the morning. His throat went tight as he spied his Dodge. Whoever had picked it up for him had backed it into his assigned space.
“Right here, Kip. The old blue Dodge. The spot next to it is open.”
“Good God, man. You drive that? What a wreck.”
“Don't have a lot of cash, Kip. I'm still a resident and I have a mountain of debt. It's a dependable car. I'm glad to have it.”
Kip pulled his Humvee in next to the Dodge, leaving his door adjacent to the driver's side of Drake's car.
“Give me your keys. Keep your ass right there—understood?” Kip pulled latex gloves from his center console, then put them on. He opened the door of the Humvee and stepped out. He'd left his window open and the car running. He spoke through the window. “Do not get out of the car.”
Drake understood. He'd caught up with Kip's spot-on reasoning.
“Tell me exactly what you did from the time you touched this heap this morning.” He inspected the Dodge's door handle.
“I unlocked and opened the door, slid into the seat, closed the door, put the keys in the ignition and started the engine.”
Kip unlocked and opened the door, then bent and inspected the car's interior.
“Were the windows frosted?” Kip spoke louder and Drake heard him easily.
“Yes. I scraped the outside, then after the engine had run for a bit, I turned on the defroster.” Drake's throat hurt with the effort of raising his voice. His voice sounded raw.
“Was there any frost on the inside? Did you use a scraper inside?”
“Yes, but the frost was light—I scraped it, then waited on the defroster.”
Kip leaned into the car, his face just above the dash. He extended a gloved finger, trailed it across the dash, then peered at it.
“Did you have flour or chalk in your car?” Kip said.
“Flour or chalk? No way. I cleaned the inside of the car a couple of days ago. I even wiped the dash down.”
“There is a very fine dusting of white powder on your dash. I thought it was frost, but it’s not. You didn't notice anything on the dash this morning? It’s miniscule and almost invisible.”
Powder? Drake thought through his actions. Thick frost on the exterior window and light frost on the inside. He'd turned on the defroster—whoa. He remembered. The defroster blower had sent up a mini-flurry. He'd assumed it was frost crystals.
“I think powder blew out when I turned on the defroster fan.”
“Stay there, Drake.” Kip went to the back of the Humvee and opened the gate. He returned to the Dodge with a plastic case that looked like a large tackle box. He opened it and removed a tiny specimen envelope, a plastic bag, and a tiny brush. He bent into the Dodge and brushed the surface of the dash. He directed the contents into the envelope, closed it, then placed it in the bag.
“I'm going to get rid of these gloves, use the wipes I have in the back to clean my hands, and take off my coat and gloves and leave them in the back. You cannot get in your car. Until I wipe myself down, you will have to try and restrain your likely overwhelming urges to touch me. I'll give you a ride where you need to go and then I'm taking what I collected to the lab.”
“I appreciate it, Kip.” What would have happened if I’d climbed into my car? It was an experiment Drake was glad to have skipped. “Penicillin is the drug I'm allergic to. Almost has to be it.”
“10-4, ER. That’s my bet as well. It all fits together.” He shook his head and smiled. “But I don’t bet. I prove. It’s likely I'm a hero again, but we’ll have to wait for confirmation.”
“You're the best, Kip.”
“I know,” he said, his voice coming through from the now-open tailgate. “It’s actually quite cool being brilliant. But if I'm right, and I’m always right,” he snapped his case closed, “someone wants you dead.”
Chapter 43
Chicago Avenue parking lot, afternoon
Farley pulled the Crown Vic up behind the Humvee. His partner, Detective Aki Yamada, nodded toward the vehicle and its “IC-DEAD” license plate. The idling, orange Humvee's exhaust rose like white smoke in the frigid parking lot.
“Now we know who called 9-1-1 and requested us. It's Dr. Death. Kip Dronen.”
“I've never met him in person. His smarts sure helped in the Faith Reinhorst Malar murder.” Farley remembered the excited, squeaky voice on the phone in the midst of the murder investigation. The doctor clearly got into his work.
“Partner, I'll warn you. He's a genius, but he's been the assistant medical examiner for more than a decade because he's incredibly weird.” Aki undid the seatbelt. “His ego blocks out the sun and he's got a black belt in attitude.” Aki frowned. “He’s always worth listening to but for some reason he loves to give me shit.” He opened his door. “And he's damn good at it.”
The detectives stood by the Humvee's driver's door. Aki tapped on the tinted window. It slid down an inch.
“Are your shoes clean?” came the shrill voice of Kip Dronen. “I've got Drake Cody here. If you don't dirty my car, I'll let you sit in the back.” The locks popped.
Aki got in behind Kip, and Farley went around and climbed in the other back door.
***
The icy air chilled Drake as Detectives Yamada and Farley climbed into the back seat of Kip's vehicle.
“Close the damn doors. It's ass-freezing cold out there,” Kip whined.
Drake had not seen Aki since the day after Rachelle and the kids were saved. Drake vaguely remembered being questioned immediately after the surgery for the gunshot wound to his shoulder. He'd figured out from Farley’s earlier phone call about Dan Ogren that he’d been there, but he wouldn't have recognized the baby-faced detective if not for the media pictures following the shoot-out.
“Good afternoon, assistant medical examiner. It's nice to see you, too.” Aki said. “Doc Cody, it actually is nice to see you. I—geez, are you okay, doc? You don't look so good.”
“A rough day so far,” Drake said. “Thanks for coming. I want to thank both of you for helping me and my family.”
“Doc,” Aki said with a big smile, “you thanked us like one hundred times when we were at the hospital.”
Farley nodded.
Drake thought about all that had gone on back then. Faith Reinhorst Malar's murder, Jon's near death, Rizz's paralysis, and the nightmare Rachelle and the kids had endured. Without the detectives, things would have been even worse.
“Excuse me, old ladies,” Kip said. “How about saving this blah-blah shit for your Christmas cards?” He frowned. “I called you because I suspect an attempted murder went down. Want to try investigating? Maybe this time I won't have to provide all the answers. The crime scene is the beat-to-shit junker parked next to us.”
“That car was the scene of an attempted murder?” Aki said.
“Yes. Drake barely survived an episode of anaphylactic shock this morning. I believe it was triggered by material planted in his car.”
“Ana—what?” Aki said.
“I'm deathly allergic to penicillin,” Drake said. “This morning when I left work and started to drive home, I had a severe allergic reaction—anaphylaxis is the medical term. I couldn't breathe, swelled up, and went into shock. The paramedics saved me.” Drake pointed to his face. “I look nasty due to the swelling and other issues I had. I came very close to ending up on a slab at Kip's place of work.” Drake's throat still hurt and he felt a fatigue so deep he ached. He needed to get home.
“It would have been an easy cause-of-death determination,” Kip said. “The widespread tissue edema, vascular collapse, airway obstruction—a slam dunk for me. I'd have determined anaphylaxis in minutes. The only issue would have been finding the trigger. It would have been fun!”
For a moment they all stared in silence at the inappropriate cheerleader of death.
“Aki, Detective Farley—Kip just recovered what looks like the trigger. When I started my car this morning, I turned on the defroster. The fan blew out a cloud of what I thought was frost.” Aki and Farley nodded. “It wasn't. Kip found traces of a white powder on my dash. I had to have breathed some in. The odds are we'll find it to be powdered penicillin.”
Aki pulled out his phone but craned around toward Kip. “How long until you can identify the stuff?”
“It could take several hours.”
“Could it be an accident?” Farley said.
“Hard to imagine,” Kip said. “It's theoretically possible someone very stupid would think it was a clever prank. The range of allergic reactions is large. The vast majority are not life-threatening, but with Drake's previous history, an informed person would know the likelihood of death was high.”
“Okay,” Aki said. “We need to tow the car to police impound and work it.” He turned to Kip. “Did you touch anything inside when you collected the powder?”
Kip shot Aki a look that would wither a redwood. His voice started shrill and rose as his volume climbed. “Yes. First I got naked and thrashed around the front and back seats, touched every surface with my bare hands and then launched body fluids.” He shook his head. “Shit! I'm a medical examiner and probably the top forensic pathologist in the world. You dare question how I managed the crime scene?”
Aki rocked back in the face of the outburst then collected himself. “I'll take that as a 'no'.”
Kip muttered while Aki turned to Drake.
“Doc, the obvious question. Who wants you dead?”
Drake paused. The question may have been obvious, but the answer was not. And not because there were no candidates. As the news reports had made widely known, his history included violence, incarceration, and secrets far different than other physicians. Much had happened that should not have. His conscience was not clear. Had the news reports allowed someone from his past to find him?
In a moment of self-pity less than twenty-four hours earlier, he'd wondered how things in his life could be worse. Today he had an answer.
Someone wants me dead.
***
I-394
The blue 1970 Buick Skylark rode like a dream. Drake had never driven a car anything like it—ancient but in perfect condition. Six p.m. and it had been dark for over an hour already. A chemical pine-scent came from the skull-shaped air freshener product which hung from the rearview mirror. Kip had interrogated Drake on his driving skills and delivered detailed instructions on appropriate care of one of his “babies” before handing over the keys. Drake was touched by the generosity of Kip's loan.
Drake's old Dodge had been towed to the police garage for forensic examination and an exhaustive cleanup. The thought of ever climbing in the Dodge again left him uneasy.
Only five minutes to the townhouse. Should he tell Rachelle his near-death reaction had likely been a murder attempt?
The burns of her wrist and hands were healed, but the drug-and-greed-crazed kidnapper had injured more than Rachelle's body. She didn't see herself as strong or brave, despite having proved herself to be both.
She'd been dealing well with things until the catastrophes of the past few days.
Now someone wanted him dead. Could she handle that?
The ER and the research still kept him away too much. Hell, other than in the hospital after they'd almost lost everything, they hadn't talked much. Drake busy. Rachelle quiet. Both plagued by their pasts and hesitant. Physically they came together often and desperately. Their hunger for each other greater than ever. But...
Drake squeezed the steering wheel. The swelling of his hands and fingers was gone. He craned his neck and glanced in the rearview mirror. Bags under his eyes, but otherwise he didn't look too bad.
Just eleven hours earlier someone had tried to kill him. They'd come within seconds of taking him from those who needed him. The thought fanned the embers of who he'd been when locked up with violent offenders.
That person knew violence. Knew rage. Knew how to hurt and kill.
A primitive part of himself had surfaced when he'd dealt with the drug-seeking ER patient who'd struck Patti. That same part had taken over when the deranged woman had kidnapped and brutalized Rachelle and his children. It was the part he wanted to turn loose on Dan Ogren and the abusive jerk neighbor who'd bullied Shane.
Drake knew violence and death—those were facts of his life.
Something beyond the facts caused him worry. A fear that slunk among the shadows of his mind.
Fear that not only did he have the capacity for violence—but that he liked it.
Chapter 44
Ogren Automotive, Bloomington dealership
Dan shut the door to his office at the west Bloomington dealership, the newest of the Ogren lots, located right off 494 in one of the most prestigious areas of the Twin Cities. After his father had become too messed up to work, Dan took the dealership as the site for his executive office.
Dan put his personal stamp on the lot. He hand-picked all the new employees. He‘d made sure there were none of the old fart mechanics or salesmen who couldn’t shut up about how Big Dan would do things. As if Dan cared.
He had things set up with a small but deluxe apartment that had a separate outside entrance and was also accessible from his office through a private door. He couldn’t count the number of women he’d already banged there.
Dan could see from his office cameras when lone women came looking for a car. He would visit the sales floor or outside lot, check them out, and when he sensed a hot, hungry one—he could usually tell in a glance—he’d invite them to his office. Very often the women—whether married or single—accepted. They knew what his offer meant. Sometimes he even sold them a car.
Hot damn, he had a hell of a life going.
He made his way to the desktop computer. Mesh’s text message had said: Please review email communication immediately. Maintain secure handling as I've instructed. Situation grim. Follow recommendations.
Mesh—one freaky smart little guy. Law degree and CPA. Knew everything about everything. He made sense of the business stuff for Dan. Like the CliffsNotes he'd used once or twice in college before he'd dropped out. Why read the whole book when you could get the answers in a few pages? Mesh's summaries were a good thing, because numbers, balance sheets, and business details bored him. How had his father, even with Mesh's help, managed all this? The big hick hadn't even completed high school.
So many things about his father made no sense. His success was the result of unbelievable luck. A rube from the wilds of northern Minnesota discharged from the army and staying with a friend in the Twin Cities. Life on a farm and motor pool duty in the Army helped him develop a skill—he could fix anything that had a motor.
His father started buying damaged cars, repairing and then selling them. Although his dad had zero sales savvy, permanently grease-stained knuckles, and an accent like something from an Ole and Lena joke, Ogren Automotive grew to be the most successful operation in five states. Just a grease monkey who'd been in the right place at the right time. And everyone acted like he was the second coming.
Dan’s father's shadow loomed over everything in his life. Even the “Big Dan” moniker didn't die, despite Dan growing to be five inches taller than his father. Dan made it known that if anyone ever called him “Little Dan,” they’d be looking for a new job.
Dan sat at his office desk, then pulled up Mesh’s password-protected, encrypted email. He scanned the “operational position statement” Mesh had written.
As he did with virtually all business-related documents, Dan skipped straight to the summary:
The six Ogren dealerships, independent lease operations, finance operation, and repair and body work spin-offs are all under the ownership of Dan, Senior. Due to his failing health, you have power of attorney. This has allowed you to carry on business, access funds, and enter into debt agreements using the assets of Ogren Automotive as collateral.
Your personal withdrawals, losses, and fund transfers have placed the Ogren automotive enterprise in a severely compromised position. Several of your actions are, as I advised you at the time, criminal. The funds shown on the books are not the funds that actually exist.
