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"Where was that case? I mean, where in the city?"
"In this case, a mother living in a tenement house had ransacked a dumpster outside a fast-food restaurant. She told us that that was where she found the pills." He sighed. "Seems she was a nurse at one time and recognized benzodiazepines."
"Benzo – what?"
"Laila! What is this all about?" asked Daniel. When I didn’t answer, he went on. "The autopsy report isn’t back on John yet, if that’s why you're asking all these questions."
"I definitely want to know what the autopsy shows as cause of death," I said. "Do drug users ever combine sleeping pills and heroin?"
"Yeah, of course. They'll combine anything they can get their hands on." He paused again. "I’m sorry, Laila. I have to get to work now. Don’t get yourself involved in things you don’t know anything about. Just leave all that to the professionals. Okay?"
There were times when I wondered if Daniel was psychic. Sometimes I thought he really could read my mind.
"The drug world is entirely different from the world you and I live in," he went on. "It's concentrated in a small area of West River. The local cops are on top of the problem and they make sure it doesn’t go any farther than it has already."
I made a feeble attempt to reassure him before we ended the call. Then I reached for Thor’s leash, and at the sight of it the dog bounded to the door and sat eagerly while I hooked it onto his collar.
A few minutes later, we were both in the car. Following my GPS instructions, I found myself traveling from the neat and trim West River I knew so well into far less attractive areas.
I saw several buildings that were being torn down. Or maybe they were just crumbling from neglect. The farther I got into what was supposed to be the "homeless area," the more I had to maneuver around potholes. Small businesses were secured with iron bars on their front windows.
A sprinkling of people sat on the sidewalks and front steps. A few stood on street corners. One grocery store had a sign plastered across the front reading "Ground Beef Special." The price was half of what I paid at my local store, and I wondered where they were getting their meat.
Teenagers hung out on the broken sidewalk a yard or so away from the door. Three of them held cigarettes between stained fingers.
I drove another block and then parked my car. "Stay with me, Thor," I reminded my Doberman, as I caught up his leash and we got out.
I took a deep breath and picked one man standing alone to approach. Thor walked close beside me and I kept his leash short. The dog was distracted with all the new smells in the air and all the new sights.
Stumbling once over the uneven concrete, I wondered why the city didn’t just tear up the sidewalks and pour gravel instead. I guessed that money for nice new sidewalks down here wasn’t exactly in the city budget.
As I got a few yards past my car, the man I had targeted eyed me. He shifted from staring at me to staring at my car. He glanced at Thor’s strong body and white teeth, and a shadow of fear might have crossed his face. That was good. Thor was meant to be intimidating.
I glanced around me. Only two other vehicles were parked on this part of the street, and one had a flat tire. Both were at least ten years old and looked like they'd been driven to the moon and back.
"Hi. Do you mind if I talk to you?" I asked the man.
He looked closely at me with dull grey eyes. "You want some party favors?" he asked.
I must have looked confused when he said that, because he turned around and started to walk away. I had no idea what he meant at first. When he glanced back at me, I noticed a slight bulge beneath the thin coat he wore. Facial hair covered any expression on his face, except for his eyes.
Then I realized that, of course, "party favors" meant drugs.
"Wait," I said. I pulled Thor a little closer. His sharp gaze was fixed on the disheveled man, and his nose twitched. Even I could catch the smell of clothes and skin untouched by soap and water. And there was some other weird scent there, too, that I figured must have something to do with the drugs he was carrying.
"Do you know where I can get heroin and sleeping pills?" I asked.
The man turned around again, and frowned at me. "Yeah, Miss Uptown? You don’t look like somebody who shoots anything." His voice was hoarse and low. Then he coughed several times, and at least had the good manners to turn his head when he did. Then he wiped his bushy mustache on the back of a dirty hand.
"You look more like the pill type. You don’t look like no H hype to me."
I wanted to object to being called the "pill type," but I let it pass. This was no time to argue.
"Um – you're right. I don't shoot anything. I’m down here to buy for a friend."
He grinned, showing broken yellow teeth. "Sure, sure! People want stuff for their friends all the time." But then he frowned again and peered at me with small, suspicious eyes. "Hey, what makes you think I know where to get that kind of stuff?"
There was no visible movement on the dingy street except for someone leaving a pawn shop. The nearest people were at least half a block away. It was just me and this man that I desperately wanted information from.
