Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lou Allin

paled, swallowing back a bobbing Adam’s apple. Clearly he was running a penny-ante business. A few months, and he would have moved on, keeping his head low like a lizard. “What’s that got to do with me? See any Harleys at the farm?”

      She leaned forward. “Here’s what. It’s no problem to spread the word via our undercover officers that you’re open for business and keeping all the cash. Don’t think they’ll ignore you because you’re small. This is a question of disrespecting their operation. And respect is a very important word.” Now she was whisked back to her father’s Seventies period, just before she left for university. He’d organized a Godfather party for his graduate students.

      He paled, and his knee started a spastic reaction, riding up and down. He crossed his legs to hide it. “I need a drink.”

      She brought him water from the cooler, placed it into his hands as he brought them to his mouth. “And they’re not the worst. Just home-grown. Let’s try another name. The Big Circle Boys.”

      “Who? You’re making this up.” Water spilled down his T-shirt. She reached for the paper cup and tossed it into the basket.

      “Dai Huen Jai. Chinese gangs. They don’t fool around.” She sliced her finger across her throat in amateur theatrics.

      “Enough already. What does it matter? Game was over when Dickhead opened his big mouth.” He furrowed his brow, blood-flecked eyes moving back and forth in spasms. Had he been sampling his own wares? “But if I tell you all I know, you gotta protect me.”

      “As much as we can. Don’t expect to get into the witness protection program on this petty information.” With some leisure, she opened a fresh page, drumming her fingers in thought. “We might be able to send you out of the area to do your time. That’s all I can promise. Prince George is lovely in the fall.”

      He took a deep breath and rattled off curses. “Dave Barnard. He’s my partner. He’ll probably run to his mother’s in Nanaimo. Fucking baby. Dumb as a bag of nails, too. Damn near blew us up twice.”

      She tapped the pen on a yellow pad. “I want the name or description of anyone you’ve sold to in around here. Let’s start with the high schools. Unless you went after younger kids, too.”

      “Jesus. I don’t ask for passports.” His tongue ran around his thin lips. “If they resell it, what can I do?”

      “Poor you. The downside of distribution.” She spat out the words, punctuating for emphasis. “As if you care. So give over, Neil.” He furnished her with several names, scratching one seedy ear for inspiration. One struck a bell. “Did you say Jeff Pasquin?” She looked up abruptly.

      “Met him down at the old cemetery one night. Dude never gave me his name, but I saw it with his picture in the News Mirror. Some swim-meet shit.”

      “How many times did you sell to him? And when?”

      His upper lip rose, revealing an oral hygiene as dubious as the yellow-birch stumps of teeth. Even his tongue was furry. “A couple. Think I keep records? This is a friendly business.” Next he’d be referring to his poison as “product”. “He’s an athlete, and as far as I know he’s still in training. Are you feeding me a load of manure?” She thought of the physical ravages of the addiction. Jeff was a poster boy.

      A croaky laugh came from his chapped lips, a slit in his pasty face. “Oh hell. That’s a myth. Some people can use it and lose it, then go back to pot, booze, whatever turns their...crank.” He winked for a response but got none.

      “That’s not what I hear. Users look wasted in very little time.” She pointed to a wall poster with an image of a young woman fit for a horror movie.

      He used his thumbs and forefingers to frame the picture, then guffawed, nearly hitting her with a spray of spittle. “I tried it a few years ago. Rough high. I’m more of a mellow guy. Never used it again. Go figure.”

      Holly completed the paperwork to move Neil to West Shore, then loaded him into the car. He would be installed in a cheery cell with stainless steel sink and toilet and no sharp edges. Some luck would give him glass-block windows next to the busy thoroughfare of Veteran’s Memorial Parkway. By this time tomorrow if he didn’t make bail, he’d be at VIRCC, Vancouver Island Regional Correctional Centre. Her stomach growling, when she’d finished, she stopped for a pulled pork sandwich at nearby Smokin’ Bones, adding a side of vinegary collard greens.

      By five, she was back at the office. Chipper had caught a ride back from the Munson property. He brought cups of herbal tea, and they sat on the small sofa in the lunchroom.

      Neither cared to be wired by caffeine at that time of day. They had taken their boots off. Chipper was rubbing a sore toe, the hazards of the stiff footwear.

      He told her about the crew that had arrived to secure the site and begin the cleaning process. “What a mess,” he said, gesturing in excitement.

      “The place was a sty, but I didn’t take an inventory. What did you find?”

      He consulted his notes. “Acetone, red phosphorous, lye, muriatic acid, anhydrous ammonia.” He paused, shaking his head. “That’s tough to get, but some people steal it from farmers.”

      “Chemistry background?”

      “Not really. Lots of amateurs get into it. There are sites all over the web with instructions on how to make meth.”

      “What’s the time frame for the cleanup?” she asked, wondering how to close the site to gawkers. “If Sean could ride over there, so could any kid.”