Chapter 3

Iliked the cabin. From what I saw, it was perfect. There were three smaller rooms, one that already had a bed in it. There was a kitchen/living room space with a sofa and a love seat and space above the mantle for a TV. The best feature of the cabin was its remote location, with only one access road and nothing but forest as far as you could see.

I had met the guy at noon, and we had driven up to the cabin. I got out of my car and spent a moment just breathing in the fresh air. It was so different from Nashville, with its lights that never went dark and people everywhere you turned. This cabin could have been built at the edge of civilization, and yet it had all the comforts of home.

I was sold immediately, but I didn't let on. Too many lessons in negotiation had taught me not to show my cards too soon. I thanked the guy and drove back to the police station, already imagining what it would be like to wake up in the forest.

When I got back to the office, Cheryl the dispatch officer was at her desk. I nodded my hello before moving to the back, to the closet-sized war room they had designated for the drug case. It was all there, all the information the police had about the deadly substance and its victims. The toxicology reports weren't back from the latest casualty, but it was more than likely the same drug that had killed three other people earlier this month.

I looked at the lab reports from the earlier victims. Whatever it was, was some kind of synthetic stimulant, like meth but on steroids. In the nanny cam case that had won me fame, the drug of choice had been cocaine. I remembered the casualty list from that case had been well below four. Whatever this stuff was, it was head and shoulders above the average narcotic.

The police working the case before me had identified two "persons of interest." Both were young men in their twenties, both unemployed and familiar with law enforcement. I would have to check them both out, but I wanted a little background first.

As if in answer to my unspoken thought, one of the three full-time police officers knocked on the door.

"Come in," I said.

The man came in, dressed in full uniform. "The chief said he had hired someone to work on the drug case."

"Jason." I stood up and offered my hand.

"Carl," he said, pulling out the only remaining chair.

We both sat, the lab reports and case notes spread out before us. "What can you tell me about the case?" I asked.

"We've always had our underground criminals here," Carl began. "Most people are law-abiding, but there are a few who are looking for an easy way out."

I nodded.

"This isn't the big city. We don't see that much cocaine or ecstasy."

"What do you see?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Meth is big. People cook it in their homes. Not here, of course, but it comes in from neighboring towns."

"Of course," I agreed.

"About a month ago, we got our first death, and the lab reports said it wasn't your run-of-the-mill synthetic." Carl touched one of the file folders. "After three more people died, the chief was desperate for some help. Good thing you came along when you did."

I sighed. "What can you tell me about these two?"

Carl looked down at the case notes. "Oh, Beavis and Butthead? They're definitely into the meth trade, but I'm not sure they're behind this."

"Why not?"

"It seems too sophisticated for them. Some of the victims are… of a higher social standing if you know what I mean."

I did. Victimology was a legitimate science that had been discussed in the academy. It was the idea that you could learn a lot about a criminal by studying their victims. If they all lived in the same neighborhood, or if they were all women or all cheating husbands, you could draw certain conclusions about the assailant. In this case, having several upstanding community members among the dead meant it was likely that the perpetrator appeared to be of a similar status rather than a strung-out pair of kids. Still, I was going to have to go talk to "Beavis and Butthead" myself.

I left the war room several hours later and went back to my truck. Mentally clocking out for a lunch break, I unwrapped the salad I had picked up at the grocery store. As I chewed, I thought about the cabin. I really liked it, and there was no reason to wait if I was sure about it. What if someone else came along and picked it up while I was being careful not to show my cards?

I picked up the phone, finished my last bite, and dialed the idiot property owner.

"Hello?" he said.

"Hi, this is Jason White," I began. "We went up to view the cabin a couple hours ago."

"Of course." He seemed to be in a better mood.

"I like it. I'd like to buy it off you. I have cash, if you'll knock some figures off the price."

"I could go down by five thousand dollars," he said cautiously.

"You can do better than that."

"Six thousand, final offer."

I inhaled, looking up at the sun visors. "Done."

"Great!" the guy said, perking up just like I knew he would. "Give me a few days to get the paperwork together and some other things."

"As soon as possible," I said.

"Of course," he agreed.

Feeling better, I stuck the key in the ignition and drove off to find the two known felons.

Iknocked on the door, and a little old woman answered, tiny and wrinkled in a pink sweater.

"Good afternoon. I'm looking for Earl Petty," I said.

"What's he done now?" she wondered.

I smiled. "I just want to talk to him."

"Earl!" she shouted, moving away from the door and into the recesses of the house. The storm door swung shut in my face, snapping out my view of the kitchen. In that split second, I had been able to see into the home, I could tell it was a mess.

Dressed in a stained white T-shirt and blue sweatpants, Earl came to the door a few minutes later, "What?"

"My name is Detective Jason White with the Singer's Ridge police department," I said calmly.

"I didn't do nothin'," Earl replied.

I ignored that. "I'd like to talk to you about some drug overdoses, if you have a minute."

"I don't know nothin' about no people dyin'." He leaned against the storm door, itching to go.

"You were convicted of distributing controlled substances and spent two years in jail," I reminded him.

"I did my time," he confessed.

"What can you tell me about the meth trade in Singer's Ridge?" I asked.

He narrowed his eyes. "I can't tell you nothin'."

"Anything you say will be kept completely confidential," I assured him. "If you give me a name, it won't get back to you."

He grinned, showing off missing teeth. "If I knew a name, I wouldn't tell you, but it just so happens that I don't. This new drug that you're after, it's not coming through my channels—or channels that I might have been aware of at one point," he corrected himself.

"You're sure?"

"I heard it's more expensive," he said pointedly.

"How did you hear that?"

He shrugged. "I don't recall."

"Anything else you've heard that might be helpful?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Alright." I nodded, leaving him alone on his porch.

The meeting with Butthead went just as well, though I managed to form a better picture of the illicit drug scene in my mind. It seemed like there were two levels at play. There were the low-life, unemployed criminals who trafficked narcotics from Nashville and the surrounding towns. They all seemed to know each other in Singer's Ridge, and the regular citizens seemed to know who they were too.

Then there was another, more affluent clientele. These people were the secret drug users, the mothers and fathers, businessmen, and stay-at-home moms who got addicted and couldn't find their way out. These were the people who were dying. That meant that the perpetrator or perpetrators, whoever they were, could blend in with the regular townsfolk. They wouldn't stand out as known criminals.

That just made my job harder.

By the time I returned to the station and wrote up my two interviews, it was six o'clock. I still hadn't heard anything about the cabin and resigned myself to waiting at least a day or two for news. I considered going back to my hotel room or hitting the Lucky Lady alone again. I had chosen Singer's Ridge because my buddy Dillon had moved here, but I had yet to see him around town.

Before leaving Nashville, I had called Dillon a couple of times. He never answered, so I assumed he had changed numbers. Thinking some company would be welcome that night, I tried one more time, surprised when my friend picked up the phone.

"Hello?" Dillon's voice sounded relaxed, less stressed than it had the last time we spoke.

"Hey, Dillon, it's Jason," I said.

"Jason!" he replied, though he must have seen my name on the caller ID. "What's up?"

"I moved to Singer's Ridge."

"No shit?" he exclaimed, then hurriedly amended himself. "No doubt?"

I thought I could hear a child's voice screaming, "No shit!" in the background.

"Where are you staying?"

"I'm at the hotel now," I said, "but I'm buying a place real soon."

"Do you want to get a drink?" my former colleague asked. There was a moment of silence where I thought I could hear two adult voices consulting.

"Sure," I agreed. "You know that place called the Lucky Lady?"

He laughed. "I know it. I'll meet you there in a half hour."

That gave me just enough time to drive back to the hotel room, park the truck, and change clothes. I chose a pair of jeans and my favorite cowboy boots.

The Lucky Lady was busier that night than it had been before. A dozen people were standing at the bar, and all the tables had been taken. I found Dillon already seated, working on a pint. He stood up when he saw me, pumping my hand several times. I laughed, sliding into the booth opposite him.

"Hey, Detective!" the barkeeper said from across the room.

I waved.

"Detective?" Dillon asked.

The waitress appeared, notebook in hand. "What can I get you, honey?"

"I'll have whatever's on tap," I said. "And a burger."

She nodded. "Anything for you?" she asked Dillon.

"I've already had dinner," Dillon said.

"It's seven o'clock," I said, thinking only retirees ate dinner before seven.

Dillon shrugged. "Kids. I also wake up god-awful early."

"Congratulations," I said.

The waitress left to put in our order.

"So, you made detective?" Dillon asked.

I began at the beginning. "Angie left me."

"Sorry to hear that," Dillon said.

"Don't be." I shook my head. "It was a mess. The whole marriage was a mistake. I'm much better off without her."

He nodded.

"You know, I got to thinking that Nashville wasn't where I needed to be. I wanted something new, something slower."

"I've been there," Dillon agreed, taking a sip of his drink.

"So, I remembered that you said your uncle had a cabin up here. When I looked up Singer's Ridge, I saw there was an opening on the police force." My beer arrived, and I nodded thanks to the waitress. "I hope you don't mind."

Dillon drank thoughtfully for a moment. "A couple years ago, I probably wouldn't have wanted the reminder of my old life. But things are different now. Welcome to town."

I sat back, thinking about all I had seen in this little village. As a police officer, I was immediately treated to the negative side of life in Singer's Ridge. I had met the drug users. And I felt like I knew each of the four people who had overdosed. I knew somewhere one of the small-town citizens was dealing in a drug so deadly that it had hardcore crystal meth users like Earl Petty turned off.

There was something else, though. When I had been in the grocery store, picking up lunch and a few snacks for the hotel room, I noticed a woman. She had been checking me out, I was sure of it. I saw her looking as I walked over to the bakery section. I took a look of my own while she was pretending to be focused on apples, and she was a beauty.

Long blonde hair fashionably styled in loose waves framed a fresh, honest face. I could clearly see that she took care of herself. Her shirt hit right at her navel, showing off the tiniest sliver of creamy skin above her jeans. I wondered what it would be like to slide my hand across that navel, to slip the shirt above her head and uncover the succulent breasts I could see peeking through the fabric.

I pushed the thoughts away. There was no need to get turned on in the bar, sitting across the table from my old friend. I wondered if I was ever going to see her again. In a town this size, I thought my chances were good. Things were looking up. I had a job, and I would soon have a cabin.

The waitress arrived with my drink.

"I'm buying a cabin," I said, taking a sip.

"Really? Where?" he asked.

"It's north of town, off Miller Road."

"My cabin's up that way," Dillon said. "Looks like we're gonna be neighbors." He held his mug out, and I tapped it with my own.

I wanted to ask him about the girl in the grocery store, but I didn't have a lot to go on. I decided to do all my grocery shopping at that same time of day, same day of the week, just in case I ran into her again. By the time we called it quits for the night, I was beat. I had another full day of work in front of me, so I tipped the waitress and headed back to the hotel room. I fell asleep thinking about cabins and criminals, and thankfully they left no room for memories of my soon-to-be ex-wife.