He finally lifted up a pale blue baggie, filled with the familiar dusting of white powder. "Bingo. Okay. You call your pals on the task force, tell 'em you got burned and you need a cover team to pretend to bust this guy for this." He waved the baggie back and forth. "That'll legitimize their crashing in here and tossing the place and making it look good for tomorrow's paper. After that, they can put him under guard in the hospital or shoot him in the head. Anywhere he can't flap his gums."
He handed her his cell phone so she could make the call.
But Sam was looking at the baggie in his hand, the memory of what she'd been trying to recall earlier, just before the Ecstasy took over, coming back to her.
"That's Torres's stuff," she said.
Willy glanced at it. "So?"
"I saw his lieutenant packing it when I was in Holyoke. Same pale blue baggies. It's a signature, like the panther stamp Rivera uses on his. You ever see any like that before?"
"No. Maybe he just got a good deal on them."
"Maybe, but Rivera's supposed to have taken over the run. And, like I said, he uses regular bags and his own stamp."
"Yeah, but he took over just recently, right?" Willy countered. "Couldn't this be a leftover from the Torres days?"
Sam wasn't convinced. Something wasn't right.
Stuey Nichols let out a small groan from the floor.
"Make the call, Sam. We gotta get going."
Chapter 19
Spinney kept trying to slow down, control his breathing, keep at the speed limit. He was driving from Rutland back to Springfield on Route 103, fresh from another session with Peter Bullis and young George backer. They'd been grilling the kid for his knowledge of Rutland's peripheral drug traffic-Bellows Falls, Fair Haven, Castleton, Springfield, and elsewhere-when the name Sherman came up.
"Sherman?" Spinney had asked, sitting up.
"Yeah," Backer had confirmed. "He's been operating out of Springfield for a long time-years and years."
"Moving heroin?"
The Schemer had shrugged. "Not always. it's just what I heard lately."
"You know this guy?" Bullis had asked Lester.
"Yeah. But never connected to heroin."
Spinney passed another car on a curve, causing an angry blast of the man's horn. That had been the extent of backer's knowledge-a vague rumor, really. Except that given the young man's accuracy so far, even a rumor carried weight.
It certainly did with Lester, who'd begged off attending the afternoon session for some emergency personal time off.
He had yet to speak with Dave about the blunts Wendy had found in her bedroom-his son was still supposedly on a camping trip. As a result, the growing anxiety about that inevitable confrontation had combined with hearing Sherman's name linked to heroin like a match with a fuse. Simple surveillance was no longer the issue. Now Spinney was acting as a firefighter might, running into a burning building with the sinking sensation that it was already too little, too late.
And the stimulus wasn't restricted to a father's love. There was guilt, as well, for not having acted sooner, for having put harmony over honesty and experience. After all, who better than a cop to know how, statistically, marijuana leads to harder drugs? And how a parent is always the last one to admit there's trouble?
Spinney entered Springfield from the west, sped through the intersection near the Zoo, and burned the red light downtown, cutting off several cars in the process. All self-restraint gone by now, the only thing he could see in his mind's eye was putting his hands around Sherman's neck.
He hit the South Street hill hard, only a small part of his brain wondering how he'd react if he was pulled over right now, and proceeded to where Sherman had his half-hearted garage business not far from the high school.
He came skidding to a halt before the open garage door, launched himself out of the car, and strode into the service bay. A pair of legs was sticking out from under a car with its hood up.
"Sherman?" he shouted.
"What?" came the startled reply. "You almost gave me a heart attack."
Not answering, Spinney grabbed both the man's ankles and pulled him out as if he were yanking a tablecloth from under a plate. Lying on a small, wheeled creeper, Sherman went shooting across the floor and crashed against a tall metal tool cabinet.
He rolled off the creeper, both hands wrapped around his left knee. "Jesus Christ," he moaned. "You son of a bitch. Damn, that hurts. What the hell's your problem?"
Spinney dropped down next to him and grabbed his collar to pin him to the ground. His face was inches from Sherman's. "My problem is what you're doing to my son, you asshole, not to mention god knows how many other kids. You know who I am?"
Natty Sherman was not a street smart bad guy, big on attitude and striking a mean pose. In outlook, at least, he was like the hippies of yesteryear-peace-loving, self-indulgent, careless of the rules, and generally aimless. Confronted with this kind of rage, he was not one to fight back.
"Sure I do," he answered, his eyes wide with fear. "You're Spinney's dad-the cop. What're you doing? What did I do?"
Lester bore down, making Natty squirm with pain against the hard concrete floor. "You're breaking the law, you're fucking up people's brains, and worst of all, you're messing with my family."
The other man was now red in the face, gasping for air, and could only just get out, "I just blow a little weed."
That made Spinney even angrier. "Don't you get it? We're not on the record here. I'm one inch away from breaking your neck, and I'll do it to save my kid. Don't give me the 'blow a little weed' crap. You're pushing heroin, and you will go down for it."
Sherman was flopping around by now, his feet flailing and his hands pulling at Spinney's forearm. "No heroin. . It isn't me."
Spinney loosened his hold slightly, and Natty gasped for air like a man breaking free of deep water.
"I swear to god," he continued, "I wouldn't do that. Heroin kills people. It's not like weed. Ask anybody. They'll tell you. I wouldn't allow it in the house. It's weed only. Never anything else. I make sure my kids know that. That they spread the word. I don't even let 'em smoke cigarettes."
Lester Spinney stared at him for a moment and then released him. "Where're your kids now?"
Sherman blinked. "My kids? What?. . Hold it."
Lester grabbed him again. "Focus, Natty. Answer the question, for both our sakes."
Natty's eyes widened. "Andy's at home. Jeff's. . I don't know. He said he went camping."
Spinney let go again and pounded his fist against the cabinet just above Sherman's head, making the latter wince. "Shit," Lester yelled in frustration, and then took hold of Natty's face. "That's the line Dave gave me. Now, think about this: Is that likely? Is it likely the two of them would go camping together?"
Sherman tried shaking his head. "No. I was happy when he told me because it's not something he's ever done before. I was surprised. And he didn't mention Dave."
"Who did he mention?"
"Nobody. He just said 'with friends.'"
Lester pulled Natty up to a sitting position and propped him against the cabinet. The mechanic moved his neck around and felt the back of his head for any damage.
Spinney leaned in close to him once more, crowding him. "Natty, you better be flying straight here. You see where I'm going with this?"
"You think Jeff's been doing heroin."
"Maybe, maybe not. What I know is that a grade A source just told me someone named Sherman had been dealing the stuff lately. I'd like to think Andy's too young. You claim it's not you. That leaves Jeff. Look me straight in the eye and tell me that's impossible-that there's no way in hell he would do that."
Natty Sherman dropped Lester's gaze. His voice was a monotone. "He might."