Athena Sisterhood Page 5

  “It’s like getting measured for a bespoke suit,” Chlöe said with a smile.

  “A bit. You from around here originally?”

  “Oh no. I’ve always been a bit of a vagabond, never staying in one place more than a few years. My father was in the army, so I’ve lived all over the world. I’ve been in Ironwood for four years, which is the longest I’ve ever spent in one place.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m the CEO at Optimus.”

  “Optimus?”

  “Optimus Rehabilitative Services. We’re a state-of-the-art chemical dependency treatment facility.”

  “How’d you end up in that line of work? Are you an addict yourself?” Shea scribbled down the measurements on a sheet from the client file.

  “Oh, nothing so crass as that!” Chlöe’s nose crinkled at the suggestion. “I started out with a BA in chemistry and couldn’t find a job. So I earned my MBA and started Optimus.”

  She pulled a business card from a pocket and offered it to Shea with a condescending look. “And if you’ll forgive me for saying, I can’t help smelling the alcohol on your breath. I think we can help you. Alcoholism can destroy your life.”

  Shea examined the card, smirked, and handed it back to her. “Oh yeah, I hearda you. One of my former employees went through your rehab center in Bradshaw City.”

  “Oh really? How wonderful. How’re they doing?”

  “He relapsed. I fired him.”

  “Oh.” Chlöe frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. Drug abuse has reached epidemic proportions. Just this morning a girl in Ironwood was found dead from a suspected hex overdose. College student and a member of a sorority. Such a waste.”

  Shea perked up, wondering if her new client might know something that could make spending time with the Athena Sisterhood unnecessary. “I heard someone spiked the hex she took with rat poison.”

  “Dealers put all kinds of awful stuff in drugs—strychnine, Fentanyl, even ground glass, if you can believe it. Maybe it’s a good thing she died.”

  “How could dying be a good thing?”

  “Oh no, not good for the dead girl, of course. But if such a tragedy encourages addicts to come in for treatment, then maybe more lives will be saved in the long run. Kind of a scared-straight sort of thing.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.” Shea took some final measurements. “With all the addicts you work with at the clinic, any idea who’s dealing hex around here?”

  “It was that Mexican drug gang. What were they called?”

  “The Jaguars.”

  “Yes, that’s right, though I hear they’ve moved south.”

  Not before the Confederate Thunder raided their stash, thought Shea. “So who took their place on the local drug scene?”

  “I hear rumors, but they’re just that. At Optimus, we focus on helping addicts get clean. We’re less concerned about who their supplier was when they were using.”

  “I see. Well, I’ve got all the measurements I need.” Shea closed the job folder as Terrance breezed through the showroom to the office.

  “Wonderful! What’s the next step?”

  “Me and my crew will customize one of our stock frames to fit your measurements. We’ll modify the fuel tank as needed, fabricate fenders, and other parts. Once everything’s painted, we put it all together and let you take it for a test ride.”

  “How long does the whole process take?”

  “Two to three months.”

  “That long? That would put us into January. Couldn’t you squeeze it down to one month? I’d love to show it off at my New Year’s soiree.”

  “We can rush it, but that doubles the price.” Shea hoped that would dissuade her. With all the other shit Shea had going, the last thing she needed was to be working overtime to please some stuffed shirt.

  “Double? An extra ten grand, I can understand. Maybe. But double? Can’t you cut me a deal?”

  “Nope.” Shea sat there, stone-faced. Just cancel, lady! I don’t wanna work on your dumb pink bike anyway.

  After a few moments, Stansbury huffed. “Oh fine. Double it is. What’s the bottom line?”

  Shit. “Terrance, our business manager, can give you the final numbers, and write up your contract.”

  Shea led Chlöe down the hallway to the office. “Terrance, this is Chlöe Stansbury.”

  Terrance stood and shook her hand. “Yes, we spoke on the phone.”

  “We’re building her a café racer on a one-month rush job.” Shea handed him the folder with the details.

  “Thank you, Shea,” said Stansbury with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “A pleasure to meet a fellow biker woman. I look forward to what you’ll create.” She offered Shea the business card again. “And in case you change your mind.”

  “I got your number, but thanks.” Shea’s phone rang. “Sorry, gotta take this call.”

  She stepped out of the office, relieved to be away from Stansbury, and pressed the call button. “This is Shea.”

  “Hey, sexy! Long time, no see,” said a gleeful, smoky voice that sent Shea’s heart pounding.

  “Uh, hi, Deb.” The scar from Shea’s bullet wound twinged. “Thanks for calling me back. About your invite to join the Athena Sisterhood…”

  “Ha! I knew you’d come around sooner or later.”

  “Well, I am giving it some thought.”

  “Meet me tomorrow morning around seven at LezBeans. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  What will Deb do if she figures out I’m snitching for the cops? Shea wondered. For all her craziness, Deb always had a good bullshit detector.

  “Yeah, LezBeans at seven. I’ll see you then.”

  Chapter 8

  Rios pulled up to the black iron security gate of the Desert Vistas condominium complex. Detective Johnson sat in the passenger seat reviewing the files on the other hex-related deaths.

  A twenty-foot-tall, three-tiered water fountain rose from a stucco retaining wall on their right. To their left stood the guard shack—a small reclaimed-brick building with taupe geometric accents reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright.

  The guard stepped out. He had a squarish jaw, capped teeth, and a name tag that read Doug. “How may I help you ladies today?”

  Rios flashed her detective shield and held up a warrant. “We’re here to search unit D-209.”

  Doug raised an eyebrow. “Are you expected?”

  “I’m afraid the owner, Genette Abrams, died this morning.”

  Doug’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. Is Ms. Cohen okay?”

  “Who is Ms. Cohen?”

  “Sarah Cohen, her roommate.”

  “I wasn’t aware Ms. Abrams had a roommate. We’ll need to speak with her as well.” Perhaps the roommate will know who the dealer is, thought Rios.

  “Let me give her a call.” Doug stepped back into the guard shack.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Well, I can’t just let you in unannounced. It’s against policy.”

  Rios held up the search warrant. “This search warrant says you can.”

  He squirmed. “I should still call Ms. Cohen to let her know you’re on your way.”

  “Doug, ever been charged with interfering with a murder investigation?”

  “What? Of course not!”

  “Well, if you want to keep it that way then I suggest you let us through without giving the roommate a heads-up.”

  “Very well.” He pressed a button and the gate swung open.

  Rios flashed him a smile. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  She pulled through and turned right at the first of several three-story buildings that shared the same geometric structure, reclaimed-brick walls, and taupe concrete accents as the guard shack. Porches with privacy walls ran along the first buildings’ ground-floor units, while covered balconies extended out from the third floor.

  “Would you really have arrested him?” asked Johnson.

  “Probably not. But if the room
mate’s involved somehow, I don’t need her flushing evidence down the toilet while we’re looking for a parking space. Keep an eye out for building D.”

  Rios cruised along the parking lot surrounding the complex. Courtyards with fountains and cobblestone paths stretched between the buildings.

  “There it is. Building D.”

  Rios squinted. “Where? I don’t…oh, there it is. Good eye. I swear they hide those signs on purpose.”

  She parked and the two of them approached the building, looking for unit 209.

  “Can you believe these condos go for 150 to 200 grand each?” asked Johnson.

  Rios shook her head. “That’s more than I paid for my whole house.”

  “Lifestyles of the rich and pampered.”

  “No doubt. Looks like her unit is up on the second floor, number 209.” They climbed a concrete staircase and Rios knocked on the door. A brass mezuzah featuring a stylized tree was attached to the doorframe.

  After a minute with no response, Rios knocked louder.

  “Maybe she’s not in,” said Johnson.

  “Or maybe our friend Doug gave her a call after all.” She pounded with her fist. “Sarah Cohen, it’s the Cortes County Sheriff’s Office. Please open the door.”

  From inside came the sound of bare feet padding on hard floors. “What do you want?” croaked a tired voice.

  “It’s about your roommate. Please open the door.”

  The door creaked open. A young woman with a head of short, dark hair stood in the doorway, wearing gray sweatpants and a paint-spattered sweatshirt. A set of white earbuds hung from her neck down to a phone clipped to her waistband.

  “Sarah Cohen?” asked Rios.

  “Yeah.” The young woman eyed them suspiciously. “Who are you? What’s this about Genette?”

  Rios held up her shield. “Detective Rios. This is my partner, Detective Johnson. You mind if we talk inside?”

  Without a word, Sarah opened the door farther to let them in and led them into a two-story loft that left Rios breathless. Vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, and a black spiral staircase rising to the second-floor bedrooms and balcony. Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded stunning views of the distant mountains. Numerous framed modern abstract paintings decorated the interior walls. In the center of the room, an aluminum easel held a painting in progress on top of an old drop cloth.

  Sarah led the detectives to a beige leather settee and matching loveseat, arranged around a glass and stainless-steel coffee table. Sarah collapsed onto the loveseat. Rios and Johnson sat nearby on the adjacent settee.

  “When was the last time you saw Genette?” asked Rios.

  “About nine last night. Genette and some of her Alpha Nu sorority sisters went out clubbing.”

  “On a Monday night?”

  Sarah shrugged.

  “You didn’t go with them?”

  “The sorority susies aren’t really my crowd.” Sarah picked at a speck of dried blue paint on her hand. “Why are you asking about Genette? She’s not in jail is she?”

  “Why would you think she’d been arrested?” asked Rios.

  “She didn’t come home last night. This morning you come banging on my door asking questions about her. Figured maybe she got busted for something.”

  “Do you know which clubs they went to?”

  “They usually go to HausMusik, Rush, or the Trip Hop. I’m not sure where they went last night.”

  “And you didn’t hear from her after she left?” asked Johnson.

  “No—wait, yeah, she drunk dialed me around midnight.”

  Shortly before she died, thought Rios. “What did she say?”

  “She didn’t say anything, just made a bunch of weird noises. ‘Muh-muh-muh.’ Like baby talk or something.” Sarah paused. “There was someone else in the background yelling at her.”

  “One of her sorority sisters?” Rios made a note in her notebook.

  “Maybe.” A cloud of concern crossed Sarah’s face. “Why all these questions? She’s okay, isn’t she?”

  “Do you know the names of the people she was with last night?” asked Johnson.

  “I don’t know. She was meeting them at the Alpha Nu house. What’s this about? Has something happened?”

  Rios reached out and put a hand on the young woman’s trembling hand. “Sarah, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Genette was found dead this morning in downtown Ironwood.”

  “What? No! You’re wrong.” Sarah knocked over a ceramic vase full of lilies and roses on the coffee table. She righted it, but left the puddle of water. “She…she’s with her sorority sisters. She’s gotta be.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” said Johnson.

  “But why? How?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Rios answered. “Did she ever use drugs?”

  “Drugs? No, never. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Johnson smiled sympathetically. “Because she died after taking a mixture of ecstasy, heroin, and strychnine.”

  “Strychnine? You mean like rat poison?” Sarah’s breathing quickened.

  Rios studied her reaction. There was grief, but also something else. Fear? Guilt? “Did Genette ever take hex when she went clubbing with the girls?”

  Sarah didn’t answer right away. Rios let the silence thicken between them, and hoped Johnson would, too. Sarah glanced back and forth between them, then stared at her mug. “She told me she’d sometimes have a little bump of hex. Just to let loose, you know? A lot of people do it.”

  “Who sold it to her?”

  “I don’t know.” Sarah stared at the floor. “She never said.”

  “You ever take any yourself?”

  “No, never.”

  “Sarah, we’re not looking to arrest anyone for using hex. But we have to stop whoever’s selling it so no one else dies.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. Never touched the stuff.”

  Rios waited again, hoping Sarah would leak a name or mention a particular club. Grief and guilt had a way of eating at someone, compelling them to leak out bits of the truth. But the young woman just sat silently, pulling up her legs and resting her head on her knees.

  “Anything else we should know about who may have poisoned Genette?”

  “I don’t know anything. Really.”

  Time to switch gears. Rios handed Sarah the search warrant. “I’m going to have to ask you to step outside the condo while we conduct a search.”

  Sarah examined the warrant. Her expression changed; sorrow gave way to anger. “No way, this is my place, too. You have no right.”

  Johnson pointed to the warrant. “Actually, this says we do.”

  “I realize it’s an inconvenience,” said Rios. “But we’re looking for who sold Genette the tainted hex.”

  “I’m in the middle of a painting. It’s a commissioned piece. I’m on deadline.”

  Rios nodded. “I promise it won’t take more than a couple of hours.”

  “Fine, I’ll just stay in my room until you’re done.”

  Johnson shook her head. “No, I’m sorry you’ll have to—”

  “That will be fine,” interrupted Rios, holding up a hand to Johnson. “We’re not interested in your room.”

  Sarah picked up her mug, glaring at the two detectives, and stormed up the staircase to one of the bedrooms.

  “Why did you let her stay here? Procedure dictates that—”

  “Relax. I think Ms. Cohen knows more than she’s telling, but I don’t think she’s our dealer. I’m willing to give her a little slack.”

  “Where do we start?”

  Rios pulled on a pair of latex gloves and handed a pair to Johnson. “Upstairs in the victim’s bedroom.”

  After a two-hour search, Rios and Johnson had turned up very little, other than some photos of the victim with her sorority sisters and a flyer for Ladies’ Night specials at the Trip Hop Lounge. No drugs other than over-the-counter medications.

  Rios knocked on Sarah�
��s bedroom door. The young woman opened it, looking more disheveled than when they had first arrived. Her eyes were red, her face wet with tears.

  “We’re done with our search,” said Rios. “I’m really sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  “Who’s going to call her folks? Someone’s gotta tell them what happened.”

  “We have her parents’ number,” said Johnson. “We’ll be contacting them later today.”

  Rios handed the woman her business card. “Please contact us if you think of anything that can help us find who poisoned Genette.”

  Chapter 9

  Shea sat alone in the Iron Goddess office staring into space. Terrance had left for a doctor’s appointment shortly after finishing Chlöe Stansbury’s paperwork.

  She felt pulled in all directions. She was busy enough back when it was just her and Jessica. Now she had Annie to take care of. And Rios pushing her to hang around the Athena Sisterhood. Even her work here at Iron Goddess was getting complicated with employee conflicts and rushed projects.

  A knock on the door pulled her from her pity party. Lakota stood in the office doorway. “I talked to Switch about the music and we came up with a solution.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “I got an old iPod that I can load up with all the Frank Sinatra, Michael Bublé, and Perry Como music she can stand. She can crank it up as loud as she wants without disturbing the whole crew.”

  Shea nodded. “Thanks for that. There’s another situation I need you to discuss with her.”

  “Now what?”

  “Switch’s been calling Kyle names: midget, shorty, and so on. He’s complained to me about it. Think you can get her to stop?”

  Lakota sighed. “I can talk to her. Whether she’ll stop is another matter.”

  “I understand she’s got issues. Hell, we all got issues. I can’t be tippytoeing around her when she’s making things difficult for everyone else. I gotta set boundaries. If she can’t handle it, then I gotta let her go.”

  “Do you know what that would do to her? Working here is the one thing in her life she loves. It’s her anchor. If she loses this job, she’ll end up on the streets.”