States of Grace by Mandy Miller (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

That way, if we end up appointed on the case, we can get straight to work without waiting for the State to provide the reports in discovery when they damn well please.” He covers his mouth. “Oops, I keep forgetting you used to be one of them.”

We share a full-throated laugh this time. “‘Used to’ be being the operative phrase.”

“Amen to that.” he says, flopping back into his chair.

I scan the papers. Two identical arrest reports for Sinclair. Each one written poorly. The earlier of the two, dated December 2, 2008, states: Subject arrested when he attempted to sell thirty-five pills of Oxy to Det. Sorenson who was plain clothes. The second, dated May 25, 2009, reports in similar pidgin English, that Sinclair was arrested for “attempting to sell a hundred and fifty Oxy for fifteen hundred.”

“Seems as if Mr. Sinclair was not only a murder victim, but a twice-arrested drug trafficker,” Josh says.

“And, interestingly, one without a criminal record.”

“If only we could all be so lucky,” he says. After a long pause, he adds, “Like you.”

I grab my backpack and head for the door. “Again, thank you.”

“Not at all. Always glad to help an underdog,” he says. “And if the high life of private practice ever stops suiting you, there’s always a place for you here, Grace. I can always use another bull in a china shop.”

“I appreciate that compliment, but for now I need to make some real money. I’m broke and a PD’s salary won’t cut it.”

“It’s a standing offer, no expiration date, but in the meantime, keep those eyes in the back of your head wide open, young lady. I’m not interested in going down the yellow brick road with you ever again.”

Chapter 23

I jab my finger at the windowless, concrete-block structure. “That’s it! 1447 West Sunrise Boulevard.”

“What is that place? Looks like the death row at Starke,” Vinnie says, his top lip curled back.

“That, my friend, is a pill mill, also known, in more polite circles, as a pain clinic.”

A low growl from the back seat.

“Maybe we should have left her in the crate back home?”

Another growl.

Vinnie shoots me a look that could strip paint. “No one’s getting locked up in a cage again. Not on my watch,” he says, docking Carmela in one of the few empty parking spaces outside the pill mill.

Many of the vehicles in the jam-packed lot are multi-passenger vans with out-of-state license plates. Most of the cars with Florida plates are beaters, some rusted out, others with mismatched quarter panels. All appear to be on their last legs, not unlike the dozen or so emaciated, jittery people pacing back and forth outside the entrance, smoking cigarettes and chomping gum.

A white, middle-aged man exits the building and hones in on a skeletal woman in skin-tight jeans and a bikini top leaning against the fender of a tan pickup with West Virginia plates. The woman sucks on a cigarette and forages deep in her pocket as if it contained untold treasure. Cash in her hand, the man shoves something at her, grabs the money, jumps into the truck, and guns the engine. The woman stays behind, swaying, staring at whatever is in her hand.

“If I had to guess, I’d say they’re giving away blue candy in that bunker.”

“Huh?”

“The blues, baby,” I say, affecting a dreamy tone.

“That a music club?” Vinnie asks, the furrows in his brow carved deep by time and a hard life.

“For a former made guy, you sure can be naive. No, not music, silly. Drugs. Pain pills. OxyContin. Called blues because of their color. Hillbilly heroin. Whatever you wanna call it, it’s pure evil on steroids.”

A young couple, hand in hand, walk inside. Her hair’s in pigtails. He’s wearing a Nirvana T-shirt.

A young woman gets out of her car and straps on a back brace, before limping inside with the help of a cane.

“More grist for the pill mill.”

“I read about them pill mills in the paper. It said Broward is the epicenter of the opioid epidemic. Whatever epi and opi are.”

“They mean this is where people come to die at the hands of those sworn to do no harm.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning doctors in white coats pushing drugs. All legal. All made out to be a regular medical office. Except the patients, most of them at least, as just looking for their next fix.”

“Back in the day, we weren’t no pushers. We had our rules, and drugs were against them.”

“Only girls and gambling. Isn’t that the party line?”

“A little of this, a little of that,” he says, examining his age-spotted hands on the steering wheel. “But that’s all another lifetime ago, sweetheart.”

“Check that out. Dude over there in the brown Toyota. He’s shooting up right there, out in the open!”

“Mother of God.” Vinnie covers his eyes, but peeks though his fingers at the man tightening a rubber band around his arm with his teeth. “Thought it was pills they’re sellin’.”

“Yeah, but the high is twice as special if you crush the pills and shoot or snort the powder.”

“Jesus, Gracie. Enough. I ain’t got the stomach for this. And neither do you,” he says to Miranda, along with a command to lie down.

“Thank God, nor do I. Anymore,” I whisper to myself.

“Why is it we’re here again? You said Sinclair got arrested here. But for what, if all this is on the level?”

“Sinclair was arrested here for drug trafficking. He got caught trying to sell some pain pills to an undercover cop.”

“Oops,” Vinnie says with a shrug. “But why here?”

“You ever heard the saying that bank robbers rob banks because that’s where the money is?”

“Sure.”

“Drug dealers deal drugs at places like these because it’s where the drugs and the consumers are. Here in the Sunshine State, not only can you get pain pills prescribed at a pain clinic, but you can also get that very prescription filled there too at an on-site pharmacy.”

“One-stop shopping. How convenient.”

“Exactly! But it gets better. One pill that costs three dollars at the