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

his record. And the fancy folks at St. Paul’s are none the wiser.”

“Snitches make enemies, sweetheart.”

I rub my chin. “Maybe you’re onto something there. Maybe he paid the ultimate price for trying to save his own ass.” I wave the second police report. “But why would he risk everything—his job, his freedom—a second time?”

“People do stupid shit for money. That’s why you stayed with that creep for so long, remember?”

“That’s not why, Vin.”

“Sure, I forgot. You loved his sorry Cuban ass.”

“That’s ancient history. I pinch his arm. “Let’s get back to why we’re here.”

Vinnie slides down in his seat. “Whatever you say, boss.”

A group of twenty-somethings emerges from the pill mill, all emaciated with skin so white it’s translucent, like parchment paper. They get into a white panel van, the type we used to call a pedo van at the State due to the fact they are the vehicle of choice for pedophiles. Before climbing in, each one hands the driver a brown paper bag. They’ll get their cut later, as well as a few bills for their trouble. The rest goes to the big boss, back wherever they came from.

“Not that I’m a fan of cops or nothin,’ but why don’t they shut these places down? Look at this circus. Kids going in an out like it’s a candy store.”

“Pain clinics are legal.”

“Shameful.”

“And you want to know the best part? Anyone can own one of these places. All you need is to hire one doctor with a medical license and a DEA number to order narcotics, and you got yourself a cash cow. Doc writes the script and it gets filled on site. Everyone goes home rich or high.”

“What gives with all the out-of-state plates?” He points at a Tennessee license plate with the dubious state slogan, Sounds Good to Me, above the number.

“Tennessee, West Virginia, Kentucky, they’re all just a day’s drive away. It’s gotten so bad the cops call I-75 in and out of Florida the Blue Highway to Hell.”

“I had no idea.”

“There’s a flight every Monday into Fort Lauderdale from Huntington, West Virginia that never has an empty seat. The Oxy Express.”

“Where the heck is Huntington, West Virginia?”

“You get my point.”

“How’s it you know so much about this?”

“I once prosecuted a woman who testified she was sponsored by a guy back up in Nowheresville, Kentucky, who ran five vans packed with addicts down here every week. Did the circuit of all the pill mills. Addicts got their visits and drugs paid for, and got to keep some of their prescriptions. The rest, the guy sold back home for ten times what he paid for it down here.”

“Doesn’t anyone keep track of who’s buying what?”

“Nope, our good old governor has blocked a statewide database to shut down doctor shopping.”

“Jesus. What’s this place called? There’s no sign.”

“They don’t need to advertise.”

After a half hour of watching zombies parading in and out with brown paper bags stuffed with enough pills to anesthetize a small island nation, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what Sinclair was up to. Just as I’m about to tell Vinnie to get us out of here, a young woman strolls in front of the car.

I snatch Vinnie’s threadbare Marlins World Series cap from his head.

“What? What you doin’?”

I aim both index fingers at the young woman. “That’s Serena Price! Zoe’s BFF.”

“Who?”

“The girl who found Sinclair’s body.”

“You sure?”

“Damn straight, I’m sure.”

“Wait here,” I say, bolting out after her.

“Wait! Maybe I should come…Wait!”

***

By the time I get inside the pill mill, Serena’s nowhere to be seen. Two giants stand sentry outside the only door off the interior hallway, their otherwise trim suit jackets bulged out with handguns. One has a tattoo of a teardrop under his left eye.

The man without the teardrop holds out his tree trunk of an arm. “Phone?”

I nod.

He signals for me to deposit my phone in one of the pigeon holes on the wall. “Frisk her,” he says to Teardrop.

More than a little uncomfortable about having the monster’s paws on me, I widen my stance and extend my arms like a scarecrow for Teardrop to pat me down. I ball my fists to refrain from clocking him when he spends way too long on my chest.

“Go,” Teardrop says, waving me through.

Douche bag.

Florida Center for Pain is stenciled on the inside door in benign, small black letters. I step into a room which looks like a warehouse, not a waiting area. I pull the ball cap low and walk around, as if I’m looking for a place to sit. No Serena. Rows and rows of folding chairs are set up in the middle of the space, like at the DMV. At the far end is a door to the clinic’s inner sanctum with a No Entry sign. The cement walls are bare, except for a poster, a twist on the classic Florida mantra: No shirt. No shoes. No problem. Instead, it reads: No Weapons. No Phone. No Cameras.

Those waiting are in various stages of deterioration. It’s obvious some are too far down the road to survive much longer, their bodies shriveled, teeth mostly gone along with any hope for a better tomorrow. Today, along with whatever they can swallow, snort, or shoot, is all they have, all they will ever have. There are a few bright faces, young, for now. They too will look as old as time soon, the light in their eyes extinguished by what will become their single-minded obsession—the next fix.

On the side wall there are three bulletproof-glass windows: Check In—Cash Only, MRIs—Cash Only, and Prescriptions—Cash Only. Dozens of people are lined up in front of each, not one of whom is standing still. All biting nails, scratching skin, sniffing and sighing, every second getting closer to their next high. Behind the glass are women wearing scrubs decorated with pictures of Winnie-the-Pooh characters. Yellow background for Pooh, pink for Piglet, and blue for Eeyore.

I join the Check In line. The attendant takes two hundred fifty dollars in cash from each