what?”
“Designer drug,” Chris repeated, expression sympathetic. “The DEA has jumped in with both feet and all sorts of tests are being done, but the preliminary consensus is that this drug is something nobody has seen before. It’s illegal as hell, with traces of amphetamines mixed with a bunch of other shit, likely performance enhancing, or at least that’s how they feel the drug is being marketed on the street. A pick-me-up, iron-man drug that makes steroids look like aspirin.”
“Jesus, Brad. Why?” Shane’s eyes closed and for several long moments he said nothing. When he opened them again, it was apparent he was holding it together by a thread. “Official cause of death?”
“Heart failure due to adverse drug reaction,” Taylor said. “Not technically an overdose.”
“The shit stopped his heart.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, man.”
Shane grappled with that, blinking moisture from his eyes. “What does that have to do with one of our cases?”
“It connects with the one we just caught the other day,” Taylor told him, leaning forward to hand Shane a file folder. “The dead guy in the ditch with the hole in the back of his head—remember him? He was identified as Larry Holstead, age twenty-eight.”
“Who’d he run with?”
“We’re working on it. The interesting thing is the compound that the ME found on his clothing.”
Shane paused in the act of flipping through the file, snapping his head up. “Traces of the designer drug that Brad took?”
“Bingo.”
“What the fuck does this mean?” Shane asked, shaking his head. He flipped the file closed. “What the hell had Brad gotten himself into?”
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out,” Chris said firmly. “Hang in there, all right?”
“Yeah.”
Daisy’s heart twisted at the devastation etched on Shane’s face. But there was also a new determination that hadn’t been there before, and she knew that look.
It was the look of a cop who would go through hell to find the answers he needed. And he might have to do just that before he had them.
• • •
Unseen and unheard by the group in the living room, Drew crept back into the safety of his room.
On shaky legs, he wobbled back to his window seat perch, shaking hand pressed to his heart. Tears welled in his eyes, spilled unchecked down his face. Their words haunted him, scored themselves into his soul.
Designer drug.
Heart failure.
“Dad,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”
Lowering his head, he cried until he was sick. And wished he was being buried next to his dad.
Right where he deserved to be.
4
On a cold gray afternoon in February, the heavens wept as Brad Cooper was laid to rest. Sleet struck the protective canopy hard, nearly drowning out the mournful words of the elderly preacher. But not quite. Each syllable rocked Shane like a physical blow.
Fine man.
Good, loving father.
Will be missed by all.
Safe in the hands of God.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Shane sucked in a harsh breath at the dreadful finality. He could only imagine how Drew was really feeling as he stood stoic and silent next to him. His back was straight, eyes dry. Was that normal? Everyone was worried about the kid. No one more than Shane. In his line of work, he knew that sometimes once a person broke inside, he might never be fixed. It scared him to think of Drew losing his way.
But the boy was stronger than that. Had to be.
The graveside service that had seemed to take forever was suddenly over, and he and Drew had to suffer through the line of their friends and Brad’s who’d come to pay their respects. There was a healthy contingent representing the NFL, including coaches, scores of players, and sportscasters. Any other time, for any other occasion, Shane would have been thrilled to meet some of his idols. Though his heart ached, it was good to see them, and also see some of the guys from the station, ones who’d met Brad and
“Designer drug,” Chris repeated, expression sympathetic. “The DEA has jumped in with both feet and all sorts of tests are being done, but the preliminary consensus is that this drug is something nobody has seen before. It’s illegal as hell, with traces of amphetamines mixed with a bunch of other shit, likely performance enhancing, or at least that’s how they feel the drug is being marketed on the street. A pick-me-up, iron-man drug that makes steroids look like aspirin.”
“Jesus, Brad. Why?” Shane’s eyes closed and for several long moments he said nothing. When he opened them again, it was apparent he was holding it together by a thread. “Official cause of death?”
“Heart failure due to adverse drug reaction,” Taylor said. “Not technically an overdose.”
“The shit stopped his heart.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, man.”
Shane grappled with that, blinking moisture from his eyes. “What does that have to do with one of our cases?”
“It connects with the one we just caught the other day,” Taylor told him, leaning forward to hand Shane a file folder. “The dead guy in the ditch with the hole in the back of his head—remember him? He was identified as Larry Holstead, age twenty-eight.”
“Who’d he run with?”
“We’re working on it. The interesting thing is the compound that the ME found on his clothing.”
Shane paused in the act of flipping through the file, snapping his head up. “Traces of the designer drug that Brad took?”
“Bingo.”
“What the fuck does this mean?” Shane asked, shaking his head. He flipped the file closed. “What the hell had Brad gotten himself into?”
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out,” Chris said firmly. “Hang in there, all right?”
“Yeah.”
Daisy’s heart twisted at the devastation etched on Shane’s face. But there was also a new determination that hadn’t been there before, and she knew that look.
It was the look of a cop who would go through hell to find the answers he needed. And he might have to do just that before he had them.
• • •
Unseen and unheard by the group in the living room, Drew crept back into the safety of his room.
On shaky legs, he wobbled back to his window seat perch, shaking hand pressed to his heart. Tears welled in his eyes, spilled unchecked down his face. Their words haunted him, scored themselves into his soul.
Designer drug.
Heart failure.
“Dad,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”
Lowering his head, he cried until he was sick. And wished he was being buried next to his dad.
Right where he deserved to be.
4
On a cold gray afternoon in February, the heavens wept as Brad Cooper was laid to rest. Sleet struck the protective canopy hard, nearly drowning out the mournful words of the elderly preacher. But not quite. Each syllable rocked Shane like a physical blow.
Fine man.
Good, loving father.
Will be missed by all.
Safe in the hands of God.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Shane sucked in a harsh breath at the dreadful finality. He could only imagine how Drew was really feeling as he stood stoic and silent next to him. His back was straight, eyes dry. Was that normal? Everyone was worried about the kid. No one more than Shane. In his line of work, he knew that sometimes once a person broke inside, he might never be fixed. It scared him to think of Drew losing his way.
But the boy was stronger than that. Had to be.
The graveside service that had seemed to take forever was suddenly over, and he and Drew had to suffer through the line of their friends and Brad’s who’d come to pay their respects. There was a healthy contingent representing the NFL, including coaches, scores of players, and sportscasters. Any other time, for any other occasion, Shane would have been thrilled to meet some of his idols. Though his heart ached, it was good to see them, and also see some of the guys from the station, ones who’d met Brad and
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