During the raid at Malcom Price’s house on Wednesday they had arrested two of his associates, Ibrahim Fayed and Marissa Keizer, both of them employees of the Parasol corporation, and both suspected to be involved in the manufacture and distribution of Ink. When they searched Fayed’s apartment, they found that he had left his personal laptop computer powered up and running, with a “Find Friends” application active. Cross referencing emails and contact information, Patrick and the others had been able to identify an additional half-dozen Parasol employees who were also believed to be involved in the Ink traffic, and had begun to monitor their movements. It was a pattern that was identified in the daily movements of all six that had led Patrick and Officer Carlson to the warehouse down near the docks the night before.
“Chavez wants to keep the surveillance in place, and is pushing to get the district judge to sign off on wiretap and pin register for each of them,” Harrison went on, “but the captain doesn’t think we’ve got enough on the table to justify a link between them and the goons that jumped Carlson yet. Even so, the captain has called for a Monday morning all-hands-on-deck meeting of the different narcotics squads working the Ink trade. My guess is that he’s going to push for us to start making some arrests, starting with those six computer geeks, and see if we can’t lean on them to give up the names of the people higher up the ladder.”
“What would we charge them with, though?” Patrick asked. “All we’ve got on them is a few emails, but in those they only talk about the ‘product’ and the ‘launch’ and that kind of thing. Never any direct mention of Ink, and they don’t refer by name to any of the known dealers. That’s pretty flimsy stuff. I don’t see the judge buying any of it.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.” Harrison shrugged. “But if the captain wants arrests, we can bring them in. What happens after that is out of my hands.”
Patrick scowled. That kind of thinking wasn’t going to do them any favors, considering what they were really up against. And what would happen if the precinct lockup were to be filled with men and women with enough Ink in their systems to turn Ridden?
Before Patrick could follow that train of thought much farther than that, Harrison stepped past him, slugging him lightly on the arm as he went by.
“Anyway, see you on Monday, Tevake,” Harrison said, chuckling. “And good luck with the typing. Better you than me.”
Watching Harrison’s retreating back, Patrick shook his head, and then turned and headed for his desk. The sooner he was able to file his report and get back to his investigation, the better. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck here when the sun went down. There were too many things lurking out in the shadows of the city.
CHAPTER FIVE
The time that Izzie spent in the passenger seat as Daphne drove them across town from Oceanview to City Center had felt like a perfect little break from all of the strangeness that swirled around them. Just two colleagues who had quickly become friends, and seemed to be on their way to something more than that even quicker, talking about anything but what was really worrying them. They were playing songs on Daphne’s car stereo, talking about old sitcoms and their favorite movies, past loves and old heartbreaks, just as they had done the night before on the dusty old couch, and again that morning in Patrick’s kitchen over their first coffees of the day. With traffic it had taken them no more than fifteen minutes to reach their destination, but for that brief time it was as though the weight on Izzie’s shoulders had lifted.
But when Daphne pulled over to the curb on Hauser Avenue in front of Izzie’s hotel, that weight came crushing back down. It was one thing to spend idle time with frivolous distraction, and quite another to waste valuable time that could be better spent pursuing their agenda.
“I just need to run up to my room and grab some things,” Izzie said as she opened the passenger side door, “and then I’m heading over to the RA.” She pointed with her chin across the street at the building that housed the offices of the FBI’s Recondito Resident Agency.
“I’m going to swing by my place, and then I’ll meet you back here.” Daphne leaned to one side to look out the window at Izzie as she closed the passenger-side door. “You need me to bring you anything? Clothes, maybe? I know you didn’t bring much with you in your go-bag, and I think my stuff would fit you.”
Izzie put a hand on her hip and cocked her head to one side. “I’m not sure we’re at the ‘borrowing each other’s clothes’ stage of things just yet, Agent Richardson. I can make do with what I’ve got.”
Daphne stuck out her tongue. “Okay, meet you at the offices in a bit.”
As the compact hybrid pulled away from the curb and merged back into traffic, Izzie hurried into the hotel. She didn’t want to waste any time.
Fifteen minutes later, she was back downstairs with her go-bag slung over her shoulder. She’d packed up just about everything she had brought with her from home, including toothbrush and clothes, and had supplemented it with the complimentary toiletries that the hotel cleaning staff had left in the room. She wasn’t sure when she would be coming back, but if she ended up showering at Patrick’s place again, she didn’t want to have to rely again on that sad sliver of soap that she’d been forced to use in his upstairs bathroom that morning.
As Izzie walked over to the crosswalk to get to the east side of Hauser, a car parked further up the street caught her eye. It was idling, the
