Chapter Eleven

Honey invited me inside her apartment, craning her neck, clearly hoping to see Ben behind me. “Where’s your cute brother?” she asked.

“He got held up . . . in traffic,” I said, which was absolutely true. He had been held up and there was tons of traffic around when it happened. “Thanks for letting me wait for him here.” I figured I had a better chance of getting Honey to talk to me if she thought Ben would arrive shortly. I’d told Honey that we were supposed to meet Chase at his apartment. When I’d arrived, a quick scan of the apartment parking lot had shown Chase was out and that Honey was home—so handy to have the parking slots labeled with the apartment numbers.

There was a shiny new deadbolt on Chase’s apartment door, which dashed my hopes of sneaking into his apartment or convincing Honey to help me get inside. I’d hoped she might have exchanged keys with Angela at some point in the past, but since it looked like that wasn’t going to be an option, I decided I might as well talk to Honey and hope that Chase came home while I was here. Maybe I could convince him to let me see Angela’s phone. It was five-thirty, and I hoped he would return home for the evening.

“That was fast,” I said, indicating the new deadbolt.

“The manager called a locksmith earlier today. She is on her toes now, doing everything she can to convince us all that this is a safe complex, despite the police cars and yellow tape. Come on in.” Honey waved me through the living room and into the small kitchen area. “This is Bruno,” she said, indicating a German shepherd that was ambling toward me. Honey rubbed the dog’s ears as he walked by her. “He’s sweet, like me,” she said with a wink.

I eased forward, the back of my hand extended. I had a big dog myself, so the size of the animal didn’t bother me, but it was always good to be cautious. Bruno sauntered closer, giving my hand a sniff, and I could see the gray in his muzzle. He ducked his head under my hand, clearly wanting to be petted. I rubbed his ears and along his back, then he moseyed over to a large cushion in the living room and collapsed with a gusty sigh. I never would have thought Honey would have a German shepherd. Something more along the lines of a fuzzy lap dog with bows and painted toenails would seem to be more her style.

Honey had on a hot pink swimsuit cover-up with spaghetti straps and enough gold chains to rival Mr. T. “I’m just back from the beach,” she said, gesturing at a canvas bag and pink sunhat with an enormous brim sitting near the door. It looked like something a glamorous Hollywood starlet would have worn in a black and white film. I apologized for dropping in on her, but she cut me off. “Nonsense. What’s going on next door is so interesting. Would you like some lemonade? It’s homemade,” she added as she walked into the kitchen.

“Sure,” I said, following her, noticing that the flower arrangement that had been delivered to Angela was now on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. I edged down the bar. I’d completely forgotten about the flowers. Hadn’t the card said something about a find? Wasn’t that the word that Cara said Angela used to describe the photos?

Honey was busy pouring two tall glasses of lemonade and cutting slices of lemon. I craned my neck, looking for the little plastic fork with the card. It was on the far side. Honey arranged the lemon slices on the sides of the glasses along with sprigs of mint, then turned to a cabinet. Without letting myself think about it, I reached out while her back was turned and snatched the card.

“Wasn’t that sweet of Chase to give those to me?” she said with a nod of her head in the direction of the flowers as she set a glass on the bar for me. I agreed and slipped the card into my pocket. Honey arranged several shortbread cookies on a plate, put it beside my glass, and shook her head. “Said he didn’t want to keep them,” she said, obviously perplexed at why anyone wouldn’t want to keep a beautiful flower arrangement.

I took a shortbread cookie and asked, “So what is going on next door?”

Honey picked up her glass and motioned for me to follow her to the dining area, which had windows that looked out onto the porch and sidewalk leading to the parking lot. I grabbed my lemonade and joined her as she pulled back a ruffled white curtain and pointed one of her burgundy talons through the slats of the blinds. “See that car right there?” she asked, indicating a brown four-door car parked in one of the visitor slots across from Angela and Chase’s apartment. I could see two shadowy figures inside the car.

I nodded as I sipped my lemonade, which was surprisingly good—just the right blend of tart and sweet. “This is terrific lemonade.”

“Never use that powdered stuff,” she said with a shudder. “You’ve got to boil water to dissolve the sugar, then add the lemon juice.”

“Freshly squeezed?”

“Of course,” she said, like there was no other way to do it. She turned her attention back to the window. “I’ve seen that car off and on for the last few days. They come and park for a while, then leave. They arrived,” she paused to consult her watch, “around two-thirty, just after the police left. They’ve been there ever since.”

I glanced at my watch. “Three hours is a long time to sit in a car on a hot afternoon.”

“Isn’t it?” Honey said.

“Have you seen anything else that seemed strange?” I asked. “Did you see anyone at Chase and Angela’s apartment yesterday or last night?” It seemed like Honey kept a close watch on her corner of the apartment complex.

“No one. Nothing.” Honey retrieved the shortbread cookies. She put them on the table and waved me into a seat. I took another cookie. They were delicious, too. It seemed Honey was a regular Martha Stewart in the kitchen.

“What about Chase? Did you see his car last night?”

“No, his parking slot was empty until he arrived today, shortly after you came to the apartment.”

I squashed an internal sigh. I’d been hoping that Honey would have some tidbit of information—like a sighting of someone prowling around the apartment or some little overlooked detail—that would put a whole new spin on everything.

A shadow moved across the curtains from the parking lot toward the apartments. “Oh, there’s Chase,” Honey said. Before she’d finished speaking, several more figures moved by the window after Chase, their shadows quickly flitting over the curtains.

Muted voices sounded. The words were rapid and there was a strident quality to them that I could hear, despite being inside. Honey and I looked at each other.

“That sounds like an argument,” I said, and Honey nodded. We both moved back to the window where we could see two men, one on each side of Chase, marching him down the sidewalk. I was only a few steps behind Honey when she scurried to the front door and threw it open.

We were in time to see one of the men put his hand on Chase’s head as he put him in the back seat of the brown car. The sound of a camera shutter clicked rapidly, and I tracked it to an Asian guy standing under the carport a few feet away from the brown car. “He’s being arrested,” Honey whispered through her fingers, which covered her lips. The shutter continued to whir as one of the guys who put Chase in the car straightened his tie and adjusted the lapels on his suit coat, then joined the other suited man in the front seat of the car, and they drove out of the complex.

The guy with the camera swung toward us, and I automatically backed away, but Honey didn’t move. He came over to the sidewalk, the camera around his neck swinging with each step and tangling with a lanyard. When he reached Honey, the lanyard stopped swaying, and I could read the large print beside the photo: PRESS.

“Joe Zoltiff. Sandy Beach Journal. Did you have any idea that your neighbor was involved in a pill mill?”

“What?” Honey said, her hand transferring from her lips to her collarbone. “Pill mill?”

“Yes.” The man pulled a long narrow notebook out of the breast pocket of his plaid shirt. “There’s a coordinated law enforcement sweep going on today involving local police and the DEA.”

“But that can’t be right. They’ve got the wrong guy,” Honey protested. “He works at a restaurant, The Hideaway, down by the water. He doesn’t have anything to do with drugs.”

“But he did work at a medical office . . . ,” I murmured, more to myself than to Honey, but she heard me and spun around.

“He did?”

“It’s on his Facebook page,” I said.

“But that doesn’t mean anything now. He might have worked there in the past, but he doesn’t work there now,” Honey said to me, then turned back to the guy with the camera. “Chase Day is the best neighbor. He always helps me bring my groceries in and he took Bruno out for me, too,” she said, almost defiantly.

The reporter looked slightly confused. “Um, okay. Can I quote you on that—that he helped you with the groceries?”

“Yes, please do. Honey DeStefano,” she said as she jabbed at his notepad as she spell her name for him. Then she grabbed his arm. “Come inside,” she said, dragging him toward her door, which was still open. “I’m sure there’s a mistake and you—you’re a member of the press—you can sort it out. Have a seat,” Honey said, gesturing to the dining-room table.

I had followed them back inside because I wanted to hear what was going on. While Honey prepared another glass of lemonade, Bruno wandered over. The reporter must not have noticed the dog, because he suddenly jumped onto the seat of the dining-room chair. The dog applied his nose to the tips of the guy’s sneakers, gave a hearty sniff, then moseyed back to his cushion.

Joe glanced at me. I said, “That’s Bruno.”

We could hear his blustery sigh from across the room as he turned in a half-circle, then dropped down onto his cushion. Joe cleared his throat and adjusted his collar as he stepped down, his face flushed.

“You can never be too careful with dogs,” he said.

“I’m sure you’ve got to watch out for them in your line of work.” I slipped into a seat at the table beside the reporter and tried to pretend he hadn’t just been standing on a chair. I stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Ellie. I don’t live here. Just visiting,” I said, hoping that would limit his interest in me. It seemed to work because he lowered the pen he’d poised to write down my name and, instead, he shook my hand. “Joe.”

“So what’s going on? I’ve heard about these pill mills on the news.”

“They’ve been a big problem in Florida for years. They distribute painkillers, mostly opium-type drugs, to anyone who walks in the door and pays them. The state is cracking down, passing laws and raiding clinics. That’s what is happening today, a statewide sting operation. Until recently, it’s been easy to get pills here. Florida has become a distribution point for pills going into other states, like Mississippi, Georgia, even Tennessee and up the East Coast.”

Honey set a glass in front of Joe and took a seat opposite him. “Joe’s telling me about the pill mills,” I said to Honey to bring her into the conversation. I turned back to Joe and asked, “And that was going on here in Sandy Beach and Costa Bella?”

“We’re strategically located. Drive a couple of hours and you can be in three different states. Pills were moved up here, mostly from Tampa, then distributed through two main locations, a clinic in Spring Heights and another one, Sandy Beach Sports Medicine Clinic, in the shopping center near The Hideaway.”

“But like I said earlier, Chase doesn’t work at the sports clinic. He works at the restaurant,” Honey said, and pushed the plate in Joe’s direction. “Have a cookie.”

He took one, ate it in one gulp, and said, “I just came from there. The doctor who owns the clinic was arrested a little while ago, too.”

“So what?” Honey said. “I used to work for a CPA. That doesn’t mean I’m doing people’s taxes on the side.”

“Well, in Chase Day’s case, it seems he was still working for the sports clinic.”

Honey looked doubtful, and Joe said, “The state cracked down on these doctors who prescribe pain meds, so the doctors changed up the way they distribute pills. I’ve been reporting on this for a couple of years, and I’ve seen how the docs used to have waiting rooms full of patients at all hours of the day and night—even after midnight. It was easy to spot the bogus clinics because there would be so many people in the waiting rooms and lots of cars with out-of- state plates. Those details were red flags that the police and DEA looked for, so the docs switched things up so they wouldn’t be so obvious. Instead of waiting at a pain clinic and clogging up the waiting room and parking lot, the doc and Chase set up an elaborate scheme to funnel the patients through the restaurant waiting area and then over to the pain clinic. The patients gave the hostess a code word, and she gave them a special buzzer. When their pager went off, the hostess sent them through the restaurant to the back door. They slipped around the back of the building and into the back door of the clinic, got their drugs, and were on their way.”

“That’s so elaborate,” Honey said.

“But clever,” I said, thinking of the woman in the yellow tank and the man in the Phineas and Ferb hat. They had been antsy and didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the relaxed vacation crowd. The confrontation between the man and Chase must have been about the changes, the elaborate setup to get into the clinic. “The waiting area at a busy restaurant is always packed, especially at lunch and dinner,” I said. “A crowd there wouldn’t draw any suspicion and neither would a parking lot full of cars with out-of-state plates. It’s frequented by tourists, after all.” I realized Joe was taking notes, and I quickly put my hand on his arm. “Don’t quote me on that. I’m only thinking out loud.”

“But how do they know this about Chase? Couldn’t it be a coincidence?” Honey asked.

Joe shook his head. “You couldn’t set up a relay like that between two businesses without the knowledge of the managers. Anyway, law enforcement has been watching him and the doc for weeks. I’ve been shadowing the agents. They want the press coverage, so they’ve let me in on the story. Two undercover officers, posing as patients, ran through the whole setup yesterday.”

While Honey asked more questions, my thoughts ran in another direction. Could the breakin at Chase and Angela’s apartment have had something to do with the pill mill? I’d assumed the breakin was someone looking for the photos, but I couldn’t make that assumption now.

Honey said, “Well, that’s terrible. I hate to hear that. You can quote me on that. And I know you’ll want a picture to go with that quote. Let me get my hat, and we can go out on my patio.”

I thanked Honey for the refreshments and slipped out. Joe had edged toward the door with me, but resistance was futile. Honey latched onto his wrist and pulled him to the patio, explaining her right side was her most photogenic.

The door to Chase’s apartment was open now, and I could see two men in dark shirts with the letters DEA moving around inside, collecting evidence. They must have arrived when Honey, Joe, and I were deep in conversation and didn’t notice them. There went my chance to get a look at Angela’s phone, I thought dismally.

I pulled the card that came with the flowers out of my pocket as I walked back to the car, marveling at how flexible my morals had become. Normally, I wouldn’t take anything—even a piece of paper—from someone’s home, but I thought of that scratchy voice on the phone threatening Ben. His matter-of-fact tone scared me. It sounded as if violence wouldn’t bother him. The hours were slipping by—it was a few minutes after six now—so quickly. I only had one other person who was linked with Angela. I climbed in the van, cranked the air conditioner, and dialed the number on the card.