Jenner was sitting at the wicker desk, wearing a fresh T-shirt and clean jeans, polishing off his eggs and drinking coffee, when Anders called. The conversation was brief and to the point.
The situation had moved on to the next level and the county managers had become involved. Sandy Hart from Miami would arrive that morning; Dr. Hart would do Rudge’s autopsy. That was for the best, Jenner thought—Sandy was a good pathologist. They were expecting Jenner at Major Crimes around noon, after the autopsy; Jenner was not permitted to attend Rudge’s autopsy, and the pathologist and investigators had been instructed not to discuss their findings with him.
Once he’d handed in his report from Rudge’s death scene and given his statement in Major Crimes, Jenner would be free to go. The county comptroller himself had cut Jenner a check for the balance of the money he was owed. Down the road, the medical examiners who were replacing him might have questions about his cases; the sheriff trusted Jenner would assist them out of a sense of ethical responsibility. The questions, if any, would be few, and Jenner should expect no further remuneration from Douglas County.
Jenner hung up. He sat at the desk, looking dully at the half-eaten toast and the little pots of imported jam.
Outside, the tourists were dispersing, some to the beach, most on a mangroves and Everglades tour, where they’d peer at manatees through glass-bottomed boats as the manatees did their best to get out of the damn way.
The phone rang—Dr. Ade from the shelter letting him know the dog was fine, just about a hundred percent better and eating like a horse.
So now he had a dog, again. Would the dog like New York? He should leave it with Maggie, make it her problem. Christ, how was he even going to pay for the dog’s medical care?
Jenner opened the window and leaned into the breezy sunshine. Beyond the emerald wall of sea grape, the beach was still almost empty; the first sun-worshippers were now creeping out onto the sand like wary crabs.
He could go to the beach. Why not? They didn’t need him until noon. He could lie on the beach, get some sun.
Or he could run, he could get back to running, hit the trails, feel his legs pounding, his breath tearing up his lungs, feel his body work. He could run the path along the canal, where he’d been running when…
He didn’t want to think about Marty now.
In the bathroom, Jenner rifled through the complimentary toiletries. There was a mini-tube of toothpaste next to the box of CBM Daytime Cold tablets.
Jenner froze.
He picked up the white box, looked at the Craine Brothers Medical logo and pale blue globe, the “No. 1 in Cold Medicine” slogan. Turned the box to read the ingredient list.
And in an instant he understood. All of it.
Cold medicine. The white van with the blue globe—CBM logo. The farmhouse, the well-paid field workers—it all fell into place.
It was all about the box van entering as they left Craine’s farm, the van with the Craine Brothers Medical logo on its side. It wasn’t stocked with shampoo and baby powder—there were twenty men, tops, working there, they’d just buy locally in bulk.
No, that Craine Brothers van was bringing something more specialized: cold medicine. Tens of thousands of tablets filled with phenylpropanolamine or pseudoephedrine. In the farmhouse or the bunkhouses, there’d be men breaking down the capsules and tablets and then, through the magic of modern chemistry, converting those active ingredients into pharmaceutical-grade methamphetamine.
The packet Jenner had taken from Marty’s car was approaching 100 percent purity. How did Marty come to have their product?
The original packet in Marty’s car had been tied with the waxed twine they used to suture the bodies in the autopsy room—Jenner had assumed that’s where Marty had got it. But funeral directors used identical twine to sew up their bodies, and Marty had been at Jones Brothers the day he went missing.
It had already occurred to Jenner that Jones, who shipped coffins all over the country, might be moving contraband; now the supply part of the puzzle was slipping into place. With meth convictions on his sheet, maybe Reggie had connections to someone at the farm, maybe even Brodie.
Moving factory volumes of meth would be a challenge—the DEA, local police, Highway Patrol, and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement over the state combed the highways and the back roads for meth and cocaine smugglers. But probably wouldn’t stop a hearse. Jones could even ship the bodies by air—did they even check baggage on domestic flights with drug-sniffer dogs? These days, it was all about bombs. And even if they checked baggage, Jenner doubted they’d open the coffins to check a cadaver.
Jenner realized he was pacing. He sat back down at the desk, and stared blankly toward the ocean.
Chip Craine wouldn’t be the mastermind—he was hungry, he was corrupt, he was a risk-taker, but Mexican cartels ran the speed trade across the country with an iron fist. Craine would be the perfect silent partner, even more for his pharmaceutical connections than for his farm. And if the “allowance” his brother gave him was as miserly as Maggie had said, he’d welcome a steady flow of cash.
Jesus. He must be making a fortune. Hundreds of thousands, no, millions every month.
Head buzzing, Jenner got up and started pulling his things together. What should he do about this? He couldn’t trust anyone in Douglas County. He needed to get back to New York, then speak to the DEA.
Packing didn’t take long—all Jenner had to do was fold his few remaining shirts, a pair of pants, and some underclothes into the big black plastic garbage bags. In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth, then carefully packed the complimentary toothbrush and mini toothpaste. He helped himself to the wrapped soaps and unused bottles of Crab-tree & Evelyn shampoo and conditioner; he’d need them at the fleapits where he’d be staying on his drive home.
There was a tap at the door. Jenner peered through the peephole, then opened the door wide.
Jenner said, “Good morning, Mister Craine.”