Patel stared at her, stunned. “Drugs?” he stammered. “Derek? Are you out of your mind?”
“GHB, specifically,” I pressed, keeping him off balance.
“Dear God.” Patel looked away, swallowing. “The, ah, the party Derek attended? It was held at the Champtin home?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I have a — conflict. The Champlins are my patients. By law, I can’t disclose any information—”
“Then you’d better hire your son a good lawyer, sir,” Zina said.
“Wait! Please,” Patel pleaded. “I can’t discuss my patients, but I can tell you that my son did not take GHB nor any other drug to that party. He would never do such a thing. And there would be... no need to.”
“Because... the pills were already there?” Zina pressed. “Are you saying someone in the family has a prescription for them?”
“I can’t comment on that, Detective,” Patel said. “But in good conscience, I cannot deny it either. Do you understand what I’m not telling you?”
“Got it,” Zina nodded.
“Without a release from the Champlins, that’s all I’m free to say. I’m — sorry about before. May I get back to my son?”
“Go ahead,” I said. “But if I were you, Doc, I’d get that release. We’ll be talking again.”
As Patel stalked off, my cell phone hummed. I turned away to take the message. Listened, and frowned. “Okay,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
“Is something wrong?” Zina asked.
“That was the district attorney. The Champlins’ lawyer wants a meet-up, at the Jury’s Inn.”
“Looking for a deal?” she said, surprised. “The case just opened.”
“He doesn’t want a deal,” I said. “He says he can close it for us.”
I left Zina at the hospital. She’d get Derek Patel’s statement as soon as he could talk.
I headed into Valhalla, a quaint, shoreline resort that’s exploded from a small town into a small city in the past dozen years. Internet money, mostly. Yuppies from Detroit, Flint, and Chicago fleeing the cities to get away from it all. And bringing a lot of it with them.
As a boy, raised in the back country, I couldn’t wait to get out of here. But after two tours as an MP in Afghanistan, then police work in Detroit, I’m happy to be back. Most of the time.
The Jury’s Inn is a convenient hangout for cops, lawyers, and media people, catty-cornered from the county courthouse, just up the block from police headquarters. You can order a burger or a beer, cut a plea deal, or nose out a headline without leaving your barstool.
On a snowy Saturday morning, the place was half empty, the jukebox murmuring Motown oldies while three deputies coming off the mid shift swapped fibs and a pair of lawyers huddled over cocktails, dealing their clients’ rights away like penny-ante poker. Our criminal-justice system at work.
At the rear corner of the dining room, a massive, octagonal table sits apart from the others, ensuring privacy for anyone who chooses it.
Today it was Todd Girard, prosecuting attorney for the five northern counties. Tall, blond, and male-model handsome, Todd is North Shore royalty. Lumber money, a Yale grad. A local legend.
Three years ahead of me in Valhalla High, Todd was a deadeye shooting guard in basketball. Our sports shared part of the same seasons, so we passed in the locker room and hit some of the same parties, including a few at the Champlin estate. We weren’t pals at the time, but I knew who he was. Everybody knew who Todd was.
The Girards own lumber mills, paper mills, and pieces of everything else. Their homes are estates in gated enclaves. A hundred-plus years ago, they rode the timber trains into Vale County and logged off the northern forest like fields of wheat.
My mother’s people, the Metis, mixed-blood descendents of the original French voyageurs and the First Nation, arrived around the same time, fleeing a failed rebellion against the Canadian government. In Canada, we’d been woodsmen, trappers, and traders. And, finally, rebels on the run.
In Michigan, we became loggers, axe-men, sawyers, top men. The LaCrosses and our kin did the grueling, dangerous work that made the lumber barons rich. After the timber played out, the Girards stayed on in their Main Street mansions, to manage banks and businesses and wield the local reins of power. Shrewdly, for the most part.
The Metis stayed on too, doing whatever work came to hand. Lumbermen, merchants, mechanics, and carpenters. A few outlaws.
And one cop.
Todd Girard is Old Money, but doesn’t flaunt it. His lambskin sport coat was comfortably distressed and his jeans were faded. A blue chambray shirt, open at the throat. No tie. Business casual for the north.
In school, he was a party animal, but his National Guard unit served a hitch in Afghanistan. He came back changed. We all did. He takes Vale County crime personally now, which keeps his conviction rate in the high nineties.
His number two, Assistant D.A. Harvey Bemis, was beside him. Suited up in his usual three-piece pinstripe and a U of M tie, Harvey is an eager beaver who looks a bit like one, protruding front teeth, anxious eyes. He’s an attack dog in court, a guy you want on your side. But I’ve never had a beer with him afterward. I think he wears his tie to bed.
The third man at the table was plump and sleek, casually dressed in a tweed jacket over a golf shirt. Jason Avery is the most expensive mouthpiece north of Detroit. His silvery mane was a bit disheveled and he hadn’t shaved. I guessed his Saturdays rarely started this early.
“Detective Dylan LaCrosse,” Avery said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Counselors.” I nodded, dropping into the chair facing them. “I’m here as a courtesy to the prosecutor, but I’m in the middle of a homicide case so I’m short on time. What’s this about?”
“The Champlin case,” Todd said. “I’ve known Mark Champlin for years. To avoid any appearance of impropriety, I’m stepping away from this one. Harvey Bemis will take it to trial if it comes to that.”
“Which I hope to avoid,” Avery interjected smoothly. “We need to resolve this mess before it becomes a disaster for the whole north shore.”
“What kind of a disaster?” I asked.
“Before I get to that, I’ll need a guarantee,” Avery said. “I’m willing to reveal information damaging to my clients, but this conversation will remain confidential.”
“We’re all gentlemen here, with the possible exception of Dylan,” Todd said dryly. “Okay, we’re officially off the record, Jason. What’s your big secret?”
“The Novak girl, for openers. I can close that case.”
I stiffened, so did Todd. He had our full attention now.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“It’s my understanding that the girl drank nonalcoholic punch, passed out on the lawn, and... succumbed to the cold. In fact, a tox screen will reveal the presence of a drug. GHB. You have Julie’s date, young Derek Patel, in custody, I believe. As a suspect?”
“He’s one possibility,” I admitted.
“The wrong one,” Avery said flatly. “The punch was spiked. GHB, commonly referred to as a ‘date-rape’ drug, was added to it.”
“By whom?” Todd asked.
“I’m coming to that,” Avery said. “For the record, the drug was legally prescribed, and properly secured, under lock and key—”
“It was locked in the playroom, wasn’t it?” I said, getting it.
Avery nodded. “Quite so. GHB is a legal sleeping pill, but on occasion, the drug is used by my clients to enhance... well. Recreational sex. All those involved are consenting adults. I can supply their names, if necessary.”