The Perils of Panacea

Chapter 1

1

The three basic rules of private investigation, imparted to me early and often by my mentor Ralph, are as follows: first, don’t work for free, no matter how good the cause. Even the most appreciative client will eventually succumb to human nature and think he’s getting exactly what he’s paid for. Second, don’t work for family or friends. That’s pretty self-explanatory, at least to anyone who has family or friends. Third, don’t work for anyone you really don’t like. Come to think of it, if you really don’t like someone, you probably know that person well enough that he or she should fall under rule number two.

Strictly speaking, all of Ralph’s rules can be reduced to one rule applicable to both investigation and life in general. I’ve taped it, typed in twenty-eight point font all-caps, to my desk at the office and above my computer at home, and I probably should put it next to my bed. (Then again, I should be so lucky as to need it there.) I refer to it as Ralph’s Law: “DON’T BE A DUMBASS.”

When I agreed to help Renee Singer, not only did I violate Ralph’s (small “r”) rules, I acted in flagrant disregard of Ralph’s Law.

In short, I was a dumbass.

It all started with a late-night knock at my door. It was a pretty insistent sound, not pounding, or the kind of thing that precedes “Fire!” or “We have a warrant,” but neither was it a neighbor dropping off a borrowed casserole pan. At one a.m.

“Who the hell could that be at this time of night?”

I didn’t really expect Jackie and Bruce to answer—they were too busy doing goldfish things in their aquarium to notice someone knocking on the door—but I’d found myself speaking to them more often in recent months. At least I hadn’t heard them answer yet. The TV remote hit the hardwood floor with a clack, and I made a mental note (again) to buy a new end table. I tumbled from my chair, tucked a screwdriver in the back of my shorts, and went to answer the door.

“Ben, what the—” I rephrased once I’d had a moment to think, to see his anxiety in the glare of my porch light. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Syd, I, uh … Sorry, I know it’s kinda late, but I thought you’d still be up. And I need a favor.”

“That’s okay. Come on in.”

My teenaged neighbor and I gravitated to the kitchen table. We hadn’t been spending as much time together lately as we used to—I’d told myself it was because he was working a summer job—but when we did, this was where we always ended up now. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d sat out in the backyard and looked at the stars, or heckled professional wrestling on TV.

“I like the new TV, by the way,” I said. “I think you were right about the … doohickey thing and its ratio whatsit.”

Ben smiled indulgently—the old Ben smile—and I felt an easing of the pressure in my chest.

“What, do you work on commission?”

“No,” he said, “but Kelly does.”

“Ahh,” I nodded, and watched him blush. Kelly was the (slightly older) young woman he’d been dancing around the idea of dating for a few months now. I was pretty sure she didn’t know a cathode tube from a death ray, although that probably didn’t matter so much anymore.

“So what’s the favor? I’m afraid I can’t spare any organs right now, but maybe we can come to some sort of agreement. A time share? I’ve got dibs on the liver for the weekend.”

Ben’s smile had faded, and he didn’t respond to my teasing. Never a good sign. “I need to borrow your car.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair, unsure of what attitude to assume. I started with nonchalant, if one can maintain piercing looks while being nonchalant. Probably not. “Since when do you have a driver’s license?”

“Come on, Syd, I’ve got my learner’s permit. And you know I drive all the time.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s a good idea. Especially after dark.”

“Look, I’d take the Ford, but it’s a manual, and my cast makes it a little awkward.”

Ben wasn’t trying to make me feel guilty (his teenaged deviousness didn’t yet rise to such heights), but I did anyway. His arm (and my TV) had been broken in my living room six weeks ago by a crazy ex-cop who had tried to kill both of us. I suspected the experience was never far from either of our thoughts, which is why I was awake to answer Ben’s knock. You can’t have nightmares if you don’t sleep.

“When does that thing come off?”

“Next week.” Ben scratched at his protruding hand absently. “Can’t wait. So what do you say?”

Despite being wide awake when Ben knocked on the door, it took me a ridiculously long time to ask the most obvious question. “Ben, where’s your mom?”

His eyes turned hard, angry, and he pushed his chair back from the table. “Forget it. I’ll drive the Ford.”

I got up and stood between Ben and the door. He’d grown even more over the summer. I had to look up to see his eyes, and even then it wasn’t easy. His brown hair had pulled free where he’d tried to tuck it behind his ears, falling into his face. He needed a haircut.

“Like hell you will. I’m driving.”

His lips tightened and he looked away. Had I crossed a line? Finally said something to remind him that I was an Adult, thus not to be trusted? God, I hoped not. I smacked Ben in the stomach with the back of my hand. It doesn’t take much force to make a good thwacking sound, so long as you stay in practice. He blinked and sucked his belly in, not that he had one. All of the considerable calories he consumed (many in my kitchen) went to vertical growth.

“Let’s go, doofus,” I said, hooking my arm through Ben’s.

He nodded and relaxed his shoulders, but still held his abs in check. “Okay.”

“Just let me lock up.”

I slid the bolt and twisted the gizmo on the front door, grabbing my wallet from my purse and the Red Sox hat hanging from the pegs next to the door. I didn’t need a mirror to feel the frizz infecting my hair. Plus I had a feeling I might not be coming back home tonight, and the hat would come in handy in the morning. We left through the side door to the carport, me tucking the screwdriver on top of the fridge on the way out. It wasn’t until we’d climbed into Cecil and started his engine that I spoke again.

“Seat belt.” He obeyed, and I started backing out of the driveway. “So, where is she this time?”

“Cooper’s.” Ben looked out the window into the dark as he spoke.

I’d suspected his mother was at a bar, and Cooper’s certainly qualified. It was one of the few places serving alcohol in Tallahassee where hordes of students with fake IDs didn’t bring the average age down to about nineteen. At least that meant she probably hadn’t been picking up underage kids. I also suspected that she’d been spending a lot of time at bars lately, and Ben’s voice with that single word was the only confirmation I needed. What I didn’t know was why. Ben’s mother and I weren’t exactly chummy, and certain minor details needed clarification.

“What’s your mom’s name again?”

“Renee.” I could hear a mix of sullenness and apprehension returning to Ben’s voice. “Look, Syd. Don’t start anything, okay? This is why I didn’t want you to come. I mean, really, it’s none of your damn business, is it?”

“Au contraire, mon frère.” I could feel the puckishness in me, my inner George Carlin, coming out. “In fact, it is my damn business. If you’ll remember, I saved your life, so it’s mine now.”

This was a bit of a running gag with us. I’m sure it would make some therapists cringe, but I tended to make a joke of our shared near-death experience to minimize it. Those same therapists might suggest that I was also trying to minimize my own guilt, but, as Ben said, it’d be none of their damn business, would it? Besides, trashing me was part of the gag as well.

“If you hadn’t watched too many episodes of Wonder Woman as a kid, I wouldn’t have been attacked by a psycho in your house and you wouldn’t have had to save me. Besides, Noel’s the one that shot him.”

“That’s because I softened him up first.” I took a slow turn into Cooper’s deep gravel parking lot and sighed. “I did love her golden lasso.”

The headlights of an exiting SUV seemed to show too much white in Ben’s eyes. I pulled into a spot, cut off the engine, and handed him my car keys.

“Here. I’m going in to get your mom. Don’t worry—I’ll be good; I promise. I don’t want to make a scene, so it’s going to take me a few minutes to get her out of there. Whatever happens, don’t come in after us. And clean up the backseat while I’m gone. Just put the stuff in the trunk so your mom has a place to crash.”

If Ben was offended that I had relegated his mother to the backseat, he didn’t comment. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have to speak with her on the way home. Well, it wasn’t just that anyway. Still drinking at this time of night, I doubted she’d stay upright for very long. I tucked my wallet into my back pocket, prayed it didn’t pull my shorts down, and crunched my way toward the entrance. The gravel thinned out near the door, where the foot traffic was constant, but I’d hate to have to walk to the car in girlie shoes after a couple of drinks. It must be the Cooper’s sobriety test—if you can make it to your car without skinning your knees, you’re sober enough to drive home. The splintered wooden threshold at the entrance, half an inch higher than you’d expect, was another test. I didn’t score as well on that one, even wearing my customary flip-flops. I concentrated on making it to the bar with my remaining dignity intact.

Cooper’s is a small neighborhood place, wood-paneled inside, with a few of the usual beer signs on the walls and in the windows. It was better lit than I’d expected, blazing with overhead and wall-mounted lighting, as well as the occasional table lamp. Maybe it was bright because they were getting ready to close up and wanted to see where to mop. There were a couple of high-backed booths in the corner, a pool table on the other side, and mismatched tables scattered around the edges, leaving an open path to the bar and its mostly unoccupied stools. That’s where I headed.

I hop-slid onto a stool, but the bartender held up a hand before I could order.

“Sorry, darlin’, but you just missed last call.”

I looked him over. About fifty, wearing a Yankees cap and a mustache showing more gray than the reddish-brown hair on his head. He pulled a bulk bag of wasabi peas from somewhere nearby and began popping them into his mouth. I love wasabi peas.

“May I?” I asked.

He held out the bag and I grabbed a handful. Before me was a true addict. The Tallahassee humidity works its way through those thin plastic bags quickly, robbing the peas of their crunch and some of their fire. These still tasted fresh, and the first one gave a skull-jarring crunch between my teeth. I was willing to bet they’d never have a chance to get stale. I added in a few more, until on the third or fourth one I felt the satisfying heat build in the center of the roof of my mouth—slowly, slowly. I closed my eyes to savor the feeling when the heat shot from there to my sinuses. I opened my eyes and he was watching me, smiling. My subsequent sniff wasn’t very ladylike, and my tongue still tingled along the sides where it met my teeth.

“Those wasabis sure can help you build up a thirst.” He didn’t bite, so I tried another tack. “You see the game tonight?”

“I sure did.” His eyes lit up, and it wasn’t from the wasabi.

I hadn’t seen it, but I knew the Red Sox and Yankees had played, and it was obvious who had won. At least their loss wouldn’t have been for nothing. I grabbed my own Red Sox cap, holding his gaze, and turned it slowly so the brim was guarding my back.

“Then you know why I need a drink. Come on, just one quickie. Make it a bottle and you won’t even have to clean up after me.”

“Well …”

He was almost there, so I pulled out my secret weapon, the one that required the reversed hat. Forearms flat on the bar, I nestled my chin on my hands and gave him puppy eyes. And a five dollar bill—enough for a tip on a cheap beer, but not so generous as to put his back up.

“Please …”

“Well, I guess you’ve had enough disappointment for tonight. But it’s a three-game series, so make sure you get in here earlier tomorrow night to drown your sorrows.”

When he turned, grinning, to get my drink, I began the slow process of peeling my arm skin from the sticky bar. I’d barely wiped the disgust from my face when he returned with the bottle. It was crappy beer too, watery and sour, but at least it was cold. I’m such a martyr for my friends. Or mothers of my friends.

“Is Renee in tonight?”

“Where else would she be?” He indicated one of the booths with a nod of his head.