Nobody Rides For Free Read online

  Nobody Rides for Free

  An Angus Green Novel

  Neil S. Plakcy

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Neil S. Plakcy

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition October 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-63576-051-4

  Also by Neil S. Plakcy

  The Next One Will Kill You

  1.

  Disturbing Events

  The bullets didn’t pierce my Kevlar vest, but they hit me with enough force to fracture a rib. Even now, two months later, I can still feel the occasional ache in my shoulder and chest.

  Everyone said I was lucky. The bullet that hit my stomach could have gone into my arm or leg, damaging nerves or muscles. A difference of a few inches in the trajectory of the second bullet, the one that caught the bottom edge of my vest, and I could have bled out through my femoral artery.

  I had to rest in bed for a few days and be careful when I began to exercise again. When I returned to work as a Special Agent at the Miami office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I was assigned to a team that visited local colleges to discuss the ways vulnerable young people could be approached by foreign governments. I showed a video about a case we had investigated where a student studying in China had been hired to write position papers about how Americans felt about various issues. He had eventually been pressured to engage in espionage and was sent to jail.

  When I spoke in community college classrooms, I could see the students’ eyes glaze over. The idea that they would have the opportunity to study and travel in China was as remote to them as being selected for a mission to Mars.

  I stuck out the college program for over a month, meeting every week with a Bureau-approved psychologist to review my mental state. I didn’t tell her, or anyone else, that every time I heard a loud noise I flinched, regardless of if it was a baby crying or the clatter of a dish hitting the floor in a restaurant. When I twisted too quickly, pain zinged under my left armpit—where the vest had pressed against a nerve.

  The nightmares stopped but I still had trouble sleeping. I backed away from my roommate, Jonas, avoided my other friends, and broke up with the guy I’d been dating. My instinct was to hibernate until I felt better, but at the same time, I hated my assignment and longed to get back to real duty.

  That wish came true on a Monday morning in mid-January. Roly Gutierrez, a senior agent I’d worked with in the past, buzzed me and told me to meet him ASAP in the main lobby of our office building. “I need you, Angus,” he said. “Another face-eating zombie. And this one’s on federal property.”

  There had been a couple of cases in the news where otherwise ordinary guys overdosed on synthetic drugs, which did crazy things to their bodies and minds. It caused their core temperature to rise, forcing them to shuck all their clothes, and something short-circuited in their brains, leading them to attack innocent citizens and begin gnawing at their faces.

  Even for Florida, where the crimes are wacky and the criminals wackier, this was extreme.

  Roly hung up before I could ask for any details. He had been my mentor on the case when I’d been shot, and he was my best hope to get off the college engagement team and back into the field. I was glad to jump when he said to. On my way out of the office, I grabbed a couple of evidence bags, in case there was something we needed to collect.

  When I got to the lobby, he was on his cell phone. He was a Cuban-American guy who’d been in the Miami office for a dozen years, turning down promotions to stay near his family. Like most days, he wore an immaculately tailored suit—black with a charcoal gray pinstripe—and a red tie patterned with American eagles.

  He ended his call and I followed him outside. “911 got a call about twenty minutes ago about a naked man on the premises of the Department of Labor,” he said. “He attacked a woman in the parking lot and tried to bite her face. The Broward Sheriff’s Office is on site and has him cornered.”

  As we walked to the garage where his SUV was parked, he said, “We need to respond because it’s a federal building, and in case there’s some terrorist component. Doesn’t sound like one, but you never know. And this gives us a chance to have a chat. How’s your current assignment working out?”

  “Confidentially?” I asked, and he nodded. “I hate it. The promotional copy for the college event is misleading, so the students and faculty who attend get confused because they don’t learn what they expect. I know it’s important to reach out to the community about what we do, but this particular project feels like a waste of time.”

  “I’m not surprised. Most of the agents who end up on that detail are ones who’ve been shunted off the main track, either because they screwed up or because nobody wants them on a team.”

  “Did I screw up?” I asked. “By getting shot?”

  “Not at all. You been seeing the department shrink?”

  “I have,” I said, making sure that my voice didn’t waver. I wasn’t going to give Roly, or anyone else at the Bureau, the idea that I wasn’t fully recovered. “She says I’m ready to jump into a case as soon as someone needs me.”

  “Good to know. Depending on what we find at this site, I may need your help.”

  There were enough police and fire vehicles in the parking lot of the Department of Labor building to handle the arrest of a dozen suspects and the medical treatment of a dozen victims. However, most of the officers stood on the shore of a man-made lake behind the building, along with about thirty or forty people who probably worked in the building. They all watched as two officers in scuba gear stood in the middle of the shallow lake and tried to wrestle a naked man back to shore.

  I could see why it was taking them so long to get the guy out of the water. He was skinny, but looked awfully strong, and the way he growled and clawed at the officers reminded me of one of those Animal Planet programs where park rangers tried to subdue an angry predator. As the scuba officers dragged the man closer to shore, another pair in uniform waded in to help out.

  Roly went off to confer with a guy he knew from the DEA, and I walked over to a Broward Sheriff’s Office deputy I knew, a broad-shouldered Haitian-American guy named Hercules Dumond. “Hey. You know what happened here?” I asked.

  “Way I heard it, this white guy comes charging out the building, buck naked,” he said. “Grabs this woman coming in for a job interview, knocks her to the ground, and starts chewing on her face.”

  “That is the creepiest part of these cases—the face-chewing part.”

  “I got you, brother. Couple of guys from this financial services company across the way spotted him, pulled him off her. One of them got scratched up pretty badly. Ambulance took the woman and the guy who got scratched away a few minutes ago. Then, the crazy man jumped into the lake and started splashing around.”

  The officers were finally able to wrestle the man out of the water. The guy’s erection made the scene look like it was something from a porn movie, and I wondered if the drug enhanced sexual desire, too.

  Because I wanted to prove to Roly that I was more than ready to come back to work for him, I started showing my badge to onlookers and asking if they knew who
the man was. When I reached a stylishly coiffed African-American woman in her mid-thirties, she said that his name was Brian Garcia, and that he worked in her office.

  I called Roly and told him I’d found someone who could ID the zombie, and he joined us a moment later. The woman’s name was Shirley Thomas, and she was a supervisor in the Department of Labor. Garcia was a wage and hour technician, a staffer in her office who responded to complaints about wage inequities.

  “Do you know what set him off?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I can show you his cubicle if you want. Maybe there’s something there. We’re on the second floor.”

  I turned to Roly and asked quietly, “Do we have grounds for a search?”

  “An employee in a federal office has no expectation of privacy with regard to his workspace. So this is just like a house. If she’s responsible for the area, and she agrees to let us look, then we can. This is a federal facility, so we can assert jurisdiction if we choose. When I spoke to my buddy from the DEA, he said he’s got five different investigations into local distribution of drugs that could have caused this situation, and he’s happy for any help we can provide.”

  I nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Secure his workspace and then talk to his colleagues as they come back inside. Figure out what happened here and see if you can identify what he took and where he got it from. I’m going to make some calls to follow up with the victim and see how the zombie’s doing at the hospital.”

  I was back on Roly’s team. It was the opportunity I’d been waiting for and I was psyched.

  I followed Ms. Thomas up to the room on the second floor where Garcia worked. All six of the cubicles were empty, as everyone seemed to have gone outside to watch the circus. Ms. Thomas provided me with Brian’s home address. “He lives with his father,” she said. “I think his mother died a few years ago, and his father’s sick with something, I’m not sure what.”

  I thanked her and went to Brian Garcia’s cubicle, trying to put myself into his shoes. I didn’t need to see rainbow flags to know he was gay—the sexy postcards from Provincetown and Key West that were pinned to the fabric walls told me that. I sat behind his desk and looked around. He had a huge plastic tumbler with a couple of ice cubes in it beside his computer monitor. Condensation dripped down the sides, pooling on a stack of government forms.

  Overheating was one of the symptoms of an overdose of the synthetic drugs that had been implicated in the previous attacks. It made sense that Garcia would have tried to drink ice water to cool down.

  I made a note to find out how fast those drugs took effect. Had he taken something the night before—or this morning—and still been suffering from the effects? In that case, might there be traces in the cup? I put it in an evidence bag to take back to the office.

  I heard voices as Brian’s coworkers returned. I started with the woman across from him, who had the clearest view of his cube. I showed her my badge and asked her to describe what she’d seen this morning.

  “Brian looked exhausted when he came in, and I asked him if he’d been out late at a club last night. He said yes, and that this morning he was feeling empty. I thought it was a strange word to use, empty.”

  “Do you know which club?”

  She shook her head. “I told him to get some coffee, but he said he had something better. I said that he shouldn’t be messing with drugs but he insisted he knew what he was doing. Then I saw him about a half-hour later and he looked like crap. He was pale and sweaty. I asked why he didn’t take a sick day and go home but he said he didn’t have any banked.”

  “He give you any indication of what kind of drug he was going to take?”

  She shook her head. “I sat down at my computer, and the next thing I knew Brian was standing up, fanning himself. He said something about going outside to cool off and then he took off.”

  The other staffers had little more to add. Brian was a quiet guy, a good worker. He’d never shown signs of drug abuse, though most of them agreed that he was pretty raw on Monday mornings. “Never this bad,” an older Asian man said. “He’d usually just swig a couple of those power drinks and be OK.”

  Garcia had a personal laptop in a case beside his desk. The rules for law enforcement searches are pretty clear—I was allowed to search his laptop without a warrant only if there was evidence on it, and if that evidence was in danger of being erased.

  I made a decision. Roly had directed me to find out what Garcia had taken, and where he’d gotten it from. The evidence might be in a message from one of the services that regularly deleted posts, like Snapchat, or in an e-mail in his trash folder. Depending on the way he’d set up his account, his trash could be emptied regularly by his server. That meant the evidence was in danger of disappearing, right? And finding out what he took, and when he took it, could potentially help the doctors in the emergency room save his life.

  It was a stretch, and I ran the risk that if the case ever came to court, a judge could rule my search inadmissible. But I decided to take that risk, and I opened the laptop, hoping that he hadn’t protected it with a password. I was in luck, because it came right on and I was able to access his social media accounts, to figure out where he’d been and who he’d been with.

  At ten o’ clock the night before, Garcia had “checked in” on Facebook at Cosmopolitan, a gay dance club near the Fort Lauderdale airport. He had also uploaded a couple of photos of him and a group of friends. I didn’t recognize any of them, and I’d never been to that club myself. I saved and forwarded the photos to my Bureau e-mail account in case I needed to find those guys in the future.

  I logged into his Gmail account—fortunately, he’d saved the password. I scanned through quickly, looking for any messages that might indicate what he was on, or where he got it. It was slow and tedious work. Brian wasn’t big on spelling or punctuation, and I felt like a teacher of remedial English as I read his complaints about work, his plans for hook-ups, and so on.

  Then I came to a thread of messages between Brian and someone whose address was [email protected]. The subject line was “high as a kite.”

  According to the message, Ohpee lived in a house where there were lots of drugs, and at the time he was writing, he was high—on weed, though. Someone in the house was selling flakka, one of those opiates that had caused previous zombie attacks, and had given him some to try, but he didn’t want to take it.

  “I’ve taken flakka before and it’s great. Gives you this high that lasts and lasts,” Brian had written in response. “You don’t want it, send it 2 me.”

  Ohpee had about an ounce of the stuff in a zipper-lock bag, and he had offered to mail it to Brian, who’d supplied his address, in Hialeah. “In the mail today,” Ohpee then wrote. “P.O. lady says only a day from Lauderdale to you.”

  The most recent message was from two days before. Brian had written to thank Ohpee for the flakka. “I owe you big time, dude,” he wrote. “Any time you need something, just ask.”

  Was that what Garcia had taken? I did a quick Internet search and discovered that flakka was part of a group of drugs called bath salts, because that’s what they looked like. The main ingredient in the compound was alpha-PVP, a chemical that blocked the brain from absorbing the overflow of dopamine, the feel-good substance that is generated when you enjoy anything, from a piece of music to a lover’s kiss.

  That meant that your brain was awash in good feelings—but it also might mess with your fight-or-flight instincts, leading you to excessively violent behavior.

  All that made sense in light of what Brian Garcia had done. He was feeling down, and according to his coworker, took a drug to perk him up. Flakka was often mixed with other drugs like tranquilizers and anti-psychotics, so you never knew exactly what you were taking. Even though Garcia had taken flakka without adverse effects before, this batch could have caused the overheating and the violent behavior he’d displayed.

  I went back to the chain of messages. After
Garcia had written to thank him, Ohpee had responded that he was unhappy where he was living, and he might need Garcia’s help to get out.

  “At first it was cool to live here in the house and get paid to have sex,” Ohpee wrote. That surprised me. So Ohpee was one of those exhibitionists on webcam sites? No wonder he had to get high a lot.

  “I’m creeped out about all the guys out there watching me, getting off on the fact that I’m not even sixteen yet,” Ohpee continued. “But where could I go? I haven’t seen my dad since I was five years old, and with my mom dead, I got no other family. Guess I have to stick it out here.”

  I stopped cold. Not only had Ohpee supplied the flakka to Brian, he was fifteen, and being forced to have sex online. From his post office message, it appeared he was living in Fort Lauderdale—maybe even near where I stood, or where I lived.

  2.

  Hialeah

  I closed Brian’s laptop and placed it back in its bag. I verified with Ms. Thomas that I could take it with me, along with the tumbler from Garcia’s desk. Then I called Roly and arranged to meet him at his SUV. “I’ve got a couple of pieces of evidence that need more evaluation,” I added.

  When I linked up with Roly a few minutes later, he was with a guy he introduced as Colin Hendricks from the DEA. Hendricks was about my age, late twenties, skinny, in jeans and a T-shirt that read: “Brains are awesome! I wish everyone had one.” His forearms were covered with tattoos and his dark hair had been shaved close around the sides, leaving a big mop at the top.

  “Don’t mind the undercover look,” he said, as he shook my hand. “I was in the middle of something else when I got called out here.” He nodded toward the evidence bag I was carrying, and Garcia’s laptop. “What have you got there?”

  I explained, and reluctantly offered to turn over what I had to his custody. He shook his head. “You hold onto it, see what you can get from it.”