Page 46

CHAPTER

FORTY-FIVE

A few minutes later, Logan pulled into the parking lot of Northland Pharmacy, a small independent drugstore tucked between a hardware store and a coffee shop on Second Avenue.

The building was older, with faded red brick walls and windows that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the eighties.

“You think this Tom Zimmerman is going to be as cooperative as Dr. Winters?” Andi asked as they walked toward the entrance.

“Let’s hope so.” Logan pushed open the glass door, triggering an electronic chime that echoed through the narrow aisles.

The pharmacy was cramped but clean, with rows of over-the-counter medications and health supplies leading back to a raised counter where prescriptions were filled.

Behind the counter, Logan spotted a man in his thirties with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was hunched over a computer screen, but his head snapped up the moment they approached.

Thankfully, there were no other customers in line, and if anyone worked in the pharmacy with him, they were currently gone.

“Can I help you?” His voice cracked slightly, and Logan noticed his hands trembling as he set down a pill bottle.

“Tom Zimmerman?” Logan showed his badge. “I’m State Trooper Logan. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The color drained from Zimmerman’s face. “Questions about what?”

Logan studied the man’s reaction. He was clearly terrified, but why?

“We’re investigating the disappearance of Morgan Riley,” he said. “Someone mentioned to us that you’d expressed interest in her work.”

“I—” Zimmerman’s eyes darted toward the front door, then back to them. “I never . . . I mean, I might have mentioned her photography once or twice. But I hardly know her.”

“Relax, Mr. Zimmerman. We’re just trying to get a complete picture of people who knew Morgan or had contact with her.” Andi’s voice was gentle, but Logan could see she’d noticed the man’s obvious anxiety too.

Zimmerman wiped his palms on his white pharmacist’s coat. “I really don’t know anything that would help you.”

Logan leaned against the counter. “Why don’t you tell us about your interactions with Morgan? When did you first meet her?”

“At the gallery. Last fall, I think. There was an opening for her latest exhibition.” Zimmerman’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I . . . I bought one of her smaller prints. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Logan pressed. “The person we spoke with seemed to think there was more to it than that.”

Something flickered across Zimmerman’s face—fear, guilt. Logan couldn’t tell which.

But this man knew more than he was letting on.

“Look, Mr. Zimmerman.” Logan kept his voice steady. “We’re not here to judge you or get you in trouble. We just need to find Morgan. If there’s something you’re not telling us . . .”

Zimmerman’s composure cracked. His shoulders sagged, and he looked around the empty pharmacy as if checking for eavesdroppers.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I can’t . . . if this gets out, I’ll lose everything. My license, my job, my family.”

Andi stepped closer. “If what gets out, Tom?”

For a long moment, Zimmerman stared at his hands. Then, so quietly Logan had to strain to hear, he said, “Someone’s been blackmailing me.”

Logan’s pulse quickened. “Blackmailing you how?”

“Three months ago, I made a mistake. A big one.” Zimmerman’s voice was shaking now.

“There was this prescription for a cancer patient—high-dose morphine. I . . . I skimmed some. Just a little. My back’s been killing me for years, and I couldn’t afford physical therapy, and I thought just once . . .”

“And someone found out,” Andi said.

Zimmerman nodded miserably. “He had photos. Security camera footage from the pharmacy. Said he’d send it to the state board if I didn’t do what he asked.”

“What did he ask for?” Logan’s voice was sharp now.

“Sedatives. Midazolam, lorazepam, ketamine. Small amounts, nothing that would be noticed in inventory, but . . .” Zimmerman looked up at them with desperate eyes. “I know it’s wrong. I know I should have just confessed, taken the consequences, but I can’t lose everything.”

“When was the last time you gave him drugs?” Logan interrupted.

“Two days ago. He wanted enough midazolam to . . . to put someone out for hours.” Zimmerman’s face went white as the implication hit him. “Oh no . . . you think he used it on that photographer? On Morgan?”

Logan and Andi exchanged glances.

“Tom, I need you to describe this person,” Logan said. “Everything you can remember.”

“I’ve never seen his face clearly. We always met in the alley at nighttime.

He wore a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses.

Medium height, I think. Not particularly memorable, which was probably the point.

” Zimmerman was talking faster now, the words tumbling out.

“But his voice . . . it was educated. Calm. Like he was discussing the weather instead of—instead of . . .”

Logan fisted and unfisted his hands at his sides.

“Did he ever mention Morgan specifically?” Andi asked.

“No, never by name. But once he said something about ‘artistic inspiration’ and needing the right tools for his work. I thought he was just some junkie with delusions, but now . . .” Zimmerman’s hands now shook openly.

“Tom, listen to me carefully,” Logan said. “This person is extremely dangerous. If he contacts you again, call me immediately. Don’t give him anything else, no matter what he threatens.”

“But if I don’t, he’ll ruin me?—”

“If you do, you could be an accessory to murder,” Logan said bluntly. “We’ll work with you, help you figure out how to handle the blackmail situation. But right now the priority is stopping him from hurting anyone else.”

Zimmerman nodded frantically. “What should I do if he comes back?”

“Stall him. Tell him you’re out of stock, that you need more time. Then call me.” Logan handed him a business card. “And Tom? Don’t go anywhere alone for the next few days. This guy isn’t the type to leave loose ends.”

As they left the pharmacy, Logan’s mind raced.

They finally had confirmation that someone was acquiring sedatives—the same drugs that would explain how the killer was controlling his victims. But they were still no closer to identifying him.

“You think Zimmerman’s telling the truth?” Andi asked as they got back in the car.

“Yeah, I do. He’s too scared to lie effectively.” Logan started the engine, his jaw tight with frustration. “But this sicko is careful. No clear description, no real contact information. He’s been planning this for months.”