Page 47 of Wild Fever

“That’s the thing. I’m not quite sure. Something new. It’s not an analogue of any current drug. It’s not on the schedule.”

“So it’s not illegal?”

“Not yet. But I don’t like it. That came off a 17-year-old kid popped for DUI.”

Nothing was surprising these days.

“I want you to find out where it’s coming from and who’s moving it,” he continued.

“If it’s not illegal, why bother?”

“Because I’m afraid one of these kids is going to die. And when the law catches up, I want you two to get that shit off the streets.”

“You got it.”

By the time we left the sheriff’s office, the sun was cresting the horizon. It painted the sky orange and cast long amber rays.

I finally checked my voicemail. Paris had left a message about Preston Stewart. I called her back.

“It’s about time. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

“It’s been kind of busy, and I figured you were going to ask questions I couldn’t answer.”

She huffed. “I’m trying to help you.”

“So, what’s this you need to tell me about Preston?”

“I was supposed to meet him for lunch the day he died.”

That got my full attention. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did! Pick up your phone next time.”

“Where were you supposed to meet?”

“The country club.”

“What about?”

“He said he had information to share that would cause a major scandal.”

“What kind of information?”

“He wouldn’t say over the phone. He was extremely paranoid.”

“Sounds like he had reason to be paranoid.”

“Why would he stand me up for lunch, then kill himself?”

“I don’t think he killed himself,” I said. “According to his employer, he was unstable and selling secrets.”

“No,” she said, dismissing the notion. “Guys selling secrets don’t contact reporters.”

“You never know.” I filled her in on some of our theories.

“I’m going to keep digging into this. There’s a story here.”

“Please do.”