Drug of Choice

By M. S. Carr

Ex-LAPD detective Michael Coster is a shadow of his former self; divorced, living alone, and steadily drinking himself to death after a mistake on a previous shadowy case led to his dismissal from the police force. When the wife of a former colleague knocks on his door and seeks Michael’s help in locating her missing husband, he reluctantly agrees to assist. Michael finds himself back in a world he has been trying to forget, following the path to a killer fraught with danger and links to Mexican drug cartels, whilst at the same time struggling to cope with the nightmares of the past that still haunt him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. S. Carr
• Release date: Jun 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311234919

M. S. Carr

I'm a 24 year-old from rural Victoria, Australia. After recently completing a university degree in Science & Psychology, I've recently turned my attention to a lifelong passion of mine; writing.Having already completed a manuscript some time ago, but having little luck in getting it to print, I decided to go it alone and try to achieve a dream of mine. My first novel is up on Smashbooks, and I'm immensely proud that I can show others what I have written.

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Drug of Choice

M. S. Carr

Drug of Choice

By M. S. Carr

Copyright 2014 M. S. Carr

Smashwords Edition

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work of this author

For Emily & Otis

Table of Contents

SUNDAY

One

MONDAY

Two

Three

Four

Five

TUESDAY

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

WEDNESDAY

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

THURSDAY

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

FRIDAY

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

Thirty Five

SATURDAY & SUNDAY

Thirty Six

MONDAY

Thirty Seven

Thirty Eight

TWO WEEKS LATER - EPILOGUE

sunday

july 21, 2013

one

Michael Coster awoke slowly from troubled sleep. Wisps of nightmare faded like smoke as he struggled groggily to open his eyes. Bodies hung, strung up from the ceiling all around him, battered corpses, lifeless, staring faces, mangled decaying flesh. The stench of death and slow decay. Rick Jackson’s young ruddy face, horrified in the gloom. The screaming. Always and forever, the screaming. Etched immovably in his mind, like hieroglyphics cut deep into sacred stone.

He sat up in the bed, the nightmarish visions slipping from his head like water through open hands. The knocking came again from the front door; a succession of loud booms echoing through the empty house. Mike glanced at the illuminated clock beside his bed, glowing red digits burning through the darkness. It was ten after midnight.

His head pounded, his mouth felt like sandpaper, tongue thick and dry. Reaching shakily to the bedside table, he grabbed for the near empty bottle of Macallan’s. He downed the last remaining mouthful of scotch, feeling the sharp burn of the liquor as it dribbled down his throat. He tossed the empty bottle aside, hearing it thud to the floor, and struggled to climb to his feet. His head spun, the room whirling in dizzying circles, his legs barely able to support his tall, muscular frame.

There was another succession of knocks from the front of the house, loud and insistent, demanding to be heard and acknowledged. Stumbling across the debris-strewn bedroom, he pulled a pair of crumpled jeans from a pile on the floor, awkwardly tugging them on as the knocking echoed through the house. Wearily, he staggered shirtless from the bedroom, making his way down the hall and to the front door.

Checking the peephole, he saw a young woman on the front steps, illuminated by the pale yellow porch light. Sighing, he unlocked the deadbolts, slid the chain, and pulled the door open. The woman standing outside could best be described as a bombshell. She had a tall, slender frame, with golden blonde hair that fell just below her shoulders. Her skin was perfect and evenly tanned, her eyes a deep and dazzling blue. She wore a simple denim skirt and plain white blouse that showed off her ample cleavage in a way that made his stomach, and numerous other places, clench. However, despite being a woman who obviously took pride in her appearance and knew how to present herself, Mike noticed that she wore no makeup. The long blonde hair was untidy, the white blouse wrinkled and worn. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight years old, but, with her dishevelled appearance in the porch light, tonight she looked closer to forty. There was something familiar about her, but Mike’s booze-addled brain couldn’t quite place her.

Hi there, Mike slurred, his mouth not managing to keep up with his words.

She looked back at him with eyes the color of sapphires. I was hoping you’d remember me, Mr Coster.

His searched his foggy mind, trying to place this beautiful woman. The body, the hair, surely he’d remember her. Those breasts he’d remember for sure. Had they dated? Perhaps they’d met out at a club and he’d taken her home one night in a drunken haze? Admittedly, it wouldn’t have been the first time.

My name is Hannah Reid, she prompted.

Nope, still nothing.

My husband is Jacob Reid. He works for the LAPD.

And like that, it all came to him. Like a light bulb switching on in the dimness of his brain, the fog lifted and he remembered where he’d seen this woman before.

Shit, you’re Jake’s wife, he said, I met you at that LAPD Christmas party. When was that - four, five years back now? Sorry, I had a bit to drink last night, and, well, you woke me up. Haven’t seen Jake for years. How is he?

Hannah Reid straightened a little on the front step, her dazzling blue eyes locking onto his. That’s what I want to talk to you about, Mr Coster. That’s why I came here tonight.

Puzzled, his alcohol confused brain not quite connecting the dots, he said, I don’t understand. What’s happened?

Hannah glanced around, her eyes flicking back to her car in the driveway, and the street beyond. I need to talk to you. I don’t know who else to go to, Mr Coster. You’re really a last resort, and I was wondering if I could come inside?

Mike looked her up and down, his eyes lingering a little longer than they should have. Control yourself, he thought. She’s a married woman, and you know her husband. Don’t get tangled up in something you can’t get out of. You don’t need this on your plate.

Sure, he answered, and stepped aside, letting Hannah Reid into his house.

Mike showed her down the long hallway and into the kitchen, flicking on the light and offering her a stool at the counter. He watched her eyes move around the room, taking in the white marble, the stainless steel, the expensive appliances. Everything in here seemed to scream of money. Except the mess. Empty bottles of beer and whisky lined the benches. Food scraps and empty takeout containers covered every surface. The overflowing rubbish bin lay on its side, its contents spilt onto the un-mopped white tiles. Hannah awkwardly took a seat at the bench, Mike hurrying to clear half a dozen empty bottles from in front of her, dumping them on the sink with a clatter.

Sorry about the mess. I’ve been busy, and wasn’t really expecting visitors. He kicked an empty beer carton aside and pulled open the fridge. Can I get you anything to drink, Mrs Reid? He peered inside. The fridge was near empty, the smell of mould filling the kitchen as the door swung open. A single bottle of Corona sat nestled in the door. He held it invitingly up to show her.

No thanks, she mumbled, And, please, call me Hannah.

He took the beer for himself, tearing off the lid with his teeth. As long as you call me Mike. He sat down opposite her at the bench, took a swig of the Corona, Or Michael, or whatever you like. Just don’t call me Mr Coster. Mr Coster is my father, and it makes me sound old.

Hannah Reid nodded, looked down at her hands resting on the table before her. Mike noticed her fingers were in constant motion, as though she were agitated. Uncomfortable, unsettled. He took another gulp of beer and sat the bottle down on the counter top. Midnight visitors were no rarity here. For the past year or so, he had been a firm believer in the idea that the night started at midnight. That’s when the action picked up; the clubs got busy, the parties kicked into gear. It was when the demons came out. Mike was a night person, without question, and always had been. The night was for the brave, the adventurous, the heroes and the villains. Hell, he would have still been up until all hours of the night, if he didn’t pass out by nine or ten PM these days. But this visitor, Hannah Reid, was different. Most people did not turn up on the doorstep, unannounced, and in the dead of night. Mike was intrigued to know why she was here; a woman he barely knew, and had not seen or heard from for almost half a decade.

Now that she was inside the house, Hannah seemed to have closed up. Her fingers were still constantly tapping on the bench, her eyes flicking around the expansive kitchen, unfocussed, and seemingly nervous. As a person once adept at reading others, it didn’t take much of Mike’s skill to determine that this woman was anxious, and severely agitated at being here. There was worry in there too, and perhaps fear; a spectrum of emotions, and he still wasn’t entirely sure why.

Mike cleared his throat. Why are you here, Hannah? he asked, his voice still not coming out quite as planned. Another gulp of beer and his head stopped spinning quite as fast.

Hannah took her time. He could see her swallowing, thinking hard to find the words she had no doubt practiced time and time again inside her head.

Like I said at the door, she started, I’m here about Jake.

At these words, she closed up again, her foot tapping fast on the Baltic pine floorboards at the base of the kitchen counter.

What about him? Mike prompted, doing his best to stop his eyes from wandering, trying to focus on her shadowed face.

Jake is missing. She said.

Missing?

The foot tapping intensified.

He went out last Thursday night and he never came back, she said. Mike saw a single tear escape from her eye and roll slowly down her cheek. She wiped it away furiously with the back of her hand. He left the house just before midnight, and told me he’d be back in a few hours. He told me not to wait up for him, and that he’d be fine. I went to bed, woke up in the morning, and he still wasn’t home. I tried calling his phone, over and over, but it just went to voicemail. I waited and worried all through Friday. Finally, on Friday afternoon, I gathered up my courage and went to the police.

Mike sat, listening patiently to the story, as he’d done countless times in interrogation rooms throughout Los Angeles. Hannah sat silent and when it appeared obvious that she wasn’t going to continue, he asked, What was Jake doing? Did he tell you where he was going?

In his mind, Mike cursed himself. The combination of alcohol and a long time out of the job had made him sloppy. One question at a time.

Hannah spoke, I don’t know what he was doing. When I asked him, he said I didn’t need to know. He said it would be safer if I didn’t know. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going, just that he’d be back in a few hours. I assumed he would be.

And you trust your husband? Mike asked, hoping to catch Hannah off guard, early in the conversation.

She seemed taken aback at the question. Of course I do. I love Jake, and trust him implicitly.

Has he gone out late at night before?

No. Never.

Has he been coming home late from work?

She thought for a moment. No later than usual. Since the budget cuts, there’s no overtime. He’s been home by six, six-thirty almost every night.

And there’s been nothing suspicious?

Hannah sighed heavily. For the first time since entering the house, she fixed those amazing blue eyes on him. I know what you’re thinking. The police asked the same questions when I went and saw them on Friday. My husband is not having an affair.

You wouldn’t be the first woman to be fooled by a cheating husband, Mrs Reid.

The blue eyes burned into him. Jake is not having an affair, she repeated. I know that’s what every woman thinks, but I assure you; this is different. My husband and I are in love. As much now as the day we were married. We’ve been together six years, married for four, and I know him better than I know myself. He’s not the kind of man who would cheat on his wife.

Mike took another sip of Corona, letting the silence fill his kitchen, hoping it would encourage Hannah to continue. An old cop trick. People don’t like silence, and usually a minute or two is as much as they can handle. They do anything they can to fill it.

Now Hannah had started talking, she seemed unable to stop. The floodgates had opened and she was eager to convince him of her opinion.

You know Jacob, she continued, You know the type of man he is.

Mike remained silent. It was true, he did know Jacob Reid, or at least he had known him. The pair had been at the police academy together. They had joined the LAPD at the same time and had both worked patrol at Rampart Division. Jake Reid had been similar to Mike in many ways. They could have almost passed for twins, both with the same tall, muscular build and strong bodies. Both with square jawlines, short-cropped dark hair, piercing eyes. They’d naturally become close friends, tough allies in a world full of hatred for their kind. But, unlike Mike, who came from money, Jake came from nothing. A squalid home in South Central LA, a junkie mother, a father no longer in the picture. Jake had been determined to make something of himself, to clean up the streets of his city, one drug dealer, one prostitute, one criminal at a time. He was a good man; a role model to others, and Mike knew he was genuinely good at heart.

But Jake wasn’t from money. And it was eventually the money that caused the rift between Mike and Jake. Mike, had the wealth of his parents behind him, and the power that came from such money. Mike had been fast-tracked through the department, whilst Jacob was left behind, bitter and rejected, at Rampart Division. Mike had once tried to repair the friendship, but some wounds cut too deep, and he and Jake had barely seen each other in the past five years. Then had come the Stringman case, and Mike’s meteoric rise through the ranks had come to an abrupt halt; a truck crashing headlong into a brick wall at ninety miles an hour.

Yes, I knew Jacob, Mike answered, the memories of the past clearing his head better than any aspirin or drink of water ever could.

Then you know what I’m talking about. Jake is an honest man. A good man.

Mike nodded his head, went to drink again from the bottle, but found it empty. He placed it back down on the counter and looked up at the distressed woman sitting opposite him; those blue eyes, like sapphires.

What is it you want me to do, Hannah?

She didn’t hesitate. I want you to find him. I want you to find my husband.

Mike sat for a moment. He had known this was coming. Deep down, he’d known it since she’d told him her name at the front door. But now, confronted with it, he wasn’t sure how to react or what to say. He was momentarily lost for words. Damn, he needed another beer for this.

Climbing shakily to his feet, Mike made his way to the fridge, hoping against hope that there was another beer in there that he had somehow overlooked, perhaps tucked away at the back of the shelf. However, his efforts were futile, and the fridge was completely empty. Groaning slightly, he straightened up and filled a glass of water from the faucet. He chugged it down, the cool liquid doing little to aid his impending hangover, or the headache approaching like a dark storm on the horizon. He stood in the kitchen, leaning against the marble island bench, and looked at Hannah, still seated at the counter, her blue eyes fixed steadily upon him.

This is a job for the police, he finally said.

Hannah shook her head, frustrated. The police don’t give a shit! They think they’ve seen it all before; a cheating husband, run away with his mistress. They don’t understand. People go missing every day, they told me. He’s a grown man who can take care of himself. It’s only been a few days. Hannah scoffed. He’s one of them. He’s a cop just like them, and yet they won’t do a thing to help find him.

Mike thought this over for a moment. Who did you speak to?

I went to Rampart Division, it seemed like the sensible place to start. I spoke to the desk officer, told him who I was, and he initially seemed concerned. He told me he knew Jake well, and agreed that Jake didn’t seem like the type who would just up and leave like that. He let me through to see the boss, she said, rummaging in her skirt pocket and pulling out a business card. Captain Raymond DeSalvo, she read from the card.

Mike nodded. He knew DeSalvo from his days working patrol in Rampart. Back then, DeSalvo had been a forty-odd pencil-thin detective with beady black eyes, slicked-back hair, and a nose for politics. Since Mike’s rise through the ranks and promotion out of Rampart Division, he had not kept up with proceedings back at his old station. However, he was unsurprised to hear that DeSalvo, with his firm knowledge of office politics and no lack of ambition, had been promoted to the role of Captain.

Raymond DeSalvo, Hannah continued, Shut me down almost at once. Weedy little shit sat there and told me how it was, like he knew. Like he understood what had happened and the sooner I learned to accept it, the better.

He thought Jake was having an affair?

Yes, that’s the first thing he said.

DeSalvo is a bureaucrat, Mike muttered, Bureaucrats always think they know everything.

Well, this guy is a prick, said Hannah, bitterness seeping through the worry, Basically told me to go home and stop wasting his time. My husband is a big tough police officer. What is there to worry about? He’ll come home when, and if, he wants too. That sort of bullshit. Hannah was flushed, her fingers still rapping at the bench top, foot tapping on the floor. The blue eyes, however, were completely still.

So, you see, I can’t go to the police. I’ve tried that avenue and they won’t do anything to help me.

Mike finished off the glass of water, returned to his stool at the kitchen counter.

Sounds as though you should perhaps hire a private investigator. There are plenty of them throughout LA. Jump on Google and see what you can -

I don’t want to hire a private detective, Mike. I don’t want to trust my husband’s life and safety to a complete stranger.

Mike stared at her. I am a stranger, Hannah. I’ve barely even met you before. I saw you once at that Christmas party, but you and Jake had only just begun dating back then.

She shook her head in frustration, the golden blonde hair swaying. You’re not a stranger to Jake.

Hannah, Jake and I haven’t seen each other, much less spoken, in almost five years.

That doesn’t make you a stranger, she said, Jake talked about you all the time. Said you were the best man he’d ever known. He followed your career, you know. Newspaper clippings, TV news, reports from other detectives and cops. The word on the grapevine. He’d never admit it, but he idolised you, Mike. He once told me that you were one of the greatest detectives in this city, and that Robbery-Homicide was lucky to have you. Deep down, he knew you didn’t buy your way into the job. He knew you deserved to be there at RHD. I think he was just too proud to admit it.

Mike was stunned. He sat in silence, mind ticking over. He, like seemingly everyone else in Los Angeles, had come to believe that his rise through the LAPD ranks had been merely a result of his parent’s money. After his burnout, the doubters had come out of the woodwork, claiming he was too young, too inexperienced, not ready for the elite Robbery- Homicide division. He’d come to believe it himself over the past eighteen months. But, if what Hannah said was true, despite their falling out over the issue, Jacob Reid had firmly believed that Mike was deserving, and good enough, for the job.

Mike’s head hurt, and he desperately wanted to go back to bed. So much information was coming at him, and his muddled brain didn’t know what to think anymore. He needed rest, the approaching headache looming ever closer.

Hannah continued, And then there was the Stringman case.

Just hearing the words sent a shudder down Mike’s spine. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up, his stomach plummeting to the kitchen floor.

Jake was devastated when he heard what happened. You know, it was all over the news for weeks, and your partner… Her voice trailed off.

Rick Jackson, Mike said, his voice hollow.

Yes, Jackson. Then you were kicked out of the department. You should have heard Jake cursing and swearing when he heard that on the news.

Enough of the history lesson, Mike interjected, I know what happened, and so does everyone else in this goddamn city. I’m not a cop anymore, Hannah. I’m a washed-up, alcoholic wreck of a human being who couldn’t find his own ass with a mirror on a stick. I don’t think I’m going to be much help to you on this, or to your husband.

But -

Mike was tired. He was worn out, exhausted, and a deadbeat. His wife had divorced him, and his kids were no longer in the picture. He wanted to be left alone; left to drink himself to death. Left with his nightmares.

It was what he deserved.

I’m sorry, Mrs Reid, but I can’t help you. I can’t even help myself. Now, could you please let yourself out?

The headache was upon him now; a thunderstorm of epic proportions filling his skull, lightning and torrential rain hammering down.

Michael -

The storm intensified, building momentum.

I can’t help you Hannah. I just can’t. He watched the tears well in those sapphire blue eyes, saw them dribble delicately down her perfect skin. And then she was gone, turning and stomping through the hall.

As Mike Coster collapsed on his bed, he heard the front door slam closed. He let sleep take him while he waited out the storm inside his head, doing all he could to hold the pieces of his fragile psyche together

But, even so, he knew that nightmares would come.

monday

july 22, 2013

two

Mike awoke to the late afternoon sun streaming in across his face, his cell phone ringing loudly on the bedside table. He wriggled in the bed, warm beneath the covers in the Los Angeles summer heat. The nightmares, ever present whenever he closed his eyes, slowly evaporated, the bodies fading away. But he knew they’d be back.

The hangover still hovered in his head, but a little higher now. Struggling to wake, he reached an arm and snatched up his phone. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. The illuminated phone screen showed the word MOTHER.

The female voice answered, sharp and clipped through the phone, Where have you been? I’ve called three times. Don’t you know how to answer your phone?

Hello to you too, mom.

She ignored his remark, continued speaking as though she had not heard. I was wondering if you would be joining your father and I for dinner tonight?

Dinner? he asked groggily.

Did you just get out of bed? she replied, No – wait; don’t answer that. You need to do something with your life, Michael. Since you dropped out of college, you’ve been going nowhere. I hate to say it, but it’s true. You had a brief go at being a cop, but that ended a long time ago. You need to get serious now. I love you, you know that, but all this moping about – it’s not healthy. Go back to college; get into law school like your father. I know you can do it. You’ve got the brains and you’ve got the talent.

God, he thought, she was like a machine gun. Rattling off idea after idea, whatever popped into her head. He wondered how she managed to get a breath in.

Dinner? he asked again.

Yes, Michael. I asked you last week. You said you’d be meeting us for dinner this evening, remember?

He didn’t.

I told you I might come for dinner. I wasn’t conclusive.

Well, she continued, It’s not as though you have anything else on, is it? Dinner will be at six. Your father and I will see you then. Hatfield’s on Melrose Avenue. It’s French. You like French, right?

Can’t stand it.

You’ll love it.

I have no doubt, Mike answered, but his mother had already hung up.

The routine took longer than usual; perhaps because of all the alcohol, that by now must have made up a vast majority of the blood cursing through his veins. Perhaps because he was tired and his head was still swimming with the events of the night before, and all the potential shit-storm that Hannah Reid had stirred up.

Or, perhaps, the real reason was because he really didn’t want to see his parents, and because he didn’t particularly enjoy the thought of spending his Monday evening at an expensive French restaurant in the company of his posh mother and father.

He took a shower, then shaved the three or four days’ worth of growth on his chin and face. As he dressed in the cleanest and least wrinkled shirt he could find on his bedroom floor, Mike pictured how the night would go. He’d arrive at the restaurant, most likely half an hour late, owing to the notorious Los Angeles traffic. His mother and father would be there already, impatiently glancing at their watches and sipping drinks. An expensive glass of red for his mother and a short glass of only the finest single-malt scotch for his father. Mr Albert Coster was one of the most renowned and, arguably, greatest defense attorneys the city of Los Angeles had ever seen. In his prime, he had been counsel to LA’s rich and famous, keeping some of the highest profile Angelino’s out of trouble and, more importantly, out of prison. He was a force to be reckoned with in the court room, a commanding presence and razor-sharp legal mind. His skill and reputation earned him the biggest clients, the biggest income, and, with it, the biggest ego. Albert Coster, defense attorney to the stars, had used all this as a platform from which to launch himself into city council. At fifty-eight years of age, Albert Coster was poised to one day become the next serving mayor of Los Angeles, and was not prepared to let anything stand in his way.

Elizabeth Coster, fifty-one, had been a nurse at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center early in her life, until her husband’s wealth and career made employment unnecessary. Her focus had shifted from tending to the wounds and aliments of the sick and injured, to shopping, expensive coffee dates with friends, and holding lavish dinner parties in their equally lavish home in Beverly Hills. Elizabeth was a woman focussed on presentation, gracing the society pages of the Los Angeles Times at all the major city functions and events, dressed in the most expensive designer dresses that her husband’s money could buy.

Though he had grown up with this life, Mike despised it with a passion. Every day, he saw people starving in the streets, living in poverty, barely able to survive day by day. South Central Los Angeles was a war zone; guns, drugs and gangs ruled the streets. Mike did not understand how the wealthy inhabitants of the city, tucked away in their Beverly Hills mansions, could not see that LA was a city tearing itself apart. The appeal of the LA police force had lured him in, a young man of twenty-two, determined to make a difference in his city.

He had been a part of the system, out on those very streets, doing his part for his community, saving lives and helping those in need. But now, ten years on, the system had spat him back out, and his entire existence had spiralled down into darkness and the bottom of the bottle.

Mike grabbed his wallet and car keys, careful to lock the front door on his way out. As he pulled out of the driveway in his BMW Seven Series 740i, he acknowledged that there were some perks to having rich and powerful parents; the car he was driving, for one. It had been a birthday gift from his father a couple of years back, when Mike was still working homicide. The house on Westbrook Avenue in the Hollywood Hills was another. Mike was not one to refuse charity, especially when it was offered so freely, but often wondered where he should draw the line. As he made his way onto Woodrow Wilson Drive, then the curving road of Mulholland Drive, his mind wandered. He thought back to the conversation he’d had the previous night with Hannah Reid, and the memories it had conjured up; the animosity that had arisen between himself and Jacob Reid. It had all come down to money - rumors in the department that Mike’s father had paid for his sons rise through the LAPD ranks and appointment to RHD. Political pressure applied to encourage Mike’s promotion to the most elite homicide division in the city. Mike had, at the time, dismissed such rumors as bitter jealously arising from his fellow officers. After all, he had been a spectacular cop; leading from the front and putting in the hard yards. He’d worked long hours, helping others, and doing everything in his power to make the streets of Los Angeles a safer place. He’d made the big arrests, pounded the pavement, and done everything by the book. It was only now, after his dismissal from Robbery-Homicide and his descent into alcoholism, that Mike began to question himself. Had the rumors been true? Had his speedy rise from beat cop to elite homicide investigator at the age of twenty-seven, been simply a result of his father’s wealth