Harrow holds out a small, padded brown envelope to me. “Another one that my contact at the justice department said the DA won’t prosecute,” he says, not looking at me. “Three charges dismissed. His lawyerbullied the last witness out of testifying.”
“How many dead?” I ask, taking the envelope.
“Seven. At least those are the ones that investigators were able to link to him.” He covers his mouth and squeezes his eyes closed, clearly sickened.
We both know the body count is likely higher than that. Not to mention the hundreds more hooked on the drugs this piece of shit pedals.
I open the envelope and peek inside. A folded notepaper with a name and the last known location of our target is wrapped around two small glass vials. Something in me wakes up. The vials contain a prepared cocktail of heroin laced with fentanyl plus a paralytic, known on the streets as a hot-shot.
I use my own syringes.
Hot-shots have risen in popularity as dealers have chosen it as a way to eliminate junkies who stop paying but keep showing up, begging for the very drugs that destroyed their lives.
I’ve heard through my family that some cops are using it to silence informants who see something they shouldn’t. According to Harrow, during an autopsy, a hot-shot leaves ambiguous forensic results. And the paralytic ensures the respiratory arrest looks like an overdose, not homicide.
“I hate doing this,” he whispers. “But things have slipped through the cracks for too long. Something needs to be done to right some of the wrongs.”
He doesn’t bring up his daughter. He doesn’t use his pain as an excuse to hurt others. We both know this is his form of quiet justice.
I nod. “We’re doing what we can.”
Harrow’s breath stutters. “How are you doing, Cormac?”
His question lands strangely in my brain because he’snever asked me.
“Do I not look all right?”
“You look stressed.” Harrow knows when people are about to go off the rails.
I don’t dismiss his nudging as intrusive. “I got a new gig starting in a week. I’m teaching at Hamilton.”
His eyes widen.
“Ford hired you even though…” His words die in his throat. “You didn’t tell him about California.”
“I’m not obligated to disclose rehab. HIPAA.”
“Right.” He nods. “Your drug test?”
“Clean.” I brush a hand through my hair, feeling oddly uncomfortable. “I’ve been clean since California. You helped me,” I remind him. “You got me clean and gave me a way back into medicine. That’s something I’ll never forget.”
“It wasn’t charity,” he says. “You worked hard for it. And I wasn’t going to let the Number Three graduate at UCLA waste away. You’re—” His voice breaks. “You’re a good doctor.”
“Iwasa good doctor.” Funny how that label still feels like it doesn’t belong to me. “Ford seems easy to work for.”
“Be careful of that man. One mistake and Ford will not only fire you, but he’ll also use his connections with the medical review boards to bury your career. I heard even the Langstons stay on his good side.”
My face twitches, hearing the Langston name again.
Behind Harrow, an ambulance pulls in, lights splitting the night. Paramedics haul out a stretcher. Another broken body, another lost soul.
Harrow sees it, too, and his face twists. “It’s endless…”
“We knew that since the first day of med school,” I say, and prepare to leave, or people will get suspicious.
“Cormac,” Harrow calls after me.
I glance back.