Money Creek Read online

  How could a blackout start that early? Had she taken only the Valium? Maybe it was more. Somewhere along the way the Vicodin had disappeared. The combination turned her into someone who looked and sounded like her, but wasn’t her. It was as if an evil clone stepped in when she blacked out and did whatever she wanted in Clare’s body. She’d woken many mornings to learn about what she’d done the night before that needed immediate damage control. She’d broken up with perfectly nice boyfriends, phoned her mother and called her a whore, slept with innumerable strangers, shown up for work still drunk or high, pushed her best friend off a curb, fallen off a barstool.

  She turned east on Berwyn and then down the few steps to her garden apartment. It was in a beautiful old gray stone three flat, the interior large and modern and would have been gorgeous if it were a floor or two higher. The windows were small and faced north and the amount of light that made its way inside was so feeble she had to turn lights on during the brightest part of the day. She must have been drunk when she rented it. She kept it very neat as she usually had an abundance of energy. Now she fell on the couch and slept.

  When she woke her mouth was so dry her tongue was swollen. She reached for the bottle of water on the table and guzzled until it was empty. Her hangover seemed marginally better, and when she stood she didn’t feel queasy or dizzy. She was still crushingly tired. When she dragged herself into the bathroom she forced herself to look in the mirror and saw some ghastly version of herself staring back. The whites surrounding her bright blue irises were shot through with red. Makeup was smudged below her eyes and her skin looked mottled. Her mouth looked bruised and her hair made bed head look like an upgrade. Tears stung behind her eyes. Was this really her? Had things gotten as bad as this felt? She shrank at the thought of her mother seeing her like this. It would break her heart. It was hard to hate yourself this much. Hard to remember a time she’d looked at herself and liked what she saw.

  Chapter Three

  By her third day of unemployment, Clare was sick of lying on the couch and brooding. She wouldn’t give way to depression. She’d seen friends with depression bad enough to ruin their lives. But the couch time allowed her to think about her future, and she could no longer see it in Chicago. The city was eating her up. She’d have to stay in Illinois if she wanted to continue to practice law—she wasn’t licensed anywhere else. What about somewhere else in the state? From her bubble in the city she was barely aware of downstate Illinois.

  She was still in her pajamas at one in the afternoon, her coffee table littered with glasses, mugs, beer bottles, Thai take-out, an iPad for watching Netflix. It was time to get into action. She changed into jeans and cleaned up the apartment before sitting at her dining table to fire up her computer. Suddenly, her intercom buzzed. She peered out the window and saw her mother stamping her feet at the entryway. Clare’s phone pinged as a text came in. “Don’t even think of not letting me in. I can see the lights on in your apartment.”

  Was there any point in trying to evade her? It was surprising her mother hadn’t broken her door down before now. She buzzed her in and opened the door to her apartment before heading to the kitchen to make coffee.

  “Where are you?” her mother called, slamming the door behind her. Clare ran water into the coffee carafe. Soon her mother came bustling into the room, her coat flapping open and her knit hat sitting low on her forehead. The cold came in with her. Before Clare could move she was enveloped in a chilly bear hug. Vicky Lehane was a bear of a woman—tall and wide, strong but not overweight. In her mid-fifties, she had the energy of a teenager, but none of the sullenness. Everything was out in the open with her mother, ready to be dealt with, enjoyed, condemned, or dismissed. Never avoided. She was an intimidating presence when she turned her focus on someone, and right now her focus was like a laser on Clare.

  She let Clare go and stepped back, keeping her hands on her arms, appraising her. “What in the name of God is going on with you? I haven’t been able to reach you for three days. Two days is a snit or a bad cold or sex with a new lover.” Clare cringed. “Three means something’s wrong. What is it?”

  Clare leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, Mom. Take you coat off and I’ll get our coffee.”

  “I don’t want coffee. I want an explanation.” She didn’t sound angry as much as perplexed. “Is this about that guy you were dating? Jerry? He was a dullard, darling. You’re better off without him.”

  “No, I broke up with him a while ago.” She poured the coffee and sat at the small kitchen table. Her mother sat across from her. “It’s about my job.”

  She could see her face pale. Jobs were a trigger for her. She worried herself sick Clare or her brother would lose their jobs, based on nothing. Clare never told her she was having any trouble at the firm to avoid the third degree. Her mother’s father had lost almost every job he had, pushing them near poverty, which left a long scar on her psyche. He died unemployed and his death made another woman out of her. Clare had been told many times to not complain about her job and be thankful she had one.

  “Please tell me you still have your job.” She reached her big hand across the table and squeezed Clare’s, who had to pull her hand away to avoid it being crushed.

  “Mom, it’s not a bad thing. It’s good. I was miserable at my job. I’ve told you that, but I don’t think you ever believed me. I mean really miserable. It was affecting every aspect of my life. In fact, it’s deprived me of most aspects of my life. I had to quit.”

  “You quit?” Her mother looked like she’d been sucker-punched. She leaned back on the kitchen chair as if she’d been shoved there. “How is this even possible?”

  “I know this’ll take some getting used to, but I’m happier already. And I’m leaving Chicago.”

  Her mother bounded up from her chair. Her voice boomed. “You’re not leaving Chicago. No. I won’t allow it.”

  “You can’t prevent it. I’m an adult, remember?”

  “Why in the world would you want to leave Chicago?”

  “I’m too anxious all the time. There’s something about the city that puts me on edge.”

  “You grew up in the city. What are you talking about?”

  “I grew up in Edgebrook, which might as well have been the suburbs. It’s nothing like down here. I find it exhausting.”

  Her mother sat down again, frowning. “You’re twenty-five years old. How could you be exhausted?”

  Clare drank some coffee and spoke quietly. “You don’t notice because of the job you have. You don’t have to commute when everyone else does, shop when everyone else does.” These were irritants, but not her reasons for turning her back on the city. She wanted a fresh start in a place where no one knew her.

  “My job, as you call it, is very hard work. I don’t think you ever appreciated that.” She was the author of a mystery series featuring expert knitter Juliet Cheaves. She was always under contract to produce the next book and she never broke a deadline. “I expect I work harder than you ever have.”

  Now Clare was pissed off. There was always some point in a visit with her mother when she became angry. It was part of the package deal. But this barb was particularly galling. “You have no idea how hard I’ve worked. Christ.”

  Her mother got up and moved into the living room, looking it over for signs of sloth, no doubt. “This really is a godforsaken apartment, Clare. You live like a vampire.” She bent down to turn on a lamp. “But better here than somewhere downstate. You’ll be throwing your life away.”

  “Wow. You’re a complete city snob. I never realized.”

  She laughed. “That may be so, but I don’t see any benefit to you living outside the city. Where are you going? Will it at least have a coffee shop? A bookstore? Who will your friends be? You can’t leave civilization.”

  Clare walked to the door, hoping she’d take the hint it was time to go. Her mother flopped on the couch instead. She sighed and walked back toward her mother. “I don’t know where I�
��m going. Wherever the best job is, I guess. In fact, I want to start the job search right away. I was just sitting down to the computer when you came by.”

  “Are you throwing me out?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m afraid I am. If you’re so worried about me having a job, you’ll let me start looking for one.”

  She heaved herself back up and went into the kitchen for her coat. When she came back she was wrapping a long, multicolored scarf around and around her neck. “This discussion isn’t over. Come to dinner tomorrow. We can talk about it with your father.”

  “Oh, please. Like he’ll want to be part of that conversation. You know he doesn’t give a shit where I live, as long as it’s not at home with you both.”

  “That’s just not true, sweetheart.” She had a look on her face that might be appropriate if you came across a shivering puppy or a baby in distress. Clare was well used to her father’s indifference. She didn’t need her mother’s reassurances.

  “Well, it’s true, whether you chose to see it or not. I’ll come to dinner, though.”

  Her mother picked up her enormous tote bag and stepped toward the door. “You’re at a crossroads, Clare. Please don’t make any stupid decisions. There are plenty of law jobs in the city.”

  “Thanks for understanding, Mom. As usual, we’re on the same page.”

  “I love you, sweetheart.”

  “Love you, too.”

  She kissed her on the cheek and strode out the door, on to her next errand. Clare was probably sandwiched between meeting a friend for coffee and grocery shopping. She looked out the window and watched her mother marching down the sidewalk to her car. After pouring more coffee, she sat down at her laptop and brought up a jobs website. It wasn’t the best way to look for lawyer jobs, but she didn’t have any downstate connections. She’d never had to look for a job before. She was recruited right out of law school, which turned out to not be the smartest move.

  After two hours, she came across a listing from the law firm of Nelson & Nelson in Money Creek. She looked on Google maps and found the town. It was several hundred miles south of Chicago in Timson County, deep in corn country. She’d been thinking she’d most likely end up in the suburbs, but why not a rural area? It would probably be hard to get into trouble in a small town, and the pace would be much slower than the city. Maybe that was the perfect environment for her to start fresh. No stultifying job and no drugs either. That was part of the deal.

  The next day, she drove downstate to interview for the job. Elizabeth Nelson, of Nelson & Nelson, had responded to her email and sounded enthusiastic about talking to her right away. They were looking for a litigation associate, and Clare had all the qualifications. She tried to feel confident coming from a top law school and law firm, but she was almost ill with nerves.

  Money Creek had its own exit on the interstate and she drove through a long commercial strip that held fast food joints, hotels, car dealerships, and a Walmart. It didn’t seem that small, though the population was only twenty thousand, about the size of her old neighborhood. She followed her GPS to the historic older part of town. She’d read up on Money Creek and knew it was the seat of Timson County and Abe Lincoln had tried cases in its courthouse. As she drove through she saw a lot of businesses named after him—Lincoln Diner, Abe’s Tavern, Lincoln Ford. The town itself was named after Robert Money, an early prairie pioneer. The rapid creek ran through its center.

  As she got close to downtown she could see the enormous golden domed county courthouse. It was surrounded by a square of nineteenth century brick buildings housing small businesses. If any tourists came to town, they’d call it quaint, but she suspected not many did. She smiled. This was just the right place. She’d enjoy the simple pleasures and new friends who knew nothing of her history. Her mother would be appalled, but she knew what she wanted. The town beckoned. She drove around the square and frowned at the number of empty storefronts, the mark of a moribund town. She imagined a family hardware store run to ground by the Walmart. She was relieved to see a coffee shop called Bean There that looked like one she’d find in Chicago. On the opposite side of the square was a building with a dark green awning and Nelson & Nelson written in large letters. She pulled her car into one of the empty spaces in front of the building.

  A woman stood talking to someone in the reception area. She broke away as soon as she saw Clare walk in and approached her with her hand out.

  “You must be Clare,” she said. “I’m Elizabeth Nelson.” She shook her hand firmly. The smile on her face looked genuine. Her short, feathered hair was mostly gray; she wore minimal makeup on her broad face. Her black pantsuit and medium high heels were not unlike what Clare wore herself. She knew from reading the firm’s website that she was around fifty years old, but fifty was definitely the new forty in her case. The thin lines around her blue eyes were lightly etched, her neck smooth and firm. She could sense Elizabeth’s self-assurance as soon as their eyes met. She looked like the kind of confident woman Clare wanted to be.

  They got to know each other over lunch, though from Clare’s end that meant a carefully constructed narrative about her legal career to date. She offered as little about her personal life as possible—both parents in Chicago, a brother in Portland, not much else. After lunch, she met with Elizabeth’s husband, and by the end of her time there she’d received and accepted their offer. She would move to town as soon as possible and start her new job. The process from thought to job had been so fast it left her anxious. She could barely comprehend the upheaval about to take place in her life, but she felt the first spark of excitement in a long time.

  Chapter Four

  Freya pulled up alongside a battered Monte Carlo so that the driver’s side windows were next to each other, cop style. She was at a trailhead in Shawnee National Forest, twenty minutes outside Money Creek. The parking lot was empty. Not many people went hiking in twenty-degree weather. She drove her own Jeep Wrangler rather than an official state police vehicle.

  “Tell me why this meth lab is different from any of the others,” she said without preamble to Jason, her confidential informant. Her clothes looked like those of a tactical officer rather than a detective—jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, down jacket, shit kicker boots, and a belt with handcuffs, radio, and her weapon.

  “Because I think the guy cooking there knows something about the bigger players. His lab is totally upgraded from the one I first saw him operate in.” Jason was young, probably no more than twenty-one, unnaturally thin, his past love affair with crystal meth still etched into his scarred face and gnarly teeth.

  Freya’s partner, Ben, leaned over from the passenger seat. “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “He goes by Morgan. I don’t know if that’s his last name or what.”

  “What does Morgan have to say about the change?”

  Jason shrugged. “Not much. When I asked him about it he kind of blew me off and said it was time he cleaned things up. I think someone’s behind it. There’s another lab I’ve heard of that recently got upgraded.”

  “We’ll follow up on that,” Freya said. “But for now, where’s Morgan’s lab?”

  “It’s really hard to find. I committed it to memory the time I went out there, so I’ll have to take you there myself.”

  She looked at Ben, who raised an eyebrow. She turned back to Jason. “It’s a risk having you with us. We don’t want anyone out there to see you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll stay in the car.”

  An old Mazda 3 pulled into the parking lot with a couple of teenagers on board. They quickly left when they saw the cars in cop formation.

  “How often is Morgan out there?” she said.

  “A lot. He’s cooking a ton, which makes me think he has a big new customer.”

  “We’ll go tonight. Meet us back here at eight.”

  Being a detective with the Illinois State Police was Freya’s dream job, but it had lots of problems. She loved police work—the hun
t for a perpetrator, the piecing together of evidence, the thrill of a good arrest. She didn’t like the long periods of time she spent away from home when the brass assigned her cases in other parts of the state. She missed her friends in Bloomington. She’d had to give away her cat because of her travel schedule. And worst of all, most girlfriends wouldn’t put up with it. But assignment to the state’s new drug task force was a plum. Drug traffic had grown sharply in the area surrounding Money Creek. They’d made little progress so far identifying anyone up the food chain in rural drug distribution, assuming there was any food chain to begin with. Anyone who’d managed to get through high school chemistry could pull instructions for making methamphetamine off the internet and start cooking. If they sold their own product there was no one they were reporting to, no higher-ups for the police to train their focus on. But Jason had heard talk about some men who were taking over the market and inching smaller players out of the game. That was her target.

  Four hours later, with a search warrant in hand, Freya and Ben followed Jason’s directions to the meth lab, ten miles out of town. The route was labyrinthine, a series of increasingly smaller, unpaved roads through vast cornfields. They were followed closely by two sheriff’s cruisers and all had turned their lights off. A long dirt driveway led to a clearing with a tiny farmhouse and an RV on blocks next to it. The house was dark and looked uninhabited, but lights glowed from the RV’s windows.

  They got quietly out of the car, though the music pumping from the trailer was so loud there was no risk of being heard. Four deputies piled out of the cruisers behind them. One leaned in to push Jason down in the back seat, out of sight. Freya motioned to two deputies to cover the back side, while the other two stood with them. One carried a battering ram.