Cohen sat forward in his chair and tapped the desktop with an index finger. “Rome, that’s the part that bugs me most. This new guy, who was allegedly working the territory, gave out a free sample to Carol three days before the shooting.” He held up three fingers to emphasize the point.

“But then he never tries to find her again.”

“So?

“What kind of dealer is that?” Cohen wondered aloud. “He gives her free samples and the next time he runs into her, three days later, instead of trying to sell her stuff, he looks ‘surprised’ to see that she’s still standing.”

Leetch nodded slowly. “If that’s true—and all we have is Carol’s word—I got to admit that’s tougher to explain.”

“At the hospital, Carol kept saying how it was the sample from the new guy that made her so sick. She was positive there was something in that eightball.”

Leetch’s eyes widened. “Hold on!” he snapped. “Are you suggesting we have some nutcase—mind you, a pro-hitter nutcase—going around trying to kill junkies with tainted eightballs?”

Cohen shrugged his shoulder slightly. “Just thinking aloud, Rome.”

“No.” Leetch shook his head. “I’m done with wild speculation. Sorry Carol died, but she’s not the victim. Jimmy and Frige are.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s near quitting time. Tomorrow, we go find their killer. And if he’s not too dirty, we give him a big hug.”

“Works for me,” Cohen said. “Except for the hug.” He had every intention of tracking down the person who gunned down Jimmy and Frige. For him, all open homicides were like itches he couldn’t scratch enough. But far more than solving the dealers’ murders, Cohen wanted to know what the killer gave Carol. And why.

16 - Seattle, Washington

16

Seattle, Washington

Opening the door to her two-bedroom condo that overlooked Pike Place Market and Puget Sound, Lopez was almost bowled over by her eighteen-month old wheaten terrier that bounded straight into her arms.

“Careful, Rosa!” she said affectionately to the thirty-pound bulldozer, who looked like a cross between a poodle and Scottish terrier. She dropped the dog on the carpet, knelt down, and wrapped her arms around her. She allowed Rosa to cover her faces with licks, knowing that her colleagues at CDC would be horrified by the bacterial exposure. Finally, she broke off the “hug. “C’mon, girl. Let’s get your leash and go for a walk.”

The word “walk” sent Rosa into another ecstatic, hopping frenzy. Lopez always told people she couldn’t wait for her dog to outgrow the puppylike stage of hyperactivity, but secretly she got a kick out of Rosa’s unflagging enthusiasm. And her dog’s adoration was the perfect tonic for her bleak mood since viewing the ominous culture plates at Harborcenter’s lab.