The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 Read Online Free PDF

backing him off, flashing my shield. “I’m Detective LaCrosse. Who are you?”
    “I’m Dr. Patel—”
    “Derek’s father?”
    “Yes, I—”
    “You need to cool down and listen up, doctor,” Zee said, stepping between us. “Your son was assaulted. The man who attacked him is in custody. So is Derek. A girl he took to a party last night is dead, possibly of a drug overdose. Does Derek have access to GHB or similar drugs in your home, doctor? Or your office?”
    Patel stared at her, stunned. “Drugs?” he stammered. “Derek? Are you out of your mind?”
    “GHB, specifically,” I pressed, keeping him off balance.
    “Dear God.” Patel looked away, swallowing. “The, ah, the party Derek attended? It was held at the Champlin home?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Then I have a—conflict. The Champlins are my patients. By law, I can’t disclose any information—”
    “Then you’d better hire your son a good lawyer, sir,” Zina said.
    “Wait! Please,” Patel pleaded. “I can’t discuss my patients, but I
can
tell you that my son did not take GHB nor any other drug to that party. He would never do such a thing. And there would be . . . no need to.”
    “Because . . . the pills were already there?” Zina pressed. “Are you saying someone in the family has a prescription for them?”
    “I can’t comment on that, detective,” Patel said. “But in good conscience, I cannot
deny
it either. Do you understand what I’m
not
telling you?”
    “Got it,” Zina nodded.
    “Without a release from the Champlins, that’s all I’m free to say. I’m—sorry about before. May I get back to my son?”
    “Go ahead,” I said. “But if I were you, doc, I’d get that release. We’ll be talking again.”
    As Patel stalked off, my cell phone hummed. I turned away to take the message. Listened, and frowned. “Okay,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
    “Is something wrong?” Zina asked.
    “That was the district attorney. The Champlins’ lawyer wants a meet-up, at the Jury’s Inn.”
    “Looking for a deal?” she said, surprised. “The case just opened.”
    “He doesn’t want a deal,” I said. “He says he can close it for us.”
     
    I left Zina at the hospital. She’d get Derek Patel’s statement as soon as he could talk.
    I headed into Valhalla, a quaint, shoreline resort that’s exploded from a small town into a small city in the past dozen years. Internet money, mostly. Yuppies from Detroit, Flint, and Chicago fleeing the cities to get away from it all. And bringing a lot of it with them.
    As a boy, raised in the backcountry, I couldn’t wait to get out of here. But after two tours as an MP in Afghanistan, then police work in Detroit, I’m happy to be back. Most of the time.
    The Jury’s Inn is a convenient hangout for cops, lawyers, and media people, catty-cornered from the county courthouse, just up the block from police headquarters. You can order a burger or a beer, cut a plea deal, or nose out a headline without leaving your barstool.
    On a snowy Saturday morning, the place was half empty, the jukebox murmuring Motown oldies while three deputies coming off the mid shift swapped fibs and a pair of lawyers huddled over cocktails, dealing their clients’ rights away like penny-ante poker. Our criminal justice system at work.
    At the rear corner of the dining room, a massive octagonal table sits apart from the others, ensuring privacy for anyone who chooses it.
    Today it was Todd Girard, prosecuting attorney for the five northern counties. Tall, blond, and male-model handsome, Todd is North Shore royalty. Lumber money, a Yale grad. A local legend.
    Three years ahead of me in Valhalla High, Todd was a deadeye shooting guard in basketball. Our sports shared part of the same seasons, so we passed in the locker room and hit some of the same parties, including a few at the Champlin estate. We weren’t pals at the time, but I knew who he was. Everybody knew who Todd was.
    The Girards own lumber