Chapter 6: What Malcolm Was Willing to Say
Malcolm Reeves opened his hotel room door at 6:40 in the morning and looked at me without surprise.
"I thought you might come back," he said.
"I need to know what you're willing to put in writing."
He stepped back from the door.
I walked in.
Rachel had stayed in the car with Emma in the parking garage two blocks away.
I had forty minutes before Emma would wake up and need breakfast.
The room was the same as before — curtains drawn, a half-finished coffee on the desk, a jacket folded over the chair.
Malcolm sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to the desk chair.
I sat.
"My daughter was sedated with the compound you bought from my husband," I said.
"She stopped breathing in the ambulance.
I need to know exactly what you purchased, how much, and what Mark told you it was for."
Malcolm looked at his hands.
"I bought it in two installments," he said.
"First installment six months ago.
Thirty milliliters.
Mark said it was surplus from a batch his lab was retiring.
He said it wouldn't be traced."
"And the second installment?"
"Three weeks ago.
Fifty milliliters." He paused.
"He told me the second batch was cleaner.
More concentrated."
More concentrated.
Emma had gotten the second batch.
"Did he tell you what he was using the money for?"
"He said debts.
He didn't say to who." Malcolm looked up.
"Mrs.
Calloway, I want you to understand something.
I bought that compound because I was angry.
I was stupid and I was angry.
But I never used it.
It's still in a case in my car."
"Why didn't you use it?"
"Because my granddaughter called me the morning I was going to." He said it plainly, without drama.
"She called to tell me she'd gotten into nursing school.
And I sat in my car and I thought about what I was about to do and I couldn't."
I looked at him for a moment.
"If I bring a detective here," I said, "will you say everything you just told me?"
"Yes."
"Including Mark's name.
Including the amounts.
Including the dates."
"Yes." He met my eyes.
"I have the transfer records.
Both payments.
Mark used a shell account but I kept the routing numbers."
I sat forward.
"You kept them."
"I kept everything." He reached under the mattress — an old habit, I thought, from someone who had learned not to trust safes — and pulled out a manila envelope.
He held it out to me.
"Bank records.
Text messages.
A photograph of Mark and me at the first handoff.
I took it without him knowing.
I thought I might need it someday."
I took the envelope.
It was heavier than I expected.
"Why are you giving this to me?" I asked.
"Why not go directly to the police yourself?"
"Because I bought an illegal substance with the stated intention of harming someone," he said.
"I need a reason for them to listen to me instead of just arresting me.
You're that reason.
If you bring me in as a cooperative witness in your case, I have a better chance of being heard."
I stood up.
"I need one more thing," I said.
"Do you know a man named Devin Marsh?"
Malcolm's expression shifted.
Not fear — something older than fear.
"Marsh worked for my company twelve years ago," he said slowly.
"Before I let him go.
He was skimming from supplier accounts." He paused.
"Where did you hear his name?"
"He was in my house last night.
He said he works for the people Mark owes money to."
"He doesn't." Malcolm stood up.
"Marsh works for himself.
Always has.
He finds people in financial trouble and he offers to solve their problem — but the solution always costs more than the debt." He looked at me steadily.
"If Marsh is involved, Mark didn't just borrow money from dangerous people.
Mark borrowed money from Marsh.
Which means Marsh owns him."
The envelope in my hands suddenly felt heavier.
"And Marsh sent Emma's sedation to a client," I said slowly.
"To prove the compound was viable."
"That would be his style." Malcolm's voice was flat.
"Proof of concept.
Delivered through someone who couldn't report it without implicating themselves."
I looked at the envelope.
Then at Malcolm.
"Be ready to leave in two hours," I said.
"I'm calling a detective I trust."
I walked to the door.
"Mrs.
Calloway," Malcolm said behind me.
I stopped.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"About your daughter.
Whatever else I am — I'm sorry for that."
May you like
I didn't turn around.
"Two hours," I said, and closed the door.
