Free Dead Head: A Dirty Business Mystery by Rosemary Harris Page A

that had exposed her identity?
    “Cripes, I wonder if that’s how she got caught, because I resisted letting her be a silent partner.”
    “Don’t start feeling guilty—it wasn’t
your
fault. Besides, she hasn’t bought anything yet or signed any papers.” Babe shook her head at my ignorance. “Where have you been? People are getting e-mail alerts and Twitters on this, details are flying through this diner faster than blackflies in April. Maybe I should just put the latest news on the marquee outside. I almost wish I had a television in here if only so people would stop asking me what I know. No, I take that back.”
    I knew she didn’t mean it; the last thing she’d ever watched on television was
Hill Street Blues,
and that was only because she’d dated one of the actors. Besides, she liked Caroline as much as I did—neither of us would ever exploit her situation. Maybe deep down we’d both seen something else behind the ballet flats and designer clothes. A layer of experience or sadness. We just didn’t know it had been caused by a year in the slammer.
    Babe blew on her coffee and then took a swig. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly. “It was an anonymous tip. Somebody intentionally outed her.”
    “But who? And why?”
    “
Quién sabe,
my friend.”
    Just then Sergeant Mike O’Malley entered the diner. Babe waved him over, and he joined us, sliding onto the seat next to her.
    “Brother,” he said, “not a very convenient week for this to happen. We’ve got a new department spokesperson—fresh out of school. He’s been hyperventilating ever since this story broke. And we’ve got a rookie cop who nearly shot himself in the thigh yesterday, like that dopey football player.” Mike swung around and called to the girl behind the counter. “Darlin’, can I get a decaf here? Skim milk?”
    What possible difference could skim milk make when I saw him eyeing the rest of the cake on my plate?
    “How awful for you. I’m sure it hasn’t been a banner week for the Sturgises either,” I said.
    “True,” he said. “I’m just asking as a neighbor, not a law enforcement official, but you two girls didn’t know anything about this, did you?”
    “Let me out of here,” Babe said. “I will not be interrogated in my own restaurant.” It was said in fun, but I had the feeling there was a nugget of truth in it. And, tellingly, she didn’t answer. Babe shoved O’Malley out of the booth and then got out herself. “Don’t say anything without your attorney present.” She gave Mike a playful push and left.
    Of course we hadn’t known—at least I hadn’t. Although I don’t know that I would have said anything if I did. It was an ethical dilemma unlike any I’d ever encountered before.
    “What was she in jail for, anyway? A couple of joints?” I thought of the horror stories about American kids on vacation who stupidly tried to carry pot across borders and were thrown into foreign jails for years. But Caroline had been arrested in Michigan, not Thailand.
    “Not exactly,” Mike said.
    He told me that according to the Michigan police, Caroline/Monica had been a big-time drug dealer. And they weren’t talking a few nickelbags for her own use. She had denied everything, but the prosecutor claimed that she had a string of employees working for her, mostly young girls. I’d seen Caroline struggle with her own checkbook and Anna had had to dun her for payment almost every month. This was a big-time drug dealer?
    Maybe it was all a ruse. Maybe she had been playing the ditzy blonde for so long she didn’t know how to stop playing the part.
    Mike said that Caroline had originally been arrested with a man and an older girl, who had served two years of her sentence before being paroled. Presumably she’d gotten on with her life, while Caroline had spent decades in hiding. Good grief.
    “How’s she doing?” I asked.
    “Seems okay.” Mike eyed the olive oil cake, which had remained untouched