Free Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) by Deborah Middleton

is keeping a tight seal on things and all we have are rumours.”
    “Who’s this Burgess?”
    “Apparently, he’s the detective in charge of the investigation. We need to watch him. Our man tells me he’s good and like a bloodhound if he feels he’s on to something.”
    “Well, keep an eye on him and do whatever you need to make sure nothing can be traced back to us. In the meantime, I want my money back. I’ll get in touch with my guy in the U.S. and let him know I’m not happy. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll fix this … or we’ll fix him.” He slammed down the receiver, reached into his drawer and pulled out a bottle of McCallan’s. No blended whisky for him. He only drank single malt and smoked the finest Cuban cigars. It was a little early to be drinking but he was rattled. He was annoyed to note the tremor in his hand as he poured himself a large drink in a crystal tumbler. He added some ice for good measure from the silver bucket on his credenza. This was not a good situation. He liked to stay in the background and bankroll the drug operations. He did not like this business to become headline news and he definitely didn’t like his customers dropping dead from the product. All they needed was for one high profile death and then the government would be forced to really put pressure on the police. This was really not good for business. What the hell was wrong with the heroin? Now that it was on the streets, how were they going to be able to get it off? It wasn’t exactly like your standard product recall. They could hardly put an announcement in the newspaper. In any event, his customers were addicted to the drug. Small wonder they were using it in spite of the danger. The idiots were so desperate they’d do anything to get high. That had always been the beauty of this business. Once you got them, they remained yours for life... literally.
    He could feel the whisky begin to warm his stomach and flow through his veins. He needed to relax. Too much was at stake. As a man used to being in control, he couldn’t stand sitting by helplessly. He hated the fact he could feel his armpits were damp. These physical signs of weakness that were out of his control drove him mad. He had to get a handle on what was going on and put a stop to it. He didn’t like the sound of the detective either. What was his name again? Burgess? His cousin should ask their contact to find out more about him. Perhaps they could offer this gung ho detective an incentive to look the other way. Maybe they could dig up some dirt on him or a family member and leverage it to get him on board. One way or another, if he got too close, they’d have to deal with him.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 16
     
    The Bermuda Gazette and ZBF news were having a field day. More heroin-connected deaths had been reported and the Police Communications Department had issued a statement. Finally everyone knew that the heroin was not an overdose but contaminated with strychnine. The small time drug dealers were furious. Their livelihoods were at stake! They had paid good money for the dope. On Court Street the back room of a music store resounded with the voices of irate pushers airing their grievances. On the airwaves, the decibel level of the People’s Corner set a new record. People were calling saying how the deaths were “God’s punishment” on the sinners. Others were calling for the death penalty for drug dealers. Still more were blaming declining morals and family values. All were prophesying terrible things for Bermuda’s future. And then, to add fuel to the fire, Deon White surfaced…literally.
    911 received a frantic call from a dive boat. It had anchored with a boatload of tourists off the north shore to do some cave diving when someone spotted a blue tarpaulin floating in a sea of white around the rocks. One of the deck hands had managed to secure the tarpaulin with a boat hook, and it was at that point that those on board,