“Meth?” she asked.
“Definitely.” Masterson reached over and turned up the volume knob.
“Who’s supplying Apollo?” Bundt asked, his back to the mirror.
Spike shrugged, his gaze darting around the room, not seeming to land anywhere. “Dunno. Nobody knows, man.”
“Who’s dealing it?” Bundt asked.
Spike hunched forward. “There’s a couple new dealers, and Mants, Scoracio, and that Drew kid all switched over from meth to dealing Apollo.”
Bundt leaned back. “Scoracio and Drew were working for Bruno Mansen. There’s no way Mansen let them just switch employment like that.”
Spike snorted. “Employment. Right.”
Lex frowned and glanced at Masterson, who shrugged. Dealers worked for specific distributors, selling specific drugs, and didn’t freelance or cross lines. No way.
Bundt shook his head. “That isn’t done, man. Level with me.”
Spike sucked in a breath and leaned forward more. “Listen. I know it’s weird. But whoever’s building Apollo has juice, man. Real juice. Sent a message to four of Mansen’s boys locked up in the pen.”
Lex gasped.
Masterson glanced down. “You hadn’t heard? Four of Mansen’s guys were killed in the correctional facility during the last week. We figured part of a gang war.”
She hadn’t heard. Now she really did have to visit her father in the pen. Maybe he knew something. “Drug war, apparently,” she said, keeping her voice even.
In the interview room, Spike seemed on a roll. “Yep. The new guy had them killed. Dead, man. Everyone on the streets is scared, and nobody, I mean fuckin’ nobody, is messing with Mants, Scoracio or Drew. No way, no how. They’re living the high life right now. Whoever the big guy is, he pays good top down. Real good.”
Bundt shook his head. “Wait a minute. You’re telling me low-life dealers have protection from the fucking manufacturer of the drug? Not just the distributors?”
Spike nodded, his skinny jowls shaking. “Yeah. Top down, man. The distributors to the lowest fucking dealers are protected—way more than, well, ever. It’s like the manufacturer has to have this drug on the streets. And nobody touches Titans of Fire. Nobody even thinks of touching Fire.”
Dread slammed into Lex’s gut.
Bundt nodded. “So the Titans of Fire are the distributors?”
“The main one.” Spike picked at a scab on his forehead. “Right now, anyway. I heard the Grizzlies want in on the action.”
“From whom?” Bundt asked.
Spike shuddered. “I need a fix. Come on.”
“I ain’t givin you meth, Spike. Who says the Grizzlies want to distribute Apollo?” Bundt snapped.
“Can’t remember.” Spike’s eyes glazed and went cross for a moment. “I heard it on the street somewhere.” His head snapped up. “The big news is that Apollo is fuckin’ for sale. Really for sale.”
Lex frowned and stepped closer to the window. What the hell?
Spike flattened his shaking hands on the table. “Cheap right now. Real cheap. Like maybe getting folks hooked, and then prices go up? I don’t know. But dealers can’t touch. It’s a rule. They can’t sample.”
Masterson huffed next to Lex. “Makes sense, considering the drug kills. If the dealers die . . . no dealers.”
“Why no sampling?” Bundt asked quietly inside the interrogation room.
Spike shrugged. “Dunno. That’s a new one.”
Bundt tapped his fingers on a manila file folder before flipping it open to show death scenes. “Maybe it’s because this is what happens when junkies overdose.”
Spike gagged, his eyes widening. “Ick.”
“That’s it? Ick?” Bundt bellowed, slapping his hand on the pictures.
Spike jumped and then sniffed snot up his nose. “Yeah. I mean, it’s life on the streets, right? Take a little, slow burn. Take just right, heaven. Take too much”—he pointed to the picture—“hard death.” He shrugged. “We all know it. From meth to Apollo to black magic. Take too much”—he snapped his fingers—“die.”
“Jesus,” Masterson muttered.
Lex nodded. “I’ve heard enough. Let me know if anything else comes up.” She walked back into the squad room.
Sitting heavily at her desk, she turned to her computer again, reading everything about the four deaths at the jail. A cursory glance did make it seem like a gang war, but she knew it was about Apollo. Who the hell was the manufacturer, and why so determined with Seattle? Was Kell telling the truth? Was Seattle just a test drive for Ireland? If so, why? Was Seattle some witch haven or something?
Of course, if witches really existed.
Her still smarting hip notwithstanding, there had to be another explanation.
A shadow crossed her vision, and Bundt dropped onto the folded metal chair near her desk. Lines fanned out from his blue eyes, and his blond hair appeared more ruffled than usual. “Masterson said we have to stop ragging you about being a chick.”