Vail stood up and glanced at Ramos, letting him know she was going to take a look around in case there was anything connected to Marcks lying out along the way.
Instead of taking the second door on the right, however, she turned left, into the kitchen. Checked the refrigerator for a phone number, a name, anything that might indicate where Gaines was living. Several magnets advertised a local insurance agent, a pizza parlor, and a dentist. Another held a reminder note from Kubiak’s wife to her son to take the trash out on Wednesdays.
Other things that had no obvious connection to their case were scattered across the countertop. She glanced around but saw nothing of value.
A small oak rolltop desk sat in the corner with a corded phone on its left edge. She examined the spiral pad beside it and read the scribbles: a doctor’s appointment, by the look of it. Car repair reminder for tomorrow afternoon.
And—something sticking out of a drawer. Vail leaned closer and saw a small plastic bag filled with white powder. Sugar? Flour? In a desk? She pulled her phone and turned on the flashlight and shined it inside. From what she could see, there were several others.
She found a dishwashing glove draped over the sink’s drying rack and removed the protruding packet and held it up to the light. Won’t have to bother with a weak marijuana charge.
When she returned to the living room, Ramos was sharing a laugh with Kubiak—something to do with their first teenage girlfriends.
Vail held the bag up in front of Kubiak. “You supplying coke to the convicts? You a dirty officer, Lance? Are you getting paid to move this shit in and out of Potter by the inmates?”
Kubiak was on his feet. “No way, that’s not me. I don’t do that shit.”
“Then explain this. You’ve got a lot of packets like this in your desk drawer from what I can see. You saying this is your personal stash?”
Kubiak’s dilated eyes danced from left to right, trying to fight through the beer and marijuana haze to reason a way out.
“I’m tired,” he said, turning to Ramos. “I worked a full shift. I just wanna go to sleep. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
Ramos pulled out his phone and started tapping out a text.
“Yeah,” Vail said. “We’ll definitely pick this up tomorrow.”
“So let me get this straight,” Ramos said. “This cocaine is yours?”
“Yeah, it’s mine. I’m not dealing.”
Arresting him on a charge of cocaine possession was the better play here. The locals would not hold him long, Vail knew, but it would accomplish their goal: give them time to call an AUSA and make a case for rolling on a federal warrant for obstruction of justice and aiding and abetting a fugitive. That was where their real leverage was. If something was going to make Kubiak talk, that would be it.
Seconds later, there was a knock at the door.
“Who’s that?” Kubiak asked.
Ramos shrugged. “Your wife?”
“She’s got a key.”
“Let’s go see.”
Kubiak pulled the door open and a suited man was standing there, badge in hand.
“Lance Kubiak, I’m Terence Linscombe, West Virginia State Police.”
Vail held up the packet.
“That what I think it is?” Linscombe asked.
Kubiak looked from Vail to Ramos to Linscombe. “What’s going on here?”
Linscombe pulled out a small black and white box marked “NIK Narcotics Identification System.” He opened it up and added some of the kit’s powder to a modified Scott Reagent tube. He looked at Ramos and nodded, then turned to Kubiak. “This is cocaine, sir.”
Kubiak rolled his eyes. “I know it’s cocaine.”
“Can you 10-15 him?” Ramos asked.
“I can indeed. Lance Kubiak, you’re under arrest for possession of cocaine.”
“Looks like there’s more in the kitchen,” Vail said. “Desk drawer. Plain sight.”
Linscombe finished mirandizing him, then secured the handcuffs.
“Cooperate with us regarding Marcks,” Ramos said, “and we’ll see what we can do about the coke.”
Vail took a throw blanket from the couch and draped it over his wrists. “In case your wife and son pull up as we’re getting into the car.”
Kubiak teared up. “I’m sorry.”
Linscombe gave him a tug, leading him toward the door.
“I’m sorry for your son,” Vail said. “This is going to be hardest on him.”
28
Vail’s Samsung buzzed as she navigated the interstate. She handed the phone to Ramos, who was on his own call. “Who is it?”
“Hang on a sec,” Ramos said into his handset, then glanced at Vail’s caller ID. “Thomas Underwood.”
“Shit, I’ve been waiting for that. Answer and tell him to hold for a second.”
As Ramos complied, Vail slowed and pulled onto the right shoulder. “Be right back.” Ramos returned to his conversation and Vail turned off the engine. She walked in front of the sedan, the headlights illuminating the immediate vicinity.