The Abbey (11 page)

My partner and I arrested her a day later. It wasn’t the first time I had seen her, either. I had met her when Tyrone was an infant and that same boyfriend had beaten her up. Their apartment was unfit for a child. There were empty liquor bottles on the counters, empty food containers on the floor, and cockroaches everywhere. I could have called child services. I should have. I didn’t, though, because his mother promised me she’d file a restraining order against her boyfriend and call the police if she saw him again. I even gave her the address of a women’s shelter that would have taken them both in. I’m sure she forgot about it as soon as I left.

I gave Tyrone’s mother a second chance, and in doing so I learned an important lesson. No one deserves a second chance. People don’t change; they just get older. A little boy died because I was too naive to believe that. I drink to forget that mistake and many more like it. My religion told me I was damning my soul to hell, but as far as I was concerned, I deserved it.

Before leaving the Cutting’s property, I called Mrs. Phelps, one of my neighbors, and asked if she could pick up Megan at daycare and watch her for the next hour or two. Mrs. Phelps’ husband had been a detective before he died and I had the feeling she already knew what a long day at the office entailed.

I drove for about fifteen minutes and parallel parked in front of the first bar I could find. It was a dive that had the audacity to call itself a tavern. It was late afternoon, and the place was filling up with men and women coming home from work. I had three drinks and some peanuts before going home. It was enough to give me a buzz and still allow me to function.

I drove home without incident, although that was more testament to the wide berth other drivers gave my unmarked cruiser than my driving ability. I parked in my driveway and jogged to the bathroom inside to rinse with mouthwash before walking to Mrs. Phelps’s house to pick up my daughter. I could hear them in the backyard, so I followed the house around back. Megan was drawing flowers on the concrete patio while Mrs. Phelps sat on a lawn chair in the shade of her covered porch. The muscles in my shoulders relaxed as soon as I saw Megan. I’ve got a lot of good things in my life. A caring family, friends, a steady job. Without a doubt, Megan was my favorite, though. She ran towards me, so I swept down and hugged her.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I said in a singsong voice I reserved only for her. “Did you have fun today?”

She nodded her head vigorously.

“We made pictures in art, and then some boy pushed me on a swing, and then we took a nap. And that was all before lunch.”

I nodded.

“That sounds like a very nice day,” I said, turning my gaze to Mrs. Phelps. “Thank you for watching her. Work’s keeping me busy right now.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Mrs. Phelps. “She’s a good girl.”

Megan nodded her agreement before turning and waving at her babysitter.

“Thank you for the lemonade.”

“Anytime, honey,” said the older woman.

I thanked Mrs. Phelps again before taking Megan’s hand and leading her back to our house. She drew pictures at the breakfast table while I started dinner. Hannah came home after six, and we had dusk prayer in the living room. I had a hard time staying focused on the prayer. Some of that might have been because of the drinks I had earlier, but not all. My thoughts kept straying to Mike Bowers. He hadn’t even asked the Cuttings about surveillance cameras. A detective with as much experience as he had didn’t make those kinds of mistakes.

I was rolling the prayer mats when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“You okay, honey?” asked Hannah. “You haven’t said much since I got home.”

I shook my head, forcing it to clear.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I had a long day. My head is elsewhere.”

“You can talk to me about it,” she said, nodding her head earnestly. “You can talk to me about anything.”

I felt cords tighten around my heart. I smiled weakly and looked down. Hannah would listen if I started talking; she’d sit there quietly with her hand on my knee as long as I needed. It might even feel good at first, at least for me. I’ve seen and heard so many things I want to forget that they’ve become part of who I am. If I told Hannah about them, she’d listen, and then I’d see the lights go out in her eyes when she found out who I really was. I’ve left parts of my soul blackened and dead at more crime scenes than I care to remember. She didn’t need to share that; it was my burden to bear.

I cleared my throat.

“We should have dinner,” I said. “I don’t want it to get cold.”

I spent the rest of that night with my family. Megan colored after dinner while Hannah and I watched a couple of home improvement shows. After Megan went to bed, we switched to a bad movie on one of our premium channels about intelligent sharks that escape their holding tanks and eat the scientists studying them. Hannah said it would have been better if the sharks ate lawyers instead. As a former law student, I wasn’t sure how to take that.

I got up the next day intending to spend the morning studying the surveillance video from the Cutting’s house with one of IMPD’s technicians. It didn’t work out like that. Tom Garrity from Garrity Industrial Tech had sent me the video, but his wasn’t the only letter in my inbox. I had another from Susan Mercer, and this time, she really did sound pissed. She wanted me to call her as soon as I could.

Since I was technically on vacation, I could have ignored the e–mail. The problem was that I wanted to join the Prosecutor’s Office if I finished law school, and Susan was on the hiring committee. Hell, she practically was the hiring committee, so pissing her off wouldn’t be the smartest career move. I looked at the clock on my computer. It was ten after eight, so she ought to have been in. I called her secretary and waited to be put through to Susan’s office.

“Detective Rashid,” she said. “It’s nice to hear from you. How’s your vacation?”

Susan’s voice was flowery and light. She really was pissed.

“Uhm, it’s fine,” I said. “Very relaxing.”

She scoffed.

“Funny, that’s not what I hear. I want you here
ASAP
. There are some people who need to talk to you.”

“These people have names?” I asked.

“Yeah. Get over here at nine and you’ll find out.”

Susan slammed the phone hard enough that it almost made my ears ring. I rubbed my eyes. That conversation didn’t bode well for me. Hannah had taken Megan to an eight o’clock swimming lesson that morning, so I had the house to myself. I hopped in the shower and then had a quick breakfast of toast and coffee before heading out.

Susan’s floor was buzzing that morning, as it usually was on a weekday. Most of the senior prosecutors had their own private offices, but the junior staff members shared a bullpen like detectives. Since few judges schedule court before nine, there were enough people milling about that it looked like a well dressed and orderly Christmas party.

I slipped through the crowds and walked to the communal coffee machine. The coffee was significantly better than what
IMPD
had; I guess that was a perk of the job. I poured a cup and started towards Susan’s office. People glanced at me and whispered. A few with whom I had worked even mouthed ‘good luck.’ That really didn’t bode well for me.

Rather than let me into her office directly, Susan’s secretary led me to the floor’s only conference room. On most mornings, it would have been occupied by lawyers holding depositions or pretrial conferences. Not that morning, though. The blinds were drawn, so I couldn’t see inside. I put my hand on the door handle, but stopped before pulling it open.

“You know what I’m in for?” I asked Susan’s secretary.

“A mess,” she said. “Good luck.”

I thanked her and pulled the door open. The room had floor–to–ceiling windows overlooking the Federal Courthouse and the busy streets below. I blinked in the early morning light, taking stock of my surroundings. The conference table had seats for ten people, but only three were taken. I was meeting with Susan, Lieutenant Mike Bowers, and Jack Whittler, Indianapolis’s elected prosecutor, the big guy with the million–dollar election campaign and Yale law degree. My stomach twisted.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, pulling the door shut behind me. “I’m on vacation.”

“Sit down, Detective Rashid,” said Whittler, gesturing towards a seat across from him. “I’ve been told some things, and I want to hear your side of it.”

I pulled out a rolling, black leather chair and sat down. I licked my lips and looked around the room. Whittler was the only person who didn’t glare at me.

“Okay,” I said, looking at each face in turn. “Can someone tell me what’s going on?”

Susan started to say something, but Whittler held his hand up, stopping her.

“I hear you’re a busy man on your vacation,” he said. He opened a folder and pressed it across the table towards me. It contained crime scene photos from Rollo’s apartment. “What were you doing there?”

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Someone from my mosque complained about drugs in her neighborhood. I asked Detective Lee to check it out with me.”

Whittler nodded.

“Do you do a lot of policing on your vacations?” he asked.

“Not usually,” I said, looking at Susan. “But then again, most of my vacations are voluntary.”

Whittler glanced at her and then back at me.

“Is there any reason someone from your mosque would contact you instead of calling the police?”

That was an easy one to answer, at least.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “In the past year, we’ve been vandalized six times, been broken into twice, and set on fire once. Imam Habib called the police each time, but nobody’s ever investigated. We have at least one incident a month where somebody tries to disrupt Friday prayers, and most of us don’t even bother trying to fly anymore because we get randomly searched every time. I think people in my community have pretty good reason not to trust the police.”

Whittler shifted uncomfortably.

“Is there anything we can do to improve relations with your community?” he asked.

“Oh, Jesus,” said Bowers before I could say anything. “You actually believe that sob story? Detective Rashid knew James Russo and Rolando Diaz, and now they’re both fucking dead. That’s why we’re here. Rashid knows something. Meanwhile, I’ve got eight open homicides and jack shit to work them with because assholes–”

“That’s enough, Detective,” said Susan, her voice sharp and loud. Bowers put his hands up defensively.

“Sorry,” he said. “Haven’t slept in a couple of days.”

Susan glared at him for another moment before turning to me. “What can you tell us about James Russo? You talked to him. You admit that, right?”

I nodded; there wasn’t any point lying. I’m sure they had the phone records.

“I met James to ask him about my niece. Rachel died of a drug overdose, and James knows more about the local drug trade than anybody I know.”

Susan nodded.

“Your niece’s case is closed, Ash,” she said, glancing at Lieutenant Bowers. “We have an acceptable resolution.”

I snorted.

“Because her boyfriend’s dead?” I asked.

“Because her boyfriend killed himself and took responsibility for Rachel’s death in his suicide note,” said Bowers, scowling. “We’ve gone over this already. I’m truly sorry for your loss, but her case is closed.”

“Is Robbie Cutting’s case closed, too?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Bowers. “Suicide, as I told you at the scene.”

“Did you even bother looking at the surveillance footage from the Cutting’s house?” I asked.

Bowers snickered.

“He left a fucking note, Rashid,” said Bowers. “This is ridiculous.”

Susan held up her hand to shut him up, but didn’t take her eyes from me.

“What surveillance?” she asked.

“The Cuttings have surveillance cameras all over their property. The video shows shadows walking across the yard before Robbie was killed. He might not have been alone.”

“Does the video show these ‘shadows’ breaking into the house?” asked Bowers.

I shook my head.

“Quite the case breaker, then,” he said. “You found a video of the goddamn gardener at work, and now you’re wasting my time with it. Great fucking job.”

Susan glared at him again.

“Shut up,” she said before turning back to me. “You’re on vacation. If I hear you’re working this case again, I will write you up for insubordination. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now give everything you have on Robbie Cutting and Rachel Haddad to Lieutenant Bowers. He’ll handle it. If he thinks the cases should be reopened, he will.”

Like hell he will.

I looked at Bowers.

“It’s not all here, but I’ll box it up and have it sent over.”

Bowers’ lips were flat.

“I’ll be waiting on pins and needles.”

Bowers and I glared at each other for a few moments, but eventually Susan kicked us both out so she could have a conversation with Jack Whittler. I ground my teeth and pulled myself out of the chair. It took a real force of will to avoid slamming the door in Mike Bowers’ face on my way out. Rather than go by my office directly, I went to one of the big hotels downtown for breakfast. I had eggs with green peppers and onions, wheat toast, and a Bloody Mary with a vodka chaser. It was a nice breakfast.

Forty–five minutes later, I went back to my office, copied everything I had on Rachel and Robbie, and put it into a large, interdepartmental envelope addressed to Bowers. I took my copy with me and drove home, my head buzzing. I was distracted, so I had a little difficulty keeping my car in the lines on the interstate. It was nothing worse than the other commuters putting on makeup, shaving, or talking on their cell phones, though.

Hannah’s Volkswagen was in the driveway when I got home. I parked beside it, but stayed in the car and rubbed my sinuses. I hadn’t really lost my job, but it sure felt like it. I didn’t know what to say to Hannah. Admitting I was home because my supervisor kicked me off a case probably wouldn’t go over very well, especially with my breakfast still on my breath. I closed my eyes and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel until I heard something tap lightly on my window. Megan waved at me. I smiled and waved back before opening my door.