The Abbey (12 page)

“Hi,
Baba
,” she said. “
Ummi
wants to know why you’re home.”

“I couldn’t get enough of you,” I said, reaching down and putting my hand on my daughter’s upper back and leading her through the kitchen door. My wife sat at the breakfast table, a cup of coffee in hand and a piece of toast on a plate in front of her.

“Did you forget something?” she asked.

“No, I’m home for the day. We closed some cases, so I’m taking a few days off.”

She smiled and looked genuinely relieved.

“Good. You needed a break. I made coffee if you want some.”

I grunted affirmative and poured myself a cup, hoping it would mask the liquor on my breath. Hannah and I took Megan to the park that morning. I pushed Megan on the swing, and we took a walk through the adjoining nature preserve. My phone rang while we walked through an archway formed by pruned lilac bushes. The blooms were gone, but Megan said it was like a storybook.

I left Hannah and Megan near the archway and looked at the screen on my phone. John Meyers. Odd. I hit the answer button and put it to my ear.

“This is Detective Rashid. What can I do for you, Counselor?”

“Morning, Detective,” said Meyers. “I’m calling on behalf of Maria Cutting. She believes she might have found something pertinent to your investigation in her son’s bedroom.”

I glanced back at my wife and daughter. Megan waved happily at me while Hannah asked if anything was wrong. I shook my head no.

“I appreciate the call, but you’ll have to talk to Lieutenant Mike Bowers with homicide about that. He’s heading up that investigation for now.”

“I’ve already contacted the Lieutenant, and he seemed less than enthusiastic to receive the call. I thought you might be a little more interested.”

I ran my tongue along my lips.

“What did she find?”

“There was a bloodstain on the carpet in Robbie’s bedroom, so Mrs. Cutting had that pulled up this morning. While doing that, she found a safe embedded between floor joists. We haven’t opened it yet, but we’re operating under the assumption that it was Robbie’s.”

I thought that through for a moment. That could have held the kid’s drug supply if he had one. Or it could have held a box of condoms and a bottle of rum. Or it could even have been empty. No matter what was in it, it wasn’t worth my job.

“I sorry, but I can’t help you. I have orders. If you feel that the case has been handled poorly, you can file a complaint, and it will be investigated in time. You can also hire a private investigator; I’m sure you have one on staff.”

Meyers sighed.

“That’s what I told Maria you’d say,” he said, sighing again. “Okay, thanks for your time.”

I wished Meyers luck and hung up, my stomach and mind turning. Teenagers hide things from their parents. When I was in high school, I hid a copy of Salmon Rusdhie’s
The Satanic Verses
beneath my mattress. I thought it was cool because my Mom forbade me from reading it. Robbie Cutting’s vices were probably a little rougher than heretical literature, but I doubted there’d be anything earthshaking in there, either. Even still, Bowers should have looked into it. I would have, at least.

I rejoined my family and we finished our walk in relative silence, my brain buzzing with thoughts and possibilities. I felt dead sober by the time we finished, so I drove home. As I parked on my driveway, I noticed a yellow note waving on my front door. Probably a flier trying to convince me to help elect some moral retard to public office. We got those a lot. I parked the Volkswagen beside my cruiser and checked out the note while Hannah unhooked Megan’s car seat.

It was from Mrs. Phelps. She had signed for flowers for us and said she’d be home most of the afternoon. That was weird; I hadn’t ordered flowers, and I couldn’t think of any special occasions lately. I crumbled the note, turned the corner of our house as Hannah pulled Megan out of the car, and shouted that I’d be back in a moment.

I knocked on Mrs. Phelp’s door and talked to her for a few minutes. She had signed for a dozen yellow and white daisies in an over–sized, yellow coffee mug. I thanked her and headed back towards my house, pulling the card from its spindly plastic holder as I did.

‘I have my eye on you. –A’

Must have been delivered to the wrong address.

I turned the card around so I could see if it had any other identifying marks. I read the address and felt my legs stiffen. The flowers were addressed to my daughter. I opened the card again, rereading the message. I have my eye on you. If they had been addressed to Hannah, I could attribute it to a simple mistake. I had bought her flowers on ftd.com several times in the past, so the local floral shops had her name and address. No one would have had Megan’s, though. My fingers trembled. Someone was watching my daughter.

I slipped the note into my pocket and walked back to my house. Hannah and Megan were in the kitchen when I got back. I put the flowers on the counter beside the stove and sat down to think.

“Those look nice,” said Hannah, picking up the mug and turning it around, presumably looking for a card. She put it down and looked at me. “Who are they from?”

I cleared my throat, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack.

“A shop in Plainfield. I think it was a delivery mistake. I’m going to make some calls and make sure somebody gets her daisies.”

Hannah nodded.

“Okay. I think I’m going to change and pull some weeds in the backyard.”

“That sounds good,” I said, already turning and heading towards my office. I plopped down in my chair and called Olivia Rhodes on my cell phone. She picked up on the third ring and cleared her throat.

“Ash, what’s up?”

Olivia’s voice sounded gravelly. I looked at my watch; it was a little after one in the afternoon.

“I get you up from a nap?”

“Yeah, power nap in Pamela’s room.”

Pamela’s room was a storage room in the basement of Olivia’s station house. It had a pair of cots in it, a bunch of empty filing cabinets, and one poster of Pamela Anderson in a Baywatch red swimsuit. Detectives used it when they were working a case and needed a break but couldn’t go home. Olivia must have been exhausted. She once told me she’d never use Pamela’s because too many hairy asses had touched those cots during illicit midnight trysts.

“Sorry to wake you up, but I’ve got a problem.”

I told her about my stalker at Rana and Nassir’s house the night before, my meeting with Susan Mercer, and now the flowers someone had sent Megan. Olivia’s voice was clearer when she spoke.

“That’s creepy. You run this by your CO yet?”

“She’s not going to want to hear it,” I said. “I’m going to see what I can turn up before I turn this over to anyone else.”

Olivia didn’t say anything for a second.

“You considered backing off?”

“No. If I show them my back, I’ll find a knife in it eventually. I’m going to find out who’s threatening Megan and make sure they can’t do that again.”

Olivia again didn’t say anything.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’s a fucking terrible idea, but it’s my only option,” I said, my voice rising in volume and timbre. “Look, I’m calling to give you a warning. If they’re after me, they’ll be after you, too. Watch your back.”

“Thank you, then,” she said. “Be careful, okay? I hate funerals.”

I promised her that I would before hanging up and walking to the kitchen. Hannah was drying dishes at the sink while Megan played with a doll in the backyard.

“I’ve got some errands to run this afternoon,” I said. “But what do you say to a matinée while I’m gone? That movie about the Princess with the long hair is in theaters now, I think.”

Hannah put down the pan she had been scrubbing, her eyebrows raised.

“Why do you want us out of the house?”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. I had learned early on in my marriage not to hold things back from my wife. She was too smart, and I wasn’t very good at keeping secrets.

“Those flowers were sent to Megan. I want to find out who sent them.”

Hannah stood straighter.

“And why would anyone send our daughter flowers?” she asked.

“Someone wanted me to know that they could get to her,” I said. “It was just a threat, so we shouldn’t be too worried.”

Hannah crossed her arms across her chest and leaned her hip into the counter.

“Why should we not be worried?”

“Because a threat means whoever sent the flowers wants something. That gives me time to find out who he is.”

“And what should we do in the meantime? Sit around like nothing’s wrong?”

I shook my head.

“No. Everything will be fine. I’ll have some officers come by the house. Don’t worry; I’ll find this guy and take care of him.”

It looked like Hannah was going to say something, but she held back and closed her eyes.

“No one better hurt our daughter,” she said a moment later.

“Nothing will happen.”

Hannah turned back to the dishes.

“Fine. Do whatever you’re going to do. We’ll see that movie while you’re gone.”

I stayed put for a moment, trying to come up with something comforting to say. I failed on all accounts, so I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. Hannah squeezed my hand with her own. It was soapy and wet, but it was comforting. I dried my hands on my pants and headed to my cruiser. Someone was about to find out that threatening my family was a very bad idea.

I drove quickly. Within thirty minutes, I was in suburbia and within forty, I was in the parking lot of a modern, gray stone building with a vine–covered, ceder pergola out front.

I got out of my car and pulled open the building’s front door a moment later. The interior felt cold, like a meat packing plant, and it smelled earthy, but clean. I walked past the displays of plants to find a waist–high counter with a cash register on it. A teenager reading a Psychology textbook sat behind the counter. A row of binders and framed pictures of wedding flowers rested on a desk beside him.

I cleared my throat. The kid barely looked up from his book before reaching for a thick binder and throwing it on the counter in front of me.

“Pick out what you want and fill out an order form.”

I furrowed my brow.

“Excuse me?”

The kid didn’t even bother to look up that time.

“Open the binder, find the flowers you want, and then fill out the form in the back. It’s not that hard.”

I leaned over the front desk and grabbed the kid’s book. He jumped as I ripped it out of his hands but didn’t stop me. I dropped it on top of the binder and smiled.

“You looked a little distracted. I thought that might help.”

The kid stopped blinking at me and closed his mouth. He leaned back.

“Whatever, man. What do you want?”

“Someone sent my daughter flowers, and I’d like to find out who.”

The kid scoffed and reached for his book.

“Probably somebody she’s bumping uglies with. We don’t give out that kind of information.”

I breathed out of my nose and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough that my fingers turned white. I wanted to rip the book out of his hands and beat him with it. Instead, I leaned over the counter. The kid instinctively leaned back, probably so I couldn’t grab anything else out of his hands.

“My daughter is four–years–old, jackass. Care to reevaluate your position?”

“Not really,” said the kid, flipping through the textbook to find his spot. That was it for me. I reached over the counter and grabbed his book. The page he was holding ripped down the middle. The kid looked shocked for a second, but when he composed himself, his face got red and he vaulted upright. I smacked him on the ear hard enough that I could feel the book’s cover bend and flex. He staggered into a table behind him, holding his head with one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other. “What the fuck, man?”

Instead of answering him, I reached over the counter again and yanked the telephone cord out of the wall so he couldn’t dial 911. The kid stood upright, his hands flat against the table and his breath shallow.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “I’ll look up whatever you want me to look up.”

“Good,” I said, dropping the clerk’s textbook. It thumped against the desk before falling on the floor behind the counter. I could see the clerk’s throat dip as he swallowed. “I want you to find out who sent flowers to Megan Rashid this afternoon.”

He nodded slowly.

“Cool. Give me a second.”

He turned to go through the door behind the counter, but I grabbed his sleeve before he could.

“Give me your cell phone first,” I said. “Hate for you to get distracted back there and call somebody while you should be helping me.”

He looked from me to the front door, as if gauging whether he could get past me. I leaned against the counter, and my jacket flared out around me, allowing the clerk to see my firearm. My nylon holster dug into my shoulder. I hated it when it did that. After being shot, my shoulder always ached. My physician said the discomfort would eventually fade, but he had never felt a steel–jacketed forty–five caliber bullet rip through the muscle and sinew of his shoulder. The discomfort never went away.

The clerk swallowed again and handed me his iPhone before disappearing through the door that led to the back room. I put the phone on the counter beside his textbook.

The kid came back a moment later with the order form in his hands. He slid it in front of me and backed off quickly, his hands in front of him defensively.

“Relax, kid,” I said. I reached to my belt and unhooked my badge. I held it up. “I’m a good guy.”

The clerk’s shoulders relaxed but not completely. I clipped the badge back to my belt and skimmed the order slip. The buyer was John Smith at 123 Anystreet, Anytown, Ohio.

“How were these flowers paid for?”

The kid swallowed.

“It’s on the bottom of the form.”

I slipped my eyes down to the correct line and felt a tightening in my gut.

“You accepted cash from John Smith at 123 Anystreet, Anytown, Ohio? Does that sound like a legitimate name and address to you?”