The East Avenue Murders (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 1) (22 page)

Detective Joe Allen was busy after Maude left Philadelphia. His flight home was spent sleeping, trying to catch up on the time he had spent with the redheaded receptionist from
Porcelain Worx.
At Maude’s request, he had stayed through the next day, being available should Dawson return. Of course, he and Maude both knew that the psycho was not coming back to the factory and after a few hours there, Joe felt he could safely leave and catch an early flight back home.

He had an opportunity to see his kids in a few days because his ex-wife was coming into Madison for personal business.
Joe didn’t want to know what she was doing. The less he knew about her, the better he got along. Still, a chance to see his kids was worth the forced visit with his ex or anyone else if need be.

The plane arrived on time
, but no one was there to meet him. He didn’t mind too much because Susan Lucas kept surfacing in his thoughts, the memory of that one amazing night he spent with her still fresh. He hoped she might be available for going out on the town. The red haired receptionist had been a nice diversion, but Joe had called it an early evening and left her at the door of her apartment. Just wasn’t in the mood to take it further, even though she had made it plain that he was welcome to stay.

Joe had always been a loyal man to the women he dated, always more committed than they were, like
with his ex-wife. He had been caught unawares by her need to leave him. He still didn’t fully understand what went wrong with his marriage, but at least he wasn’t still staying home brooding over it.

Early the ne
xt morning Joe showed up on the job, well-rested after a good night’s sleep. Susan had made other plans for the evening, so Joe  went straight home after work and then to bed early, thinking about the murder cases that needed closure. He still had to interview the husband of Giselle Farouk, the pawn shop owner who had allegedly strangled the homeless woman, Diane Jones.

Medawa
Farouk had voluntarily turned himself into Police Headquarters the same day that his wife had been taken downtown. According to Fat Frieda, the man had made little of his wife’s statement saying Giselle was a liar, for he had never touched the woman who was strangled. He also said he knew nothing of a bracelet that was missing from his shop.

Without any evidence other than the wife’s statement, the
husband wasn’t held. His wife, however, asked for asylum for the next day, because she knew that her husband was going to punish her for telling the police about him. She still insisted that he killed the woman, even though he had not intended to harm her to that extent.

Checking in at his and Maude’s desks, Joe saw the growing mound of paperwork in the tray. Picking the first one from the pile, he saw the report from Interpol identifying the murder victims on
East Avenue. The women had been sisters, the oldest was twenty five and her younger sister was twenty three.

They
were identified by the coordinator at the local soup kitchen where the women ate on several occasions when their money ran out. They were working girls who made a few bucks each day giving blow jobs and doing whatever servicing the Johns were willing to buy. Pretty girls, most people would describe them, Cubans with a few English words in their vocabulary.

The victims had been reported missing by two other women who split the cost four ways on a one
-room flat in downtown Madison. The rent had come due and the two weren’t there to kick in their share.

The next report was done by the officer who questioned
Medawa Farouk about Giselle Farouk’s statement concerning the Diane Jones murder. Joe would have been surprised if Farouk had confessed to the crime of murder by strangulation. What was needed in the case was hard evidence connecting the murder to the man. Giselle Farouk was being held in the women’s unit of the jail and was due to be released on her own recognizance within twenty four hours.

Leaving the pile of reports for later,
he headed outside to pick up Maude’s car, intending to drive across town to the jail to visit Farouk and pay a visit to the sheriff’s office at the same time. His partner had mentioned to him about the jurisdiction there at her rent house, and how the sheriff was demanding to be part of the investigation because it was in his county, outside the PD lines where the body was found.

The situation was touc
hy. Madison County had a small sheriff’s department consisting of several street deputies and a jail that was maintained by corrections officers. As far as Joe knew, there was a shortage of county investigators, other than the sheriff. The best thing he and Maude could do was to stay in the good grace of the county law enforcement official.

Giselle Farouk was a mess. She had an acne breakout on her forehead which she said was from stress
for fear of her husband had her skittish as a deer in a lion cage.

“He will kill me Detective Allen, and then he will leave the country and take my children to live with savages. What can you do to protect me?” The woman’s plea was sincere, touching Joe with
its raw truth.

“We have to find some evidence against your husband, Giselle. Can you think of anything that might connect him to Diane Jones, the woman you say
he murdered.”

“No...unless he still has the bracelet. If he does, would it help?” Giselle was reaching for anything that could lessen the chance she would have to face her husband..

“It might, if we could find someone who knew Diane had the bracelet.” Joe said thoughtfully.

“Yes, the man at the thrift store knew she had the bracelet,” Giselle excitedly interjected.

“How do you know that, Giselle?” Joe countered.

“Because
he called me about it. The thrift store man said that woman Diane had been in his store, and said she bought the bracelet from me, and I told him she stole it and ran from my store.”

“But
what made her think that anyone would believe she bought the bracelet from you and decided to sell it to someone else?” Joe seemed to doubt what Giselle had said, remembering the denial made by the Tic man at the Thrift for Profit store, which Jones had brought in a valuable piece of jewelry.

“She needed money and who can say why she would do such a thing. She stole the bracelet Detective. There was no money from her to me!” Giselle exclaimed.

“How can I find the bracelet?” Joe asked.

“I know where he would hide it,” Giselle said, nodding her head vigorously.

“You take me to my home when he is not there and I will get it for you! You find that the woman had her fingers on it and Medawa will go to prison. Yes?” She looked at him pleadingly.

“We’ll see. If we get the bracelet, I can talk to the District Attorney and see if there is enough evidence to bring your husband to trial.
Then you will testify against him?” Joe asked.

“YES,” she yelled.” I will do it.”

“Okay, after you get out of here today, call me and leave a message. I’ll call you back.” Joe said. “Then we’ll both go to your house and you can find the bracelet.”

He
left the women’s unit of the jail, said his thanks to the officers there for allowing him extra time with Giselle Farouk then walked to the sheriff’s office, missing the man in charge by about five minutes.

Joe returned to
Maude’s car, hoping that when the Farouk woman called, they could find the bracelet together and put her husband in jail, possibly preventing further crimes. Joe wasn’t convinced that any of what the woman said was true. Women would sometimes file charges against their husbands, accusing them of spousal abuse, until it was time to take the man to jail, then everything changed before the husband could be arrested.

Domestic quarrels were the worst calls, according to what Joe had seen happen to his friends.
Seldom did the officer involved come out on top. Joe hoped this case turned out okay, but he just didn’t know what to expect. He had a bad feeling about it.

The office was busy, several people in and out who were dressed in their best police garb.
Joe had forgotten that there was a promotional ceremony during the afternoon. Several sergeants in the Police Department were being promoted to lieutenant and were gathering in the Watch Commander’s office, shaking hands, and giving each other back slaps and congratulations. He began to feel the pressure of so many extra people around that the small back office used for storage of old files became attractive as a quiet place to work.

The office was used fairly often by visiting cops who needed a place to write a report. Gathering up the stack of
papers that had grown since he left the desk, Joe headed for the peace and quiet of the small office. Once there he began to sort the reports from the ‘in’ tray in hopes of getting most of them looked at before Maude returned the next day.

Joe worked diligently for a long while, then looked up from the small desk and checked his watch.
Three hours had passed since he sat down. Reaching in his shirt pocket for his cell phone, he quickly realized it was missing, and he had been out of touch for a long time.

“
What did I do with my phone?” he asked the empty room.

The Detective
’s offices were empty, the ceremony over and done with, and most of the staff gone home. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. Joe couldn’t believe he had been so absorbed that time had gotten away from him. He got up and walked to his and Maude’s desk and saw that his phone was laying there, the flasher on the top corner of the phone’s face blinking to tell him he had a message. He was tired and not thinking straight and decided to check his messages when he got home for the day, the promise he made to Giselle Farouk forgotten in his exhaustion.

Two hours later
while sitting in his kitchen, drinking a beer, Joe’s phone rang and he saw a number he didn’t recognize. He answered the call and took a swig of beer as someone asked for Detective Allen. The person on the phone was young with the changing voice associated with masculine puberty.

“Yes, this is Detective Allen
; who’s calling?” Joe was a little concerned that a kid would be calling him.

“Detective, my mother told me to call you. She came home from jail today and tried to call you! She said you were supposed to call her back. Mother told me to tell you she was going to the house and find the bracelet, that she couldn’t wait any longer.” the young person said frantically.

“Calm down, kid. What’s your name?” Joe asked, his beer forgotten.

“My name is Rashad Farouk and I am twelve years old.”

“How long ago did your mother leave to go to the house?” Joe asked.

“Two hours ago. My father was on his way to a jewelry auction
, and my mother knew she would have enough time to find the bracelet. But it has been too long. My mother should already be back.” the boy’s voice was shaky. Joe could tell the kid was scared but he didn’t have time to soothe him.

“Give me the address Rashad. Have you hea
rd from your father?” Joe asked. Busy looking for a pen to write with, he finally found a red one and scribbled the address across the palm of his hand.

“No,”
the boy answered. “He has not called or come to the shop. My sister and brother are waiting here. My father told me that we must stay here today. I don’t know what to do.”

“You got any relatives? Grandmother, uncle, anybody?” Joe
asked, pulling his shoes on after checking his weapon and speed loaders.

“Yes.
We have
Grand-mere,
my mother’s mother. She lives in a house near the airport,” Rashad explained. “We can go there if my father does not return soon.”

“Then call a taxi and leave your father a note. Lock the building and go to your grandmother.”

Joe was already in the city car, driving as fast as he could away from his house in the direction of Giselle and Medawa’s home. A premonition of bad things ahead was heavy on his mind combined with a huge load of guilt for forgetting the woman’s desperation.

“Yes, we will go. Please find my mother.” the boy whispered before he disconnected the phone.

The address the boy Rashad gave was located in the gated neighborhood of a subdivision built about ten years earlier. The property was well cared for: grass mowed, hedges trimmed, the look of prosperity on the face of neighborhood. Joe drove very slowly through the cross streets until he reached 12457, the house number on Beech Street where the Farouks lived. Two cars were parked in the driveway, the hoods cool to Joe’s touch. The front of the house had four large windows that looked out on the front lawn, beige and brown drapes pulled together to shut out the heat of the day were visible through the glass. A large tubular wind chime hung from a post near the entry, its music stilled in the oppressive heat.

He had called for back-
up when he got off the phone with the Farouk boy, his gut telling him that he needed others there before entering the house. A police car with lights on was making the bend, about to pull up in front of the address, no sirens, as he had had requested. The uniformed officer in the car quickly exited the front seat and pulled his weapon while the cop on the passenger side climbed out and used Joe’s car for cover. Joe motioned to both of the men to meet with him near the front entry to create a fortified assault on the door.