The Abbey (27 page)

“I gave my business card to my sister so she could give it to Caitlin. That’s how she had my number.”

“So you talked to her?”

I shook my head.

“She must have left a message.”

Bowers nodded, seeming to take it in stride.

“So why’d you give her your home phone number? Why not your office phone?”

“I gave her my business card. It has my home number on it for emergencies.”

Bowers nodded again, but paused before speaking. He leaned forward.

“Did you give her the card before or after your wife left you?”

I closed the folder so I wouldn’t have to see the body anymore.

“Hannah didn’t leave me. She took Megan to her sister’s house for a few days. They’re visiting, like a vacation.”

“Vacation,” said Bowers, smiling. “That’s what my wife said, too. She left you, but let’s focus on what’s important. You’re dealing coke with your partner, Detective Rhodes. You gave some to your niece, and she gave it to her boyfriend. She OD’d on your product. Shit happens, right? Robbie is upset and offs himself. Your wife finds out and leaves you. Meanwhile, Caitlin’s not too pleased with you after your shit killed her best friend, so she threatens to out you. You get drunk and decide to shut her up, so you took her to Eagle Creek Park last night, assaulted her, and strangled her. That sound about right?”

I didn’t say anything for a moment as the story sunk in.

“That sounds insane.”

“Really? Rachel Haddad, dead. Robert Cutting, dead. Alicia Weinstein, tortured and dead. Mark Patterson, Alicia’s boyfriend, tortured and dead. Caitlin Long, raped and dead. James Russo, dead. Rolando Diaz, dead. You sense the pattern here? They meet with you, and then they die.”

I swallowed and looked up.

“I want to talk to my lawyer.”

Bowers stood up, grabbed the folder full of pictures, and left as soon as I said it. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the blood rush in my ears. I leaned forward and rested my face in my hands.

Shit.

If I had been in Bowers’ position, I’d probably be doing the same thing he was. I wouldn’t have arrested a suspect so early without substantial physical evidence, but that might not have been his choice. With so many dead young people, the entire judicial system would have been pushing for an early, quick resolution.

I closed my eyes. Caitlin’s death didn’t fit into my puzzle. She went to a different school, hung out with a different crowd. She was a bystander as far as I knew, and her death didn’t help anyone. On the other hand, it sure did hurt me. I wanted to vomit.

“Detective Rashid,” said a deep, booming voice. I looked up and noticed the figure in the doorway. He was black and tall with graying hair and deep brown eyes. Danial Reddington. He was the Chief of Detectives, one of the most powerful men in the police force. “You’re free to go at this time. Make sure you’re available for the next couple of days because we’ll probably want to talk to you again. There’s a car waiting for you out front. The driver already has your possessions.”

I stayed in the chair for a moment. Something wasn’t right. They shouldn’t have released me like that, and they sure as hell shouldn’t have handed my belongings over to whoever was picking me up. Someone was pulling strings and throwing an awful lot of weight around, which gave me the feeling that I was about to incur a debt I couldn’t afford to pay. I wished I had a choice in the matter.

I nodded to Reddington and stood up. He escorted me out of the station without saying a word. It was awkward. The interrogation rooms were deep inside the station. I knew half the people who worked in that building, some of them very well. Most pretended they hadn’t seen me, which I was grateful for.

There was indeed a car waiting for me outside. It was a big, gray Mercedes. Konstantin Bukoholov’s number two, the Hulk, leaned against it, smoking a cigarette. He nodded at me as soon as Reddington and I stepped through the glass front doors.

“You’re out of here, Detective,” said Reddington. “Our office will be in touch.”

“Thank you,” I said. Reddington didn’t wait around to see me off or even respond to my thanks. He disappeared into the station. That was probably a smart move on his behalf; it wouldn’t have been very political for him to be seen escorting a suspected murderer to a suspected crime boss. I took a step forward, but stopped before I got within an arm’s length of the Hulk. He nodded at me, threw his cigarette down, and ground it under his foot.

“Kostya’s waiting for you. Get in, please.”

I hadn’t anticipated a polite exchange, so it took me a moment to come up with an equally polite response.

“Is your son doing okay?” I asked.

“Get in the fucking car.”

That was more like it. I walked to the rear passenger door and climbed inside. When I saw it a few days earlier, I had thought Jack Whittler had a pretty nice Mercedes. Bukoholov’s car was in a different class, though. There was enough leg room that my wife could have given birth in there, and there was a console between the two rear seats with a built–in cigar humidor and controls for the radio and air conditioner.

“Did you guys buy this from Saddam Hussein or something?” I asked, rolling the rear window down. The glass was at least half an inch thick. Armored. The Hulk ignored my question and walked around the car to the driver’s seat. As soon as he climbed in, my window rolled up and would no longer respond when I hit the switch.

Asshole.

“Do you have the stuff the police took from me?”

The Hulk threw a manila envelope at me without looking over his shoulder. The envelope was light.

“They give you my firearm back?”

The Hulk grunted, which I assumed was a no. That was disappointing but not unexpected. I opened the envelope and dumped it on the seat beside me. I slipped on my watch and thumbed through my wallet to see if anything was missing.

“Did they give you the cash from my wallet?”

I saw the Hulk smile in the rear–view mirror, but he made no other indication that he had heard me. I swore under my breath. The ride was no more than five minutes. The Hulk pulled into an alley near the club Bukoholov had taken me to the night before. The buildings were black with grime and soot, and the road was pockmarked with potholes and broken concrete. There was garbage everywhere. We drove for about half a block before parking beside a nondescript black door.

“Kostya’s waiting for you inside.”

I stepped into the alley, straightening my shirt. A sickly sweet smell wafted from a dumpster about ten yards to my left, and flies buzzed continually around it. I looked around for a moment, memorizing my surroundings in case I had to make a quick exit later. As I did that, the Hulk sped off, leaving me alone.

With my driver gone, there wasn’t much left to do but see what Bukoholov wanted. I pounded on the door the Hulk had dropped me off at and waited for a moment. The guy who eventually opened it appeared to be in his mid–thirties and had a buzz cut as if he had recently gotten out of the army. He wore a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and a black, pocketed apron across the lower half of his body.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Bukoholov summoned me.”

“That’s Mr. Bukoholov,” he said, stepping back and ushering me inside with his arm. The club was a mess. There were plastic cups stacked on several tables and full black garbage sacks in the center of the dance floor. The air was stale and stuffy; evidently Bukoholov didn’t like turning on the air conditioner without party goers.

“I assume you know where you’re going?” asked the bartender. I nodded, and he grabbed a garbage sack and continued clearing tables and putting the room back in order. I took a breath and plunged into the back hallway. There was no bouncer this time, only a blank wall. I knocked, and the peephole slid back.

“Final–fucking–ly.”

The door slid back, revealing the speaker. He looked like a younger, better–dressed version of the bartender. He wore a black, silk shirt, and black dress pants. He waved me in.

“Uncle Kostya’s waiting for you,” he said as I stepped inside. I took stock of the room before stepping in. The air was cold and smelled fresh. Evidently Bukoholov installed a different
HVAC
system for his personal abode than for the rest of his establishment. Unlike the night before, there was no card game this time; the kid and I were the only people in the place.

“He in his office?” I asked.

The bouncer nodded, so I walked to the room’s only other door and knocked. Bukoholov shouted for me to come in. He sat at his desk with a ledger in front of him. He wore a pair of thin, gold bifocals and a white Oxford shirt beneath a black silk vest. He looked more human than he had the night before, more like an elderly accountant than an aging crime boss. He looked up, his eyes featureless and cold.

“You were in the police station for more than two hours. What did you tell them?”

“Nothing concerning you.”

If it were possible, Bukoholov’s eyes actually became even more chilly. His lips cracked into a thin smile, and he leaned forward. I involuntarily pushed myself away from the desk.

“That’s not what I asked you. What did you tell the police?”

I didn’t trust him, and my instincts screamed at me to shut up, but I told him everything that had transpired. From my early morning meeting with Olivia to my suspicions about Karen Rea’s activities in South Africa to Caitlin Long’s death and my arrest. Bukoholov sat back and took it in, asking questions at opportune moments so I could clarify points.

We were both silent for a moment once I finished. Eventually, Bukoholov nodded and searched through one of his desk drawers before straightening up and pressing a business card toward me.

“I keep a law firm on retainer. Call them when you are picked up next. Do not speak to anyone else.”

I glanced at the card before picking it up. Jonathan L. Meyers and Associates. If I were on my own, I’d have to mortgage my house to afford him. I hesitated. I needed a lawyer, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to let Bukoholov to sink another hook into my skin. I looked at the card and then to Bukoholov.

“That’s not a request, Mr. Rashid.”

I picked up the card and swallowed.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. I take care of my associates. What’s your plan now?”

I had hoped he wasn’t going to ask that because I honestly didn’t know.

“The police confiscated my weapon,” I said, stalling. “There’s not much I can do without that.”

“Guns are easy. What are you going to do?”

I swallowed.

“I can’t let them kill another kid.”

Bukoholov nodded.

“I’m not concerned with your goals,” he said, his voice sharpening. “I want to hear what you’re going to do.”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know yet.”

Bukoholov nodded again and leaned back from his desk.

“I have a source in your department who tells me that, as of this afternoon, you will have two detectives watching you at all times. What would happen if you pulled a gun on me in front of these men?”

“After your partners shoot me?”

Bukoholov’s lips drew back into a thin smile that wasn’t entirely devoid of humor.

“Yes, after that.”

“The police would probably try to find out who you are and why I pulled a gun on you. They’d also probably be curious why you had so many armed men around you.”

The old man nodded.

“And that’s what you have to do. Confront Miss Rea in public and let your old partners figure out why.”

Bukoholov’s plan was certainly simple, and it did have the advantage of ample field testing. Big game hunters had been using it while on safari for as long as safaris have existed. Of course, it didn’t always work out so well for the bait.

“I’d need a gun,” I said, stalling again.

“Agreed. On your way out, tell my nephew to give you the Sig. It’s clean, and he has no need for it. Now that you have a plan, you can go. I’ve got work to do.”

That was it. I swallowed. I didn’t know if I actually had a working plan or not, but it was obvious that staying in the office was out of the question. I stood up and walked to the door.

“Good luck, Mr. Rashid,” said Bukoholov, putting his glasses on.

“Thank you.”

I left through the club’s front door a few minutes later with a Sig Saur P226 tucked into a holster on my belt and two clips of forty–caliber Smith and Wesson ammunition in my pockets. I hadn’t checked the gun beyond a cursory examination, but it looked like it was in working order. A lot of cops carried Sigs, so I knew they were reliable weapons. I also knew they usually had a serial number stamped on the gun’s frame; mine didn’t.

I took a cab back to my house. I had to pay by credit card because I didn’t have any cash. My lawn was a mess. The Swat team’s van had parked on it, leaving a double row of muddy tire marks across the grass so deep that I’d have to reseed. A piece of two–by–four held a fresh sheet of plywood across my front door. That was nice at least. The police were legally required to seal a residence after breaking its door down, but they didn’t always do a very good job. It seemed someone still respected me enough to do it reasonably well.

Once the cabbie was gone, I slipped through my kitchen door. I didn’t know how much I could trust the detectives who were supposedly watching me, but I was too tired to care. If they killed me in my sleep, at least I’d go quietly. I kicked off my shoes and went to bed.

It was seven that evening when I woke up. The sky outside my bedroom window was streaked with oranges, reds, and purples as the sun set and twilight began its evening rounds. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since my fried egg orgy that afternoon. I rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash my face and hands. I had dusk prayers in the living room but stayed on my knees long after I had finished. My family was the most important thing in my life. I prayed that God would take care of them if I didn’t make it.

After prayers, I stood and went to the kitchen. Hannah was the resident chef in the family, and with her absent, my dinner options were limited. I made two grilled cheese sandwiches and heated a can of cream of tomato soup. While my soup simmered, I grabbed the cordless phone from the office and dialed my wife’s cell.