And Grant You Peace (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 4)

by Kate Flora

  There was nothing more he could do at the hospital, so Burgess and Dylan headed home. They would call him when Osman was out of surgery and let him know how things looked. Before he started the truck, he checked his messages. There had been no word yet from Perry about the Apple theft and Perry wasn't answering his phone. Rocky had left some pictures on his desk, blowups of the watch and ring and the man who had gotten away.

  Shoulder to the grindstone and patience and persistence were all very well, but the stuff on his desk, and the report on the autopsy, could wait until he'd gone home and participated in family dinner. They were all meeting again at seven thirty.

  Chapter 19

  "Lexi runs like a gazelle," Kyle said. "I barely got there in time, but I got to watch the end and she was just amazing."

  "They win?" Perry asked.

  "Toughest team they play, and she's youngest kid on her team? You bet they did. She says she saw me watching and it felt like she had wings on her feet."

  They all took a moment—even cynical Stan Perry—to savor the good before plunging into their work.

  Then, like the silent prayer was over, Burgess handed out Rocky's pictures of the watch and the ring. "Rocky says that's a seriously expensive watch," he said. "Probably in the range of fifteen to twenty thousand dollars. And that's a Maine Maritime Academy ring. Can't read the date, but it has some wear, and our guy looks to be in his early forties. We might get something if we looked at old yearbooks."

  "What's someone with an expensive watch doing driving around in a stolen car with a sleazy guy like Akiba Norton?" Perry said.

  "That," Burgess said, "is one of the sixty-four-thousand-dollar questions. I expect that he needed an assistant without many scruples. Questions, we've got plenty of. What I'd like is some answers."

  He turned to Perry, who was shuffling through some papers. "Stan, you learn anything at the mall?"

  Perry nodded. "A whole van load of computers were stolen before they ever arrived at the store." He handed over some stapled papers. "Here's the report from South Portland PD. Two box trucks pulled in next to the van as it arrived at the loading dock, blocking the van from view. Masked men got out of the truck, held the van driver at gunpoint, and unloaded the merchandise into one of the two trucks. They tied up the driver and left him in his van. In broad daylight."

  Perry glanced down at his notes. "It was well planned. Security cameras didn't get anything except shots of two white trucks. And the truck that took the goods was backed in and that part of it was blocked from camera view. The store manager and the police suspect an inside job but they couldn't come up with anything. Turns out our friend Ismail Ibrahim had an alibi. He took a poly anyway. Came up clean."

  Perry shrugged. "Maybe they didn't ask the right questions. Like did he know anyone who might have been involved? Like maybe his father, his brothers, or some of his uncles?"

  "Is the Imam his father?" Kyle asked.

  "Grandfather, actually, but they regard him as their father. He raised them when their father was killed. All the Imam's sons were killed back in Somalia. He has a couple daughters and their husbands living with him, and three adult, or nearly adult, grandsons. It's all right here."

  Perry spread out a chart made from taped-together sheets of paper. "This is what Rocky put together. People who are living in the house, and what we know about their relationships. Now, our uncooperative friend Ismail is the middle son. He has an older brother, Muhammad, who doesn't live there, and a younger brother, Ali. Ali is the one who was hiding in the bushes when we were talking to Osman. Muhammad runs a shipping business, allegedly halal meat. I'd be very interested to know what he really ships. Rocky is trying to track down a home address for him. Ismail, as we know, works at the computer store at the mall. Ali is at Portland High."

  Burgess thought about what Jason had said. A bunch of black Hondas, white vans, and some trucks—those square white ones that looked like boxes—that came and went at the mosque. It sounded like the mosque building was pretty central to the Imam and his family's operations. So why weren't they more concerned about the loss? Why hadn't they hurried over there? Why was the place strangely vacant, like they were expecting something to happen? Was there some reason it was better to destroy the property, and any evidence that might have been there? How likely was it that any vital records had been removed before the fire?

  He needed a clearer picture of the mosque operation and how the family conducted their business. Who had access. Who had had keys to that closet. The hours it was open. All the questions they would normally ask that in this case they were getting no answers to.

  They needed someone who would talk to them. They needed to poke more sticks into the neighborhood. Neighborhoods—the one around the mosque and the one around the Imam's house. See if Kyle's informant really knew anything. He needed to talk to Jason's foster mom.

  Slow and steady, he reminded himself. Slow and steady.

  Tonight, Sage Prentiss was with them. Now Burgess looked at him. "You have any luck getting that plan of the building from the Imam?"

  Prentiss shook his head. "Couldn't get my foot in the door. The kid who answered said the Imam wasn't there. I asked had he left anything for the Portland police like he was supposed to and got stony silence."

  "You get the kid's name?"

  "Ali Ibrahim."

  "Anything else?"

  Prentiss shook his head. He looked so discouraged. Hard to be bucking for a place on Burgess's crew and striking out on his first assignment. Especially after having to leave the autopsy because he'd turned green.

  Stan Perry didn't look much better and Kyle wasn't his usual unflappable self. It was time to rally his troop's spirits.

  He told them what he'd learned from Jason. About the fleet of trucks and vans coming and going from the place. About the man on a motorcycle with an eye patch—presumably Butcher Flaherty—harassing the Somalis and quarreling with the Imam. Then he filled them in on the autopsy, Lee's opinion that it was probably a home birth, and the baby's medical condition.

  "That baby would have been crying a lot. Someone has to have noticed. I'll go out there tomorrow. Talk to the Imam's neighbors, see if anyone noticed anything."

  He watched Kyle's hands opening and closing, like they wanted to be around someone's throat. "Unless you want this one, Ter?"

  "I want it, Joe."

  "You got it." So he'd take the neighborhood around the mosque, and Jason's foster mother.

  He looked at his troops. "We're going to have to pick this apart bit by bit," he said. "Keep looking until we find a way in. Terry, that means getting together with your informant and seeing if she really has anything for us. Stan, see if South Portland PD will let you look at the video of that robbery, and if anything jumps out at you. See if there's anything at all distinctive about those trucks."

  He remembered something. "Did you take those serial numbers with you? Ask if the store had a record of what was in that delivery? Or could get it? Or maybe South Portland has that information. If we can tie stolen goods to the mosque, that makes a stronger case for a warrant. Not just to search the Imam's records, but maybe the house, and maybe his son's business?"

  Get in touch with the AG's office and get those warrants went on his own list.

  "Damn!" Perry said. "They're still on my desk. I'll follow up in the morning."

  The Crips certainly were acting crippled.

  "Speaking of records—" He looked at Prentiss. "See if you can find any records of a business operated by Muhammad Ibrahim. Anything that will give us a handle on those trucks. Stan, do you have Rocky's records on vehicles registered to the Imam?"

  Perry pulled a sheaf of papers from his stack.

  "Are any of them box trucks?"

  Perry thumbed through and shook his head. "Vans, but no trucks."

  "So we need another search, for vehicles registered to Muhammad Ibrahim, Ali Ibrahim, or Ismail Ibrahim. And the addresses that go with those registrations."
<
br />   He looked through his notebook, found the address of the mosque, and read it off. "Maybe some of them are registered to the mosque's address, or to some of the organizations that were based there. Sage—"

  Prentiss stopped staring gloomily at his notebook and looked up.

  "Tomorrow, you check in with city social service agencies, see if they know what was being operated out of that mosque. Who's getting money from the city. The specific people other agencies are working with. I want names—of the agencies and who was running them. I want to know what those agencies were supposed to do. I want to know if they've moved their base of operations. Where they're working from now, if anyone knows. Whether agencies have been in touch with them since the fire."

  If he couldn't get at this directly, he'd have to nibble away around the edges. Eventually, the hole would be big enough for them to crawl through.

  "Terry, we know anything about the woman, Rihanna Daud, who picked up Osman last night?"

  So far, there had been no word from the hospital about Osman's condition. Burgess fervently hoped they wouldn't have another death on their hands.

  "Nothing but her address. It's the same as Osman's. We need a warrant to see what's up there," Kyle said.

  Burgess turned to Prentiss. "See if you can catch Ali Ibrahim away from the house. At school. On the street. Somewhere that the family won't see him talking to you. And see if you can get him to talk. He knows stuff. Probably knows plenty. Love to get a piece of it. He's all attitude, but maybe, underneath, there's a desire to be more 'American.' Sometimes, that can work in our favor. Especially with an American who speaks his language."

  Prentiss nodded and made another note. He was looking anxious, like his list was too long and he had no idea when Burgess would expect him to get it all done.

  "When you can, Sage, okay?"

  This was how it went. On TV, the cops got one break after another. People reluctant to talk were leveraged into giving it up. There were smoking guns everywhere. Forensic evidence was processed in an instant and cases were solved in an hour. In the program he and the Crips starred in, real people in the real world acted like real jerks and there were no guns or smoke.

  Time to end the meeting and send them all home to get some rest. It wasn't like tomorrow wasn't going to be more of the same. A well-rested detective was more alert. Might pick up on nuances and subtleties a weary one might miss. It took energy to be patient and patience would be the name of the game here.

  "Go forth and find me something. Find Lieutenant Melia something."

  Perry and Prentiss were out the door before he had his papers shuffled together. Kyle lingered behind.

  "You heard about Melia's son?"

  "Heard they were doing some tests."

  Kyle nodded. "I guess things aren't looking good."

  "A bad time to have this one on his plate. Guess we'd better start making things happen, huh?" Burgess said.

  "Thought that's what we were doing, Joe."

  Burgess changed the subject. "Tried to talk to Stan this morning. He blew me off. He's got a cute girlfriend living with him."

  Kyle nodded. "You said Dwyer says the girlfriend is pregnant and that's what this is all about. That's what Michelle thought was going on, too."

  "You think they've got some kind of radar or something?"

  "Sometimes I think they're better at reading us than we are at reading them. Not so good when you're a detective."

  "I can read my family, Ter. I see who's upset with whom, and why, and how some adjustments might help with that. I just don't have time to do anything about it. Too busy with other people's screwed-up families."

  "Right."

  "Ter, I never really appreciated—" He stopped. He didn't have to finish. Kyle knew what he meant.

  He shoved some papers into his briefcase, got up to go, then sat back down.

  "Thought we were supposed to be going home," Kyle said.

  "We are. I just want to call Press, see if he's come up with anything on Butch Flaherty. Make sure we stay on his radar screen."

  "By being a pain in the ass, you mean?" Kyle said.

  "Something like that."

  "You know what Scarlett O'Hara says?" Kyle was grinning now.

  "Tomorrow is another day. I wish she'd just get back together with what's his name? Rhett Butler? And leave the rest of us alone."

  "My mother, rest her soul, loved that book," Kyle said. "I could never get too excited about some guy whose name was Rhett."

  "You like 'em better when they're named Butcher? Like Butcher Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?"

  "Go home, Joe. You're getting punchy."

  The phone on Burgess's desk rang.

  He and Kyle both glared at it, daring it to give them more bad news. Finally, Burgess picked up.

  "Sarge? It's Press Devin. Got a line on someone who might know where Flaherty is living these days. Gotta find a guy who knows a guy, but if it checks out, you wanna meet up with me tomorrow and pay the man a visit?"

  "Sure. Should I bring an army?"

  "Kyle and Perry should do it."

  "Call me on my cell when you know something."

  "Roger that, Sarge."

  Burgess picked up his bag and he and Kyle walked out together. Kyle headed on to his car, but Burgess lingered, listening to the sounds of his city. Inhaling it. Tonight the air smelled of salt. Then he got in the truck, rolled down the window, and headed home.

  The wind had died. The night was warm, and little eels of fog were rising from the pavement and parks, softening the glow of headlights and streetlights. It was pretty. Peaceful. And like one of those teenage slasher movies, at any moment, something scary could come at him. Out of the darkness. Or out of his phone.

  Chapter 20

  Burgess was driving on autopilot as he turned onto his street, ready to shuck his clothes and crawl into bed. But cops can't turn off their instincts. They're hard-wired, honed by years of experience, and necessary for survival. He knew cops who, years after retirement, still carefully choose where they sat in restaurants and still lasered the streets they drove, always alert for trouble. He wasn't looking for trouble, but as he was about to turn onto his street, he thought he saw it in the form of an unfamiliar car, lights and engine off, sitting at the curb across from his house. Illumination from a streetlight vaguely showed him two men inside.

  Bad guys made threats all the time. Mostly bluster, but sometimes those threats were genuine. This could be something completely innocent, but it was a strange time of night for anyone to just be sitting in a car in his neighborhood, anyone other than a cop. Someone waiting for a friend or dropping off would have had their lights on and their engine running. Someone who lived there would have gone inside. A couple wouldn't have had so much distance between them.

  Instead of turning into his street, he cruised past and parked around the corner, then pulled out his phone and called dispatch. He reported a suspicious vehicle and asked for a patrol car to meet him there. Quietly. No lights or sirens. Then he sat back and waited. Two minutes later, a car pulled quietly to the curb behind him and Kenny Munroe came up to his window.

  "Bogeyman under your bed, Joe?" he said.

  "Not yet," Burgess said. "That's what you're here for. To keep him out of my house."

  Munroe's face went serious. "How do you want to do this?"

  "Thought I'd slip up beside the driver's door, inquire about his business. Be good to have someone cover the passenger side."

  Munroe nodded. "I've got Staines with me. He can come with you. You want me to bring the car? Light 'em up? Or hold off 'til you know what you've got?"

  "Hold off. But be ready."

  "You've got it, Sarge." Munroe looked thoughtful. "Mind if I call for more backup? If this is trouble, I'd hate like hell to have 'em get away. We're all still smarting from the car that fired shots last night. The driver at the hospital who got away. Not good to have the bad guys winning."

  Munroe's instincts were on the mon
ey. "Good idea, Kenny. Set it up how you think best. I'll hold off until you have your people in place."

  Munroe nodded and trotted off into the fog.

  Burgess sat with his window down, inhaling the salty air. Trying not to get angry. Then he looked down the street at his living room window, illuminated only by the bluish glow of a computer screen. He dialed his number and Dylan answered.

  "It's Dad," he said. "I need your help with something."

  "Everything okay?"

  "It will be. I think. Everyone else asleep?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good. Now, can you shut down your computer screen so the room is dark, and move over to the window."

  He heard clicking, and quiet footsteps, then Dylan said, "Done."

  "You see that car down there, almost directly across from the house?"

  "Yeah."

  "Any idea how long it's been there?"

  "Since about nine or a little after. Nina noticed it, asked me what I thought. There are two men inside. Not talking. Not doing anything. Just sitting. She thought it was odd. So do I."

  Cop's kids, Burgess thought. They caught on quickly. "Good instincts," he said. "We think it's odd, too, so we're going to pay them a little visit, see if everything's on the up and up. That's going to go down in a few minutes. Your job is to make sure that even if we make noise that wakes everyone up, no one goes near those living room windows. Can you do that?"

  "I can do it, Dad."

  "That means you stay away from the windows, too, Dylan."

  "Understood. Dad, did you want the plate number? There's just enough light that I can read it."

  "I do."

  Dylan gave it to him, and hung up.

  Burgess hoped he wasn't making a huge mistake. Chris would probably think he was. She was all about protecting the kids, not involving them. But he thought this would be good for his relationship with his son. And he really, really wanted to be sure that if things went south down in the street, the woman he loved and his kids weren't rushing to the window to see what was happening, making themselves perfect targets for some bad guys who'd staked out his house.