by Kate Flora
Davis gestured toward Westerly, who was sweating with the effort of holding up his feet so he wouldn't strangle. "He says Lori is dead. Says she died of an overdose almost a year ago. He says he answered my messages for a while but that got old, so he stopped doing it. He says the state took Kelly and that's all he knows. And I know he's lying."
"Why Westerly?" Burgess said.
"Because he was our friend. He was the one Lori would turn to if I wasn't here. He's known Lori since high school. Known Kelly since she was born."
Burgess tried to imagine it, and his stomach roiled. Selling a child you've known since infancy into slavery? But a cop's gut wasn't enough. Neither was "some old white guy my grandfather does business with" or Westerly's presence at the hospital. He needed confirmation. He bent so that his face was inches from Westerly's. "What was your relationship to Lori Davis?"
"Untie me," Westerly demanded. "I can't—"
"Answer the question."
If they didn't immediately untie Westerly, they were condoning torture. Torture of a man who had essentially facilitated the rape, imprisonment, and impregnation of a child. Whose associates had forced that child to watch her own child's horrific suffering. He thought he could tolerate a few more minutes of this. He hadn't even noticed he was clutching his ribs until Kyle put a hand on his elbow and steered him toward a chair facing Davis. "Sit down, Joe."
"I need to know—"
"We all need to know."
Kyle stepped closer to Westerly. "You and Lori had a thing going, right, while her husband was away?"
Westerly glared at him.
"We've got all the time in the world," Kyle said. "Do you?"
Terry Kyle. The man who sometimes reminded him that they didn't get to play God. Maybe this was just helping God?
Burgess studied Davis. At first glance, he'd looked okay, but Burgess read bodies for a living. Under the anger, he saw a man out at the limits of endurance. An exhausted man, weary to his bones, who'd borne a world of hurt and fear in the hope of coming home. Davis had been on some assignment that had kept him out of touch, living with the very real possibility that he might never get home. He'd survived it. Gotten back. And come home to this.
"I'm not talking to you until you untie me."
Westerly's legs were trembling. Defiance warred with fear on his sweating face.
"All the time in the world," Kyle repeated.
"You can't do this."
"We're not doing it," Burgess said. "A distraught father, your former friend, just back from many months away in the service of our country, is doing it. Whatever you say to him is between the two of you."
He was lying. He didn't care. No crime to lie to a liar. Was this case turning him into a monster? First Ali. Now this. And in between, he'd shot a man. There was a long, deskbound rest on his horizon. Plenty of time to contemplate his morality. Just as soon as he put this one to bed.
The trembling in Westerly's legs was more pronounced. "Take your time," Kyle said. "Do you mind if we make some coffee?"
"My attorney is going to have a field day with you," Westerly hissed.
"Yeah. Mine is going to have one with you, too," Kyle said. "So listen. We've got a lot of work to do here, executing our warrant, so we'll just get started. You think it over, decide what you want to do, and then you can let us know."
He went into the kitchen and started making coffee.
Westerly shifted his eyes to Burgess. "You can't do this to me. You can't let him kill me just because I don't know where his daughter is."
"But you do know where she is," Burgess said, standing up. "And you know who is responsible and you know why. Colonel Davis, Terry is making coffee. Would you like some?"
Davis didn't want to take his eyes off Westerly, but he said, "Sounds good to me." With an effort, he levered himself out of the chair and headed toward the kitchen. He moved like a man in pain.
Burgess lingered. Westerly's whole body was trembling now with the effort of holding his legs up so the rope around his neck wouldn't strangle him. Davis had padded the rope with a towel so it wouldn't leave marks, and the bound arms and ankles were wrapped with Ace bandages. This assault had been carefully planned and executed.
"Where is Lori Davis?" he said.
"Fuck you."
"She buried out in your back field somewhere? How did you keep that from her daughter?"
No response. Westerly's legs swayed and defiance was eclipsed by fear. "Help me," he said.
Burgess smiled. "You know what you have to do."
"I can't. He'll kill me."
"He will certainly want to."
"Look. Detective. Release me and I'll tell you everything."
"And if I believe that, you've got a bridge to sell me, right?" What he said. What he thought was or maybe some guns? Or someone else's sweet young daughter? He took out his phone, set it to record a memo, and set it near Westerly, then grabbed the rope and loosened the tension on Westerly's throat. "How did Lori Davis die?"
"Overdose. Cocaine. I was out. She was curious. Got into my stash. She didn't know what she was doing."
Lie number one.
"What was your deal with Muhammad Ibrahim about Kelly?"
Westerly didn't answer.
Burgess released the rope and fear flared in Westerly's face.
"He wanted her. Said he'd take care of her. I had no use for a child, so I gave her to him."
"Gave?"
Westerly didn't answer.
"Gave?" Burgess repeated.
"It was a business deal."
"You gave him Kelly and he gave you something you wanted?"
"Something like that."
Burgess pictured the dark head on the hospital pillow, the scared, sad dark eyes staring at him. The marks from restraints on the still-childlike limbs. "You sold a little girl you'd known since infancy to a Somali refugee who wanted an American wife?"
Behind him, Burgess heard Davis start toward Westerly. Heard Kyle restraining him, his voice low, his words caution and reassurance. Don't stop this now. This is what we all came to hear. Davis had withstood war, perhaps captivity and likely torture. Now his sobs were like body blows.
Burgess wished he hadn't had to hear it this way. Wanted to let Westerly strangle. Or leave him alone with Davis. But that wasn't how the system worked.
He didn't want to personalize this too much—everyone had an agenda here—but he had to ask. "The thugs outside my house. Kimani Yates and Henry James Wallace. You sent them, didn't you?"
"So what if I did? Nothing happened, did it?"
Because he'd come home. What if he'd come home half an hour later?
"The fire at the mosque. Was that also a business deal?"
"That freaking Muhammad screwed up. Wanted to stick it to his brother Ismail. Ismail was getting too American, he said. Trying to break away from his family, be his own man. But those computers were too hot. We couldn't move 'em because of the freakin' serial numbers. Cops breathing down our necks. The neighbors getting too curious. That location wasn't working anymore. The building was insured. So the Imam said why not?"
Why not? Because there were two helpless human children locked in that building. Probably Westerly didn't know that. Would he have cared if he did?
"Who set the fire? The Imam?"
"That old fart can't do anything except scare people and use his extended family to push them around. I did it. Christ. Why not. My building, wasn't it?"
Burgess sighed with the relief of it. Thank you, God.
* * *
He ended the recording, nodded, and he and Kyle undid the ropes.
"Coercion," Westerly said, stretching his shaky legs and rubbing his wrists. "Not a word of this will be admissible in court."
"We'll see," Burgess said. "Addison Westerly, you are under arrest for the death of the infant Muhammad Ibrahim, the attempted murder of Kelly Davis, and for arson at the premises used as a mosque at 324 Ashton Street. You have the right to remain silent.
.."
He went through the Miranda warning slowly. There was so much more to do, but an arrest felt concrete. A milestone in an incredibly frustrating investigation. He should have waited. Consulted with the fire marshal's office. Lined up his ducks. He needed to do it now.
"Do you understand these rights?"
Westerly fixed his glare on Burgess. "I understand that your fucking career is over, Detective." His furious gaze swept them all. "All of your careers."
Burgess was suddenly very weary. If this was his last case, that would be just fine with him, so long as they got this man convicted.
Afternoon sun streaming in was illuminating the dust motes. They floated like a golden cloud around the filth that was Addison Westerly.
Chapter 33
The hardest days are the ones when an investigator needs to be in three places at once and has to choose. Vince Melia was fond of reminding Burgess that he wasn't the only detective on the force. That other people were competent and could be trusted to handle a search warrant or an interrogation. Burgess knew it was true but he never could shake the urge to be personally involved.
Right now it was four places. Here at Westerly's. Next door at Ibrahim's. Down at the harbor, on Westerly's boat. And what he wanted most—to take Colonel Davis to Maine Med and reunite him with his daughter. He wanted to see their faces when they got together, wanted to hear her voice, which he'd only ever heard screaming. But that was self-indulgent. He was a detective on a case, and despite Davis's poor condition—he moved like someone in serious pain—the man had the stamina to drive himself back to Portland to see his daughter.
So Burgess walked Davis out, filling him in briefly on what had happened.
Davis still wore the poleaxed look of someone trying to process unbelievable information. "I thought he was my friend," he said. "I trusted him." He fumbled with his key, trying to unlock the truck. "He said the fishing business got so bad he had to expand into other operations. Like it was some kind of normal thing."
Burgess shrugged. "Sometimes people hide aspects of themselves, even from their friends. And sometimes, for the morally weak, it's a slippery slope. Compromise in one area and it gets easier to compromise in others as well."
Davis nodded, like he'd seen some of that himself. "Doesn't let him off the hook, though." He put a strong hand on Burgess's shoulder, squeezing to emphasize how serious he was. "You are going to get him, right?"
Then he remembered who Burgess was. How Burgess was a guy like him. Not someone who got pushed. He dropped his hand. "You think he's telling the truth about Lori?" His voice was raw with pain, laden with the burden of dozens of questions unasked. He leaned against the truck like he lacked the strength to go on. How does anyone process a wife dead and a child a friend has essentially sold into slavery?
"Maybe some version of the truth. Of his truth."
"I would have killed him, you know." He finally got the key into the lock. "I still may."
"You shouldn't tell me that." He touched Davis's shoulder. "Go see Kelly. That's all you should be thinking about right now. There's time to catch up on the rest later."
"Do you think she knows about her mother? About what happened?"
"She was around. She has to have known some of it. Your daughter has been through a lot. For now, you need to focus on the present. On reassurance and recovery. After all that's happened to her, she's going to be a long time recovering. She may not want to talk about it right away. Right now, she isn't speaking at all. Some kind of traumatic muteness. You'll just have to take it at her pace."
Burgess thought about Neddy and Nina. All the horror they'd been through. How ready he was to hurt anyone who threatened them. He thought about Dylan, losing his mother and gaining an unexpected father, who was so ready to protect his siblings from danger. "But kids are resilient. Love and stability make a big difference."
"You have kids, Detective?"
"Three."
Joe Burgess. Solitary man. The meanest cop in Portland. Fiercely protective father of three.
"I can suggest a good therapist," he said.
Kelly's dark eyes stared at him from her father's face. Davis held out his hand. "You take care, Detective." Another man used to looking after others. Used to being torn between duty and family. "I'll be back for the rest of the story."
"Tell her I said hello. Tell her I owe her another ice cream."
Davis got into his truck, backed around, and rattled away down the driveway.
Burgess called Chris.
"Hey," she said. "I've been worried. You disappear in the middle of the night, and then I don't hear from you."
"Talk to me," he said.
"About what?"
"Anything. Anything at all. I just want to hear your voice."
"I'm not sure you do. I saw the news, Joe. That was you, wasn't it? In that storage facility? Surrounded by Somali gunmen and Iron Angels."
"You know how I love to be in the middle of the action."
"You know how I don't like you there."
"Then I have some good news for you. Since I discharged my service weapon, I'm probably going to be driving a desk for a while."
"Let heaven and nature sing." He heard the smile in her voice. "Except it means you'll be a beast."
"Are the kids okay?" He realized he had no idea what time it was.
"Glued to the news. Dylan's telling them not to worry. That you're okay."
"I'm okay. I'm better than okay."
"Why? Because you shot at someone?"
"Because I get to come home to you guys."
"When?"
"After I arrest some more bad guys. But Chris...?" He wanted to give her some good news. "You know how you said you were sure there was someone out there who loved our mystery girl, and was looking for her? Well, we found him."
She was silent for a long time, and when she spoke, there were tears in her voice. "That's such good news, Joe."
He went inside to join the search.
* * *
It was going to be a long, hard slog, going through the papers and tying everything together. He thought it was particularly important that the Imam be tied in. That the man not get to sit like a malevolent spider at the center of the web he'd built and let everyone else go down but him. Meanwhile, the task for now was to collect papers, gather bills and records, look for anything that would prove that Lori and Kelly Davis had been in the house. Go through the trucks in the outbuildings. Locate Westerly's stash of drugs. Locate records of real estate Westerly or his many businesses owned that might lead them to Muhammad Ibrahim's place of business. That would lead to other warrants. Keep them busy for days to come.
They had a call in for some cadaver dogs to help them locate Lori Davis's body. If Westerly was telling the truth and he really had buried it behind his own house. If anything the man said could be believed. If such a devious and deliberate businessman—a man who'd likely built a drugs, firearms, and who knew what else distribution network using the Somalis and the Iron Angels—really was dumb enough to bury a body so close to home.
Next door, Stan Perry and Sage Prentiss were going through the same exercise. Cumberland PD had kindly offered someone to drive Westerly to jail. Burgess had sent him to 109, to Melia's kind ministrations, instead. As they moved, examined, and sorted, Burgess's phone kept ringing with updates.
Muhammad Ibrahim was in surgery. Osman conscious but so far unable to speak. Butcher Flaherty had been tortured before he died, and whoever had killed him had left fingerprints everywhere. And by the way, Dr. Lee had missed Burgess. Since Flaherty's keys had been found in the younger Muhammad Ibrahim's pocket, Ibrahim was their prime suspect. ATF and Homeland Security were circling the storage building and 109 like hungry sharks and had muscled out Portland PD to search Westerly's boat.
Urgency had come from the need to protect their mystery girl. Find the person responsible for a little baby's death. From needing to find the bad guys so their families would be safe. Now they
were back to slow and steady wins the race. But in the back of his mind, Burgess heard Muhammad Ibrahim's hateful whisper. "My brother will kill you and all your family." Maybe Stan Perry was right and Ismail Ibrahim wasn't a part of this, but he wanted to haul him in, too, though he had no grounds to do so.
For now, he and Kyle, their evidence techs, and the officers working with them just kept moving through the house. Searching. Sorting. Documenting. Sending stuff back to 109.
Captain Cote had called him for updates. Each time, Burgess had only replied that they were still executing the warrant. Let Melia finish questioning Westerly before they gave that arrest to Cote. Next door, he knew Perry was saying the same thing.
* * *
Hours later, so tired his eyes were crossed and so hungry he was ready to embrace cannibalism, Burgess and the Crips called it a day. It was more like a day and a half, and they were far from done. But they'd reached their limit.
They headed back to Portland, where Chris and Michelle had promised them a good meal whenever they turned up. They brought Perry with them, and invited Sage Prentiss so he wouldn't feel left out. Prentiss had begged off, heading home to his wife and baby.
It was a dark, dark night with another cold spring wind, and it felt good to be inside where the lights were blazing and the room smelled of pot roast and pie instead of fear scent or death.
Burgess was beyond tired, but even after he had showered and Chris had strapped up his ribs, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for his pain pills to kick in. He couldn't shake the feeling that they hadn't yet seen the final act. There were too many loose ends. They still didn't know what had happened to Osman. Or why. Nor had they located Rihanna Daud. The Imam, his followers, and one of his grandsons were still out there, possibly still a threat. The Imam had demonstrated an unwillingness to work with the establishment or to settle differences through dialogue or compromise, and Burgess had just put two of the grandsons out of commission.
There were also the Iron Angels, who had lost one of their own in a particularly nasty way, and lost a stash of guns. They were another group not known for their cooperation or patience with the legal system.