by Rick Reed
Jack turned his back and said, “Well, I’ve got to get going. People to kill. Rights to violate.” And he left.
“Shit,” Susan said.
* * *
Liddell turned down Sycamore Street and pulled to the curb by the carport behind the police station. “Want me to wait and see if Double Dick is waiting for you?”
Jack got out and waved him off. “I think Double Dick is off somewhere licking his wounds.”
“I think he has someone do that,” Liddell suggested and they laughed.
“I’m going to take your advice and see the sheriff,” Jack said. “I’ll call you in a bit. You shouldn’t be there when I meet them. No point in both of us digging a hole.”
Liddell tried to argue but Jack insisted. He wasn’t sure if he was really going to give all the stuff to the sheriff’s department, but it was the sensible thing to do. He would need the county sheriff’s help in trying to find Khaled.
“It’s late. Let’s knock off,” Jack said. “I’m going to see the sheriff right now and get rid of this stuff. Then I’m going home. Eat, drink, and go to sleep. You should too.”
“See you early,” Liddell said and drove away.
Jack was walking along the back of the carport when he heard voices on the other side. He hoped it wasn’t Double Dick. That asshole usually spent the afternoon in his office, wearing his dress blue uniform, saluting himself in the mirror.
He stopped and peered around the side and saw it was Captain Franklin, smoking, talking to two men in suits. One of the men was about Franklin’s height, older, overweight, with thinning hair, and his sport coat was held open by an ample stomach. The other man was young, with a dark suit, dark tie, and dark perfectly groomed hair. He was right out of a fashion magazine.
Franklin threw the cigarette butt on the ground, crushed it underfoot, and led the men inside.
Jack had never seen these guys before, but they were unmistakably government types. He stayed where he was until he heard the door shut then hurried to his department-issued car. He pulled out onto Sycamore Street and turned left on the ramp leading to Lloyd Expressway.
Chapter Twenty-one
Jack smelled the smoke before he turned onto Boberg Road. A two-tone brown car—VANDERBURGH SHERIFF marked on the side—blocked the entrance to Khaled’s long driveway.
Jack pulled onto the shoulder and a deputy approached. His name tag said, “D. Thene.” Jack recognized the face but had never really talked to him.
“Is one of your detectives here?” Jack asked, and flashed his badge.
“Sergeant Elkins is down there,” Deputy Thene said, pointing down the lane.
Jack knew Sergeant Elkins. He was an old-timer who had come up under the patronage system in a day when you just paid the going rate to the current political party to make rank. He’d asked Elkins one time why he was just a sergeant. Why not a lieutenant or chief deputy? Elkins had replied, “To hell with a bunch o’ ball-less brass.”
Deputy Thene keyed his shoulder mic and said, “Detective Elkins, EPD Detective Murphy’s here to see you.”
Jack heard the response. “Okay. Send him down. Tell him to leave his car there.”
Jack walked down the long gravel lane feeling a little guilty. He made his mind up that couldn’t turn the evidence over. He’d come out here thinking he could pretend to find it in the charred remains. But as he got closer he saw that the house had burned to the ground, and there were too many deputies, firefighters, volunteer firefighters, and civil defense personnel combing through the ashes. He looked at his watch and was surprised to see how late it had gotten. In another hour it would be dark and he wasn’t much further than when he’d started. Of course, being in Double Dick’s sights all day didn’t help matters any.
Elkins was leaning against a German Township Fire Department truck, the stump of a black cigar wedged between his teeth.
“Is that a cigar in your mouth or are you just happy to see me?” Jack said.
Elkins watched him, unsmiling. “I quit smoking,” he said. “Goddamn brass made me. The entire department is going ‘smoke free.’ Bunch o’ pussies.”
Jack grinned. “You know what Freud would say about that.”
“Screw you, Jack.”
He’d forgotten how crotchety Elkins was, or how outspoken. The man had nothing but disdain for political correctness. He was a man after Jack’s own heart.
“What are you doing here? You didn’t come to try and talk me into retiring, did you?”
“Why would I do that? I hadn’t heard you were thinking about it.”
Elkins took the cigar from his mouth and pitched it in the smoldering remains of Khaled’s house. “I ain’t never going to retire.” He chuckled and had a coughing spasm that sounded like a garbage disposal.
Jack said, “I’m here about George Killian’s shooting.” He told Elkins what had led up to Khaled as a “person of interest” in the investigation, saying he had interviewed him this morning, but leaving out the part about his breaking in before the fire had started. When Jack was finished, Elkins gave him the stink eye.
“You didn’t ask if Khaled was in the fire,” he said.
This old bastard is shrewd.
“I assumed you would have more detectives here if a body was found,” Jack said.
“We didn’t find him or his vehicle. A white Toyota RAV is registered to him. I put an ‘attempt to locate’ out for him and his car. If we find him, do you want to talk to him?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I have some more questions for him.” Jack started to leave and seemingly as an afterthought, asked, “You didn’t find any weapons by chance?”
Elkins shoved his hands in his pockets. “Are you holding back on me, Jack?”
“I’ve told you everything,” that I’m going to.
Elkins pointed at the smoking heap that had once been a house. “In the first place, I knew this Khaled guy was on parole for dealing weapons—and explosives. These guys found a concrete room under the kitchen. No weapons. Nothing. Of course, we’re still sifting through all of this.”
“A hidden room,” Jack said. “Huh.”
“Did I say it was hidden?” Elkins asked.
“I’m a detective,” Jack said. “I suspect it was a grease fire. He had enough in his hair to power a diesel engine.”
Elkins broke a smile. “Bet he smoked Camel cigarettes.”
Jack walked back to his car wishing he hadn’t taken the evidence. It was too late now. He’d wait until after they found Khaled. He might be dead. You can’t violate a dead guy’s rights. Now that he’d told Elkins that Khaled may have been involved in Killian’s shooting, Elkins would kick the search into high gear.
Jack drove west and called Sergeant Walker’s cell phone. They talked for a minute and Walker said he would find someone to examine the hard drive and the bullet fragment on the QT. He didn’t ask any other questions.
Jack headed for his cabin. He had to feed Cinderella. He’d stop somewhere and get a couple of hamburgers for them both. He’d tell Bigfoot about talking to Elkins in the morning. Liddell would understand. Then they had to get busy and find Khaled. He was sure Khaled was the key to this.
The wind picked up, and the skies grew dark and threatening to the south. He saw a McDonald’s ahead, and was in luck, the drive-through was empty. He bought four double hamburgers with cheese. Cinderella liked all the condiments. He bought two supersize fries and pigged out on them as he drove towards home.
Jack turned off Highway 41 and reached his cabin just as the skies opened up and rain came pouring down. He ran through the downpour with the bags of food. He went into the kitchen and used paper towels to dry. Cinderella sat, staring up at him, licking her chops.
“Can you say, ‘supersize me’?”
Cinderella bared her teeth and then let out a howl.
“That’s pretty good for a mangy mutt.” Jack unwrapped two of the hamburgers and dropped them in the dog bowl. He didn’t have a chance t
o give her any fries because he didn’t want to get close enough to lose an arm.
The telephone answering machine showed thirty-three messages. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?” he said to Cinderella. “I work. I bring home the food. I clean the house. I do the dishes. And what do you do?”
She stopped scrounging in the bowl long enough to look at him and squint. He was sure she could understand English.
He unplugged the answering machine. He didn’t feel like listening to anyone. The media and Double Dick had worn him out about the bank robbery, and he didn’t want to answer questions about how it felt to shoot a kid. He didn’t feel like talking to his mom, who probably was wondering why he hadn’t called his brother. In fact he didn’t want to talk to anyone.
A flash of lightning lit the kitchen and made him think of the concussion grenade that had almost ended him. He thought of the incredulous expression on the face of the teenage girl. “You shot me,” she had said. It was as if that possibility had never entered her mind.
He felt a wet nose on his hand. Cinderella stared at him with a manic look in her eyes. If she could speak she would be saying, “You asshole!” He took what was left of the fries and dumped them in her bowl.
“You can say thank you,” he said to her.
She stopped munching and let the biggest fart he’d ever heard. She sniffed the air and then continued to eat.
“Ungrateful. That’s what you are,” he said, and then, “Why am I talking to a dog? Am I nuts?”
Cinderella chuffed and finished off the fries, and licked the empty bowl.
Jack found a bottle of Scotch where he had hidden it from himself, in a cabinet over the refrigerator that required a chair to make the reach. His thinking in putting it there had been that if he was too drunk to stand on a chair he’d already had enough. His dad had said, “The harder you work for something, the more you’ll appreciate it when you get it.” He’d appreciate this.
He poured a generous amount in a dirty coffee mug and sipped. Wonderful. He remembered an older detective telling him that Scotch had an essential vitamin—Vitamin Alcohol.
His thoughts turned to Susan and he poured a little more Scotch. They’d been good together. Not the Scotch and him. Susan and him. The way she had looked at him when he first saw her today, and the way she’d smiled at him at Two Jakes, he could tell she was interested. He was attracted to her sexually. But is that enough? He had loved her in his own way, but he had also loved Katie. He still did. Didn’t he? After all, he and Katie were happy until she’d lost the baby and . . . The baby. My child. His eyes grew moist and his throat tightened. What am I doing? He took a long swig from the Scotch bottle and put it on the counter.
He reminded himself that he was working Killian’s case. He didn’t have time for this. He shouldn’t even be drinking. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Hello.”
“Katie. It’s me,” he said. It sounded lame, even to him. He didn’t know what to say next. Susan was right about him needing to talk to Katie, tell her how he felt, what his thoughts were. He missed her. He should say he was sorry and would do anything to work this out. He should say he loved her and wanted her back in his life. But the words stuck in his throat and wouldn’t come out.
“You sound exhausted, Jack,” Katie said. He thought she sounded tired.
“I’m fine,” he lied. “I just wanted to see if you’d heard about Killian.” Another lame remark. Of course she’d heard. Killian was one of his fishing buddies from back when they were married. Katie and Barbara had gone on fishing trips with them. He and Killian would fish and drink, the girls would spend the time chatting or watching “girl movies.”
Katie was quiet.
“What’s the matter?” Jack asked.
“I’m at the hospital, Jack. Killian is in surgery. Jack. Jack, are you there?” she said into a dead line.
Chapter Twenty-two
The tan Crown Vic jumped the curb in front of the ER and parked. Jack rushed inside, took the stairs two and three at a time, and hurried down the hall to the surgery waiting room.
Katie sat on a padded bench with her legs drawn up, her head resting on her knees. She saw him coming and said, “I didn’t mean to worry you, but I’m glad you came.” She forced a smile.
“How is he?” He sat down beside her, and saw that she looked as tired as she had sounded on the phone.
“His fever spiked and he started seizing about an hour ago. They rushed him back into surgery. The surgeon told Barbara it was something to do with the swelling around his brain. He’s out of surgery and stable for now.”
Jack looked down the hallway and saw a uniformed officer sitting on a chair outside the recovery room door. The officer raised a hand and Jack nodded.
“How’s Barbara?” he asked Katie.
“They let her be with him.”
“Do you think there’s any chance I can go in for a few minutes?”
Katie’s expression turned sad. “No. The surgeon barely let Barbara in.”
“I should stay,” he offered.
“No offense, Jack, but you look like hell. You push yourself too hard. Marcie was here for a while. She’s coming back so we’ll keep Barbara company. I’m fine. I can sleep on the couch here.”
Her eyes were soft, and something inside him felt like it broke. “Katie, I . . .”
“Please go home and rest. Take a hot shower.” Her nose wrinkled.
* * *
The temperature had backed off the ninety-degree mark due to the heavy rain. It was now hovering in the mid-seventies. Jack called Sergeant Elkins and gave him an update on Killian’s condition, thinking it might spur Elkins to look even harder for Khaled.
Jack turned onto Sycamore Street with the rain outpacing his windshield wipers. Dispatch had called. Captain Franklin wanted him at HQ. He dreaded it because he was at a dead end until Khaled could be found. He couldn’t call Narcotics or Vice or any other intelligence-gathering unit to run the names Moon Pie and Modock. If Moon Pie was a cop, it might tip his hand. No rumor spread faster than a cop under investigation.
He parked and was getting out of his car when a strong hand gripped him by the shoulder.
Jack spun around, knocking the hand away, and reached for his gun.
Franklin and the two guys in suits Jack had seen earlier stood there staring at him.
“Hold on, Quickdraw,” Captain Franklin said, trying to make light of Jack’s reaction. The two men were holding papers over their heads against the rain.
“Sorry, Captain,” Jack said. He cleared his throat and looked at the two suits.
“This is the detective who’s working the shooting of the ATF agent. Jack Murphy,” he said and made introductions. They were FBI agents from D.C., and both were named John something or other.
The younger agent was square jawed with a buzz cut and a day’s growth of hair on his face. He was wearing a smart suit that looked like it had its own name, like Valentino or Bill Blass or the whole family of Brooks Brothers. Jack was sure the suit had a price to match the pedigree. The FBI generally hired attorneys or accountants and not fashion models.
The other guy was more mature, a little more overweight than he’d originally thought, and he looked every bit like a Walmart shopper. His $49.95 sport coat, checked shirt, too-wide tie, and cheap slacks said it all.
“You boys are a long way from home,” Jack said. “Why is the FBI from D.C. in little E-ville?”
“Be nice, Jack,” Captain Franklin said. “They just drove a long way. What have you been doing?”
“Just checking for leads,” Jack answered, truthfully.
Franklin said, “Do yourself a favor and don’t give the deputy chief any more to hang you with.”
Jack had parked in one of the city council parking spots that were usually vacant. The city council only met once a month, but they had five much-needed parking spaces directly behind the detectives’ office.
“Don’t worry, Cap
tain. He won’t catch me,” Jack said. “Do I need to go inside?” He wondered what the hell he’d done now. Or rather, what had the captain had heard. And he wondered if the captain smelled the alcohol.
“Not necessary,” Franklin said. “I just wanted to make the introductions. You will be working with the FBI now. You’ll want to get together and exchange information.”
“Sure,” Jack said. Not.
The FBI agents just stood there, not offering to shake hands, not speaking, not even flashing their badges like in the movies. Something about them was off, and Jack couldn’t put his finger on it. He liked the local FBI and always—well, most of the time—enjoyed working with them. FBI agents prided themselves on being inscrutable, unreadable, large-and-in-charge. But these guys seemed different somehow. He took an instant dislike to them.
“So, Jack,” Franklin asked, “did you find something new?”
“So far you know what I know. Nothing worth talking about.” Or that I’m going to tell these bozos.
“Give these men your contact info and then you should go get some sleep.” Franklin said.
“I’m heading home. I’ll stay in touch,” he said to the agents.
They exchanged business cards and Jack got back in his car to leave. As he drove away he looked in his rearview mirror. The younger agent was watching him. Jack suddenly knew why he didn’t like them. Especially the young one. He was too arrogant. Too cocky. Too much like Jack.
Why would the FBI send two agents from D.C.? And why was he feeling these guys weren’t really FBI? Maybe he was seeing conspiracies where there was nothing. He was tired, and a little drunk if he admitted it. But his gut was telling him to keep these two at a distance.
Chapter Twenty-three
He must have been driving in circles, on autopilot so to speak, his mind playing and replaying everything from the conversation with Killian this morning, up to meeting with the captain and fashion police, putting a puzzle together with most of the pieces missing.
When he zoned back in he was on Riverside Drive near the Blue Star Casino. Old-fashioned cast-iron street lamps lined the street and created a scenic greenway walk that stretched for five city blocks. Colored lights adorned every inch of the Blue Star Casino riverboat. Its towering smokestacks were lit up like the Vegas strip, and it would be so until late in the morning when the majority of partygoers and gamblers, both casual and professional, drunkenly returned to their homes.