by Chris Culver
“Thank you,” I said. “Let’s just go.”
Thankfully, neither of them attempted any other jokes before we headed out. I rode with Emilia in her cruiser in the lead while Paul followed. My heart sank the closer we drew to the property.
It started as a light glow, but the more we drove, the more that glow intensified. Then I saw the flashing lights of the firetrucks through the trees around the building. The warehouse was burning.
Whatever was in there, we were too late to find.
Chapter 18
Emilia pulled over to the side of the road about half a block from the fire. Neither of us said anything until Paul parked behind us, walked to our vehicle, and knocked on the window. Emilia and I got out. For a few minutes, we simply stood there and watched the building burn. Then Paul put a meaty hand on my shoulder.
“On the plus side, they didn’t torch your car.”
I exhaled a long breath through my nose. “Too soon, Paul.”
“What’d you expect to find?” asked Emilia.
I shrugged. “Explosives, timing devices, bomb components…something, I don’t know. Someone must have seen me near the building.”
“You want us to start knocking on doors?” asked Emilia, nodding and looking around. “There are enough houses around here that somebody could have seen something.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m going to bring the Bureau in on this. They’ll be pissed if I don’t. You guys have probably spent enough time with me. I don’t want to get you two into trouble.”
“We’re not going to get in trouble,” said Paul. “If you’re working with the FBI, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Be that as it may, you guys were given orders to stay away from me,” I said. “You don’t want to be seen with me at the scene of a crime. Go home. I’ll handle this.”
They didn’t seem to want to go, but eventually they agreed with me and left. I walked to the warehouse, where I flashed my badge to the fireman and got into my car so I could call Agent Havelock. He answered on the second ring, but I spoke before he could say a word.
“I’m in the parking lot of a warehouse leased by Nassir Hadad’s holdings company. The building’s burning right now.”
Havelock paused. “We didn’t know anything about a warehouse. How’d you find it?”
“Konstantin Bukoholov gave it to me. He’s the landlord. Fire department’s here now, hosing the place off. Once they’re done, you should probably send some of your technicians through it.”
“I’ll put the call in. Thank you. Keep the scene secure for me. We’ll be there as soon as we can. We’ll need to talk about Bukoholov as well.”
I turned toward the fire. Half the building was in flames. The other half had smoke billowing from its now broken windows. The firefighters were focusing their efforts on preventing the fire from spreading to nearby trees and buildings. I couldn’t blame them. The whole place was toast.
“The scene doesn’t need to be secured. There’s nothing left,” I said. “We’ll talk about Bukoholov later. I’ve done enough for you today. I’m going to hang up, and then I’m going to go home. Once I’m off the line, please call my department and tell them I didn’t murder three people this morning. Somebody took a video of our setup at the mosque. A detective in the prosecutor’s office is telling anyone who will listen that I’m a dangerous, armed fugitive. I’m lucky I haven’t run into a patrol officer with an itchy trigger finger.”
“I’ll call Sylvia Lombardo in the Office of Public Safety. Your video didn’t hit the news yet. Hopefully it won’t.”
“We need to do better than hope. Get off your ass and make some calls. No one should have been around to film anything this morning. At the very least, you should have called my department before anything went down to tell them we had an operation going. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m going home now. Send some techs out to my location. I’ll pick up the investigation tomorrow.”
I wanted to slam the phone down, but I gave him the warehouse’s address. Afterwards, Havelock cleared his throat.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but in the past couple of hours, our signals intelligence unit has been picking up a lot of chatter about Indianapolis.”
I looked toward the warehouse while shaking my head.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means a lot of bad guys both within the United States and abroad are talking about Indianapolis. Our analysts haven’t had a chance to dig through the raw intelligence yet, so they might just be talking about the Indy 500. After the attack on Westbrook Elementary today, though, the counterterrorism division isn’t taking chances. They’re coming to town in force, and they’re going to scrutinize everything out of the norm.”
I closed my eyes, understanding the implication without him having to mention it.
“Meaning, this warehouse and the man who leased it are going to get a lot of attention.”
“Yeah. It’s out of my hands. I just thought you should know.”
For Nassir’s sake, then, I hoped they didn’t find anything. I thanked Havelock for keeping me up to date, and then I hung up. After that, I drove home. As I turned onto my street, though, I slowed to a stop and killed my headlights without even realizing it. None of the homes around me had lights on, and no one was on the road.
It had been a rough night. It wasn’t too long ago that I had carried a bottle of bourbon in my glove box for nights like this. I didn’t do that anymore, but there were days I wished I still did. I was an alcoholic. I used to go to meetings, but not anymore. Some days, I drank. Most days, I didn’t. I wanted to get drunk every day, though.
As I sat in that warm car, I thought of Hannah, and then I thought of Megan and Kaden. For them, I could get through another day without a drink. They were my world and all I ever wanted. Every ounce of strength I had came from them. I wished I could show them what they meant to me.
I kept the headlights off but drove to my garage and parked inside. Hannah just barely woke up as I put on my pajamas and climbed into bed beside her.
“Everything okay, honey?” she asked.
I put my arm over her shoulder and felt her settle her against me. “It is now.”
“Sleep tight.”
Within just a few minutes, we were both out.
I slept until about nine the next morning when Megan, my daughter, poked me in the shoulder. She had brown hair and big brown eyes that sparkled with mischievous light. Every time I saw her, I couldn’t help but think how much she had grown in the past few years. She was nine years old now. When she was younger, she had loved to draw and sing songs with my wife. She still liked those things, but now she had become my little engineer. Once she had found where I kept my tool set, she had taken apart everything she could reach.
The toaster had never recovered.
“Hey, Dad,” she said, smiling at me. “Ummi, Kaden, and I are going to go to the grocery store. Ummi said I should tell you.”
I smiled at her. It wasn’t too long ago that she had called me baba instead of dad. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a big deal that she had started calling me dad, but I couldn’t help but feel I had lost something important. My wife told me Megan did it to fit in with her friends. I understood that, but I still missed hearing her say it.
“What are you going to get at the grocery store?” I asked.
“Everything.”
“Wow,” I said, smiling. “You’re going to have to get a big cart if you’re going to pick up everything. Mount Everest alone is going to take up a lot of space.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Come on, Dad. That’s not what I meant, and you know it. We’re going to get everything on ummi’s list.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding and trying not to smile. “That makes a lot more sense.”
“Ummi wanted me to ask if you wanted to go.”
“I would,” I said, smiling, “but I’ve got to work. I could always use
a hug, though.”
She stepped toward the bed and held out her arms. I hugged her tight and whispered that I loved her. No matter how old she got, Megan would always be my little girl. I hoped she knew that. She bounced out of the room a moment later, and I got up to shower. I got out just in time to kiss my wife and hug my little boy before they left.
Of all the things I had to do that morning, one took precedence over everything else. I grabbed my cell phone from my bedroom and called Kevin Havelock at the Bureau.
“Havelock, it’s Ash Rashid. Did you call my department last night?”
“I did. Your professional standards division might have some questions for you, but your chief knows you’re working for us. He sent out an email to his department heads telling them to back off on you.”
I raised my eyebrows and started walking to the kitchen.
“Did you tell them I wasn’t involved in a triple homicide?”
“We’re keeping the details quiet. Suffice it to say, your chief and department heads know you were undercover working a case and that you didn’t commit a crime.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Until you tell them the truth, there are going to be a lot of police officers in this city who think I killed three people and got away with it.”
Havelock drew in a long, slow breath before speaking.
“If we tell people the FBI staged a shooting to get inside an Islamic terror group in Indianapolis, how do you think the Islamic community will react? And bear in mind that if we tell your colleagues, it’s going to get out.”
I grimaced and poured a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
“We thought it was necessary to get inside Nassir’s group.”
“Nobody’s going to care if it was necessary,” said Havelock. “My agent is dead. You are tasked with finding his murderer. Are you going to do it or not?”
“Of course,” I said. “What about the warehouse? You find anything?”
Havelock grunted. Then his voice softened. “Rubble’s still too hot to sift through. There are indications the fire was intentional, though. We’ll work that end, and you work yours. Find out who killed my agent.”
“I will.”
Havelock hung up, and I took my first sip of coffee. It was so hot and bitter that I almost spit it out. I didn’t know who had taught my wife to make coffee, but I sincerely hoped her teacher didn’t make a habit out of the practice. My wife’s coffee was the exact opposite of her character. Hannah was kind and sweet; it made my day just to see her. Her coffee was as black as death and seemed to suck the joy out of every room in which it found itself. I took a couple of deep breaths and forced another sip down my throat, but that was it. Any more than that, and I’d probably gag.
I poured most of the cup down the drain in the kitchen and considered what to do. Depending on what Havelock found at that warehouse, I might have to change my approach to the case. For now, though, I needed to focus on Jacob Ganim and those who knew him. He had a family. I didn’t know their names, but if I could find them, they should be able to shed some light on the man I was investigating.
I went to Hannah’s office and turned on her computer. I knew where Jacob lived, but I didn’t know the first thing about his family. They could have different names, they could live out of state, or they might not even be alive anymore. Everyone leaves a trail when they pass through our lives, though, and everyone’s information passes through the court systems eventually. That’s where I’d find them.
I opened a web browser and navigated to INcite, the Indiana Court Information Technology Extranet. There, I looked for court cases in which Jacob Ganim was a party. I struck out at first, but then I looked at a database of protective orders. Again, I struck out. Finally, I searched the marriage license database and got lucky. Ganim had married Lauren Collier in 2013 in Johnson County. He divorced her two years later.
Once I had Lauren’s name, I called my dispatcher. According to Indiana’s Bureau of Motor Vehicles, there were fourteen Lauren Colliers in the state. We eliminated those who were over fifty and under twenty-five, which left us five women, one of whom lived in Franklin, Indiana—right in the middle of Johnson County. I had the feeling I had found Jacob Ganim’s ex-wife.
I thanked my dispatcher and went upstairs.
Though the body of Michael Najam had been found weeks ago, Jacob Ganim was still officially alive. Had they been married still, Agent Havelock would have done the next-of-kin notification and called Lauren first thing. Estranged spouses, though, didn’t get the same kind of courtesy—especially when their former spouse was undercover.
As I put on my suit and tie, I knew I was probably about to tell a woman that her ex-husband was dead. Worse than that, I was very likely going to tell a little girl that she would never see her daddy again.
The thought made me feel ill.
Chapter 19
The courier wore a bright orange jacket. It was the kind of thing a hunter might have worn so his fellow sportsmen wouldn’t mistake him for a deer. He hated the jacket, and he hated the job.
Mostly, he delivered packages to law firms. It wouldn’t have been so bad except those assholes almost never tipped him. Dentists were good customers. When he dropped off X-rays or a patient’s medical file, dentists broke out their wallets.
Lawyers, though? Nothing.
They could afford a tip, too. That’s what pissed him off the most. Some of them were billing out for eight hundred or a thousand dollars an hour. The courier didn’t make that much money in a week, and he busted his ass every day. Rain, snow, blistering summer heat, it didn’t matter. He got on his bike, and he did his job.
A couple bucks on top of his twelve-dollar-an-hour salary didn’t seem like much, but a week of good tips meant he could buy his daughter new shoes or a new school jumper without having to worry about how they’d also buy groceries. Of course, nobody cared about that. He was just a guy on a bike.
Row houses surrounded him as he pedaled up North Carolina Avenue toward Lincoln Park in Washington, DC. A woman on the sidewalk pushed a black baby jogger and talked on her phone. Cars lined the streets. The assignment had come from a dark-skinned woman with two small kids, one of whom was still in a stroller. She was probably the personal assistant of an attorney or maybe a congressman. People like that came into the courier’s office all the time.
There weren’t too many businesses on this street, so he didn’t make it up there often. He stopped in front of an old brick house a little more run down than the million-dollar homes around it. There was a printed sign on the second floor for The DC Exponent, a tabloid distributed for free around town.
The courier had picked up the paper more than once for its restaurant reviews, but he didn’t read it on a regular basis. The Exponent’s primary reason to exist was to spread political gossip. The courier didn’t care who was sleeping with whom on Capital Hill, because in the end, they screwed everybody with their legislation. He didn’t need to know about their personal lives.
The courier locked his bike to a tree and carried his envelope to the door. Almost as soon as he rang the bell, a white guy in jeans and a red cable-knit sweater opened it.
“Yeah?”
The courier held out the envelope and a clipboard with the delivery label. “I’ve got a delivery for the DC Exponent. I need a signature.”
“This for anybody in particular?”
The courier shook his head. “Just to the paper.”
“All right,” said the guy in the sweater. He signed his name and then smiled. The courier waited for a moment and smiled back. “You need something else?”
“It’s customary to tip for a delivery like this,” he said. “I know we don’t make it out here to often, so you may not know.”
“You want a tip,” said the man in the sweater, nodding. “You should have gone to college. There’s your tip. Now go back to work.”
The courier took a step back as the reporter closed the door.
“Asshole.”
> He was gone without a look over his shoulder.
Jeremy carried the envelope inside and ran his hand along the seal to open it. The Exponent got these kinds of envelopes a couple of times a week, usually from divorce attorneys. When women found out that their famous husbands had been sleeping with an intern and wanted some leverage in settlement talks, the Exponent got a new story complete with pictures. Reporters at places like The Washington Post looked down their noses at The Exponent, but while their paper bled money, The Exponent printed it. Jeremy never had to fear that his paycheck would bounce or that he’d be downsized. That was more than he could say of his colleagues at more “reputable” institutions.
As he pulled the documents from the envelope, he stopped walking. They were pictures, all right, but they didn’t involve congressmen with their penises in places they didn’t belong. They were surveillance photos of Westbrook Elementary, the school at which the first family died. Curious, he looked in the envelope and found a neat, handwritten note on lined paper.
Found in a mosque in Indianapolis. Our government knows more than they’re letting on. - a concerned FBI agent.
Jeremy carried the envelope to his desk and brushed aside the empty soda cans to make space. He flipped through dozens of pictures of the school from before and after the bombing before coming to pictures of the devices themselves. Someone had placed them on the ground by the school. The photographer had then taken pictures of their design schematics.
Jeremy wasn’t a bomb expert, but this looked like the real deal. His breath caught in his throat, and he looked toward his editor’s cubicle.
Marcia sat at her desk with a smile on her face. She had been working on a slide show involving funny cats when he last saw her.
“Hey, Marcia, we’ve got something,” he said, his voice trembling. “It’s big.”