by Chris Culver
I leaned forward and zipped the bag shut. “I was twenty years old, and I had just found out that my girlfriend’s stepfather allowed a stranger to violate her in the worst way possible. I wasn’t thinking, at least not long-term. My only goal was the prevent her from being hurt again.”
Katherine looked down. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
“I deserved it,” I said. “I got us into this mess.”
“Now that I know . . . everything, maybe this is a good time for all three of us to leave. At least go to the hotel with us.”
“No,” I said. “I appreciate your concern, but as long as I’m here, Moses and Tess won’t be looking for you.”
“That’s not bravery; waiting in one spot for someone to shoot you is stupidity.”
“If they come, I’ll take care of them.”
“How?” she asked, raising her eyebrows incredulously.
“I’ve got a gun. Tess doesn’t think so, but I’m a pretty good shot.” I tilted my head to the side, reconsidering. “Actually, I’m an excellent shot.”
Katherine’s mouth opened. “How long have you had a gun?”
“As long as you’ve known me. My Uncle Simon gave it to me.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Katherine. “I really don’t.”
“You don’t need to say anything, but I do need you to think. Now that you know everything, I need you to decide what to do.”
“Don’t put this on me,” she said, shaking her head.
“If you leave the decision up to me, I’m going to the police. Most of the blame will go to my Uncle Simon, but I’ll have to take some, too. I’ll go to jail.”
Katherine seemed to think, but then her shoulders relaxed. “Maybe you should talk to a lawyer first.”
“I’ll make an appointment with Vince’s boss.”
“And I can talk to Tess and see if she’ll stop all this. She might listen to me.”
“No,” I said, more forcefully than I intended.
Katherine winced.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “You just surprised me. You’ve never raised your voice to me before.”
“You can’t see Tess,” I said. “As long as I’ve known you, I’ve never told you what to do, and I don’t want to start now, but I don’t want you going anywhere near Tess or the man she’s with. She’s not the same person we knew. Maybe she never was.”
“What’s your ideal scenario, then?”
“My ideal scenario?” I asked, my eyebrows raised. Katherine nodded. “I want Tess out of my life, I want to forget about Dominique, and I want our kids to grow up somewhere safe. I thought I did the right thing nine years ago, but I don’t know any more. I want this over. That’s not going to happen unless I take care of it, though.”
Katherine swallowed. “What if we just left? I can take a sabbatical, and we could rent a house somewhere for a couple of weeks. It’d be like a vacation.”
“You and Ashley can go, I want you two to go, but I’ve got to stay here. I can’t run from her. I’ve got to figure this out.”
Katherine didn’t respond, so I took a chance and put my hand on hers. The pace of her breath increased, but she didn’t recoil or pull away.
“I’m worried,” she said.
“Me, too.”
We stayed outside for another few minutes, watching the world around us continue about its business as if nothing was wrong. One of my neighbors played with his dog in the backyard, while the neighbor directly behind me started a fire in the brick pit behind his house. The smoke wafted on the breeze towards us, seeming almost peaceful. I turned my hand and interlaced my fingers with Katherine’s as the remaining light from the sun faded into night. Eventually, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I thought it’d be Vince telling me he was on his way back to the house, but the caller’s name was blocked. When I answered, I found out it was Captain Morgan, confirming that I was home. The call lasted for maybe thirty seconds, and I turned to Katherine after hanging up.
“You and Ashley need to head back to the hotel. A police officer is on his way over to talk to me.”
30
Ashley started to throw a temper tantrum when my wife tried scooting her out of the house before her cartoon finished, but she went willingly once Katherine offered to let her watch a movie on her iPad that night. None of the parenting books I read advocated bribery as part of a healthy parental style, but it worked relatively well most of the time. Of course, judging by the results, my father’s parental style was equally successful. Had I put up a fit like that when I was Ashley’s age, he would have smacked me into compliance and dragged me to the car by my hair. Sooner or later, Katherine and I were going to have to start laying down some more household ground rules, but with Captain Morgan on his way over, now didn’t seem like the correct time.
I watched Katherine’s car drive off until the taillights disappeared up the street. Morgan might have just wanted to talk to me, but if he expected more than that, if he came with a search warrant, I had some things to do before he arrived.
I didn’t have enough time to hide my gun and the duffel bag of money, so I put them in the trunk of my car and drove two blocks away, where I parked in front of my parents’ old house. If Morgan got a search warrant for my house and curtilage—the boilerplate language used by many police departments across the country—he’d be able to search the main structure, the garage, and any vehicles on the property, but with my car parked several blocks away, he’d have to get a second warrant to search that, something I hoped he hadn’t thought to do.
By the time I made it back to the house, I found a boxy red sedan waiting by the curb out front with Leonard Morgan sitting on its hood, smoking a cigarette. He nodded at me as I walked up.
“Going somewhere, Mr. Hale?”
“Just for a walk to clear my head. My wife and I have been fighting lately.”
Morgan took a drag on his cigarette, momentarily causing an orange glow to illuminate his face. As he exhaled, he threw the cigarette to the concrete and snuffed it out with his foot.
“You fighting about anything in particular?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I said.
Morgan nodded as if I had made a good point. “That’s true. You’re probably wondering why I came for an evening visit.”
“I just assumed you were here to shoot the shit and drink my beer.”
Morgan snickered. “You’re a funny guy, Mr. Hale. Even with as much time as we’ve spent together, I didn’t know that.”
“Hasn’t been much to laugh about when we’ve spoken.”
“Too true,” said Morgan. “You got somewhere we can sit down and talk?” He stood and looked at the houses to my immediate right and left. “We can talk here if you want, but I’ve never been a fan of talking where the neighbors can see.”
“Are you asking me to invite you in my house?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“Somewhere other than your front yard.”
“I watch enough TV to have an idea of what’s going on. You want to come into my house and take a look around without a warrant. If I invite you in, anything you see in plain sight can be used to secure a search warrant at a later time.”
Morgan looked away. “I’m not a devious man, Mr. Hale, and I’m not interested in confusing you or tricking you into saying anything you don’t want to say. If I had an interest in your possessions, I’d call Sergeant Roberts, the first responder to arrive to your home after your recent breakin, and ask him what he saw.”
“What do you want?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“I want to go somewhere more private and talk to you. By your body language, I’d say you’re not too interested in that.”
I shook my head. “You know what I’m asking.”
“I do,” said Morgan. “How about you just get into my car, then, and we’ll drive downtown and talk?”
“Am I under arrest?”
&
nbsp; Morgan shook his head. “Not at this time.”
That was nice to hear, at least. “Do you have a search warrant for my house?”
Morgan, again, shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
I shifted my weight on my feet, squaring my stance. “Then I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not interested in talking.”
Morgan cocked his head to the side. “Are you interested in listening, at least?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Morgan waited, as if expecting me to say something else, but then he drew in a breath. “We received a call this morning from a mechanic at North Side Custom Cars. Isaac Cohen is dead.”
I heard what he said, but my mind refused to process the statement. “Can you repeat that?”
“Your friend Isaac is dead. One of his mechanics went into work this morning and found his body.”
At first, I felt nothing, but then it felt as if someone had reached into my chest, grabbed my heart, and squeezed. I sat on the hood of Morgan’s car to keep from falling over.
“Are you all right, Mr. Hale?”
“No,” I said. It was the only word I could get out.
“Maybe we can talk somewhere in private now?” asked Morgan, his eyebrows raised.
I gestured toward the house. “Yeah. There’s a deck with some chairs on it behind the house. I’ll meet you, but I need a minute first.”
“I’ll wait.”
I looked at him. Of course he’d wait. For all I knew, he suspected I had killed Isaac. Once I caught my breath, I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands.
“Has someone told Sam yet?” I asked.
“Who’s Sam?”
“Samantha Girard. She’s his girlfriend.”
Morgan shook his head. “We haven’t told anyone but Mr. Cohen’s ex-wife. She didn’t seem surprised that he was dead.”
I shrugged and tilted my head toward my shoulder. “She knew Isaac before he went to prison. He’s changed since then. He’s a good man.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“Please don’t patronize me. Isaac was a stupid kid who did stupid things. He grew up into a good man, though.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Morgan. “Are you ready to talk now?”
I turned without saying anything and led Morgan down the driveway to my backyard. It was so dark that I had to turn on the floodlights. We sat on deck chairs, and I put the simple question to him: “How did Isaac die?”
“We’re still trying to determine that.”
“I’m not a judge or a lawyer or the medical examiner. You know what I’m asking. Was he shot? Did he have an accident? Did he drink himself to death? What happened?”
Morgan’s eyes never wavered from mine. “He was shot several times.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding and giving myself a moment to let that sink in. “Was it a burglary?”
Morgan slowly shook his head. “It’s an open case, and we’re still working the scene. Has Mr. Cohen has been in any disputes with anyone lately?”
“No,” I said. “He’s got a temper, and he’s a little quick to lash out at people, but everybody who knows him knows that. The guy wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
Morgan took a notepad out of his jacket pocket and began to take notes. “Do you know where Vincent Pasquale is right now?”
“Why do you want to know where Vince is?”
Morgan looked up and smiled. “I’m a police officer, and I’m looking into a homicide. I get to ask the questions.”
“Then as someone who’s not under arrest, I’m not going to answer.”
Morgan looked at me, then blinked, then closed his notebook and sighed. “Look, I get it. You’ve lost too many friends in your life. First your girlfriend, now your buddy. It’s not fair. I know that. I also know that you and Mr. Pasquale were two of the last people to see Mr. Cohen alive. I would very much like to talk to him.”
“Vince wouldn’t hurt Isaac.”
Morgan smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “According to the mechanic who called in Mr. Cohen’s death, you and Mr. Pasquale visited Mr. Cohen at work. You had a discussion in his office that became quite loud. What were you talking about?”
I shook my head, trying to think of a story. “Nothing important. He left his Jeep at my house a few days ago, so Vince and I went to drop it off at his garage.”
“Are you saying you didn’t have a heated discussion with Mr. Cohen?”
“No, I’m not denying that. We talked. Isaac got drunk at my house a few nights ago and smoked in the garage. That and his swearing woke up my niece. I’ve been trying to get her to stop swearing, but it’s hard when my friends scream the f-word at the top of their lungs. I asked him to keep it down.”
“Why was he screaming the f-word at your house?”
I tilted my head to the side. “It was his favorite word. I don’t know. If he wasn’t swearing in English, he’d swear in Hebrew. It was just one of those things he did.”
“That’s it?” asked Morgan, lowering his chin. “You went down there and had an argument about swearing at your house?”
“That’s it. And it wasn’t even an argument. We left on good terms. He’s one of my best friends.”
“I see,” said Morgan. He laid his notebook on his lap and removed his cell phone from his jacket. His fingers flashed over the buttons, and for a moment, I thought he was texting someone, but then he turned the screen toward me. I swallowed when I saw a picture of Moses Tarawally in a hospital bed. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, and a clear plastic tube wrapped around his left ear and entered his left nostril.
“Do you know this man?” he asked.
I scratched my eyebrow and shook my head. “Not that I recall.”
“You sure?” asked Morgan, pressing the photo in front of me. “Take a real good look.”
I looked again and then quickly looked away. “I don’t remember ever seeing him.”
“Not that I recall, I don’t remember seeing him,” Morgan repeated, slipping his phone back into his jacket. “You know, it’s funny, but you almost sound like a politician being grilled on Capitol Hill when you say things like that.”
“Do you have a question?”
“Just an observation,” said Morgan. “We found this guy in the alley behind Mr. Cohen’s shop. Damn near bled to death from a stab wound in the leg. Mr. Cohen put up a fight before he died.”
That sounded like Isaac. Even if the odds were against him, he’d go down fighting.
“I wish I could tell you about him, but I can’t.”
“He refused to tell us about himself, too,” said Morgan. “He didn’t even have ID on him. Luckily, though, we have some pretty good resources at our disposal. We printed him and ran his fingerprints through AFIS. You know what AFIS is, right?”
“The FBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”
“That’s right,” said Morgan, nodding. “Turns out his name is Moses Tarawally, and Interpol issued a Blue Notice for him two years ago. He’s wanted for genocide in Sierra Leone. What’s more, Dominique Girard sponsored his visa.”
I wasn’t comfortable where this was leading and shifted on my seat. “Why would Dominique Girard hire a war criminal?”
“Mr. Tarawally’s experiences gave him a unique skill-set for operations in Western Africa, skills Mr. Girard apparently needed,” said Morgan, shrugging. “Personally, I think I would have just hired an American.”
“Does seem like the reasonable choice.”
“I’m glad you think so, too,” said Morgan. “So you’re sure you haven’t seen Mr. Tarawally before?”
“Not that I recall.”
“There we go with that again.” Morgan’s eyes slid up and to the right, like he was looking at my trees. “You asked me about Mr. Tarawally in a coffee shop a couple of days ago. Do you remember that?”
“I took a lot of drugs in college. I don’t have the best memory any more.”
“You took a lot of drugs when
you were in college,” said Morgan, repeating my statement and wagging a finger at me. “I’m going to have to remember that one for my department’s next Christmas party.”
“Are we done?”
Morgan looked at my yard. The tall ferns along my fence line made it almost feel like an enclosed jungle.
“So what are you and your friends up to?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“I like your transition there. I might use that in a book.”
“What transition?” asked Morgan.
“The way you looked at the yard and then switched from interviewing me to interrogating me. It was a good break, I think.”
Morgan leaned back. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Hale.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “If I were smart, I would have refused to talk to you without counsel present.”
“Or maybe you thought you were smart enough to talk your way out of this.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to talk my way out of.”
“Who’s Holly Olson?”
I tried not to let my surprise show. “Why are you asking about Holly Olson?”
“Why are you interested in her?” he asked.
Morgan must have pulled my phone records and seen that I had made calls to Utah about her.
“Research for a book. She’s a girl from Utah who went missing a couple of years ago.”
“Good. I like honesty,” said Morgan. “Why’d you call Detective Arteaga?”
I leaned back and crossed my arms. “I’m writing a new novel about a missing-persons case, and I thought hers sounded interesting.”
“What’s your book called?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. My publisher’s marketing and sales teams usually make that decision.”
“I see,” said Morgan. “What’s the book about?”
“I’m still researching and haven’t got the plot down yet.”
“That makes sense,” said Morgan, nodding. “I assume Mr. Pasquale is helping with the research, because I know he’s not at home and hasn’t been for a few days.”
I glanced at him. “I’m going to call a lawyer. I’ll have him call your office with his contact information if you need to talk to me again.”
“Talking to a lawyer is your right, of course, and I’m not going to ask you any more questions. Do you mind if I say a few things, though?”