Dead East

by Steve Winshel

  Then Jarvis pulled up another browser window and typed in an address that challenged him with a password and warning saying the site was private government property and illegal access was a felony punishable by 25 years in prison and $1M fine. He risked being hit with the stiff ticket and slowly typed in a 14-character password comprising numbers and both upper-and lower-case letters. Almost instantly the screen changed to a clean, simple interface that would have made the designers of Google nod with appreciation. He entered Azad’s full name and birthdate, conveniently provided by Peter, into the search field. A few thousand miles away, a government database accessed very highly protected information using the top secret clearance for the account belonging to a woman Jarvis had dated a year earlier. By “dated” he meant “slept with a few times,” but long enough to inadvertently capture her account information from the keylogger that ran on his personal computer at home. She’d used it one morning while he was in the shower, unaware that every stroke was recorded. After they broke up, and by “broke up” he meant “she got tired of him not being as available as she’d like,” he failed to inform her that he could now retrieve information from the Homeland Security files.

  Azad Hekmatier was part of an immigration asylum program for youths caught in the struggles of their home country in Africa or the Middle East. His originating country was not known, only his date of entry, two previous ports (Ghana and Newfoundland), and some school records. It wasn’t enough to explain why Brin had been following him or why Brin was now in a coma. Jarvis shut down the iPad, drained his coffee cup, and headed back to Magnolia Avenue.

  Chapter Twelve

  This time Jarvis pulled right into the driveway, blocking the shiny Hyundai. The Glock was tucked behind his back, just in case Brin wasn’t following Hekmatier because of a string of parking violations. He knocked on the door and could smell baking bread and a mix of warm spices, bringing back olfactory memories as real as the door in front of him. A second knock and he could hear a chair scraping the floor somewhere beyond, probably the kitchen. No footsteps but he could feel someone approaching. He took a half step back to create a sense of safety, staying out of the kid’s personal space. The door opened a few inches and Jarvis saw a gentle brown face, framed by curly black hair, peer out. Jarvis opened his mouth to say something but the young man’s face went from curious to shocked. It stopped Jarvis before a word could come out. The kid, Azad, was the first to respond, by transforming the shock into something more emphatic and slamming the door shut. Jarvis had no idea what had freaked out the youngster. He knocked again and called out.

  “Azad! Relax, I just want to talk to you for a minute.” The boy looked innocent enough, nothing sinister, just a fish out of water gasping for air. Jarvis knocked again and tried the door handle; locked.

  He stepped to the left and peered through a part of the window not obscured by drapes. He could see the kid fumbling through a closet about fifteen away, near the kitchen. Azad looked back at that exact moment and saw Jarvis peering through the glass. Even with the dimming light of dusk, Jarvis could see the expression on Azad’s face and in that moment Jarivs realized what it was: recognition. Azad knew Jarvis. The young man found what he was looking for and pulled out a small portable boom box. If the smell of cooking food hadn’t triggered in Jarvis such strong memories, he may not have made the connection. Instinctively he turned away from the window and took three long strides toward the front yard. He jumped and tucked into a ball, just as the first explosion blew out the windows and splintered the door. He rolled along the well-kept grass toward the street, shielding his face and neck with his arms. The second explosion blew a hole in the roof and started a fire that instantly consumed the living room and kitchen. A third explosion must have been pre-set; there was not enough of Azad left to hit a trigger. Jarvis felt the ground shake. The sound was deafening. His hands had been clasped over his ears while his forearms protected his face. It took just seconds for the roar to stop and be replaced by an echo and then the whoosh of the fire eating oxygen. Jarvis stayed on the ground, in case there were any more explosives, and watched the house be consumed. As he sat up and checked for any sprains or breaks from the sudden departure from the front door, he could hear a siren about a mile away. The fire station he’d passed while driving back and forth to Magnolia Ave probably didn’t need a 911 call to know there’d been a disaster or where it was. Jarvis mulled over for a moment the right move. He stood and watched the flames reach 30 feet in the air and dialed Rayford.

  ––––-

  The fire was out and the neighbors remained entranced by the emergency team’s activities. Jarvis had refused the blanket and medical exam from the EMT who had no one else to attend to. Rayford arrived fifteen minutes after getting Jarvis’ call. His look was not one of camaraderie as he walked across the lawn after consulting with the West Valley detective whose case this was.

  “There something you want to tell me now, maybe something you knew before but it slipped your mind when I asked earlier?”

  The complexity of the sentence didn’t obscure the sarcasm. It fell harmlessly after failing to pierce Jarvis’ armor. “I was following up on a lead.” He looked over at the smoldering house and raised his eyebrows.

  Rayford almost laughed. “Okay, we’ll discuss full disclosure later. What the hell happened?”

  Jarvis walked toward the house, stepping over a hose that was plump with flowing water. The house looked like a giant had bent over and taken a huge bite out of it from above. “The kid blew himself up. The whole house and whatever was in it.”

  “Did you talk to him?” Rayford walked beside him, waving off the warning from the fire chief. “Do you have any idea what the hell was going on – meth lab? Pipe bombs?”

  Jarvis stopped just at the spot where half an hour earlier he’d peered in the window and seen the young man fumble trying to locate the trigger. “There’s going to be traces of something, whatever it is he wanted to get rid of. Including himself.”

  Rayford pursed his lips. “That’s not an answer.”

  Jarvis turned to the detective. “I didn’t get to say anything more than hello.” He paused. “This is the guy Brin was following the day he was poisoned.” He turned back to the crater that had been a living room and kitchen. “And he recognized me. As soon as he did, he did this.”

  Rayford looked back and forth between the gutted house and Jarvis. A storm gathered on his face. “And you didn’t think you should tell me?”

  Jarvis fixed the detective with a stare. He didn’t blink for more than half a minute, then turned and walked away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the hospital room, an orange chair covered with something not quite as comfortable as vinyl was the only place to sit except the bed. Brin was off the respirator but still in a coma. Jarvis sat next to him, feet on the lower railing. He listened to the steady breathing and equally regular beat of the monitor. It was past visiting hours but the third nurse who’d tried to push him out had left them alone half an hour earlier. Jarvis looked at his friend and tried to picture what had happened in the restaurant. The waitress said Brin was eating alone. She didn’t remember seeing a young Persian man there, but she’d made the point that was like trying to recall one ant from thousands scurrying around the ground. She’d worked at the Jewish deli for 35 years; it sounded more racist than it probably was. She only remembered Brin because he’d collapsed in his pastrami.

  The kid recognized Jarvis but not vice versa. Maybe Brin had been more on the ball and put a place and a time to seeing him. Jarvis would work backwards and start with the most recent intersection of their lives. He needed to understand why Brin was following the kid who was now mostly bits and pieces mixed with smoking wood and ash. Rayford, despite his fury, would get the lab report to Jarvis if only to guilt him into sharing anything he knew. For now, Jarvis stared at Brin on the bed. Helpless; not how he’d ever seen him. Jarvis wasn’t entirely certain that if someone ran in and tried t
o plunge a knife into Brin, the comatose Ranger wouldn’t catch the killer’s wrist an inch above his chest and then quickly break it and reverse the path of the knife back upward without opening his eyes. The daydream made Jarvis smile.

  He’d brought his iPad with him and he used it to access Brin’s journals. He re-read everything from earlier that day, pulling out the notes he’d made and smoothing the papers on the bed next to Brin’s leg. The logs weren’t comprehensive, weren’t meant to be a diary. They read more like reminders for Brin. Triggers for things in his mind, so someone reading it wouldn’t know too much, just get hints. The first mention of the young man was ten days ago but it wasn’t clear who saw whom first. Jarvis wracked his memory to connect the kid’s face with all the other faces he’d ever seen. The was no match, no flashing green light. Nothing.

  The vibrating cell phone broke his reverie and disappointment. The number was Rayford’s.

  “Hey.”

  “They found a few interesting things in the mess, aside from an intact limb.” He didn’t sound as irritated as Jarvis expected.

  “How interesting?”

  There was a pause. “Twisted metal case, almost melted in the explosion. “ Jarvis waited. “Not the kind you carry important papers in. More like the kind you use to protect a volatile or dangerous substance.”

  Jarvis looked at his sleeping friend. “Like poison, maybe?”

  “There’s not much to examine, but the lab will do what they can. I’ll ring you when I have something.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ve got a couple things to run down. I’ll get in touch.” Rayford heard the truthfulness and hung up.

  The iPad quickly pulled up Azad Hekmatier’s Facebook page and LinkedIn account. Jarvis had the name of his workplace. He headed out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Achingly stereotypical, the mini-mart/gas station where Azad worked was straight out of an episode of The Simpsons. A burly guy busting out of a worn, short-sleeved blue shirt stood behind the counter and telegraphed with his frown that he had a baseball bat within reach. Jarvis ignored the nonexistent line of customers and grabbed a pack of gum and a Slim Jim, just because he thought they were extinct.

  Handing the guy a five, he tested the guy’s language skills despite the apparent south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line heritage. “Azad Hekmatier work here?” The clerk, probably night manager, didn’t like being asked or he had trouble multi-tasking. He silently made change but raised his eyebrows to confirm he would be perfectly happy to swing the bat at a guy’s head. Jarvis failed to convey extreme agitation or knee-weakening fear.

  “There was an accident. I’m trying to find next of kin.”

  “Yeah? What kinda fuckin’ accident? He pee on hisself?” This was apparently the funniest thing he’d heard in hours because he tilted his head back and laughed like a donkey objecting to being asked to pull a plow. Jarvis could see ancient silver fillings in otherwise gray teeth.

  “Maybe. The explosion was pretty bad. Might’ve been enough to scare a kid into urinating.”

  The laugh ended and the clerk’s head snapped forward. Curious, not concerned. “Don’t tell me the little raghead was a terrorist? He blow sumpin’ up with one a’ them bomb vests?”

  Jarvis resisted the urge to reach behind the counter for the bat. “Did he wear a turban?”

  The guy shook his head. “Nah, not around me. He was just, ya know, obviously a Paki or somethin’. Whatever. So what explosion?”

  “Gas line.” He opened the gum, noticing now that it was Brin’s brand. “He have friends, or people he hung out with?”

  The laugh again. “Around here? Hey, the guy mopped the floor and wiped the toilet. When I was tired he ran the register. He was a scrub.” He stopped for a second, scratching his belly through the shirt. “Always wearin’ a suit, though, even plungin’ the toilet. He was in school, or somethin’. Wanted to get a job or study some stupid fuckin’ science or somethin’. I dunno.”

  Jarvis looked around the dump. Stepping stone, he thought. The kid had bigger plans, but for some reason they included poisoning Brin. “He have a locker or any place he kept his stuff?”

  The clerk pointed to an opening leading to a storage room. “He had some shit in a locker back there. How’d you know?”

  “You mind if a take a look? There might be something there to help find his family.”

  “Hey, is the little dick dead or somethin’? Is he comin’ back? I mean, he’s got a shift tonight.”

  Jarvis fantasized about the guy pulling the bat out and how easy it would be to take it from him. “No, he’s hurt, won’t be coming in. The locker?”

  “Yeah, whatever, it’s the third one. There’s only three. Go ‘head.”

  Jarvis went past the counter and into the back. It looked exactly like he’d expected. Apparently the clerk had never asked Azad to use his mop in this area. The locker was misnamed; it was closed but nothing interfered with changing that except pulling up on the bent metal slide that scraped as Jarvis gave it a hard yank. The only thing remarkable about the contents was the contrast between the mess outside the locker and the meticulous organization within. Clean, pressed shirt on a hanger, several books stacked neatly on the floor, an extra pair of well-shined shoes next to them. Jarvis picked up the books and flipped through them. A heavy textbook on civics, a slimmer one containing the plays of several modern but dead white men, and a lab primer for organic chemistry. They were all stamped with Cal State Northridge on the inside cover.

  On the shelf, chin-level to Jarvis, papers in an equally neat pile lined up with pencils, pens, and a spray can of Axe Body Wash. The locker smelled faintly of the teen cologne. Atop the stack of papers, several receipts were held together by a plastic green triangle, one of those cool paperclips that didn’t work as well as the old-fashioned metal curlicues. He picked it up and flipped through. Half a dozen from local sandwich shops. Three from a private postal service where people could rent boxes or have mail sent and held. They were COD, all for the same amount, with the sender somewhere in Wisconsin. Jarvis pocketed all the receipts and went back out into the store.

  “You gonna buy somethin’ else? Maybe know someone who might wanna job?” The clerk was obviously thinking about the double shift he was going to have to pull, probably saddened by all the poetry books he wasn’t going to get to read tonight.

  “The boy went to school. Did he talk about that? Mention any friends?”

  Jarvis almost mouthed the words as they came out of the manager’s mouth. “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout what he fuckin’ did, ‘cept wanna take a day off next week when he shoulda been plannin’ on workin’.”

  Instead of walking out, Jarvis fixed him with his best “I’m a detective which is almost a cop so you better answer” stare. “Why did he need time off?”

  The manager shrugged. “I dunno.” Apparently that wasn’t true. “Said he needed to go see some friend of his, outta town or somethin’. Probably another fuckin’ a-rab terrorist.”

  He’d made his point and went back to scratching his belly. Jarvis left and didn’t hear the man’s parting comment.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wisconsin was not known as a hotbed of radicalism. Jarvis went to the postal service storefront where Azad had collected his packages but they were closed. It was getting on to ten pm and there wasn’t much that would be open and useful in the investigation. He thought about calling Rayford but there was nothing to say. Instead he pulled into the only Whole Foods market in the San Fernando Valley and used a hand basket to weave in and out of the yoginis, hippies, and painfully hot actresses who spent more time in the aisles here than on auditions. Very different vibe from the Ralphs where the old woman had been murdered. Jarvis picked up an organic, locally-grown, hand selected, lovingly packaged and displayed ready-to-eat salad along with a small carton of some brown tofu gunk. He sat on one of the benches out front and watched them start to shut the store down. Several patrons looked almost lost as they were gently
ushered out into the parking lot and real world. Firing up the iPad and typing with one hand as he ate with the other, he peered at the receipt in the dim light and typed in the address of the sender. Google Maps gave him an intersection in Racine, Wisconsin, that looked about the same as any within ten miles of where he sat. But no business name. He switched the view from diagram to satellite and instantly the images went from the equivalent of stick figures to live portraits; the satellite images brought the neighborhood to life. Jarvis zoomed in and could easily make out a small strip mall. Even without a lot of detail, he was able to recognize a sandwich shop, nail/hair salon, and postal service office. Whoever had sent the packages to the kid did so from their own anonymous location.

  Jarvis pulled up the Orbitz web site and did a search on flights from LAX to Racine. No non-stops – why would anyone want to get there quickly? He reserved a ticket for the next day and forced down the last two bites of tofu mud.