by Chris Culver
“Thank you,” she said. “I can never repay you for this.”
“You don’t need to. I’m truly sorry for what’s happened to you.”
Iskra used the restroom and gathered a small bag of clothes. As soon as she was packed, Lev and Michael escorted her to one of the vans out front and James grabbed a red four-gallon container of gasoline from the garage. He doused the furniture and floors with the liquid while Kostya turned on the gas stove to high. The air in the kitchen quickly became toxic, so they went to the front porch. Kara may have saved Iskra’s life for a time, but Kostya doubted her hands were completely clean. With what happened to Iskra, there’d be more bodies to bury before they were through.
“We’re done here. Light it up.”
7
A technician from the station’s IT department rerouted the tip line to three phones in the conference room. As soon as their story aired, they’d get calls from just about every nut job, paranoid schizophrenic, and crazy asshole within a hundred-mile radius, and they’d be fed lines of bullshit so thick it’d be hard to tell the truth from the fecal matter. It’d be a lot like watching a presidential debate. Someone out there knew something, though. No one can disappear completely, least of all someone with a hostage and an injury.
Ash stood and paced the room, his stomach twisting the way it did when he and his family huddled in the basement after hearing tornado sirens. All five detectives on the task force knew their jobs, four homicide detectives stood on call if needed, and the rest of the department stood ready to back him up in case of an emergency. He shouldn’t have felt nervous, but he did.
“Kristen Tanaka didn’t attend the press conference tonight,” he said.
“She was probably out boffing somebody for tipping her off to the case,” said Smith, leaning back in his chair and sticking his legs on the table. “I don’t know how you get invited to the party, but I hear she does that sort of thing.”
Ash shook his head but didn’t say anything. Kristen might fail a journalistic ethics class, but he didn’t think she’d skip a press conference with the lead detective on a major case to thank a source. She might, though, if she had a meeting with someone more pressing.
“Does anybody know how to use this thing?” he asked, grabbing one of the room’s three remote controls from the table.
“I’ve got it,” said Alvarez. Ash threw him the remote, and the detective hit half a dozen buttons, causing the lights to dim, a screen to roll down, and the projector to spontaneously turn on. “What channel you want?”
“Whatever channel Kristen Tanaka is on.”
Alvarez flipped through the lineup until coming to the local channels. Rebecca’s abduction led the newscast at Tanaka’s station, but the lead anchor covered the story, not her. He even showed an edited clip of Captain Bowers speaking at the press conference; the station must have purchased the video from one of the other broadcasters. They stuck to the department’s narrative: a still unknown suspect abducted Rebecca, and they needed help finding him. Almost as soon as the station flashed the number for the Crime Stoppers tip line, the phone banks lit up and the detectives went to work.
Even with that story aired, the unease didn’t leave Ash’s stomach. Tanaka should have handled it. She had something else going on. He found out what when the anchor introduced the second story of the night and the video shifted to a live report from the parking lot of the state fairgrounds, roughly a block from the corner where Rebecca had been abducted. The camera panned to Kristen and a heavyset woman in sweatpants and a purple tank top. The woman shifted her weight from foot to foot, shaking her head slightly. The camera probably made her nervous, but her weight shifting made it look as if she had to go to the bathroom. That probably wasn’t her intent.
“Unfortunately, as tragic as Rebecca Cook’s case is, she wasn’t the only victim tonight,” said Kristen. “At approximately six this evening, three police officers carrying shotguns came to Lynette Rogers’s near-north-side home and dragged her unarmed son to the front lawn where they Tasered him repeatedly after he reported not knowing anything about Ms. Cook’s disappearance...”
Ash swore aloud, causing Alvarez to stop speaking midsentence and look up, his eyebrows raised quizzically. Ash pointed to the screen and swore again.
“He resisted arrest,” said Smith, resting a phone against his chest so the caller he had been speaking to couldn’t hear him. “What should we have done? The asshole had an outstanding warrant against him for assaulting his parole officer with a lead pipe. He came at us, and we Tasered him because we didn’t know if he was armed. It was him or us.”
If true, Detective Smith had acted correctly to protect the other officers in his detail, but that probably wouldn’t help matters much. The situation had been ugly all night, but now Detective Smith had just set foot in front of a giant fan in the midst of a shit-throwing contest.
“Make sure to detail it in your report,” he said, leaning against the table and glancing at the screen again. Tanaka’s witness claimed that the police tried to kill her son and make it look like an accident. Ash could only shake his head; the assertion made little sense, but lots of people would still believe it. Finding cooperative witnesses was always a challenge, but now it would become damn near impossible. He swore under his breath and looked at his fellow officers. “Tanaka got this from someone. Who was at the arrest?”
Alvarez hung up the phone but ignored the next blinking light.
“Smith, me, and Dion Butler from patrol. I’ve been with Smith the entire night, and neither of us called anybody. Butler just finished her probationary period, so I doubt too many reporters have been grooming her for stories.”
Ash rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache growing. Life seemed so much simpler as a detective. He didn’t have to deal with things like this.
“Someone talked to her, so we need to find...” Ash stopped himself before finishing the remark. Kristen had completed her interview with Lynette Rogers and moved on to an interview with Sylvia Lombardo, the deputy chief. The headache he had been hoping to stave off started throbbing. Lombardo had ambitions well beyond IMPD and made little secret of it. Normally, that didn’t matter; she did her job well, and then she went home at the end of the day. About a week ago, though, she gave thirty days notice, ostensibly so she could spend more time with her family, but in actuality, everyone knew she had her eye on the vacant director’s position in the Department of Public Safety, the civilian agency that oversaw the law enforcement community in Indianapolis. If the mayor appointed her to it, IMPD would become her plaything. Ash fervently hoped it didn’t come to that.
“I wondered if you could comment on these allegations, Sylvia,” said Kristen.
“Let me first say that my heart goes out to the Cook family. IMPD is doing everything we possibly can to find Rebecca, and I’m confident we will. As to these specific allegations, I can’t comment except to say that if my officers acted improperly or illegally, I will personally ensure that they face a suitable punishment, including criminal prosecution if warranted.”
She’d have a difficult time doing that as a civilian, but the point probably scored well with the public and the mayor’s office.
“So where does Ms. Cook’s case go from here?”
Lombardo took a deep breath. “As with every case we work, our investigation into Ms. Cook’s abduction is fluid and dynamic. In situations like this, we will bring as much manpower to bear on the issue as we can and will consult with our federal partners as well.”
“So, the FBI?”
“Our department maintains a strong working relationship with the Bureau, so yes.”
“Why didn’t you bring in the FBI immediately?”
“We give wide latitude, within procedure of course, to our officers in the field. In this case, those officers did not feel bringing in the Bureau was warranted.”
“As a law enforcement official, what do you believe?”
Lombardo held her hand to he
r chest. “Personally? As a mother and a thirty-year veteran of the Indianapolis Police Department, I’d want everything possible done. Beyond that, I don’t feel it’s appropriate for me to comment.”
“Would that include—”
“Turn this off and get to work.” The voice belonged to Mike Bowers. Ash turned and saw him standing in the doorway, pointing an index finger at him. “I want to see you out here for a moment.”
Ash didn’t know how much Bowers had seen of the broadcast, but he assumed he had at least heard about the incident with the Taser. As Alvarez’s and Smith’s supervisor on the case, he deserved the ass-chewing he was about to receive, but he didn’t have to like it. Bowers didn’t have a private office on that floor, so their conversation took place in front of the entire homicide squad. Most of the detectives had enough tact to turn away.
“Whatever happened with the Taser is on me,” said Ash. “I told Alvarez and Smith to be aggressive, and they were.”
“Make sure they get their reports squared away. As long as they followed procedure, they’ll clear a board of inquiry. We can’t keep Chief Lombardo off the news, but I’ll try to keep her out of the loop as much as I can. There are going to be leaks, though.”
Ash felt his shoulders relax. “I get the feeling she doesn’t like me very much.”
“This isn’t about you or Rebecca Cook. She’s capitalizing on a tragedy to get her face on TV in a positive light. Don’t give her any more excuses to talk about you or this investigation, and you’ll be fine. Are you set for the night?”
“I’ve got three teams rotating between the phones, the streets, and Pamela’s.”
Pamela’s was a room in the basement with a couple of cots in it. At one time, it had an old poster of Pamela Anderson in a red string bikini on the ceiling, but someone from HR took it down about a year ago. She said female officers had complained. Since then, Pamela’s received far fewer visitors.
“Good. Get to it.”
He clapped Ash on the shoulder and then turned around. Alvarez and Smith had resumed their duties on the phone when Ash stepped back into the conference room.
“Anything?”
“Nothing promising yet,” said Doran. “We’ll get there, though.”
“I hope you’re right.”
* * *
The calls came in pretty steady from about ten to midnight. A number of people said they had information they’d share for a reward, but they would only talk if they had money in their pockets. When pressed for information, those callers invariably hung up or lied in the hopes that they’d manage to get a detail correct by sheer chance. They wasted everyone’s time, including their own.The rest of the callers seemed sincere, but they knew little more than the liars and nut jobs. Two calls in the first shift merited a follow-up, so Doran and Smith drove out. The first came from an elderly woman who thought she saw a woman being forced into a car. As it turned out, she witnessed her neighbor, a design student at a local art school, putting a mannequin on her backseat for a fashion show. The second call involved a couple of guys in a fraternity stuffing a blow-up doll in the back of their hippy philosophy professor’s car. That call amused everyone at least, even while it wasted their time.
Since Ash had been up since five that morning, he took the first shift in Pamela’s at midnight. It felt like he had barely closed his eyes by the time Alvarez woke him up at a little before two.
“We got another one.”
Ash blinked several times trying to wake up. The basement air tasted and smelled musty.
“We’ve got another what?” he asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Alvarez turned on the light, illuminating the room. Once his eyes adjusted, Ash saw, in addition to a pair of cots, half a dozen filing cabinets, four metal desks, and two bronze desk lamps so old he could have taken them on Antiques Roadshow. He had been so tired on his way in that he hadn’t noticed anything but the beds.
“We just got a call from a woman about two blocks from Shadeland Avenue. She claims to have seen a Caucasian man carrying a small Caucasian woman from a green Pontiac Grand Am.”
Ash sat up straighter. The pawnshop owner on Shadeland had mentioned a green Grand Am, but they hadn’t released that information to anyone. It might have been a good lead.
“What else do we have?”
Alvarez shook his head. “Not a lot. According to our caller, the man carried the woman over his shoulder and broke into a foreclosed home about fifteen minutes ago. The caller is watching the house now, but no one’s come out yet.”
“If it’s Rebecca, where have they been for the past few hours?” asked Ash, standing, but almost instantly staggering back as blood rushed through his system, momentarily making his head light.
“Maybe just driving around until they found somewhere to lie low,” said Alvarez. “I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“It’s the right part of town, but it’s not enough for a search warrant. She said the house is a foreclosure?” Alvarez nodded. “No one should be in that this time of night. We’ll check it out. If we can find signs of a break-in, that’ll give us probable cause to call in the violent crime unit and detain everyone. You have everything you need?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s go.”
Alvarez left the room first. Ash swayed on his feet. Two hours of sleep helped, but he needed at least four hours more to overcome the heavy, drunken feeling in his limbs. At least he had experience being drunk, so he knew how to conduct himself. He steadied himself and jogged up the stairs. The temperature outside had dropped about fifteen degrees since his last outing, and water puddled on low points on the sidewalks. His shoulder spoke the truth earlier: It had rained. Thankfully, they had finished clearing their outdoor crime scenes already.
Ash pulled his jacket tight around him and looked left and right before walking to the parking lot across the street. He felt a cold, nervous chill travel up and down his spine. Just eight months ago, a trio of misguided police officers had ambushed him on his way to the building from which he just exited, leaving him battered and bruised. He remembered that night vividly, not because of the beating but because of what happened afterward. His wife confronted him about his drinking for the first time, and he realized what a serious problem he had. He still had a hard time staying out of bars or away from liquor stores, but it had become easier now; he no longer felt alone.
Ash wanted more officers with them, but he couldn’t justify the resources without further evidence of a crime. He considered taking Doran and Smith, but he needed at least one of them on the phones and the other on standby in case another credible call came in. Backup was always a phone call away, so their absence shouldn’t be a problem.
That late in the evening, there were few cars on the street, so Ash didn’t bother turning on the light bar or siren as he pulled out of the parking lot. Even without them, the few drivers he encountered had enough common sense to get out of the way of the speeding police cruiser. Both he and Alvarez understood the situation, so neither of them spoke. The guy who abducted Rebecca had already killed two people. If they found him, he probably wouldn’t go quietly.
“You okay with what we’re about to do?” asked Ash.
Alvarez adjusted himself on the seat and slipped a hand to the holster on his belt. “We’re about to investigate a lead in a kidnapping. Of course I’m okay with that.”
Ash glanced over. Alvarez stared straight ahead, his gaze intense, focused and ready. After his hesitation at the crime scene that afternoon, Ash was glad to see the detective’s newfound poise. Maybe he just needed a little direction after all. He turned his attention back to the road. Unlike his visit to Shadeland Avenue earlier that afternoon, few cars lined up at the stoplights and most of the shops were closed. With the house still a couple of blocks away, Alvarez closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross over his chest, his lips moving as he prayed.
Ash killed the lights on his cruiser before turning i
nto the neighborhood their caller had alerted them to. Single-story ranch homes lined the street with the occasional two-story popping up for good measure. Their caller had given them the address of a two-story Colonial with a brick chimney and white siding. Ash drove past without slowing. It looked like a nice family home; save the late-model green Pontiac in the driveway, it also looked abandoned. He parked at the end of the block and turned off the engine, but didn’t say anything until Alvarez finished praying.
“Until we learn otherwise, we’re here for information,” said Ash. “But if Rebecca’s in there and in trouble, we might have to go in. Will you be okay with that?”
Alvarez’s chest rose and fell, but he nodded.
“Do you understand what I’m really asking?” asked Ash. “More than likely, our caller is a neighborhood busybody who saw a couple of kids screwing around. If she isn’t and this is an emergency, we’ll have to act on our own. Do you understand what I’m getting at? You can’t hesitate like you did at the fairgrounds today.”
Alvarez didn’t turn to look at him. “You heard I was in the Peace Corps, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Ash.
“Because I grew up speaking Spanish, they sent me to Juarez, Mexico, to teach English. I started dating the crime reporter for the local newspaper. I was going to marry her when my tour ended.”
“Okay,” said Ash, unsure why Alvarez thought it appropriate to tell him about the history of his love life right now.
“About two months before my tour was over, I took Marisol out to lunch at a café by my school. Two guys with guns came in and grabbed her. I tried to stop them, but one of them hit me on the head with the butt of his rifle and knocked me out cold. A day later, a police officer showed me a video a local cartel boss sent him. A fifteen-year-old kid from one of my classes slit Marisol’s throat with a butcher knife so dull he had to use it like a saw. The cop said that’s what happens to people who talk about things they shouldn’t talk about.”