Finn went for the knife, kicking it aside before drawing his weapon and training it on the man even though he was no longer a threat, jerking as he was with convulsions. Finn's breath came hard and fast, his mind was blank with relief for a moment. It was then he realized that there were three of them in the garage: him, the writhing man at his feet, and Thomas Lapinski grinning like the man of the hour. Thomas held up his hand and showed Finn what looked like a small flashlight.
"Diablo Tactical Flashlight and Stun Gun," he said. "Five million volts in this baby. Packs a huge punch."
"An understatement, Thomas," Finn said, unashamed that his voice shook.
"A first for me, don't you think?" Thomas said. "The understatement, I mean."
Finn smiled at the little man, holstered his gun and took a flex cuff out of his pocket. Straddling the man on the floor, Finn pulled his massive arms back and put on the plastic cuffs, all the time wondering if they would be strong enough to hold him.
"Come on, then. Help me get him on his back so he can breathe."
"My pleasure," Thomas said.
It took the two of them more than one try to get the man over given the convulsions and his weight, but when the finally did Finn was the first to react.
"Holy mother of God."
For his part, Thomas Lapinski was speechless.
CHAPTER 18
His name was Aman Jember Mambo and once he had been a handsome man as was evidenced by the shape of his head and the placement of his features. He was no longer handsome.
The man's right eye was missing and had been gone for some time because the lid was fused over the sunken space, thick and without symmetry, left to heal without benefit of a doctor or surgeon. Aman's nose was pulverized and lay flat against his cheekbones, the right side sitting higher than the left. But it was the web of scars radiating from each side of his mouth that made Finn sick. It was as though he had been bridled and cut by a cruel bit. Whatever horror had been visited on this man seemed only to have affected his face. His body was strong, broad shouldered and narrow at the waist. He was at least four inches taller than Finn and that made him tall, indeed. His hands were huge and the fingers on the right misshapen as if flattened by a hammer. He was dressed in dark pants and a pullover shirt made of a fabric light enough to show the ripple and mounds of muscle in his chest and arms. Finn could only marvel at his precise bearing and wonder if it spoke to a lifetime of discipline, anticipation of abuse or both.
As Finn looked through the small window of the interrogation room he pondered how it was that this man could have held a knife in that maimed hand much less use it to attack with such fierceness. It was further incredible that he had recovered so easily from the jolt Thomas had given him. Finn thought him more machine than human and the detective knew he was lucky that he was not Paul's next patient.
"Aman Jember Mambo. Traveled in on a legit Eritrean passport a little over two months ago." Captain Fowler came up on Finn quietly. Like everyone else who heard about the guy Finn had brought in, the captain couldn't resist a look through the window. "Supposedly he's here on business."
"What business do you think he might be in, Captain? Looking the way he does." It was a question to which Finn expected no answer and Fowler offered none.
"The only other thing I've got is what he's not. He's not on the no-fly list. There are no flags with Homeland Security. FBI's checking and so is immigration. I'll let you know as soon as I hear."
"Thanks, Captain." Finn put his hand on the doorknob. Before he went into the room he asked: "How's Cori doing with the woman?"
"We've got an interpreter coming from the South Bay to help talk to her. We want to make sure we get a clean statement."
"Sure, is there no one closer?" Finn asked.
"Not one that's on the books." Fowler held up his hand. "And don't start with me about grabbing someone from Little Ethiopia. The interpreters' union would have my head if I pulled someone off the street."
Finn smirked. Unions and associations and groups and movements made a workingman's life a trial.
"See how far you can get with this one, then," Fowler said. "Let's hope he'll know a few more words of English than the woman."
"Let's hope he'll speak them if he does," Finn answered back.
"We can hold him on assault on a police officer while you figure out if he's good for tossing that woman off the bridge."
"Let's do nothing formal yet," Finn murmured as he opened the door. Before he went in he called to Bob Fowler again and when the man turned around Finn said, "Appreciate the help, captain."
Fowler nodded and the two men went their separate ways.
The man in the chair didn't acknowledge Finn even though the detective stood right in front of him. For his part, Finn knew that whatever was going on here was much more complicated than the work of a common criminal – or a madman.
***
Oliver parked his rental on the street half a block down from the house, got out and ambled down the sidewalk as if he went that way every afternoon. Gone was the fancy jacket. In its place he wore grey sweatpants, sneakers and a black hoodie. When he got to the blue house, he walked right up to the front door and knocked but no one came. Oliver found that odd since the old woman never left the place at this time of day. He had watched the house before and knew that shopping was done in the morning, cleaning in the afternoon and then the house would be quiet until she started in again keeping her miserable little life in order. He knocked once more and still the door didn't open. Oliver was finding himself just a tad upset by the inconvenience. The last time he had called he had been so respectful. He had assured the old woman he was there to help Takrit if only he could find her. That got him nothing because the grandmother was a wily old thing; she hadn't told him spit. Now Takrit was dead, what she had smuggled out of Eritrea was still missing and Oliver had Emanuel's permission to be more direct in his inquiries. It would be a pleasure to tell the old lady that her beloved granddaughter was dead – unless someone from the restaurant had beaten him to it. That would be a pity for sure and he would have to have a little chat with the gossips if they had.
Oliver swung himself off the porch and strolled to the back, whistling a little tune as he went, noting the smell of dope wafting from the house next door. He veered off the driveway when he saw the side door of the garage was open. Oliver flipped a switch and the bare bulb glowed weakly. He walked inside, poking here and there. Some of the boxes had been moved to cordon off a corner of the garage. Behind those boxes there was a pallet, a pillow and a blanket. At the foot of the pallet was a duffle and inside were men's clothes. Big clothes. Oliver dug under the mattress, pulled out a leather pouch and looked inside. It held a passport.
"Ah, Aman, here the whole time," Oliver muttered, a tad miffed at himself that he had not thought to look under his nose for the fellow. He was even more miffed that the grandmother had been so cagey. Oliver tossed the duffle, kept the passport and left the garage. He went for the back door of the house and, when he found it open, let himself in.
"Grandma," he called. "Oh, grandma. Come out, come out wherever you are. It's the big bad wolf needing to have a word with you."
Oliver chuckled. She was so little, so pathetic and so easily gobbled up. Sadly, the grandmother had gotten herself off somewhere so there would be no fun today. He opened the first bedroom door and found it empty. There was nobody lurking in the bathroom. He opened the third door.
"Miss Takrit, let's take a look at what you've got here," Oliver mumbled and ripped the sheets off the bed.
From his back pocket he withdrew a knife that had been with him since Somalia, flipped it open and ripped through the mattress. He stuck his hands inside, pulled out the stuffing and came up empty. He looked under the bed and inside the drawers on the bedside table and in the desk, careless with the things that had belonged to Takrit. Just as Oliver opened the door to the small clothes closet, the doorbell rang. When the bell sounded again, he went to look down the hall.
>
The drapes over the front window were closed and the front door was solid. Oliver couldn't see outside which meant that no one could see in either, so he went back the same way he had come in. At the back of the house, Oliver kept still against the wall. When he chanced a glance into the drive, he saw a black Range Rover parked there. Oliver ducked back again and lay against the wall, committing the license plate to memory. One more glance and he determined that whoever the car belonged to was still engaged at the front of the house, so he dashed for the garage and the cover of the boxes surrounding Aman's pallet. Just as he settled, he heard women's voices coming up the drive.
"You check the back, I'll take the garage."
Oliver knew the one talking was a bitch by the way she gave her orders. He heard light footsteps on the cement patch and shrank back when the light came on.
"Aman? Aman, you bastard. You friggin' coward."
Oliver heard a step and a scrape and another step. She was coming right at him and he was ready for her. There was nothing Oliver liked better than the snap of a pretty neck or the crack of a delicate jaw. Sadly, the woman never got close enough for him to touch her. The second woman was at the door, younger and less sure of herself.
"No one's in the house. Takrit's room has been torn apart."
"Damn. I should have come last night." Oliver heard a hand hit the wall and the older woman swearing. "If you had friggin' been on time—."
"I had to help my father and I have to work tonight."
"Just tell them what you're doing, Hali. Pull up your big girl pants. Takrit did for God's sake."
"And she's dead." Hali was having none of the woman's shaming. "Go to the police Sharon. Tell them what we're doing. Please. Tell them before anyone else gets hurt."
"Don't be an idiot." The light went off. They were walking away so Oliver strained to hear. "They would shut us down so fast your head would spin. We've come too far, I've got too much invested in this now."
"But they know who she is. They might have her stuff. Maybe they don't even know what they have. I mean, it's possible they have it, right?"
"Oh yeah. I'll ask real nice and they'll hand it to me," the older woman drawled. "Besides, I don't think they have it. You said yourself they were only trying to identify her. If she was carrying it, they would have looked at it and they would know who she was. No, it's still around here somewhere. Look, we're down to the wire. I've got to make the final edits and coordinate with everyone because day after tomorrow is D-day. You close tonight so you've got all afternoon to make some calls, right? Here's what I want you to…"
The rest of the conversation was lost to Oliver. He heard the Range Rover's engine fire up and got to the doorway just in time to see the car reverse in the street before the women drove off.
When they were gone, he dusted himself off and went back to Aman's hovel. He picked up the duffle and dumped everything inside on the pallet once more. Then he rechecked all the pockets and felt to see if he had a lump in the duffel's lining. The thing he was looking for was so small it could have easily been sewn into the bag and just as easily overlooked. He turned to the boxes and baskets in the garage but after searching through a few and finding only old dishes and clothes, he gave up. For good measure, Oliver threw a hammer at one wall and kicked the boxes that had hidden Aman.
If Aman had what Emanuel wanted, he was too smart to keep it some place obvious. The woman named Sharon didn't have it and neither did the girl, Hali. So what had pretty Takrit done with it? Where, oh where, could she have hidden that thing and what, oh what, were those two going to do with it once they had it?
Since this place wasn't worth his time, and he didn't want the pitiful poverty to rub off on him, Oliver pulled up his hood and left the garage. He was walking down the driveway, considering his options, knowing he could easily trace the license plate and find out who the car was registered to, when he heard:
"The other two took the big guy. They took the old lady, too. Don't cops tell each other what they're doing? Hey! Hey! I'm trying to help you out here, man. Talk to the cop with the accent or the one with the boobs."
Oliver looked up at the man hanging over the fence, the one that was higher than a kite. He considered talking to him. He considered doing the world a favor by killing him. In the end Oliver just went on his way with a none-too-friendly.
"Bugger off."
"Hey, I pay your salary. You gotta talk to me," Toby called. "I'm going to report you. I'm a citizen. I'm…"
Oliver raised his hand and then his middle finger. He had no time for losers. He had things to do and people to see.
CHAPTER 19
Finn took a seat across the metal table from the man who only hours earlier had tried to kill him. He put the information Captain Fowler had given him and his note pad down, clasped his hands atop them and said:
"My name is Detective O'Brien. You are Aman Jember Mambo. You are a citizen of Eritrea according to your passport. I know when you entered this country, and I know you are legally here on a business visa. There are many things I don't know that I would like you to tell me. Are you feeling well enough to speak with me?"
The man did not move. He did not blink. Looking at his face made Finn want to touch his own scars simply to remind himself that they were nothing in the face of what had happened to this man.
"If you are not fully understanding me, you'll have to give me some sign and I will get you an interpreter."
Finn waited. He watched. The man didn't seem confused in the same way he didn't seem engaged, concerned or even curious about the situation in which he found himself.
"You are not under arrest," Finn went on. "However, should you wish counsel, I can arrange for it. You have a right to that. Do you understand any of what I'm saying?"
There was a beat before Aman answered:
"I understand you."
"Very good, then," Finn said, careful not to show both his relief and his surprise at the man's melodious voice. "We'll get right to it. Do you know a woman named Takrit?"
"Yes."
"And do you know that she is dead?"
"Yes," he answered, his gaze still on the wall behind Finn.
The detective leaned across the table, trying to catch his attention, hoping to see something to guide him: a flicker in that good eye, a twitch of those scared lips, a breath drawn through that destroyed nose.
"Did you hurt Takrit?" Finn asked.
Nothing.
Finn tried again.
"Listen to me, Aman. Hers was not a pretty death and it was not a suicide. Takrit was assaulted before someone picked her up like a piece of garbage and threw her to her death. That woman died in my arms, and if you did this thing there will be no help for you in any country. Nor in heaven or hell if it comes to that."
The man's gaze finally fell upon Finn. The scars at the side of his mouth pulled his lips into a ghastly grin but he was not laughing, he was searching for something in Finn's countenance.
"You were with her?" he asked.
"I was," Finn answered.
"Did she suffer?"
"Yes, she did," Finn answered.
"Did she speak?"
"About what, Aman?" Finn asked, recognizing that this was the opening he needed. Sadly, Aman fell silent again, closing the door before Finn had a foot inside.
"Alright. We will talk about that later," Finn said. "Where were you four days ago at five o'clock?"
"I was in my place." His head clicked an inch.
"You mean the house of Takrit's grandmother? The place where I found you?"
"Yes," Aman answered.
"But Takrit did not live there any longer, isn't that true?" Aman lowered his eye. "Can you tell me why that was, Aman? Was it because you were there?"
Still he was silent. Finn raised an arm and crooked it on the table, resting his cheek in his upturned palm as if he and Aman were having a casual chat.
"Why did you attack me?" Finn asked.
"I thought you wer
e coming to kill me."
"And why would I do that?" Finn pressed.
"Because that is what police do," Aman said.
"I see." Finn dropped his hand and crossed his arms, eyes on the man. "Did you know we have witnesses who saw a tall man with Takrit on that bridge. They say he—"
Before Finn could finish, the door opened and Cori looked in. She crooked her finger. Finn went to join her, glancing at Aman who seemed not to care that he was being left alone, still cuffed. In the hall, Finn closed the door behind him.
"Did he talk about what happened to his face?" Cori asked.
"Not yet," Finn said.
"Well, I'm piecing it together but my best guess is that Aman fell afoul of your fat little friend, Abu, the same way Takrit did. It seems Takrit was a political activist rock star back in Eritrea. Her parents didn't support the regime and got themselves executed for it. Takrit took over the family business and punched it up a notch. Her popularity didn't protect her. Abu had her arrested and tortured her but for some reason he didn't execute her."
"How did she get out of prison much less here?" Finn asked.
"Smuggled. The grandmother doesn't know how it was accomplished. Takrit just showed up one day and never told her anything. I'm guessing the cloak and dagger stuff was for the grandmother's protection." Cori shook her head. "Between this and the circumcision, I don't know how that girl survived. I'd never get through all that."
"Ah, you would, Cori," Finn said quietly. "But I wouldn't let anyone hurt you. I'd die first."
"Yeah, well, then I'd have a guilty conscience." She smiled. "I'd rather you just ride to the rescue if I ever need it."
"Never a doubt on that score."
"Good to know but enough of the love fest, O'Brien," Cori said. "Emanuel wasn't the only one ticked off at her. Aman didn't like whatever was going on at Takrit's job. The boss's name is Sharon Stover. She and the grandmother had a few words and Takrit moved out about two months ago, right after Aman showed up. He tried to take Takrit back and Stover let him have it." Cori chuckled. "I'd like to see the filly that could stand up to him, wouldn't you?"
Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2) Page 14