by Brad Thor
“Piss, paint, and pray,” replied Davidson, as the waitress set his breakfast down on the table. “It’s an under-the-radar taxicab mechanic and body shop. They’re all over the city and fix damaged cabs while drivers wait. And they’re fast too. The Muslim ones have little prayer rooms in them and the joke is that as soon as you’ve taken a piss and said your prayers, the paint on your cab would be just about dry.”
Vaughan was fascinated.
“If you’re a Middle Eastern driver, you go to one of the Triple P’s owned and run by a Middle Easterner. If you’re Pakistani, you go to a Pakistani operation. If you’re East African, you go to an East African one, yada, yada, yada.”
“How come I haven’t heard about these places before?”
“Like I said, they’re under the radar. They operate around the clock, only deal in cash, and don’t advertise. They do business only within their own ethnic group.”
“And you think the driver who hit Alison Taylor used one of these body shops to repair the damage to his cab?”
“According to my source, there was a Pakistani driver who brought his vehicle into a particular shop on the night in question. He was shaken up and was dumb enough to blab about clipping some woman. He wanted to get his cab repaired as soon as possible and was willing to pay extra for it.”
“This is fantastic,” said Vaughan. “When can we pay a visit to the shop?”
“Right after we’re done with breakfast.”
CHAPTER 16
They left Vaughan’s Crown Vic at the restaurant and drove Davidson’s Bronco to the Crescent Garage and Body Shop. Outside, several cabs were double-parked along the street. Men dressed in the traditional salwar kameez—long, cotton tunics over loose-fitting trousers that stop just above the ankles—stood in front talking. Many had long beards without mustaches and almost all of them were wearing sandals. Vaughan couldn’t tell if he was in Chicago or Karachi.
As the two police officers walked up, the men ceased their conversations and stared at them. Davidson had purposely left his jacket in his truck and all eyes fell to the shield clipped to his belt and the large pistol he wore on his hip. For his part, Vaughan didn’t flash anything. He didn’t need to. They all could tell he was also a cop.
With the overhead door down, they accessed the garage via a standard entrance next to it. There were four hydraulic lifts: two on each side. In the far corner was a makeshift painting bay. Tool chests lined the walls and there were fenders, bumpers, mirrors, body panels, and other parts stacked everywhere. At the far end, another overhead door led to a small lot crammed with beat-up taxis out back. The garage was lit with sputtering fluorescents hung from the ceiling.
The first thing Davidson noticed when he walked in was a man attaching a medallion to the hood of a freshly painted taxicab. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
If there was one thing Davidson had learned from dealing with the cab communities it was that their cultures only respected strength. If you showed any weakness whatsoever, you were screwed. You had to get in their face from the get-go, project power, and never let them forget who was in charge.
All of them came from countries where the police were famous for abusing their power. They carried with them a deeply ingrained fear of law enforcement that Davidson used to his advantage. It wasn’t any different from how he handled the inner-city thugs he’d been dealing with his whole career as a cop.
“Are you deaf?” he said. “I asked you what you’re doing with that medallion?”
“Nothing,” replied the mechanic as he stepped away from the cab and set his drill down.
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me.” Turning to Vaughan he said, “Get his name, his ID, all of his information.”
“Why?” asked the mechanic.
“Why? You know damn well that only the office of Consumer Services can touch a taxi medallion. You’re in a lot of trouble.”
The mechanic was about to speak when an old man with a long gray beard came out of the office yelling in Urdu. He was followed by another man who looked to be in his late twenties.
“Who’s in charge here?” demanded Davidson.
The old man walked up to him, still yelling in Urdu until the younger man put a hand on his arm and pulled him back.
“My father doesn’t speak English,” said the younger Pakistani man.
“That’s okay,” replied Davidson. “I’m sure the court will provide an interpreter for him.”
“The court? What are you talking about?”
“What’s your name?”
“I am Jamal and this is my father, Fahad Bashir. I still don’t understand what you are talking about, though.”
“I’m talking about four cabs double-parked outside,” said Davidson as he wrote down the two men’s names. “I’m talking about your mechanic over here affixing a city of Chicago medallion to the hood of that cab. And that’s just for starters. Tell your father he can send all of his employees home. He can tell the customers to beat it too. You’re going to be closed down.”
“Closed down? Sir, please. There must be something we can do. We can’t afford to be closed down.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before you helped cover up a hit-and-run accident.”
“Cover up?”
Jamal’s English was perfect, and Davidson figured he was probably first-generation American. “When you help destroy evidence of a crime, we call that a cover-up.”
“What crime? Sir, please. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Though he had all of the details committed to memory, Davidson flipped back several pages in his notebook and recounted the facts. “On Friday, June 9, in the early morning hours, a Yellow taxicab was involved in a hit-and-run accident. Shortly thereafter, the cab was brought here for repairs. You fixed it.”
“We fix many cabs that have been in accidents. That’s what we do.” The young man stopped and translated for his father, who was demanding to be filled in.
After communicating briefly with his father, Jamal turned back to Davidson. “We don’t ask our customers how their damage happened. We simply repair the vehicles. Even if a customer told us how the damage had been committed, why would we suspect that they had not done the right thing and alerted the police?”
“I don’t like being messed with,” said Davidson, bypassing the young man’s excellent point. “We’ll hash this out in court. In the meantime, you’re going to be shut down.”
The older Pakistani man said something to his son and gestured toward the office area.
Vaughan came back from collecting the mechanic’s personal information and stood next to Davidson.
“We keep very good records,” stated Jamal. “My father doesn’t want any trouble. If you come to the office with me, we’ll see what we can do.”
The old man bowed his head and gestured toward the office, encouraging the policemen to follow his son.
The office reminded Vaughan of many he had seen while in Iraq. There were prayer rugs in the corner and the walls were relatively unadorned save for a Pakistani airline calendar that looked as if it was ten years out of date. He looked up at the stained acoustic ceiling tiles above the room’s three desks and figured it had to suck being in here when it rained. In fact it probably sucked being here at any time. He could only imagine the toxic mold that was growing up in the ceiling.
Jamal was looking through a filing cabinet when his father returned with three mugs and a small dish of sweets. Vaughan didn’t have to look inside the cups to know what was being served—tea.
The old man gestured to a threadbare couch fronted by a nicked-up coffee table and two mismatched chairs. Davidson nodded for Vaughan to sit down. Both of the officers knew that nothing got done in the Muslim world without tea.
As Jamal continued to look through his files, the other men sat and took tea.
Finally, the young man said, “I can’t find it.”
“Can’t find what?” replied David
son, the tone of his voice indicating that he wasn’t happy.
“Our logbook. We keep one with all of the details of the repairs we do. I can’t find it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious,” said Jamal, who then spoke several words to his father. Once the old man responded, Jamal pointed at one of the desks and said, “The other man who works here. He keeps the logbook.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ali Masud.”
Davidson wrote it down. “Where is he now?”
Jamal shrugged.
“Do you have a phone number for him?”
“Yes.”
“Call him.”
The young man removed his cell phone and dialed. Moments later, he began speaking. He chatted for less than a minute and then hung up.
Davidson looked at him. “So? Does he have the logbook?”
Jamal put his palms up and smiled. His head bobbed as if he had just been given the answer to a profound riddle. “Ali Masud took the logbook home with him last night.”
“And?”
“And he’s coming in to work in about three hours and will bring the book back.”
Davidson stood and said, “Then we’ll be back in two, and if that book isn’t here, I’m not only going to have you closed down, I’m going to arrest you and your father for obstruction of justice. Is that clear?”
Jamal nodded as Vaughan stood, and the two officers left the garage.
Out on the sidewalk Davidson asked, “What do you think?”
“I think he’s lying.”
“I do too.”
“So what do we do?”
Davidson fished his keys out of his pocket as they approached the Bronco. “We give him the two hours and if he dicks us around, we go to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
CHAPTER 17
At the appointed hour, Vaughan and Davidson returned to the Crescent Garage and Body Shop and were shown into the office. Jamal sat behind one of the desks with a red spiral notebook in front of him. Sitting on the couch were his father and another Pakistani man who they assumed was Ali Masud. Jamal never bothered to introduce him.
“Is that it?” said Davidson as he approached the desk.
“As promised.”
Davidson flipped open the cover to the first page and noticed that it was damp. “What happened?”
“Ali Masud regrettably spilled some tea on it. You can still read all the information.”
Davidson’s BS detector was fast approaching the red zone. Quietly, he turned the moist pages. The handwriting was meticulous and listed each cab number, the date, what work was done, and the dollar amount. “This is your handwriting?” he asked the man sitting next to the old man on the couch.
“It’s his,” answered Jamal.
“Am I talking to you?” asked Davidson.
“No.”
“Then be quiet.”
Davidson asked the question again.
“Is this your handwriting?”
The man on the couch nodded.
Davidson stopped when he got to the entries for July 9, the date of Alison Taylor’s hit-and-run. “Do you recall a cab coming in here on or around the ninth of July with damage from a hit-and-run?”
The man shook his head.
“What’s your name?”
“Ali Masud.”
“Mr. Masud, do you recall anyone talking about a hit-and-run accident recently?”
“No, sir,” replied Masud. “I do not.”
Davidson studied all of the entries for July 9 and wrote down the cab numbers and then did the same for the next seven days. “Can you make a copy of this for me?” he asked Jamal.
“I would be happy to, sir,” said Jamal as he gathered up the book and walked over to a small Xerox machine.
Davidson turned his attention back to Masud. “Have you ever had a customer who needed repairs due to hitting a pedestrian?”
The Pakistani shrugged. “I would have to look back through the files.”
“I can’t expect you to remember something like that,” Davidson cracked.
Ali Masud didn’t respond.
Jamal returned with the copies and handed them to Davidson. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be more helpful.”
“Me too,” said Davidson as he removed a pair of handcuffs.
While he was sure all three of the men were lying, Vaughan had not witnessed anything that constituted an arrestable offense. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged into a false-arrest claim with Davidson. Leaning in, he said quietly, “What are you doing?”
“Time for plan B,” answered Davidson as he walked out of the office and onto the garage floor.
Vaughan followed him and was just in time to see him point to the mechanic from earlier and, holding the handcuffs at his side, say, “You. Put your tools down and come over here. You are under arrest.”
“Me?” said the mechanic.
“You.”
Davidson had only taken two steps toward him when the mechanic dropped his tools and bolted for the door.
Looking at Vaughan he yelled, “Get him! I’ll get the car.”
Vaughan made it out the door just in time to see the mechanic turn right at the corner. Chasing suspects was one of his least favorite parts about the job, but he took off after him.
Turning right at the corner, he saw the mechanic cross the street and turn into the alley. If there was one place you didn’t want to chase someone, it was into an alley. The problem was that these guys seldom ran across open, flower-strewn meadows.
The mechanic cut in between two buildings, leapt up onto a Dumpster, and flipped over a chain-link fence into a vacant lot. Vaughan was fifty yards behind him and closing.
At the far side of the lot, the mechanic hit the pavement and turned left. Vaughan had not chased a lot of Pakistanis, but if this was what he could expect the next time, he made a mental note to just take out his gun and shoot the guy.
“Stop running!” he yelled, but the Pakistani man wasn’t interested in following orders. Instead, he picked up his pace even further. This guy was running like his life was on the line.
Vaughan was pissed. Where the hell was Davidson?
They came to the next intersection and the mechanic didn’t even slow down. He ran right through traffic and almost got nailed. Horns were still blaring as Vaughan, who was tightening the gap, raced across the street after him.
Up ahead, the Pakistani began to slow down. Whatever reserves he had, he must have burned through them.
Nearing the middle of the block, he stopped and risked a glance backward.
“That’s right,” Vaughan yelled. “You fucking stop right there.”
The mechanic must have judged the distance and figured he had enough energy left to outrun the police officer, because something flickered over his face ever so briefly. It looked like a smile. He wasn’t stopping. He was just catching his breath.
That did it. Now Vaughan was really pissed. Not only was he going to catch this dirtbag, he was going to beat him full of courtesy with either an Emily Post guide or the Chicago phone book, whichever was thicker. Go ahead. Start running again, asshole, he thought to himself.
It was almost as if the Pakistani man could read his mind. With his eyes still glued to Vaughan, he sucked in a huge breath of air and took off once again.
He had only made it three steps when he stepped off the curb into the area where the alley met the street and Paul Davidson hit him with his Bronco.
The mechanic tumbled across the ground like a human lint roller, picking up shards of glass and loose gravel as he went. It wasn’t the worst road rash ever suffered by man, but for a guy that hadn’t been pitched off a bike or a motorcycle, it was pretty impressive.
By the time Vaughan reached them, Davidson had already leapt out of his truck and had the suspect’s arms pinned behind his back.
“They teach you that
move in Public Vehicles?” asked Vaughan as he leaned against the building at the mouth of the alley and tried to catch his breath.
“My doctor says I shouldn’t exert myself,” replied Davidson as he snapped a pair of cuffs on the mechanic and yanked him to his feet.
“I am in pain,” complained the Pakistani.
“The party is just starting, my friend,” said Davidson as he led him into the alley and propped him up behind his truck.
His breathing slowly coming back under control, Vaughan walked back and joined them.
“I told you not to run.”
“I am sorry, sir,” replied the mechanic.
“It’s a little late for that.”
“Please, sir, I cannot go to the jail.”
Davidson laughed. “Oh, yes you can, my friend. And it is not a happy place.”
The Pakistani looked away from him and for some reason seemed to decide that Vaughan was the more rational and reasonable of the pair and focused on him. “Sir, please, no jail.”
“You should have thought of that before you started running.”
“Actually,” injected Davidson, “you should have thought of that before you started playing with cab medallions like they were refrigerator magnets.”
“I can pay you,” said the man. “I have money. Please.”
“Don’t do that,” said Vaughan. “Bribing a police officer is a very serious offense, and you are already in enough trouble as it is. What’s your name?”
“Javed Miraj.”
Davidson removed his notebook and wrote the man’s name down.
“Where do you live?”
The man answered and, after a few more questions about his background, Vaughan asked, “Why did you run?”
“I told you, sir,” said Miraj, “I do not wish to go to the jail.”
“I got that part. What I want to know is why you ran?”
The mechanic was quiet for several moments before responding. “If I go to the jail, I will be sent back to Pakistan.”
“You’re illegal.”
Javed Miraj hung his head and nodded.
Vaughan whistled. “Not good, Javed. Not good at all, my friend.”