by Chris Culver
I scratched the back of my neck, letting that sink in. Maybe she had worked for her designer clothes after all.
“Anything else you can tell me about her?”
“I serve drinks to the freak show. I don’t join in.”
I pointed to the picture of my niece on the bar.
“Somebody connected to this club killed my niece. If I find out you’re running anything illegal through here or that you're lying to me now, you’re not going to make it to jail.”
Mick swallowed and nodded.
“Yeah, I got ya.”
I closed my eyes and was about to turn away, but stopped.
“Word of advice, lose the knife. You might have other detectives stop by, and they’re not all as forgiving as me.”
“Thanks,” said Mick, his lips thin.
“Don’t mention it.”
I left the club the same way I had gone in, already taking out my cell phone. Mick might have professed ignorance of what went on in the club, but someone had to know something.
I punched in a text message to Jimmy Russo, a confidential informant I used to run when I worked homicide. He was a mid–level street dealer with his ear on the ground. If someone was moving drugs through The Abbey in any kind of volume, Jimmy would know about it. I asked him if he could meet me that afternoon near Monument Circle.
After that, I hopped in my car and headed downtown towards a bar I knew that served two–ounce shots. I had a couple of drinks as I waited for Jimmy’s response. When he didn’t get back to me an hour later, I left feeling more than a little buzzed. I bought a newspaper from a vending machine and sat on a bench in the Indiana Artsgarden, a seven–story, glass–and–steel atrium suspended above the intersection of two busy downtown streets. I read a few articles, but mostly I watched the cars pass by.
My cell started beeping twenty minutes later. My drinks were wearing off a little by then, and I could walk without my head feeling as if I were swimming. Jimmy agreed to my meeting and said he was five minutes out. I dropped my paper and took the stairs to street level.
Monument Circle is a circular piece of real estate in the center of town with an elaborately carved memorial to Indiana soldiers in the center. At one time that memorial would have towered above everything in town, but now it was dwarfed by the forty–story bank buildings that had sprung up around it. The area smelled faintly of sulfur, a gift from our aging sewage system, and there was a big enough crowd that I could hide if need be.
I crossed Meridian Street in front of Christ Church Cathedral and took a look around. Jimmy leaned against a brass plaque describing the monument. He wore a white Oxford shirt, gray slacks, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was one of the fresh–from–college, white–collar bankers that worked in nearby buildings. He nodded at me when he saw me.
“You look good, Jimmy,” I said, putting my hand forward for him to shake when I was a few feet away. Jimmy pretended not to notice, so I dropped it to my side. “It’s been a long time.”
“That it has, my man,” he said. “It’s James, now.”
“Moving up in the world, huh?”
He snickered.
“James is always moving up,” he said, casting his gaze around the crowd. “Let’s take a walk.”
I nodded and followed him. A group of kids stood beside the monument while their teacher told them about World War II and Indiana’s role in the supply chain that fed and armed our soldiers. James looked at the crowd before his shoulders relaxed again.
“Now what can James do for you, Detective?”
“I need some information about a club in Plainfield.”
Jimmy or James or whatever he was called stopped and tilted his head.
“Plainfield? The ’burbs are a little out of my regular rotation.”
“Club’s called The Abbey,” I said. “The guy there I’m interested in is named Azrael.”
He shrugged.
“I ain’t heard of it or him.”
“Azrael may think he’s a vampire,” I said. “Or at least he may pretend to be. I think he’s moving something through the club.”
James stopped then and tilted his head. He took off his glasses, allowing me to see his hands for the first time. He had bandages on his thumb, index, and middle fingers. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and looked uneasy. In the past, James had always been forthcoming with what he knew, and if he didn’t know something, he could almost always find out. Something had him spooked.
“Now I already said James doesn’t know anything, so why are you still talking?”
“If I find something, your name will stay out of it,” I said. “No one will know we talked.”
James turned and continued walking. We left Monument Circle and started walking south on Meridian Street. When I was growing up, that might not have been the smartest move, but the city had gentrified and cleaned itself up in the past twenty years. Downtown was now trendy and had some of the nicer bars, restaurants, and stores in the region. James finally stopped and sat at a green table in front of a Borders Bookstore Cafe. He rested his hands in front of him. The bandages over his fingers were tinged with red.
“My office can take care of you if you’re having a problem,” I said.
“James doesn’t have any problems with anybody, Detective.”
I leaned back in my chair and stretched, deciding to take a different tact.
“What happened to your fingers, James?”
He looked down and immediately pulled his hands off the table.
“Nothing.”
I nodded and leaned forward.
“James, we’ve always been straight with each other, and I’m starting to get pissed. I’m on a case, and my time is limited,” I said. “I think you know something and you’re scared, so I’ll make you a deal. If you tell me what I want to know, I won’t arrest you for trying to sell me an ounce of cocaine.”
He shook his head.
“I didn’t try to sell you nothin’.”
“Who do you think the Prosecutor’s going to believe? Me or you? Especially when I search you and find drugs in your pockets.”
“Fuck you, man,” he said. I thought he was going to leave, but he stayed at the table, apparently thinking. His forehead was furrowed, and I could see the carotid arteries on his neck pulse fast.
“What happened to your hands?” I asked, softening my voice.
James stared at me for a moment, but then he laid his hand flat on the table and peeled back the bandage over his index finger. It was purple and swollen; the fingernail was completely gone. I looked up, my mouth open. “Who did this?”
James swallowed and shook his head.
“I don’t want none of this,” he said, securing the bandage over his fingers again. “Whatever you’re doing, keep me out.”
“If you tell me what happened, I might be able to make sure it won’t happen again,” I said. “You’re my CI. I’ll take care of you.”
James shook his head and looked away.
“You’ve been out of the game for a while. Things change.”
“Some things stay the same, though. Someone’s giving you a problem. You tell me who it is, I’ll give them a problem.”
James ran his unbandaged hand across his scalp. I saw his throat dip as he swallowed.
“Fuck, man,” he said. He was almost shaking. “I tried to make a buy. That’s it. It went bad. What else you want to know?”
“Who’d you make a buy from?”
James reached into a pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit up and leaned back.
“I don’t know their names. Heard they’ve got good shit. Almost pure and fucking cheap. I put out some feelers and got jumped. Took my girl and me and tied us to chairs. They wanted to know how I heard of ’em. I told ’em just rumors, but they wanted to know who’s been talking.”
I nodded for him to go on, but he didn’t say anything.
“What did you tell them?
”
“I told 'em that fucking everybody’s been talking,” he said, throwing his hands up. “They pulled off my goddamn fingernails with pliers anyway. Didn’t even say nothing. Just did it and left.”
I nodded. That was a little rougher than usual, even for the drug trade.
“What’d they look like?”
James snuffed his cigarette out on an ashtray on the table.
“I didn’t see no faces. They wore ski masks,” he said, trembling by that point. “I need a new job, man. These cats are for real.”
I took a deep breath.
“Who set it up?”
James shook his head.
“Fucking fat bastard named Rollo,” he said. “Ain’t heard from him since.”
Rollo wasn’t familiar, but I could look him up if need be.
“You got any family outside Indianapolis?” I asked.
James nodded.
“I think you should visit them for a little while,” I said. “I might stir up some trouble in the next few days.”
***
I figured I was sober enough after my meeting to go into work and check my messages, so I stopped by my office. Someone had put a manila file folder and stack of yellow Post–it notes on my desk. The first note told me to call Susan Mercer, my boss. The second was in the same handwriting and suggested that I wear something fire retardant because she sounded pissed. Of course, Susan was always pissed, so that wasn’t anything new.
I ignored the notes for a moment and flipped through the contents of the manila folder. It was a report from my niece’s preliminary autopsy. I scanned through it until I found the opinion. The assistant Coroner, Dr. Hector Rodriguez, pegged the time of death at five to six in the evening and said the immediate cause of death was a probable overdose leading to heart failure. That didn’t tell me much new, but the typed note at the end of the report did.
From a friend. Be careful.
At least Olivia hadn’t abandoned me completely. I tucked the folder into the top drawer of my desk and locked it. I called Susan’s office next. She answered quickly and requested I meet her in her office to discuss Rachel and Robbie. I could already feel the headache starting to brew in my skull. I swore under my breath and told her I’d be up in a few minutes.
Rather than get up immediately, I stayed at my desk, considering what would happen if I simply went home. The pros didn’t outweigh the cons, though. I sighed, wadded both notes and threw them in the trash before getting a cup of coffee at our communal coffee maker. It was scorched and stale. That was about how my day had been going.
I tossed my coffee down a nearby drinking fountain and headed to the elevator for a short ride upstairs. Susan’s office was on the fourteenth floor. Unlike me, she had an actual office with walls and a door. Officially, she was the Assistant Prosecutor, the second most powerful law enforcement official in the city. Unofficially, she ran the office while her elected boss explored the possibility of running for governor. He was a schmuck; she was a hard–ass prosecutor who gave defense attorneys the shakes. We usually got along fairly well.
Her secretary let me into her office. It was roughly fifteen–by–fifteen and had a large picture window overlooking a pedestrian park. Bookshelves covered the walls, and files were stacked chest–high on her desk. Susan was on the phone, but she motioned me in with her free hand. I plucked a file from the chair in front of her desk and sat down, waiting for her to finish the call. She did about five minutes later and faced me for a moment without saying anything.
“How are you, Ash?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said. “Unless you’ve heard otherwise.”
She opened a folder on her desk. I couldn’t see its contents.
“I just got a call from Lieutenant Mike Bowers in homicide. He said you were at Nathan and Maria Cutting’s house this afternoon.”
“Detective Rhodes asked me to come over. Robbie Cutting died. He was the suspect in my niece’s death.”
Susan nodded.
“That’s what I’ve heard. How are you handling things?”
I licked my lips.
“I’m handling them,” I said. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”
“Lieutenant Bowers suggested I give you some time off. I tend to agree with him.”
Of course Bowers would want me off. He was up to something. I looked out the window. Susan had a nice view; I guess her eighty–hour work week had some perks.
“You can do what you want, but I’m fine.”
She nodded again.
“If I gave you a blood alcohol test right now, what would it tell me?” she asked.
“I’m fine, Susan,” I said. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
She waited for another moment as if expecting me to continue. Eventually, she took the hint that I wasn’t.
“I’m taking you off the rotation for the rest of the week. Paid leave. Take a break. You need it.”
“You’re ordering me to take a vacation?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Take your kid to the park, go out to dinner with your wife. Do whatever married people do to relax. I don’t want to see you until next Monday. Is that understood?”
“I don’t have a choice in this?” I asked.
“No,” said Susan, already reading the file in front of her. “Have a nice break.”
Subtlety was not Susan’s strong suit.
I left the building and went to a nearby bar that catered to cops. I wanted to drive home afterwards, so I didn’t have much. Just a beer and some pretzels to soak up some of the liquor already in my stomach.
When I got home, I rinsed off in the shower. I stayed in there for maybe twenty minutes. As the water cascaded over me, my mind flashed to cases I’d rather forget. It did that when I drank sometimes. Liquor usually helped me forget, but occasionally it helped me remember. It was a bitch like that. After my shower, I swished with mouthwash and went to the backyard.
My backyard was my slice of heaven. Hannah and I lived in an old part of the city, and our house had been built when lots were measured in acres rather than in square–feet. We had a covered patio big enough for parties, a swing set for my daughter, and a pair of ancient oak trees that shaded the entire place. I settled into the hammock slung between two patio posts and swayed gently in the afternoon breeze. As soon as I closed my eyes, I was out.
***
I rarely remember my dreams, and that day was no exception. I woke up sweating and feeling as if a weight were pressing against my chest. That happened sometimes. I probably had a nightmare, and I probably deserved it. I rolled out of my hammock and made a cup of tea in the kitchen.
Hannah and Megan came home while my tea steeped, and we had dusk prayers as a family. Megan was still too young to be required to partake in our formal prayer life, but she usually joined us on her own. When Hannah and I first had her, we decided that we wouldn’t force our religion on Megan; it would be her choice. After everything that had happened to Rachel, though, I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of that plan.
After evening prayers, we went to my sister’s house for dinner. There was an empty seat at the table where my niece would have sat. That was hard for Megan to understand, but I felt like it was important that we were there. Hannah offered to do the dishes after dinner, giving me the chance to talk to Rana and Nassir alone. I didn’t want to talk to them about Rachel, but since I was the only investigator still looking into her death, I had to.
We settled into chairs on their covered front porch. I didn’t know what to say for a few minutes, so I stared across the street. I could smell horse shit; evidently my sister was still on her organic gardening kick. Eventually, I cleared my throat and glanced at Rana and Nassir. Rana smiled weakly in response.
“You look like you want to say something,” she said.
I nodded.
“Robbie Cutting died today,” I said, still nodding. “He was Rachel’s boyfriend.”
Nassir stood and spit onto th
e hedges in front of the porch. He rested his hands on the rail, his back towards me.
“We heard this afternoon,” he said.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
“No,” he said, turning around, his arms crossed. “Rachel never told us about him.”
I leaned back in the chair, waiting for the angry glare to leave Nassir’s face. It never did.
“Do you think there were other things she was hiding from you?” I asked.
“Rana and I have answered enough questions today,” he said, putting his hands flat towards me. “We don’t need more.”
My sister reached over and put her hand on her husband's side. She looked to him before looking back at me.
“Why are you asking about Rachel?” she asked.
“I’ve taken over her case. I want to find out what happened to her before someone else gets hurt.”
Nassir and Rana looked at each other. He exhaled heavily through his nose and looked away. Rana looked back at me, uncertainty etched across her face.
“A man from the police department visited us this afternoon,” she said, her eyebrows pressed together and her forehead furrowed. “He said the case was closed, that Robbie admitted killing Rachel.”
Thank you, Mike Bowers.
“That might be true, but we don’t know for sure,” I said. “We have to be positive so no one else gets hurt.”
Nassir’s throat bobbed. Redness formed around his eyes.
“Do you believe what they said about my daughter?” he asked, his voice cracking. “That she slept with this boy, that they did drugs?”
I ran my hand across my face, thinking my answer through.
“I loved Rachel,” I said, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her. That’s all I know.”
I don’t know if that was the right thing to say or not, but Nassir started pacing slowly, the muscles of his jaw protruding as he clenched his teeth. His nostrils flared with every exhalation. Rana stared at him for a moment, but then turned towards me.
“I’ll answer your questions,” she said. “Promise me you won’t hurt Rachel. Her memory, I mean. And if you find something bad, we don’t want to know about it.”