by Chris Culver
I nodded. A big part of me wanted to shut up right there. Interviewing someone after they lose a loved one is worse than pouring salt on old wounds; it’s like dipping them in hydrochloric acid. For what it was worth, I promised that I’d do my best. I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts and looking at my feet so I wouldn’t have to meet Rana or Nassir’s eyes.
“How were things at home lately?” I asked a moment later. “With Rachel.”
My sister shrugged.
“She was growing up,” she said. “You know how that is.”
“That means a lot of different things for a lot of different people,” I said. “What do you mean?”
Rana looked at Nassir for a moment. He didn’t return the gaze.
“She was a teenager,” she said. “She wanted to go to her friends’ houses, she wanted to stay out later, she wanted us to stay out of her room. Things like that.”
“Did she ever get in trouble?” I asked. “At home or at school?”
Rana shrugged.
“She broke curfew,” she said. “And she got a speeding ticket last year.”
I nodded, hoping Rana would continue. She didn’t.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
Nassir stopped pacing and leaned against the porch railing, shaking his head. Rana looked at her shoes.
“I was in her room two months ago,” she said. “I found a bag of something when I was putting clothes in her drawers. It was marijuana.”
Nassir’s shoulders dropped. Rana looked at him and then down at her feet.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said. “I thought it’d be better if you didn’t know.”
“You should have told me,” he said, his voice low and soft. “We could have done something together.”
“I didn’t tell you because I knew how you’d react,” said Rana. “You’d want to send her away so she’d marry some boy she’s never even met. That’s not what she wanted.”
“At least she’d be alive,” he snapped. Nassir stopped speaking for a moment. Eventually, he shook his head. His voice was softer when he spoke again. It almost cracked. “She was a child, Rana. She didn’t know what she wanted. We could have protected her.”
“She needed guidance, not our protection,” said Rana. “We couldn’t hide her behind a veil. That isn’t right.”
Neither spoke again for a moment. I felt like a voyeur intruding upon someone else’s private life. I started to stand, but Rana put her hand on my knee, stopping me. She looked at Nassir.
“I’d like to talk to Ashraf by myself,” she said. “Is that okay?”
Nassir hesitated, but then nodded. He walked toward the front door. Before opening it, he looked back.
“You should have told me, Rana. No matter what. You should have told me.”
“I know I should have,” said Rana. “Now please go inside.”
Nassir dropped his head and did as Rana asked, leaving the two of us alone. My sister was a strong woman. She got that from my mother. My family had never faced the sort of discrimination African Americans faced in the deep South, but we weren’t welcomed with open arms by our community, either. Despite having a doctorate in English Literature from Cambridge, my mother couldn’t even get a job teaching High School Composition. To make ends meet, she worked two full–time jobs, one at a dry cleaners and the other at a janitorial service. Rana raised me while my mother was at work. It wasn’t how either of our childhoods should have been.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Rana nodded.
“I will be,” she said. “Now please, ask your questions, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
I took a notebook from my pocket and opened it to the first clean page. I took a deep breath before speaking.
“You found marijuana in her room,” I said eventually. “Did you ever find anything other than that?”
“No,” she said. “She said it wasn’t even hers. Some girl at school had given it to her to hide. The drug tests the school gave her always came back clean, so I believed her.”
“How about her friends? Did they ever get in trouble?”
Rana looked down and shrugged.
“I don’t know who her friends are anymore. That boy Robbie. She never even told us about him.”
“Do you know Alicia Weinstein?” I asked.
Rana looked wistfully at a Tudor–style home across the street.
“We used to be neighbors. She and Rachel played together every day when they were young, but her family moved a few years ago.”
“Do you know if the kids kept in touch?”
“They weren’t close anymore,” she said, shrugging. “At least not like they were. I guess they still saw each other at school, but Alicia hasn’t come over here in years.”
“How about a girl with curly red hair?” I asked. “Rachel had pictures of her in her locker.”
“Her name is Caitlin Long,” said Rana. “She and Rachel played tennis together. They were going to share a dorm in college. They even had the color scheme for their room picked out.”
I leaned forward and took a business card from my wallet. I handed it to Rana.
“Can you give her this?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to her.”
Rana took my card and nodded as I thought my next question through.
“This is going to sound strange, but I am coming from somewhere with this,” I said. “Did Rachel ever talk about vampires? Or a dance club in Plainfield? Or even someone named Azrael?”
Rana looked away from me and shook her head.
“She read those books, the ones Imam Habib talked about.”
Imam Habib was the leader of our mosque and had warned some of the young girls in our community against the Twilight series. I hadn’t read the books, but Hannah had. She liked them, but novels about vampires were definitely not Islam–approved.
“Was there anything more to it than books?”
Rana wrung her hands together, a pained expression on her face.
“You have to understand. I wanted her to fit in,” she said. “You don’t know how hard it is to be a teenage girl in this country, to see your classmates stare at you for being different. I do. I wanted her to find herself and be happy.”
“What did she do?” I asked. Rana paused before speaking.
“She and her friends wore black, they watched bad horror movies. It was nothing. If I had thought she was in trouble, I would have stepped in.”
“And you never got the sense that there was more to it than just black clothes?”
She looked away.
“Looking back, maybe. I don’t know,” she said. She looked at me. “Some of Rachel’s friends changed. Alicia was such a nice girl when she was growing up. She always smiled at me, always said hello. I saw her when I picked up Rachel at school a few months ago. She smiled and said hello, but it was superficial. It made me feel uncomfortable.”
I nodded. Having interviewed Alicia, I knew the feeling Rana was describing.
“Do you hear any rumors about the girls or anything like that?” I asked.
Rana looked away.
“I try not to keep up with gossip,” she said. “Most of the women at Rachel’s school prefer to ignore me at PTA meetings, anyway.”
Rana and I talked for a few more minutes, but I didn’t learn anything new about the case. After promising me whatever help she could give me, Rana went back inside, leaving me on the porch alone with my thoughts.
I stayed there for a moment, leafing through my notes and filling in parts I had left blank. The case was frustrating. If Rachel’s death was an accident, why would someone try to cover it up by hiding drugs in her locker and lying to the police? And if it wasn’t an accident, what would anyone gain by killing a teenager? It didn’t make sense.
I closed my notebook and sat up straight, trying and failing to fit together pieces in my obscure and macabre puzzle. The lights flicked off as I put my notebook in my pocket. I doubted Rana would turn the
lights off on me, so it was probably Megan. Hannah and I had taught her to shut off lights when she left a room, and she was pretty good about it. She had probably used the hallway bathroom and shut everything off on her way. I turned to go back inside when I noticed something across the street move in my peripheral vision. I stopped as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. What had been shadows became shapes and what had been shapes became images.
Someone was watching me.
As if noticing my stare, the figure turned and darted through a chest–high hemlock hedge, disappearing completely. Without thinking, I jogged down the front steps and across my sister’s lawn. I stopped on the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. The night was silent and dark. I couldn't see anyone. A chill that had very little to do with the temperature traveled up and down my spine.
That was a little creepy.
I went back to the house and rounded up my family. I didn’t tell Rana why, but I reminded her to put on her security system as soon as we left. She and Nassir would be fine. They were in a wealthy area, so officers from the local precinct patrolled it pretty heavily. If someone tried to break in, he’d be arrested before getting past the front door. I doubted the mystery stalker was after Nassir or Rana, though. He had been watching me, and with two people already dead, that was worrying.
Chapter 6
Hannah and Megan went grocery shopping the next morning, giving me the house to myself for an hour or so. I went to my home office and spun around in my chair. The case wasn’t just about Rachel anymore; it was about Robbie Cutting, too, and I needed to find out what I could about him. I fired up my computer, and when it finished loading, I opened a web browser. The Cuttings were among the wealthiest people in town; hopefully they were wealthy enough to need a security system with surveillance cameras.
I Googled John Meyers’ firm and had a secretary on the phone within two minutes. She put me on hold while she conferred with her boss. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen as I waited. I could hear the thrum of a busy office in the background when Meyers picked up.
“This is John Meyers,” he said. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Thanks for taking my call,” I said, walking from my kitchen to my office. “I’m investigating a case related to Robbie Cutting’s death, and I wanted to call and see if the Cuttings had security cameras at their house.”
Meyers was silent for a moment, presumably thinking.
“I was told that all investigations into Rachel Haddad and Robbie Cutting were closed.”
“Mostly,” I said. “The homicide investigations are closed for now, but we’ve got a couple of loose ends to tie up. Rachel supposedly died of a drug overdose, and we haven’t found any drugs yet. We’re trying to find out what’s going on.”
“And surveillance footage would help you how?” asked Meyers.
I thought through my answer for a second, but I couldn’t come up with anything offhand.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss operational specifics at this time,” I said.
“Then I’m sorry, but the only way you’ll see that footage is with a court order, Detective.”
Shit.
I licked my lips, thinking.
“Lieutenant Bowers and I disagree about certain things,” I said. “I want to see the tape to make sure Robbie Cutting was alone when he died.”
Meyers clucked his tongue.
“So this is about Robbie’s death,” said Meyers. “Is this an official request?”
“No,” I said.
“Suppose I tell you to get a warrant, then.”
“Then your clients will likely never find out what happened to their son,” I said. My voice was sharper than I intended, and I could hear Meyers breathe heavily. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. This case is closed. I’m your clients only shot at finding out what happened.”
“Give me a moment to confer with the Cuttings. I’ll call you back.”
Meyers hung up before I could say anything else. I squeezed the phone for a moment, but eventually I forced myself to relax. I really wanted a drink, which was a good sign that I didn’t need one.
I took my phone to the living room to wait. It was early enough that the morning news was still on, but they didn’t report anything terribly interesting. There were no reported murders the night previous; that was probably a relief to the boys and girls in homicide. Despite the respite, a group of churches on the city’s near–North side planned a peace rally downtown to protest the recent surge in violence. Nothing would come of it, but it was nice to hear that neighborhoods were pulling together.
My phone rang about fifteen minutes later. I picked it up and put it to my ear.
“They’ll meet you,” said Meyers. “One this afternoon. Don’t be late.”
I scratched my forehead with my thumb.
“Think we could make it a little earlier? The sooner I get the information I need, the sooner I can solve this case.”
“Be pleased with what you have, Detective,” said Meyers. “This isn’t my idea. And Mrs. Cutting’s blessing or not, if you screw us on this, I’ll screw you twice as hard. That’s a promise.”
That’s a disturbing image.
I thanked him for his time and hung up. I had anticipated spending the day on Robbie and Rachel’s case, but I had other things I could do, too. I cleaned myself up in the bathroom and had morning prayer in the living room. After that, I got dressed and hopped in my car. IMPD’s narcotics squad played by slightly different rules than the rest of our department. They almost never went on TV, they rarely attended morning briefings, and they didn’t even occupy the same building as the rest of us. Instead, they stayed in an old warehouse a couple of blocks away in order to maintain their anonymity. They were a professional unit, though, and did good work.
I parked in the city government parking lot and hiked the three blocks to their building. By design, the place looked abandoned. I walked to its only door, a solid, slate–gray piece of steel, and hit the buzzer on the keypad beside it. The door popped open about three minutes later, and I flashed my badge at a short, Hispanic man in a Hawaiian shirt and jeans. He nodded and let me in.
While the exterior of the building looked derelict, the inside was a buzzing, modern office with advanced video and sound labs to process surveillance evidence. My escort stopped in the front hallway and raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“You seen Detective Lee this morning?” I asked.
“He’s the wino in sound booth one. You know how to get there?”
I nodded and headed in the direction of the sound booth. Since I had never worked narcotics, I didn’t know a lot of its detectives, and I was stopped twice to explain who I was. Both times I had to hold up my badge and explain that I was on my way to see David Lee in sound booth one. Lee met me in the hallway before I was stopped a third time. He was a small man with a thin goatee and jet–black hair. He wore an old brown suit that was as wrinkled as anything I had ever seen, and I could see dark makeup beneath his eyes. He looked as if he had gone through a rough couple of years, which I assumed was intentional.
“Heard you were looking for me, Ash,” he said, putting out his hand for me to shake. “Been a long time.”
“The Prosecutor’s Office keeps me pretty busy,” I said. “Witnesses don’t babysit themselves.”
He snickered.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for information,” I said. Lee nodded and motioned down the hallway with his head. I followed as we walked towards his actual desk. “One of my confidential informants got jumped the other day. Somebody pulled off some of his fingernails with pliers”
Lee whistled.
“He put his dick in the wrong hole or something?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “James told me he was trying to make a buy, and it went bad. He’s a good source, so I want to take care of him and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Lee nodded as we entered the bullp
en. Like nearly everyone in IMPD, the narcotics squad shared a large open room rather than individual offices. They had cubicles, though, and Lee’s had pictures of suspected drug pushers thumbtacked into the walls. I pulled a rolling desk chair from a nearby cubicle and sat beside Lee’s desk. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
“I haven’t heard about anybody with a fingernail fetish,” he said. “Your CI get a name?”
I shook my head no.
“He didn’t even know who he was supposed to meet, but the buy was set up by a guy named Rollo.”
Lee nodded.
“Real name is Rolando Diaz,” said Lee, leaning forward. He moved his computer’s mouse and typed in a password to turn off the screen saver before calling up one of the department’s felon databases. He typed in the name and sat back as it searched. “He’s basically a middleman. Sets up a lot of deals so upper management doesn’t have to meet with the guys on the street.”
That jibed with what I had heard from James.
“Think he’d burn a dealer if given the order?”
Lee shrugged.
“Rollo’s not a choir boy, but I don’t think he’s pulling off too many fingernails.”
“You know who he works for?” I asked.
“He was with the Cubans, but the Russians pushed them out a year or two back. He’s probably moved on. Is your source worth some work?”
I nodded.
“He’s done good work for me.”
Lee nodded and ran his hand across his goatee, presumably thinking. He was smart enough to avoid asking what sort of work James had done for me, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to say. Bottom line, James did things for the department few other people could. He knew that sometimes people had to be taken off the street and was willing to help us do that. IMPD owed James as far as I was concerned.
“We can roll on Rollo this morning,” said Lee. “Haven’t rousted him for a few weeks.”
“You got an address?” I asked.
Lee tapped his monitor.
“Yep,” he said. “You up for it?”
“Hell yes.”
***
We took Lee’s department–issued car, a black ’63 Chevy Impala polished to a mirror shine. It stood out downtown, but it was right at home in the neighborhood where we were heading. We drove north for about ten minutes, the streets gradually becoming more residential the further we drove. Eventually, we were surrounded by apartments and small bungalows on all sides. Most of the buildings had at least one window broken, and the streets were riddled with unfilled potholes.