And Grant You Peace (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 4)

by Kate Flora

  He felt a headache starting just thinking about it.

  His phone rang. He hoped it was going to be some good news, maybe the shooters caught, but he didn't work in the good news bureau. A report from the home front. Chris was short and to the point. "You need to talk to your son. He and Nina have been yelling at each other for twenty minutes about who is hogging the computer. Twenty minutes, Joe! Here."

  There was a rustle and Dylan's voice, so like his own it was eerie, came down the line. "So, Dad?"

  He'd tried to be patient and understanding. The boy had lost his mother. Been shipped from the only family he'd ever known to live with the stranger who was his father. Transitions were always hard. So were losses. Fifteen was a hard age for a boy under the best circumstances. But Dylan was making this harder than it needed to be.

  "So, Dylan," he echoed, "what's the problem?"

  "That little bitch Nina won't let me have a turn on the computer, and I've got homework, too."

  Chris would deal with Dylan's language, Burgess was brought in here only as referee. He checked his watch. Ten past nine. Just over ten minutes since they'd pulled to the curb at the Imam's house. It had been a long ten minutes.

  "How long has she been on the computer?"

  Dylan didn't answer.

  "How much time do you need?"

  "Hour, maybe."

  "Let me talk to Nina."

  For decades, Burgess's fears about relationships and children had been that he wouldn't be good at it. He wouldn't have the patience. It would bring out the violence he feared lived in him just as it had lived in his father. He'd never gotten to the point of imagining the actuality, the day-to-day complexities of managing the needs of different humans. Even Chris, who was steady as a rock and had really wanted this, sometimes struggled to deal with the endless squabbling.

  Nina's voice was a little shaky. "Hey, Joe?"

  "What's your side of this?"

  "Dylan's just being an ass. He had the computer from seven to eight, spent the whole time online with his friends. Then, when I get a turn and I'm almost done with my homework, he's suddenly all, 'I didn't get a turn and I need it right now.'"

  The truth, Burgess knew, lay somewhere in between.

  "How long will it take you to finish?"

  "Ten minutes."

  Jesus. They call him in the middle of investigating a child's death, the roar of gunshots still ringing in his ears, to squabble about ten minutes? Welcome to the world of happy domesticity.

  "Thanks, Nina. Ten minutes and you get off, okay? Put Dylan back on."

  "Dad?" Not a name or an endearment, but a snarl.

  "It's yours in ten minutes. Do we need to create a schedule? Would that make things easier?"

  "What we need is another fucking computer."

  "What you need is to watch your language."

  His son hung up on him. Maybe if he'd been dealing with this boy since birth? Maybe the web of connection made all of this easier. But he knew better. He'd been dealing with families long enough to know none of this was easy. That at a certain point, even nice children could morph into teenage monsters.

  There was a humorless laugh from the back seat. Ismail said, "Mixing business with pleasure, Detective?"

  Burgess ignored him. He took his file of domestic issues, stuck it in a mental filing cabinet, and slammed it shut.

  * * *

  They parked in the garage at 109 and went in the side door, in case there were still reporters around. Took the elevator upstairs, waited while their witness cleaned himself up, and settled him in an interview room. Burgess was going to do the interview. Perry would watch it on a monitor in another room. While Perry escorted Ismail to the interview room, Burgess went into the restroom, put on gloves, and retrieved his bloody handkerchief from the trash. He put it in a paper bag and labeled it. Whether he liked it or not, Ismail had just given them a DNA sample.

  Before he went into the room, Burgess took a few minutes with Perry. "Get someone to do a records check on this guy. His address. His family. See if we know anything about them. Also on the Imam and his family. And that kid—the one who was hanging around in the bushes, watching."

  He turned away, then swung back. "And on our translator."

  Perry jerked his chin toward the closed interview room door. "That asshole really pushes my buttons. What's his problem, anyway? Somebody freakin' died today."

  Burgess nodded. "Maybe I'll find out."

  He didn't expect they taught civics in Somali schools, to the extent there were Somali schools. He wasn't even sure it was still taught here. Citizens might have a moral obligation to help the police, but mostly what he heard from citizens—whether they'd had civics or not—was that they knew their rights, not their responsibilities.

  He went into the room and closed the door. "Can I get you something?" he asked. "Some tea or water?"

  The man shook his head. He sat like a stone in the chair, the kind of faraway look in his eyes Burgess had sometimes seen on stone-cold killers. A gaze that didn't acknowledge anything that was going on around him or even that other humans existed. Burgess started recording, identifying both of them and the matter that was the subject of the interview. He got the man's name and address again, confirmation of the man's place of employment, and that the man was an American citizen. His relationship to the Imam was grandson.

  There were many ways to open an interview. Often it was friendly chat. A slow lead-in. Rapport building. Putting the witness at ease. Ismail's behavior on the ride over here had already told him there would be no rapport, so he went right to the heart of the matter.

  "Earlier today, there was a fire in the building which is used as a mosque on Ashton Street. When I spoke with you a few hours later at the home of Muhammad Ibrahim, you told me that you were not present at the scene of that fire. We know that you were. Why did you lie to me?"

  The man sat as if he hadn't heard. Staring straight ahead. No expression on his face.

  Burgess tried a few more questions. Whether Ismail knew who might have shot at him tonight? Whether there was anyone who had a grudge. He got the same lack of response.

  Finally, he pushed back his chair and went out. He went to the file on his desk and got the photographs of the girl and the baby, then went to check with Perry.

  "Patrol have any luck finding those shooters?"

  "Nope. Found the car, though. They tried to burn it, but the fire went out after they ran off. We ran the plate. Comes back registered to our friend the Imam. Maybe some sort of infighting, but we're checking to see if any of his cars have been reported stolen."

  It would be odd if the Imam was involved. From Ismail's presence there earlier tonight, Burgess would have assumed a close relationship and the one thing he'd learned was that Ismail was the Imam's grandson. So why would the Imam want him shot? Was it shot or shot at? Intended for Ismail, as he'd assumed? Intended for them? Pure theater? He didn't know.

  "We still need that plan from the Imam. Now we need follow-up about the car used in the shooting."

  "Right. Kyle and I are heading back out there soon as I'm done here. I expect they won't answer the door though. Like last time."

  "I think we're done here. It's like talking to a stone. Anything on that records check yet?"

  Perry called over to the detective they considered their computer jockey, Rocky Jordan. Jordan wasn't usually in at night. Melia must have called him in to start getting them background information for the morning. "Got anything on any of those names yet, Rocky?"

  Jordan pointed to a growing pile of papers on his desk. "Plenty, but you're gonna have to make a chart to keep it all straight."

  Burgess slumped down in his chair. It was wishful thinking, he knew, but he wished something about this would be easy. Witnesses sitting like stones. Drive-by shootings. A whole lot of drama tonight with no clue what it was about.

  Before he went back into the interview room, he called Aucoin over at the hospital again. "How's our girl d
oing?"

  "No change, sir. There was a bit of a ruckus a while ago, though. Man tried to get into the room. Said he was family and he'd come to take her home."

  "You grabbed him, right?"

  Aucoin's sigh told Burgess what the answer would be. "Sorry, sir. Security was slow to respond and you told me not to leave her."

  He pictured Aucoin ducking his head. The boy was becoming a good cop. Would still beat himself up for not being everywhere and doing everything. If they weren't so short-handed, and Cote wasn't such a parsimonious asshole, they would have had two officers there, and one could have chased the man.

  "Not your fault, Remy," he said. "But we could use a description. I'll swing by, talk to people, see what their security cameras got. Melia's asked patrol to send someone to relieve you. Bring those clothes back here when you come. Okay?"

  "Sorry, sir," Aucoin said again. "I mean, yes, sir."

  "Did he get into the room, Remy?"

  Aucoin was silent.

  "Did she see him?"

  "Yes."

  "How did she react? Did she react?"

  "She reacted, sir. When she saw him in the doorway... the look on her face? She was as scared as I've ever seen anyone be in my life."

  And they'd let him get away.

  Burgess wanted to break something. "Thanks, Remy. You did the right thing staying with her. I'll be over in a few. You can fill me in then."

  He realized there was one more question he needed to ask. "When did this happen?"

  "About twenty minutes ago, sir. I would have called you, but it's been kind of hectic here."

  Burgess could imagine. So it couldn't have been the man in the interview room. "Stay put 'til I get there, okay?"

  He disconnected and brought Perry up to date.

  Chapter 7

  He wanted to head straight out the door, get to the hospital, and see what he could do about identifying their mystery girl's visitor, but there was the small problem of Ismail. A mean part of Burgess wanted to let him cool his heels for a few hours and see if he still acted so stony. But that was against procedure, especially where the man wasn't a suspect as far as they knew, just someone with information who refused to talk. The same POS folks they dealt with every day.

  Stan left to join Kyle in trying to reinterview the Imam about the shooting and whether the car had been stolen.

  Burgess got his coat, checked his pockets for all the usual items—gun, cuffs, pepper spray, radio, cell phone, badge—then scooped up the photos of the girl and the baby and headed back into the room. Ismail didn't look like he'd moved an inch. He was perched on the edge of the chair, staring stonily at the wall.

  Burgess tossed the two pictures down on the table. "Do you know this girl? Know anything about this baby?"

  Although it was sometimes unpleasant, especially with his family and friends, Burgess had spent a lifetime reading the smallest gesture. The man tried not to look, couldn't help himself, and then, like he had at the Imam's house, he flinched at the sight of that small vulnerable girl surrounded by desperate hands. At a tiny baby smothered in medical equipment, fighting for his life.

  "Who are they?" Burgess asked.

  "I have no idea."

  "I think you have a pretty good idea. But it's up to you whether you want to act like a citizen of these United States and actually help get justice for that little boy's lost life. Entirely up to you. You can go back to the mall and sell people electronic equipment and new computers and never give a damn about anyone but yourself."

  He shook his head as he walked to the door. "Maybe, where you've come from, the death of a baby simply doesn't matter. Or a girl beaten and brutalized and locked in a closet." Ismail flinched again. "I'll get patrol to drive you home."

  Just before he walked out, he added, "You'd better hope that if something ever happens to someone you care about, you don't need the police to help you sort it out. Because you know how readily people cooperate. How much they care. And next time someone decides to shoot you, the cops may not be there to save you."

  He arranged for Ismail to be driven home. He was halfway downstairs before it hit him. Computers. The guy worked at the mall and sold computers. He called Kyle.

  "Terry, you hear anything about any recent big thefts of computer equipment?"

  "Apples," Kyle said. "Someone stole bushels and bushels of 'em. You didn't hear?"

  He'd heard, but it hadn't registered, and he didn't like that. Getting careless and taking his fingers off the pulse of his city while trying to give his personal life some CPR. "I didn't."

  "Out at the mall, so it's not ours. But if you drop over to property crimes, they'll fill you in. South Portland thought it was an inside job, but everyone came up clean. Why?"

  "Because that's what was in that closet. And Ismail, the guy who got us shot at tonight, works at the Apple store."

  "The plot thickens," Kyle said. "Don't you hate that expression?"

  "I do." He told Kyle what he'd just heard from Aucoin. "I'm heading over there now. Keep an eye on young Stanley, will you? Something's eating him."

  "You got that right. I'll see what I can find out." And Kyle, a model of efficiency, was gone.

  Burgess humped himself down to the garage, slammed his car door too hard, and headed to the hospital. He had the window down, needing the night air to keep himself awake, and scents kept drifting in the window. Earth and damp. Cigarettes and marijuana. Wood smoke. That last might be coming off his clothes. He hadn't had a chance to shower or change. He thought it would be nice to drive out into the country, hear the high-pitched cacophony of spring peepers. Maybe take the kids along.

  He had no time for larking off like that.

  * * *

  The nighttime security supervisor was happy to help, a little embarrassed by having let someone get so close to a vulnerable patient when they'd specifically been asked to protect her. The surveillance videos were not especially helpful, though. Dark, grainy pictures of a man rushing out the door and getting into a waiting car. The car pulling quickly away. A battered gray or black Honda. Rocky Jordan, who was good at computer enhancements, might be able to get them a plate, or a partial plate. Beyond that, about all they had was tall, dark, and bearded. The ubiquitous hoodie that made everyone look alike. This one didn't even have a distinctive pattern or design, it was just black.

  The lobby video was a little better. The man had done a good job of keeping his face turned away from the camera, so good he might almost have scoped out the room in advance, but there was one clear shot—a moment when the man had had to turn to avoid running into a small child.

  He had the security man pause the tape as he stared at the man's face. It was a face he knew rather well. Not Somali. African-American. A very bad actor by the name of Kimani Yates. Until he'd gone away for a particularly brutal attack on a member of a rival gang, Yates had been something of a one-man crime wave. But Yates was supposed to be in jail. They were supposed to be notified of his release. And as far as Burgess knew, he didn't have a twin.

  He called dispatch, asked them to do a check on Yates's status. Then he called Rocky Jordan and asked for a more thorough version of the same. He put Melia in the loop, asked patrol for someone to sit on their mystery girl's room, and got Aucoin to come and look at the tape.

  "That's the man you saw? The one who tried to get into the room?"

  Aucoin's face was grim. "That's the man."

  "His name is Kimani Yates. Last I heard, county had him. They were supposed to give us a heads-up when he got out. Looks like our boy might have gotten time off for good behavior. They sometimes have a peculiar notion of what constitutes good behavior over there."

  Burgess was disgusted, but not surprised, by the system's failures. Bad enough when it happened to the cops. They were supposed to be on the same side as corrections. But it also happened when a victim was supposed to be notified. That was a far more serious breach.

  He needed to look at Yates's record. See if there
had been anything involving young girls. If their mystery girl might have been Yates's victim. If there was anyone besides the cops who was supposed to be notified if Yates was getting out. Whether he'd been out recently enough to have fathered this girl's child. Wondered how in hell that might be connected to the mosque and to stolen computer equipment or to why their girl had been locked in a closet.

  "You identify yourself as a police officer and order him to stop when he tried to enter the room, Remy?"

  "You bet I did, sir."

  Burgess turned to the security chief. "He get physical with any of your guys when they tried to stop him?"

  "I've got a man with a broken nose."

  "Get me any clothing that might have come in contact with Yates."

  At least, when they found Yates, he was going back inside. Whack-a-mole. The cops kept catching them and trying to put 'em away, and the bad guys just kept popping up. Burgess called dispatch, put out a BOLO on Yates. The job like a kid's game and the jails had revolving doors.

  He was putting his phone away when it rang.

  Kyle sounded as disgusted as he felt. "So, Joe," Kyle said, "remember how you once said that policing is where they tie one hand behind your back, blind you in one eye, and say, 'Now, son, go serve and protect?' Well, that's how I'm feeling right now. Our friend the Imam declined to receive us, but he sent one of his grandsons down to say that as far as he knows, his car is in the driveway, and he has given no one permission to use it. When I said 'which car' the little bastard said 'none of 'em' and closed the door in my face."

  In the background, Stan Perry said something. Kyle said, "Shut up." Then, "Not you, Joe." More firmly, "Stanley. I said shut up." Burgess heard a car door slam. "He's gone to go kick a tire or something. Anyway, I'm sitting here looking at five cars parked in the driveway and on the lawn, all of them registered to the Imam. But his son says that none of the Imam's cars are missing."

  "How many vehicles are registered to him?"