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

by Kate Flora

  My dad. God. He was so badly qualified to be anyone's dad, yet the term felt like she'd bestowed an honor on him. The solitary man, Portland's meanest cop, now lived in a household full of children. Sometimes he had to blink and shake his head to see if it was real.

  Chris came in, carrying a cup of coffee. "Morning, sleepy head," she said. "I think we've got us a new anti-Cote device."

  "She was brilliant."

  "Pretty proud of herself," Chris said. "I guess she hasn't missed the myriad times I've cursed the man."

  "Kids, you know," he said. "They hear everything."

  She clutched her blue robe with one hand like a very proper matron. "Not everything, I hope."

  "Everything," he said.

  She looked surprised. "Well, damn!" she said, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "You need more sleep."

  "I do," he agreed, "but I've got people to see and asses to kick."

  "I don't suppose you've got time to drive Dylan to school?"

  He squinted at the clock. It was a little after seven, and Melia had called their meeting for eight. "I can make time."

  She gave him that smile that was like the sun suddenly appearing from behind a cloud. The smile that lit rooms. That lit him. If they hadn't had a house full of kids and he hadn't had a room full of cops waiting for him, he would have had her out of that blue robe and back in the bed in a nanosecond.

  But this was their new reality.

  He threw back the covers and gulped his coffee as she dropped a stack of clothes beside him. "Rise and shine," she said.

  "I don't know about shine, but around you, rise is a given."

  She swatted him. "Don't be vulgar."

  "Honest," he said, reaching for his clothes. "Tell Dylan to be ready in ten."

  "I think we need a date night," she said, and left, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  Dylan was slouched against the kitchen counter, backpack slung over one shoulder, a poster boy for teenage attitude. "Hey, Dad," he said, when Burgess came in. "Can we go now?"

  "You can go down to the truck," he said. "I'll be there in a minute." He tossed Dylan the keys. Gad. Soon his son would be driving.

  He dropped a kiss on Nina's bright head. "Great work with Captain Cote, kid," he said. "You're a natural."

  She looked up from her cereal and grinned. "At what?"

  "Managing difficult people. I see a bright future ahead."

  "Oh, right. I can run a call center, maybe, or..." The grin grew impish. "Maybe work the front desk down at 109?"

  "A natural," he repeated. "Where's Neddy?"

  "He doesn't have to be at school until eight-thirty, remember?" Her voice rose slightly on "remember," like she mostly thought he was okay but sometimes had to wonder if Burgess was secretly an idiot. "He's still asleep."

  The kids all went to different schools, which made getting out the door in the morning such a hassle. Nina and Neddy could walk, but since they left at different times, someone had to walk Neddy to school. Chris wasn't about to let him go by himself. Not when he was only eight. Not when she knew the streets were full of predators and sex offenders and creeps and careless drivers. Usually her mother, Doro, came over to do that so Chris could get to work on time.

  "My bad," he said, and instantly regretted it. It was one of those expressions he hated, that the kids used all the time. It felt more like a way of blowing off responsibility than accepting it. He would have to watch himself.

  "See you tonight," he said. "Hope you have a good day."

  Suddenly his little Nina was all serious. "Hope you do, too." A pause. A grin. Then, "Dad."

  He hurried down the Explorer, where Dylan had the keys in the ignition and the radio on. The whole car was booming.

  "Trying to wake the whole neighborhood?" he said.

  "They need to hear this."

  Maybe his hearing was going, but Burgess found it increasingly hard to pick out the words to the songs the kids listened to. It was often just a droning blur to him.

  "Translate for me," he said.

  Dylan told him the words.

  "What do we know about this group?"

  Dylan told him that, too.

  "They're awfully young to be so angry and disillusioned," Burgess said. Though he'd seen plenty of kids on the street who had much to be angry about. He thought of his mystery girl. He'd bet her story gave her a lot to be angry about. And disillusioned.

  "So what is it about this music that appeals to you? Why should people listen to it?"

  Dylan shifted, and Burgess expected his son was going to do his usual shut-down thing. He approached his own son with caution and an awareness of how easy it was for things to go wrong. Conversing was like crossing a rushing river on slippery, unstable rocks. One misstep could plunge him into icy coldness. But today, Dylan didn't shut down.

  "Adolescence is confusing, Dad," he said. "We feel... I feel like this speaks to me, that's all."

  Dylan reached for the dial and turned the music down. "Tell me about your case. The one that happened yesterday. The fire. And that girl."

  It was the first time Dylan had shown an interest in what he did. Burgess considered what he could tell his son about a case where they were keeping most things from the press and the public. He decided to take a chance.

  "A lot of what happens in our cases, for investigative reasons, we don't share with the public, so some of what I'm going to tell you has to stay just between us, okay?"

  Maybe he imagined it, but he thought Dylan sat up straighter, pleased to be trusted with a confidence.

  "My mom was a lawyer, and my stepdad was a judge. I'm kind of used to that."

  Burgess told him about sitting in the truck. About Jason coming up, all out of breath, urgently summoning him to a fire, and to help someone who was trapped inside.

  "Isn't that a job for the fire department?" Dylan asked.

  "It would be, if they were there," Burgess agreed, "but they hadn't gotten there yet, and there wasn't any time to waste. The fire was moving fast."

  "Weren't you scared?"

  There were so many answers to that question. Only a fool wasn't scared in a situation like that, but cops didn't get to sit around and assess whether they were too scared to act. They were trained to act. So that's what he told Dylan. "But I've been scared plenty of times in my life. Sometimes, when it's over, I'll start shaking and it won't stop for hours. I guess you'd say we've got these... we call 'em 'lock boxes'... in our heads, and we put the bad stuff there and shut the door. Otherwise, we couldn't do the job."

  His son seemed really interested. "What's the scariest thing that ever happened to you?" he asked.

  But they had arrived at school. Burgess didn't want the conversation to end, and he sensed Dylan didn't either.

  "I'll tell you tonight," he said. "If work doesn't keep me away."

  "Could you take me with you sometime? Just let me ride along and watch what you do?"

  They did it for citizens all the time. Mostly patrol, though, not CID. But why not? There was something about riding in the car that made talking easier. Who knew what might happen if Dylan got to actually watch what he did?

  "You'd probably be bored out of your mind, you know. A lot of what we do is watching and waiting. But sure, you can come along with me some time. I'd like that."

  "Me, too." Dylan reached for his backpack, then hesitated. "The mystery girl. She's about my age? And you don't know her name?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, if you had a picture of her, I could ask around."

  It was something he ordinarily wouldn't have done. But if they didn't get an ID on her pretty soon, they'd likely be releasing her picture to the media anyway, so why not? He reached behind the seat, grabbed his briefcase, and gave the girl's photo to Dylan. "Be discreet, okay? This isn't something to pass out in the cafeteria."

  "I know that." Dylan gave one of his rarer-than-rare smiles, grabbed his backpack, and walked away.

 
; Chapter 13

  No one in the conference room was at his perky best, despite the DD sandwiches and coffee that Kyle had brought. It took time for coffee to work. But it was food, and they all followed the detective's rule: eat when you can. The uncertainty of their lives and schedules had taught them that. Skip an opportunity, and it might be many hours before you got another.

  Melia was looking older, and pinched with worry, and Burgess figured that he'd had a call from the captain, complaining about the lack of reports and about Burgess's unresponsiveness. Burgess was sorry for his boss, but not sorry that Nina had run interference. Among other things, because it had been so good for her self-esteem.

  Self-esteem. Back when he'd been in school, no one had cared about that. Humility, maybe. This was New England, after all. He'd grown up with a healthy combination of Catholic guilt and Puritan severity. Funny how that was not what he wanted for his kid. Jeez. His kids. As someone had recently remarked about him, "old Burgess was getting soft."

  He shoved thoughts about his family in the lockbox and looked around the table.

  Stan Perry was slumped in his chair, wearing yesterday's clothes and badly in need of a shave. On his face and on his shaven head, which was sporting blond fuzz like a baby's head. Not the look they wanted to project to the public. He hoped the captain wouldn't decide to grace their meeting with his presence.

  Preston Devlin, Wink's younger brother, was there to represent the gang squad. While Wink was dark, quick-witted, and cynical, Press was a brawny redhead with a sunny disposition. No one, seeing them together, would have taken them for brothers. Until you knew their work ethic. It was hard to get either Devlin brother to stop working, leave 109, and go home. Press, whose nickname was Full Court Press because of his relentless attack on anything assigned to him, was thumbing through a stack of photographs—Rudy Carr's stills, Burgess thought—and he had a sheaf of papers in front of him. Unlike the rest of them, he looked rested and eager.

  Melia hadn't said anything, which meant he wanted Burgess to run the meeting. Unless he had an agenda of his own, that was usually his way. Sit back and let his detectives have free rein, until they needed something from him or the brass had been gnawing on him in a particularly hard way.

  Deciding to save Perry for last, he began to run his list. He figured he'd start with Devlin. "Press, just to bring you up to speed. When we interviewed the Imam last night, Muhammad Ibrahim, he said that they—the Muslims associated with that mosque—had been the target of harassment by what they termed 'motorcycle guys.' We don't know how serious that harassment was, but it's something to look into. Especially given that there was anti-Muslim graffiti on the building and we know that the fire was arson."

  There was a murmur around the table. This was the first time they'd heard their suspicions about arson confirmed.

  "The quality isn't good, but we can see two men on motorcycles in Rudy's video. Think you can do anything with that?"

  "Already did, Sarge." Devlin's smile was the happy one of a kid in a candy shop. He passed around copies of two photos. As the detectives bent over them, he explained. "I looked at the video, then checked our files. That first one is our surveillance photo of one of the motorcycles in Rudy's video. You can see that front end is customized with all that fancy chrome. It belongs to an Iron Angel named William Flaherty, known as 'Butcher' or 'Butch.' A real bad actor. Old-school knives-and-chains type. He likes to leave his victims alive, but barely. If they aren't scarred and maimed, the Butcher hasn't done his job."

  He held up the second picture. "This is our boy. Not someone you'd want to bring home to mama, is he?"

  Burgess was a big man, but Butcher Flaherty made him look like midget. Flaherty was built like a human wall. Square from his shoulders to his thighs and a lot of cows had died to make a leather jacket big enough to cover him. He had Nazi swastikas tattooed on his throat and three black teardrops under one eye. The other eye was covered by a black eye patch. He looked like someone you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley at night, or even in a supermarket aisle in broad daylight.

  For a moment, they looked up from the picture, and at each other, remembering encounters with conscienceless monsters like Flaherty, the horrific damage inflicted on their victims. Burgess heard Dylan's voice. What the scariest situation you've ever been in? It would have been with someone like this.

  "He lost that eye in prison," Devlin said. "Your Imam say anything about an eye patch?"

  He hadn't, and it was a pretty distinctive bit of information, as was Flaherty's impressive size. So maybe Flaherty wasn't their guy. Still, they'd have to talk to him. A conversation Burgess expected would be a whole lot like talking to Norton, or Ismail, and one to which no cop would go without significant backup. He sighed and made a note.

  "Thanks, Press. You got an address for him?"

  "Workin' on it, Sarge. He'd not exactly the type to stay in touch with his parole officer, keep 'em current on his address. There's a bar down on Commercial Street they like to hang out at. I'll drop in, see what I can learn."

  He looked back down at his papers. "I couldn't do anything with that second bike. Just not enough information."

  "Not a problem," Burgess said. "But if you've got time, you might see who has surveillance cameras in the area that might have gotten a piece of that corner. We're a little stretched right now. Could use the help."

  "I'm on it, sir."

  "And call me as soon as you get a line on Flaherty."

  Burgess switched to Kyle. "Terry, can you follow up with your informant today, see if she has anything concrete to offer?"

  "Can we meet her demands?" Kyle said.

  "Demands?" Melia said.

  "She wants an iPod as the price of cooperation."

  "They're expensive," Melia said.

  "I think we might have one or two rattling around in unclaimed property," Kyle said. "It doesn't have to be new. She just wants to feel like she's in control."

  Melia nodded. They all understood about that. So much of the population they dealt with felt like they had little control over their lives. Poverty. Mental illness. Substance abuse. Dysfunctional families. Everything contributed to making people feel helpless. If an iPod could shift that a little, and they gained something in return, it was a win-win.

  "Rocky, you got us an owner of that property yet?"

  Rocky Jordan sat behind a stack of papers, their emperor of information. "Typical corporate bullshit, Joe," Jordan said. "Real estate trust, owned by a corporation, which is owned by another corporation. Like one of those Russian dolls, you know. I just keep opening one, finding another inside. So short answer? No, though it does look like your Imam may have a hand in there somewhere. But I'll get there."

  "Anything on our stolen car? Stolen plates?" Burgess meant the car that had crashed at the hospital, not the one the shooters had dumped and burned.

  "Just the obvious." Rocky passed over some pages. "Here's where the car was stolen, when, who it was stolen from. Same for the plates. Maybe Wink can pull some prints that will help us. I saw him circling the car like a hungry spider as I came in. As for that other car? The one that burned? We're not going to get any prints off that. It's one of many registered to your Imam, or members of his extended family. If living at the same address and having the same last name means they're family, they've got a whole fleet. Not just cars, but trucks."

  He shoved some more papers at Burgess. "Here's the list."

  Something else to look into—what types of businesses the Imam and his family, or his clan, were involved in. In particular, what kind of trucks they owned and what business they did with those trucks. What he'd like to do was have a look at their finances, but that would take a warrant. Writing warrants took hours, and he'd need to get the attorney general's office involved. The AG's office prosecuted all the homicides in Maine, and they liked to get into the investigations early. It was time to make that call.

  "We'll have to pay him another visit. And find oursel
ves another interpreter, since Osman has proven himself both unreliable and uncooperative."

  "And missing," Perry added.

  Burgess turned to Melia. "Vince, have we got a list somewhere of the people we use?"

  "Ask Ginny. She's good at keeping track of that stuff."

  Burgess made a note. "And we've got to find our missing interpreter, see what the story is there. Who attacked him and why he thinks it happened. He's supposed to meet us this morning. One of us will go, but I doubt he'll show."

  "I'll take that one," Perry said. "I'm going home to get cleaned up, then I'll see if I can find him."

  "Good. On both counts," Burgess said.

  "Look, I haven't been home yet, Joe," Perry said. "I was following up a hunch." He set a paper bag on the table and pulled out a handful of charred cardboard. "These are Apple product codes. From what was left of the boxes in that closet where you found the girl and baby?"

  He sounded defiant and defensive, once again reminding Burgess too much of Dylan. "I figured we'd better get 'em before the scene got any more mucked up, or before someone wanting to ensure we didn't find them got there and finished the job."

  "We had patrol guarding—" Melia said.

  "Right," Perry interrupted, "but I was able to walk right in and no one asked me who I was or what I was doing there. Just like someone walked into the morgue last night and took that baby. I hate to say it, but we've got more screwups than successes on this one so far. So I thought," he scratched his peach-fuzzed head with slightly grimy fingers, "that I'd talk to the property guys, then liaise with South Portland and go out to the mall and talk with the manager at the Apple store."

  Another pause, then another slightly defiant, "If that's all right with you, Joe?"

  "Take someone from property with you."

  Before Burgess could move on, Perry said, "And that's not all."

  They waited while he plunged his hand into the paper bag and pulled out a smaller bag. With elaborate showmanship, he took a pair of gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, and pulled a crumpled pair of similar latex gloves out of the bag. "This is what took most of my time last night. Why I haven't been home to change." He swiveled his head around, being sure to treat them all to the full force of his glare. Too bad the peach fuzz and a grimy streak on his cheek made him look like a delinquent kid.