by Kate Flora
Perry was asking Wallace how he knew Kimani Yates when the door opened and Terry Kyle came in. "Heard I was missing all the fun," he said.
"Stan called you."
"You're a hell of a detective, Joe. We figured, your family targeted and all, maybe we should keep some distance between you and the suspects. But Stan was pretty sure we wouldn't be able to send you home."
"If it were your family?"
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Dismemberment seems like an option."
"I was thinking torture. But first you and Stan have to get the story."
Kyle glanced at the monitor. "How's he doing so far?"
"He was close. I think Mr. Wallace was less than forthcoming about what the plan was when he used the word 'scare.' But Stan will get there. You might just go sit in the room, though, and cast a cold eye on Henry James Wallace. Let him feel the full weight of our disapproval. It's a good warm-up for Kimani Yates."
"My fate," Kyle sighed, looking heavenward, "to always be the warm-up act."
"From each according to his ability," Burgess said.
He settled back into the chair to watch the show. Seeing Perry and the suspect drinking coffee made him long for a cup—he was immensely tired and felt older than dirt—but he didn't want to miss anything. He wondered if they should have waited until morning. If they'd get anything from this anyway. When his second wind would arrive.
Kyle walked into the room without a word, stalked past Wallace, and pulled out a chair on the other side of the table, arranging himself so that Wallace could only watch one of them at a time.
"This is Detective Kyle," Perry said. He pretended to consult his papers. "Okay. You were telling me about the conversation you overheard between Kimani Yates and a man he'd described as his boss, right?"
Wallace nodded.
"What did you hear him say?" When Wallace hesitated, Perry added, "We've got his cell phone. We can check the time of those calls and who he called. We've got you at the scene, in a stolen car, with a convicted felon, two guns under the seats. Do you seriously expect us to believe you had no idea what was going on?"
The man looked at Perry. Then he looked at Kyle, who sat eerily still, staring with those cold eyes like a hawk spotting a tasty rodent. He swallowed. Took a gulp of his coffee. Looked down at his hands and back up at Perry. "At first I wasn't listening, ya know how you try not to hear other people's conversations. But then he said, 'All four them? Even the kids?' and I knew I oughta pay attention."
"Yates tell you who was in the house?"
"A woman and three kids."
"Go on."
The scarred hands opened and closed a few times. "He said..." Wallace's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "He said, 'What do you expect me to do with them?'" The hands flexed. There was a rasp in the voice when Wallace said, "Honestly, I thought we were supposed to scare them."
"But you understood that to mean that Yates was being instructed to do more than scare the family you were staking out?"
Wallace nodded. Then shook his head vigorously.
"That's not how you interpreted the conversation you overheard between Kimani Yates and the man he described as his boss?" Kyle snarled, and leaned right into Wallace's face.
The man, and his chair, scooted backward until he hit the wall. "That's what I heard, yeah. What was he supposed to do with them. But that's not all they said. Yates listened and then he said, 'Okay. I'll just put 'em in the trunk and bring 'em to you.' Then he said, 'Alive?' And I don't know what his boss said, but then Yates said, 'Alright, whichever way it works out. I've got all the stuff in the trunk. You'll get what you get, depending on how it goes down.' Which I interpreted to mean alive or dead, depending on what happened when we went inside."
He tried to scoot back more, realized he was at the wall, and folded up on his chair like someone was letting the air out of him. "And you've got to believe me, Detective... Detectives... I wouldn't of gone along with that. I wasn't there to kill kids. You couldn't ever pay me enough to do that. Yeah, I agreed to go in there and scare 'em, like Yates asked me to, but that's all I agreed to. And only 'cuz I really needed the money. I got my rent to pay. I got kids of my own."
Jesus, Burgess thought. What kind of a man agrees to go terrorize someone else's kids so he can take care of his own? He knew the answer. The kind they dealt with every day.
He watched Kyle and Perry move their chairs in closer, Wallace's eyes going wide as he realized he had no place to go.
"You were just there to scare a woman and some kids, but you heard that Yates's plan was to abduct them and take them to this boss, dead or alive, and you were okay with that?" Kyle snapped.
"I already told ya. I wasn't there to kill anyone."
"You just happened to have a gun with you, is all?" Perry said.
"He brought them guns. Not me. I don't own one. I haven't had my hands on a gun since... since that time with my wife. Since I got arrested."
"But you were planning to use it when you entered the home, weren't you?" Kyle said.
"Yes, but—"
"Yates say anything about where you were supposed to bring the cop's family?" Perry asked.
Wallace's eyes swiveled back to him. "He said 'the warehouse?' like it was a question. But I think he was supposed to take 'em somewhere else, because he laughed, and he said, 'Yeah, that way you can use the backhoe.'"
Burgess started pacing, fighting the urge to go into that room and beat the living crap out of Henry James Wallace.
"What about all that stuff in the trunk?" Perry said. "The abduction kit. Chloroform? Heavy-duty trash bags big enough for body bags. Handcuffs. Rope. Big tarp and shovel? You think all that stuff was just there to 'scare' people?"
Wallace's eyes jumped from one of them to the other. "Body bags?" he whispered. "Shovel? I never seen any of that stuff. I never seen in the trunk. Jesus. God. I never... You gotta believe me. I was just there to—"
"You heard the conversation between Yates and his boss, right?" Perry interrupted. "And you were going to take your orders from Yates about how to proceed?"
"Yes, but—"
"And you didn't back out, right? So whatever went down, you were okay with that? Did the two of you have a plan?" Kyle asked.
"I was supposed to knock on the door and say, 'Portland police.' Yates figured they'd open for that, thinking something had happened to the dad and all. And he wanted what he called 'a white voice' to do it. Which, I guess, is why they hired me."
"So you did know it was a cop's family, right?"
Back and forth it went, Kyle and Perry taking turns shooting questions, Wallace's head whipping back and forth as he tried to keep track of who he was supposed to answer.
"How did Yates find you?"
"We've got mutual friends. They heard he was looking for somebody."
"Those friends' names?"
"It was just..." Wallace tried to fold his arms in a gesture of defiance. The handcuffs wouldn't let him. He settled for a defiant raise of his chin. "I ain't sayin'"
"How much did Yates pay you?" Perry asked.
"Five hundred before. Five hundred after."
The inventory had listed five crisp hundred-dollar bills from Wallace's wallet, along with a twenty, a ten, and a couple of ones. Nice new bills that might have nice new fingerprints.
"To kidnap or kill four people, three of 'em kids?" Kyle said. "You sure did sell your soul cheap."
* * *
When they were done with Wallace, they moved into the second room and woke the slumbering Kimani Yates. As Burgess had expected, Yates was too much of a pro to give them anything. He went from sleep to lawyering up faster than most people could open their eyes, never mind have their wits about them.
Kyle and Perry did their best, but Yates just stared through them and repeated that he wouldn't talk without a lawyer. They knew a lost cause when they saw one, and didn't waste much time on the man.
It didn't matter. The evidence tech had found Yates's prints
on both guns, and they were sure they'd also find his prints on the stuff in the trunk. Possession of guns by a convicted felon, plus the stolen car, plus the assault on the security guard was more than enough to hold him, no matter how good his lawyer was. They sent him over to the jail for booking, and went home for a few hours sleep.
Chapter 22
He slept better than he had in ages, and woke, despite the short night, feeling refreshed and ready to go out and kick ass. Ass-kicking was delayed by the rituals of family breakfast—they ate, he watched—and driving Dylan to school, but that felt more like a pleasure than a chore. Maybe it was that shift he and Chris had felt. He gave Dylan some sage advice about keeping his head down for a few days until ruffled feathers settled, then headed over to 109.
By eight forty-five, he and Kyle and Perry were following Press Devlin to the address Devlin had gotten for Butcher Flaherty. Devlin stopped by a row of seedy wooden houses. They parked behind him, and met on a sidewalk caked with winter sand and littered with fast-food discards and cigarette butts. Still, the day was already warm and the sun felt good. It would have been nice to just stand there for a few minutes and enjoy the day. But a policeman's lot is not a happy one. Today, especially, promised to be a constant series of move, assess, adjust, and move on, interspersed with the occasional bit of ass-kicking.
Devlin pointed down an alley. "I cruised by earlier. No sign of his bike—he probably has a garage space around here somewhere—but there's a light on inside, so maybe we're in luck and he's home."
When you go to see the Butcher, you're going to wear your vest, and they were all dressed for action. Flaherty's door was off the alley, on the second floor up a set of wooden stairs. Kyle led the way, thin, nimble, and gun ready. Halfway up, he came to an abrupt halt and held up his hand.
"Oh shit," he said. "Take a look, Joe." He stood sideways so Burgess could pass.
Burgess climbed to the stop of the stairs and stood on the landing, staring at the scummy window beside Butcher Flaherty's door. Buzzing flies swarmed against it, busy little messengers there to tell them that whatever they thought they were going to get from the Butcher, instead they were about to get a nasty crime scene and an enormous headache.
Exigent circumstances. The possibility that life still existed and immediate access was necessary. Burgess had, in fact, seen a few situations where maggots and life had not been incompatible. He stood aside while Press Devlin, younger, fitter, and eager to perform the task, kicked in the door.
The flies had not been lying. The weather hadn't been that hot, but when the door opened, the wave of heat that carried the stench of death toward them suggested that whoever had helped the swollen male body lying in the middle of the floor in a pool of blood to shuffle off his mortal coil had turned up the heat on the way out.
Turned up the heat on their whole case. What was the connection between this death, the fire at the mosque, and the attack on Osman? Were they even related? And how did it all connect to the man with the watch and the ring, and the Imam and his grandsons? Burgess shoved his wonderings away for later. Right now, he had a dead man to deal with.
It was ugly. Maybe not the ugliest thing he'd ever seen, but nasty enough to make him grateful he hadn't eaten breakfast.
They opened what windows they could, then stepped outside to let the place air while Burgess made the necessary phone calls to let Melia know what they had, and summon the medical examiner, evidence techs, and patrol officers to control the scene.
Denizens of the alley in various forms of dress and undress, lumbering like hibernating bears from their caves, began coming out to survey the commotion. These folks were not morning people. He had Stan Perry start organizing some patrol officers to ask immediate neighbors what they might have seen or heard, and pulled Press Devlin aside. "How long before we have his buddies arriving?"
Devlin nodded at a skinny, tattooed man with a graying pigtail and a bandana who was talking on a cell phone. "I'd guess less than fifteen minutes."
"You may want to get a couple of your people over here," he said. "Find out what they know. If this is a gang thing. How it might relate to our case."
Devlin rolled his eyes. "Gonna need an army, Sarge."
"Do what you can. And when Rudy gets here, be sure he gets Flaherty's buddies when he does the crowd."
"Brothers in arms," Devlin said. "You'll hear 'em before you see 'em. Roaring right up this canyon and getting in our faces. Speaking of brothers, Wink coming over?"
"I hope so. He's the best."
"He'll bring Dani."
Burgess nodded. He couldn't help his instinctive desire to protect her, but Dani was good at a crime scene, and she didn't want to be protected.
"Yeah. He probably will."
He and Kyle went back upstairs. Once they'd established that there was no one else in the apartment—bad guy, other victim, or someone in need of assistance—they had to wait. They couldn't move around or touch anything until the scene had been videotaped, photographed, and measured. They didn't need to touch the body to establish death. The absence of much of the top of Flaherty's head made that pretty clear. The eye patch was still there, though, a jaunty flag of black across the grotesquely swollen face.
So far, all they knew was that the door had been locked, that the man they assumed was Butcher Flaherty was dead, that they were going to have to bury or burn the clothes they were wearing, and that the death smell would be with them for days no matter how many showers they took or how much Vicks they inhaled.
Whoever had dispatched Flaherty had been looking for something. The entire place was a shambles, drawers pulled out, cupboards emptied, clothes strewn everywhere. What they couldn't know was whether some effort had been made to convince Flaherty to tell them where the sought after item was. The body was too swollen and discolored. Or, of course, whether the item had been found.
"Excuse me, Sarge?" Press Devin called from the doorway, yelling to be heard over the distinctive roar of Harleys. "I'm putting Remy on the door. Gonna go chat with some of Flaherty's friends, see if they have any idea what this might be about."
Devlin turned to leave. Burgess stopped him. "Press. Hold on," he said. "See if anyone knows where his bike might be."
If the killer hadn't found what he was looking for, it might be with the bike.
Then what Press had just said went home. He was putting Remy on the door. If Remy Aucoin was here, then who was at the hospital, guarding their mystery girl?
"Remy!" He bounded out the door, almost flattening Aucoin, who was responding to his shout.
Their words crossed. "Remy, if you're here, who is at the hospital?"
"Sorry, Sarge, I..."
Burgess took a breath. "Remy, who is guarding the girl?"
Aucoin shrugged. "I don't know, sir. My shift commander called and told me I was back on my usual patrol."
Burgess saw red. He pictured her lying there, curled up in the bed, those sad, scared eyes watching, waiting for the next awful thing to happen. Aucoin and Dwyer had made her feel safe. Now, without consulting him or bothering to inform him of a critical decision regarding an ongoing homicide investigation, someone had canceled her security, leaving her vulnerable to whoever had already made two attempts to get at her.
He knew exactly what this was about.
He called Sage Prentiss, told him to get over to the hospital ASAP and call once he'd confirmed that the girl was okay. Then he called Melia. The lieutenant would be on his way here anyway, but Burgess didn't have time to spare.
"I'm two minutes out, Joe," Melia said. "What's up?"
"Someone canceled the security detail on our girl, Vince."
Melia's response was just an angry hiss.
"I've sent Sage over there, but you've got to call him, Vince. This isn't right."
"See you in two," Melia said.
The freaking food chain. Command structure. Melia could go to the chief, but Captain Cote would argue the bottom line, overtime, priorities. Lik
e a victim who had almost died a horrible death in a fire, and who had lost her child, and already been the subject of two kidnapping attempts, was a low priority. But this wasn't about cost. Cote cared more about jerking Burgess's chain than about victims. For a wicked moment, Burgess considered stashing her in Cote's office. But he'd never do that—to her.
If she wasn't okay, Burgess might break his long-standing rule about never talking to the press.
Aucoin's stare told Burgess he wasn't keeping his thoughts off his face. "I just figured they'd sent someone else, Sarge. You mean they—?"
"I don't know, Remy."
Dismissed, Aucoin went back outside to resume his job of keeping track of who came and went at the crime scene.
Kyle was shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. Waiting was a big part of their lives, but he hated to be idle if there was something he could be doing. "Go on, Ter," Burgess said. "Take a look around. Maybe you'll find a motorcycle."
"Maybe I'll find something."
Maybe he would, if the blood maggots hadn't trampled on it. He was a great reader of scenes. Saw things a dozen other detectives would walk right past. Kyle took a step closer to the body, and Burgess realized he was studying Flaherty's boots. Then he left.
* * *
Hours later he watched the gurney carrying Butcher Flaherty bump down the stairs and disappear into the medical examiner's van, followed by a trail of disappointed flies. Hospital security was sitting on his mystery girl's room until he could sort that out. Sage Prentiss was back at 109 writing a warrant for the garage that held Flaherty's motorcycle. When that was done, they'd tow it and add it to their growing collection in the department's basement.
He'd had a nice phone chat with their AAG, and she was working with Rocky on warrants for the Imam's house. For Henry James Wallace and Kimani Yates's cell phones and cell records. And he figured he might as well add Butcher Flaherty to the list. Osman's records. The school had called to tell him that Jason Stetson needed to talk. Kyle's informant was eager to get her hands on an iPod, and wanted to arrange a meeting. Osman was still in the ICU, condition unchanged.
