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

by Kate Flora

  Burgess tried for a name or a description, but Ali knew he'd already said way too much. "That's all I'm saying."

  He and Kyle stepped out of earshot. "We are going to find that big old white guy," Burgess said. "Whoever he is. Butcher Flaherty or one of the guys from his gang?"

  "Or the guy with the watch and the ring?" Kyle suggested.

  "Who might be Addison Westerly," Burgess said. "Or there's the man who was helping the Imam by writing those slurs on the wall. Or someone we don't know about yet."

  "Yeah. The player to be named later," Kyle said. "Tomorrow we're gonna kick in some doors and kick some ass."

  "I can hardly wait."

  Burgess unlocked the cuff from the railing, cuffed the boy's hands together, and led him back to the car.

  No one said a word on the drive to the hospital.

  Chapter 29

  Some white guy my grandfather does business with. Burgess thought about the expensive watch and distinctive ring. So far, other than Butcher Flaherty and his pals, and Henry James Wallace, that was the only "white guy" they'd encountered in this whole stinking mess. But there could be others. The guy with the watch and ring hadn't been old, either, but everyone looked old to a kid Ali's age. Addison Westerly had a connection to the Imam, and to the Academy.

  He wanted Westerly in an interview room. He wanted to see the man's reaction when he asked about selling a young girl to the Imam. He wanted search warrants for young Muhammad Ibrahim's house and Westerly's offices. Westerly's house, if they could ever find out where he lived. He and the Crips were looking at another long day. But this time, he felt the excitement that came with a gut feeling they were finally close.

  Sick of the sight of Ali and all he represented, they left the boy at the hospital in the custody of a burly patrol officer who would take him on to the jail. Then Kyle went home and Burgess dragged himself back to 109 to write reports.

  In the morning, they'd get those warrants. For now, he needed to get it all written down. Westerly. The search of the Imam's house. The armed robbery. What Ali had told them.

  Before he settled into any of that, he called Chris.

  "I've been worried sick," she said. "I heard there was a shootout at a convenience store. I didn't think that would involve you, but when you didn't call... I thought the worst."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "It's been a very busy night."

  "I'm sorry" had become his mantra. From the rising of the sun to the dying of the day and far after, he was sorry.

  "You were there. My God. Joe. You were there!"

  There was a catch in her voice and an accusation behind her words that he hadn't called to reassure her. As though she was only now discovering that he was a cop. Cops carried guns. And guns got fired. It wasn't as though she was unaware of the risks of his job. They'd met on a case where he'd gotten shot. This was different. Things had changed. They were parents now, and parents had a duty to be more careful for the sake of their kids.

  "Terry was with me. It was okay. Nothing happened."

  "Nothing happened, Joe? Shots were fired. Someone could have been hurt. Or killed."

  "Nobody got killed, Chris, and the bad guy only got hurt because the clerk whacked him with a baseball bat. We had to handle the scene, then take him to the ER—"

  "And in all that time, you couldn't find a minute to call me?"

  This was not the Chris he knew. The woman who said he didn't need to worry about her wimping out, or becoming needy or clingy. The woman he admired because she was a grown-up and could handle things. The strong, compassionate nurse who wanted to give a loving home to two kids life had kicked around. The woman who'd said she understood what he did and had agreed to let him do it. This was a woman reacting to last night and the threat to their kids.

  She said it before he could. "Sorry, Joe. It's... I guess... I don't know... different now that we have the kids. I haven't figured this out yet. I just had this knee-jerk reaction and I thought—"

  "I understand," he said. "It is different, and I don't know how to deal with it any better than you do. We need to have a date. Just the two of us. Sit somewhere and talk. But this won't get figured out in a day."

  "I know."

  He heard what might have been a sniffle. Was she crying? He was usually the king of sounds, able to interpret them on the phone like this, at a distance, all those nuanced sounds of human emotion. Maybe he didn't want to know. "I love you," he said. "We will make this work. I'll try to remember to call and—"

  "And I'll try to remember who you are and what you do. I'm not trying to be a ball and chain. I was scared. The kids were scared. It was kind of funny, really. You know how Nina and Dylan are always squabbling. But tonight, after that was on the news, they were suddenly so together. And together in trying to distract and comfort Neddy. And me."

  Another sniff. "Dylan is so like you." Then she said, "And this does not mean that you should go and get yourself shot at more often."

  Her voice dropped a register, into a husky whisper. "When will I see you?"

  "Soon as I finish these damned reports. But the thought of you will give my fingers wings."

  "Lunatic."

  "Thought I was being romantic."

  As he put the phone down, his eyes caught a note from Stan Perry. "Working on those box trucks, and a home address for Addison Westerly."

  So Perry had looked through his notes and was already on the case. Sometimes, Perry was like a ferret, slipping quietly around in the dark, finding things out. When the sun came up, he'd be weary but triumphant and still in fine shape to head up to Augusta for an autopsy.

  The day felt like it had been about two hundred hours long. He moved like Methuselah's grandfather as he wrote up his interview with Jason Stetson, burying the meat of Jason's information in a wad of stuff about the foster mom, the Muslim's meanness, the annoying crying baby. Then he wrote up the shooting at the convenience store. But when he came to writing up what they had learned from Ali on the way to the hospital, he simply wrote that they had transported the shooter from the scene to the hospital and given the boy, presumed to be a juvenile until further investigation, his Miranda warning.

  The information about his grandfather buying the girl as an American wife for his oldest grandson was in his notebook, and in Kyle's. But there was too much risk in putting it in a report that Cote would read. Not until they had more. He simply couldn't risk having the information about sex slaves and purchased wives before someone who would love to blab something that sensational to the media. In the morning, he'd brief Melia and let his lieutenant decide where to go from there.

  Before he closed down his computer, he sent a note to Rocky, asking him to look into missing-persons cases involving a thirteen-to fifteen-year-old dark-haired girl named Kelly or Kellie. Another to Dr. Lee, reporting that, if their informant was telling the truth, the baby's name was Muhammad Ibrahim. It wasn't much, but it had bothered the ME in the same way that it had bothered him that the baby had no name. He sent a message to the AAG assigned to the case, asking for a call in the morning, and giving her the basic information needed for more search warrants.

  His task list for tomorrow was huge. Finding Addison Westerly. Drafting the affidavits in support of the search warrants, looking for clues about the identity of the "old white man," and finding out where Addison Westerly lived. Serving a warrant on the Imam's oldest grandson. Following up with Rocky about missing girls. Locating Rihanna Daud.

  He needed to follow up with Dani and Wink and see if they'd pulled anything off the car that had had Osman in the trunk. See if they had any prints from the car that had crashed at the hospital. Prints from the closet at the Imam's house. Prints from Flaherty's apartment. Just one damned thing after another. By now, so many prints at so many scenes, they were grumbling in their dens.

  Slow and steady won the race. For all of them.

  It made his head hurt.

  He logged out, grabbed his jacket, and headed home.

&nbs
p; Chapter 30

  Chris was waiting in the kitchen, drooping a little over an untouched cup of tea. She smiled when he came in. "Maybe we should have something stronger?"

  It sounded like a good idea. He poured bourbon for both of them.

  "Tell me about this case, Joe. Why it matters."

  He told her about the girl and the baby and what they'd learned tonight. Things cops weren't supposed to tell their wives and girlfriends. The things that would help her understand why he wasn't home with her and the kids.

  When he'd finished, she said, "There's someone out there looking for that girl, Joe. Someone who loves her and will take care of her."

  "Nurse's instinct?" he said.

  She nodded. "Nurse's. And maybe mom's." He sure hoped she was right.

  * * *

  At 3:30, his phone rang. Stan Perry. "What are you doing right now, Joe?"

  "Sleeping."

  "Wondered if you'd like to take a drive."

  As he slipped quietly from the bed and into his clothes, he hoped this drive wouldn't lead to another gunfight. But he didn't say no.

  Perry was slightly manic as they headed out. "Followed a hunch," he said, "after I saw that yearbook photo of Addison Westerly on your desk. Westerly renting them the mosque? Finding them a new place in his warehouse? I just had to take a look—"

  "How much coffee have you had tonight, Stan?"

  "I've lost count. But listen, Joe. You know how we couldn't find an address for him, other than his office? Well, every damned thing the man owns is registered to the business, except one." Perry bounced in his seat like a toddler. "Guy forgot about his damned snowmobile. Or maybe he thought he couldn't slip that one past his accountant. Not much need for a snowmobile in a fishing business, right?"

  "Right. So you found Westerly's house? And we're going there in the middle of the night?"

  "Exactly."

  Sometimes you just had to follow that cop gut. "Stanley, you're so good at ferreting things out, tell me this. What is the connection between Westerly, the Imam, and the Iron Angels?"

  "Money."

  "They're all selling fish?"

  "Ya think?" Perry gave him a look. "What else comes in off fishing boats, Joe?"

  "Drugs. And guns."

  "Right. And how do you move guns and drugs without getting caught?"

  This felt a lot like catechism. "Trucks apparently engaged in legitimate business. And motorcycle gangs."

  "Right again. One thing that our friend the Imam neglected to tell us is that his long-range plan is to go back to Somalia and become someone important in his town, like the mayor. To do that, he needs money. Money to send back, to earn him friends and respect, and money to take back with him. That's what our friend Osman was hinting at when he mentioned hawala. And face it, Joe, aside from the Catholic Church—before it shot itself in the foot with all the sex scandals, anyway—and televangelists, there's not that much money in pure religion."

  "So what are we looking for tonight that we couldn't look for in daylight with a search warrant?"

  Perry's grin was manic. "Box trucks. Stuff to put in the warrant. Garages and outbuildings. The lay of the land, so to speak."

  "We're scouting," Burgess said.

  "And trying not to get our asses shot off. Did I mention guns?"

  "I think you did."

  The dark roadsides streaked by as he drove, following Perry's directions. North on 295. Off the highway, and onto a maze of side roads. Burgess realized they were in Cumberland. "What's the address?" he asked, as he fumbled out his notebook. Young Stanley wasn't the only one with a cop gut.

  Impossible that this could be a coincidence, he thought, as they passed the address Ali Ibrahim had given them and drew up next to Westerly's mailbox. The house itself was out of sight down a long drive. It felt like the gods were finally smiling on them. It also increased the stakes for Perry's little adventure. They were at risk of tipping their hand to not one but two major suspects.

  Perry grabbed his door handle, then stopped. "What is it?"

  "Some things we learned tonight. You heard about the convenience store robbery?" Perry nodded. "Well the shooter was Ali Ibrahim. He got a little banged up—clerk had a baseball bat and was seriously pissed off—and while Terry and I were taking him to the hospital, we had a little chat."

  Perry had taken his hand off the door and settled back in his seat.

  "Turns out, according to Ali, that our mystery girl is the wife of the Imam's oldest grandson, also named Muhammad Ibrahim. Ali said his brother didn't live in Portland, but in Cumberland. And the address Ali gave for his brother Muhammad is right next door to Addison Westerly."

  "Holy shit," Perry breathed.

  "There's more. Ali Ibrahim says that the Imam bought the girl for his grandson because the boy wanted an American wife, but he wanted one young enough to be trained in traditional ways. And he bought her from 'some old white guy' his grandfather does business with. So much as I would love to slither down that driveway and do some scouting, I would far rather get some broad warrants, come back here tomorrow, and scoop up both gentlemen and whatever their houses have to offer. The risk that we spook them and they move things, or simply disappear, is just too great."

  "Still glad we took this ride." Perry reached for his seatbelt. "Hold on. Are those headlights?"

  They were. Bouncing yellow lights coming down Westerly's long driveway.

  "Looks like a truck," Perry said as Burgess started the Explorer and headed down the road with the lights off. He pulled into a driveway and they waited, watching, as a white box truck came down the driveway and headed away from them toward the highway.

  Burgess followed, still without his lights, until they reached the highway, then put on the lights and merged into the sparse predawn traffic. Despite the cold of the morning, he vaguely registered two motorcycles somewhere behind them, but before he could get suspicious, they whizzed past. The truck headed west off the highway, away from the waterfront, and they followed, curious to see where it would take them. The plate was registered to one of Westerly's businesses, WestSea Products, Inc. There was no logo on the truck.

  "So if they're in the fish, guns, and drugs business, what was that computer heist all about? Ismail trying to set up in a business of his own? Showing his grandfather that he's no slouch in the moneymaking department?" Burgess said.

  "What I think, Joe? You might not believe this, given what a freakin' jerk he was the other night, but I think Ismail is trying to live a regular American life and his family won't let him. I think that he values that job, and his brother and the rest of his family used information they got from him to set up that robbery. You see that long black scrape? It matches the truck in the surveillance video."

  "You think that's why they shot at him?" Burgess said. "A little message to stick with the program? That would explain him going all belligerent and silent on us."

  Perry's grunt sounded like an affirmative.

  "But if he wasn't in on it, why would they store the stuff at the mosque? He had to know about that. And then what was the fire—"

  Ahead, the truck abruptly turned onto a side street. "Hold on. Now where's he going?"

  They watched the truck pull into a small industrial park. As they hung back, driving slowly past a sign advertising self-storage, Perry sighed.

  "What is it, Stan? Flaherty's key?"

  "Yeah. Haven't gotten to it yet."

  "Been a busy day, Stan. You have it with you?"

  It seemed the storage warehouse was the truck's destination.

  Burgess cruised past, parking down the street where they were partly hidden by a Dumpster. They watched two men get out of the truck, open the back, and take out two oversized wheeled duffle bags. Dark-skinned, round faced, and furtive. You want people to notice you? Act like you're afraid of being noticed.

  It might be a purely innocent visit, but that was as likely as pigs starting to fly. He called for backup, no lights, no sirens, dictated
what street to take and where to meet. No way he and Stan could cover the warehouse by themselves.

  "Their website says twenty-four-hour security, Stan, so why don't you slip along to the office and see if that's the case."

  He stayed behind to wait for backup. Minutes later, his phone rang. "We've got good video," Perry said. "They have a key to the building and they're heading for the second floor."

  "I'll be there as soon as I've covered the entrances and the truck."

  Three patrol cars slid silently in beside him, officers to cover the front and rear entrances and one to guard the truck. He went to join Perry. They stood behind the security guard and watched the two men try their key on a padlock.

  "Ain't gonna get 'em nowhere," the guard said. "That key's to the buildin'. Owners gotta provide their own locks for their units. Otherwise, there'd be no security, see."

  Burgess figured the key they needed was in Perry's pocket. The two men conferred and then one went back downstairs. Burgess hoped the officer sitting on the truck was well out of sight. Another screen showed the man getting a tool from the truck and heading back to the building.

  "This is where I oughta call the police, see," the guard said. "Only I don't gotta 'cuz you're already here. How'd you know to be here?"

  "Because we were right behind them," Perry said.

  The guard's head bobbed. "Ain't that somethin'?"

  "Do you have a record of who rents that space, so you'd know if these two weren't the record owners?"

  The guard flipped a hand at a bank of filing cabinets. "I'm just security. My boss does, though. It'll be in there. He's a real stickler about records. He says people are trusting us to keep stuff safe and we'd better earn that trust."

  Burgess liked this boss already. He liked this operation—doing what it promised instead of slipshod security and cutting corners. Simple decency and integrity, that was what Maine had always meant to him. During his years on the job, it had become enough of a rarity that it stood out when he found it. He shifted his attention back to the screen.

  The man who seemed to be in charge—who looked enough like Ismail Ibrahim that Burgess assumed he was the favored older brother—took the bolt cutters and cut the lock. He tossed it aside and opened the door. The security camera didn't see into the locker—part of giving the owners privacy and security—but it gave them more than enough as Muhammad Ibrahim unzipped one of the duffle bags, disappeared into the locker, and came out with an armful of guns that he put in the bag. His companion was doing the same thing.