by Rick Reed
“I’ve got the file on Khaled Abutaqa,” Susan said, coming back into the room. “He was one of mine.” She flipped quickly through the file. “I even wrote a note in the margin about Khaled’s connection with Eddie and Bobby Solazzo. Guzman must have taken some interest in Khaled recently but he doesn’t say why. Maybe there’s something else in the file. He wrote under my note about the deaths of the Solazzo brothers and he mentions you.”
“Did he say what a stud I am?” Jack said.
“That’s not exactly what he called you,” she said. “Okay, here’s Guzman’s worksheet. Khaled was released from federal prison and . . . this is strange.” She flipped another page, and then flipped back to the worksheet. “Khaled was transferred from a federal prison in San Pedro, California, to Indiana Department of Corrections and paroled in Evansville. Khaled listed his employment as manager for his uncle’s restaurant. Ubhar Omani.”
“Is that the uncle’s name?”
“The restaurant. The Middle Eastern place down by the casino. It’s one of the best in Evansville. Always a crowd.”
“It’s the only Middle Eastern restaurant in Evansville. Hey, isn’t that the place where they lock you in a room and then you have to guess what country you’ve been taken to, and then wait to be ransomed?”
“You should be open to new experiences, Jack. Eat something different besides frozen dinners.”
“I’m open to new foods, but I don’t want to eat something that is meant to be ridden. Camelburgers, or shish-ka-yak. Sheep testicles will never pass my lips.”
“I can see you need to go back for a refresher in sensitivity training,” she said. “Let’s move on.”
He tapped the folder. “Khaled lives out in the county. When’s the last time he’s been talked to? Not for a while, I’d guess. Well, I need to talk to him. So do you feel like taking a ride?” He gave her his best smile.
“Let me get my purse. I’ll drive.”
Ba-da-bing!
* * *
Susan still owned the baby-blue two-seater Honda Del Sol. It was a tiny car, made even tinier with the hardtop stowed. From the passenger seat Jack was about eye level with the tailpipe of the truck in front of them. The Del Sol was cramped, but had one thing in its favor—Susan’s skirt rode high on the thigh. Not that he was interested.
She turned west onto Lloyd Expressway and drove past the razed lots where the old Sterling Brewery had once stood. The hundred-year-old brick building should have been made a historical landmark, or a museum, but the land was needed for the expansion of the Lloyd Expressway to channel more traffic to the Blue Star Casino. The brewery had to go. All that was left of its history was a rubble-filled lot and two stainless-steel brewing vats, each bigger than the tank of a concrete truck.
Khaled’s house was a twenty-minute ride from downtown, so Jack used the time to peruse the file. Stapled to the inside were front and side view photos of a dark-skinned man. The file said he was from Oman. There was another set of pictures loose in the file of the same man but with a full dark beard.
“Put a turban on this guy, hand him a mountain rifle, and he could be the poster boy for Al Qaeda. ‘UNCLE OSAMA WANTS YOU,’” Jack said.
“You do know Osama bin Laden is dead?”
“Yeah. They say the same thing about Elvis,” Jack retorted. “Says here Khaled Mohammed Shaliq Abutaqa came to the U.S. on a student visa, attended the University of Chicago for three semesters majoring in engineering, then dropped out of school, and his student visa was pulled, but he signed up for classes again and his visa was reinstated. He spent some time in California but everyone out there has a tan. So he moved back to Chi-Town, where he got busted for dealing weapons and explosives.”
“It doesn’t say all that in there,” Susan said, glancing at him.
“I’m reading between the lines. This guy’s interesting for two reasons. One, we have the .40 caliber ammunition. Two, we found a timing detonator in the guard shack across from where Killian was shot,” he said. “Khaled was convicted and sentenced to five years in a federal penitentiary for selling explosives.”
“I remember him slightly. He was very polite. You’ll like him.”
“Says here he did two years and was paroled. He transferred his parole here because his uncle owns a restaurant and yada, yada. His uncle bought Khaled a house on the outskirts of Vanderburgh County. And . . . the best part. He’s on parole for another year. That means we don’t need a warrant to search his house,” Jack said.
“There is no ‘we,’ Jack. And ‘we’ won’t be searching his house based on anything you’ve given me. I have the authority, but I still need a reason.”
“Killjoy,” Jack said.
“Did Killian arrest him?” Susan asked.
Good question. Killian was posted in Atlanta until about five years ago, so it wasn’t likely. Jack read the file more carefully. “No. Killian didn’t bust Khalil. Khalil has been clean since he got here, according to the file. The State Department wanted to deport him as an undesirable, but his family must have some kind of oil connection in Oman.” Jack asked her, “Where is Oman?”
“What were you doing during geography class?” she asked.
“Probably fighting someone from Oman,” Jack said straight-faced. “We had terrorists like Khalil in kindergarten. But the nuns were even worse.”
“Khaled,” Susan corrected.
“Sorry. I get confused when someone has four or five names.”
“If you’re really interested, Oman is next to Yemen.”
Thanks for clearing that up, Mrs. Wizard. Jack wasn’t sure where Oman was, much less Yemen, but it didn’t matter. Khaled was here now, and like most cons he probably hadn’t stopped selling weapons. Susan was right, of course. Jack couldn’t get a search warrant issued based on Khaled’s past, and she would need more than a hunch to search pursuant to her job. When these idiots get out on parole they sign a paper giving up their constitutional right not to be searched. Maybe a surprise visit by someone from the parole office would yield something.
“Khalil is a loose thread,” Jack said.
“Khaled,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Chapter Thirteen
“His name is Khaled. Please don’t call him Khalil. In fact, don’t say anything at all to him. You’re just a ride-along.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It felt strange to be working with Susan again or even to be with her again, but he was glad she was around. He had better luck with his cases when he could discuss them with her. She had a way of pointing out things he’d missed. She also had a way of getting on his nerves when she pointed out things he wanted to deny.
Susan made the turn onto McDowell Road. Farm fields stretched out on their right, chest-high cornstalks and then lush green blankets of soybeans and wheat fields that swirled in the winds.
In a few minutes they reached the turn for Khaled’s place. The road was gravel and hard-packed earth. She eased to a crawl and said, “Keep an eye out for the number.” In the county the mailboxes were across the street from the houses.
They drove past Khaled’s address and had to turn around. A rotted post stuck out of the ground where a mailbox belonged. A gravel drive disappeared into groves of pecan trees. She turned down the drive. To keep the dust down so Khaled wouldn’t see them coming, she kept her speed down. Jack saw something mounted on one of the trees that made caution inconsequential.
“He has surveillance,” Jack said, pointing to the trunk of a poplar. About ten feet off the ground, a small camera was pointed toward the driveway. Susan sped up.
The house was in a circular clearing, and the drive ran around to the back of the house.
“There’s another one.” Jack gestured to the east side of the house under the roof’s overhang. The camera was pointed at the front porch and probably part of the front drive. A small green light glowed on the camera indicating it was active.
She parked in front, and they walked to the door. Susan brought out he
r badge case, held it up, and knocked firmly.
“Open up, Khaled,” she said with a practiced singsong voice. “Parole officer.”
No answer.
Jack walked around the side, stepping in front of the camera and waving. “There’s a Chevy panel van back here.”
Susan knocked insistently. Jack came back and the door opened.
Khaled was a man in his early thirties with dark skin and black wavy hair almost to his shoulders. His hair was slicked back with something like petroleum jelly. He was wearing a bright red western-style shirt with silver and pearl snaps and little horses embroidered on the cuffs and pocket flaps. A red-and-white-checkered bandana was tied around his neck. Tommy jeans, a rodeo-size belt buckle, and expensively tooled Western boots finished the look.
“John Mohammed Wayne,” Jack said aloud to Susan.
Khaled looked at Jack like he didn’t understand what he’d said. Then he turned his complete attention to Susan’s badge and ID. “I do not know you. Only a man comes here,” he said and gave Susan a swarthy smile that showed a mouth full of perfect, white teeth. “Please to come in. Come in, Miss . . .”
“Chief Parole Officer Susan Summers,” she said.
Khaled looked at Jack and the smile died. Jack expected him to say something like, “Infidel, you die,” but he asked Jack, “And you are?”
“Not your concern, Khalil,” Jack said.
Might as well piss him off and get it over with.
“Khaled. My name is Khaled.”
“Whatever,” Jack said.
“Of course. Both come in. Please,” Khaled said. His smile was pasted on as he stepped back with a little bow to allow them to enter Casa Khaled.
Khaled motioned toward a well-appointed living room and offered coffee or tea. Susan said, “That would be nice, but no thank you, Khaled.”
Jack said, “Nothing for me, Duke.” The furnishings looked expensive. The living room was spotless. Khaled either had a maid service, or he had hidden his apron and can of Pledge in a closet with his mountain rifle.
“I see you’ve noticed my Chippendale,” Khaled said, seeing Jack’s gaze fix on an ornate secretary desk.
“The dancers? Where?” Jack asked.
“No. Not dancers, Mr. uhh . . .”
“Oh, you mean the furniture,” Jack said.
“Yes. What you call a secretary I think. 1940s, mahogany finish, excellent condition.” He grinned like a Bedouin pimp at a camel convention.
We’re getting along swell.
“Are you a collector, Mr. . . . uhhh?”
“Yeah. I collect assholes,” Jack said, and Khaled’s smile vanished. “You could say I’m an expert on assholes, and I think—”
Susan interrupted and stepped between the men. “This is Detective Jack Murphy,”
Khaled expression changed to one of recognition. “Ahhh. You are that Detective Murphy. The one on the news.” The Colgate smile was back. “The one that killed two alleged suspects at a bank. One of them young. A female. I am correct?”
“That’s me,” Jack said. “I think the alleged suspects had half a mind to kill me . . .” He made a gun with his finger and thumb and pointed it at Khaled. “But now one of them has half an alleged mind.”
Susan said, “Khaled, I’m here to ask you some questions. Detective Murphy is here unofficially.”
“Of course, Miss Summers,” Khaled said, once again the gracious host. “But again, may I offer you something? Tea perhaps.”
Yeah, get me a can of roach spray and stand still. Jack asked, “Is it true the women in your country are made to cover their faces?”
Khaled was surprised. “You know of our culture?”
“I know enough,” Jack said. “For example, you can burn your wife in the street for not obeying you. Or stone a woman for having sex outside of marriage. Of course the men have all the fun and do the stoning. It must be in place of Saturday night football.”
A fire burned behind Khaled’s eyes, and his jaws clenched. He turned to Susan and said, “Please have a seat, Miss Summers, and tell me what you want of me.”
She declined the seat he offered and pointed toward the couch. “I want you to sit down and answer a few questions for me and Detective Murphy,” she said.
Khaled sat but Jack could tell that being told what to do by a woman really chafed Khaled’s nuts. While Susan asked questions, Jack walked down a hallway to what he thought would be bedrooms. He found three doors, all closed. It was his duty as an officer of the law to make sure no one was lurking inside those rooms with guns or swords or WMDs.
Susan, as Khaled’s parole officer, was within her rights to walk through the entire house to make sure Khaled wasn’t violating the terms of his parole by hiding weapons, having sex with farm animals, keeping murdered people in the fridge . . . things like that. Jack thought he could explain his stroll as looking for a bathroom.
From the living room Khaled said, “What are you searching for, Detective Murphy?” To Susan he asked, “What is he doing back there? He has no right to search my house.”
Jack came back to the living room. “Can he have a sheep tied to a fence back there?”
Susan turned toward Khaled and asked, “Khaled, are you in possession of weapons or drugs? Or any explosive devices?”
Khaled’s eyes turned into slits, and his posture stiffened.
“Is that a no?” she asked.
“No,” Khaled said.
“He says he doesn’t have any of those things,” she said unnecessarily.
“Why didn’t I think of that? We could have saved some time and just called him on the telephone, or sent a text message.”
She said to Khaled, “I’m going to do a walk-through and if I find any of those things, I can do more to you for lying to me than for being in possession. Do you understand?”
Jack didn’t know that she could charge a parolee for just lying. Good thing to keep in mind. “Smart thinking,” Jack said. “I agree, you should go through the place. I’ll come along to protect you.”
Khaled got halfway up then remembered Susan’s warning and sat down heavily. “I protest,” he said. “This man is not a parole agent. He cannot be in my house.”
“Under Title 3, paragraph 14b, a parole officer can enlist the assistance of any law enforcement agency or officer for purposes of conducting a search of a parolee’s domicile, et cetera,” she said. “Do you want me to take you back to the office and show you the statute? I’ll be happy to do that, and you are within your rights to demand that I do so. Of course it might take me several hours to find the code and then to find a witness to swear that I read it to you, and that you understand . . .”
Khaled threw his hands up. “Okay, do what you must. There is nothing here.”
She said, “You will remain seated until I’m finished.”
Khaled said nothing.
Jack led her to the hallway with the closed doors. He said quietly, “You were impressive back there.”
She whispered, “I thought so.”
“Will you marry me?” Jack whispered back.
“Don’t push your luck,” she said.
“I seemed to have hit a nerve with him by being back here. Let’s take a peek in these rooms and then see if he has a basement.”
“I think you hit a nerve because he doesn’t like you.”
“What? He doesn’t even know me,” Jack said. “He’ll warm to me. Everyone does.”
The hallway had two doors on the right, a door on the left and an archway farther along on the left. The archway probably led to a kitchen. They entered the door on the left. It was a small bathroom with the little white tiles on the floor that were popular in the sixties. The linen closet was stuffed with white towels. A claw-foot tub with a dirt ring took up most of the room. There was a toilet that was missing the seat, a sink attached to the wall, and a medicine cabinet with mirrored doors. She opened the medicine cabinet and read the labels of several bottles of medicine. “He has high
blood pressure. And he’s taking Zoloft, Bupropion, and Lamotrigine.”
“Poor baby is depressed,” Jack said. He pulled the towels out of the linen closet and threw them in the bathtub. Susan looked angry, and so he said, “He’ll accuse me of trashing his house anyway. I’m just being proactive.”
They left the bathroom and opened a door on the right. This was an undecorated bedroom with a simple four-inch-thick mat pushed against one wall. A small rug was spread in front of a window facing east. No closet. A garment rack on rollers held an assortment of white robes, scarves, and other items.
They moved on. The next bedroom was colorful as though someone had used a paint cannon. Walls and ceiling were splotched with uneven patterns of various fluorescent colors. A king-size waterbed took up most of the floor space in the center of the room, and a mirrored disco ball hung from the ceiling. Jack flipped the light switch, and the ball turned. Lights reflected around the room. He turned it off.
“I assume he goes in the other room to pray, then comes in here and . . .”
Susan held her hand up. “I get the picture.”
“What would Khaled’s imam think?” Jack asked and led the way through the archway into the kitchen. To their left was the doorway that led back to the living room and to their right was the back door leading to a small yard.
“I think you can reach the river from here,” Jack said. “Maybe we should see if he has a pirate ship tied up out there.”
Susan sighed and opened cabinets while Jack searched the refrigerator. He dumped the ice trays in the sink, dumped a box of oatmeal on top of that, and was about to empty a bottle of spice when she grabbed his wrist and mouthed, “Stop.”
He shrugged and screwed the lid back on the jar. Apparently Khaled liked to cook because Jack could smell the lingering aroma of spices. A platter on the table was filled with some kind of mystery meatballs covered with plastic wrap. Susan pulled up one end of the wrap and sniffed the contents. She made a face and quickly replaced the covering.
