by Rick Reed
“Maybe that’s yak-berries,” Jack said. “You know. From yaks.”
Susan pushed him toward the living room. Khaled was still on the couch, arms crossed in defiance or maybe resignation. Jack spied a beaded curtain hanging on the wall behind the entertainment center. There appeared to be another door behind the beads. The base of the entertainment center cabinet was on wheels. Jack rolled it away from the wall, pushed the beaded curtains aside, and opened the door.
“My office,” Khaled said.
“No shit,” Jack said. Susan followed Jack through the doorway. This room, too, was sparsely furnished. A wood desk sat in front of a heavily curtained window. The chair behind the desk was right out of a cowboy’s wet dream. The desk and chair were made of the same dark hardwood, but the chair seat and back was upholstered with brown and white cowhide. On the wall across from the desk was a wall hanging, an intricately carved Western scene of cowboys riding horses hell-bent for leather. Directly in front of the desk was a plain wooden visitor chair.
Jack went to the window and pulled the drapes open. They were heavy blackout drapes, the kind used in bedrooms. Strange. An alarm system was on the window. Maybe the chair is John Wayne’s and worth a mint.
On the wall behind the desk was a knock-off Monet painting and next to it, an American flag. They seemed out of place among all the expensive furniture. The wood carving on the opposite wall seemed out of place as well. It set too high on the wall. Katie would have centered it on the wall. The top of the desk was empty except for a closed MacBook computer.
“It is an ordinary office. There is nothing in here,” Khaled said. He was standing in the doorway.
Jack asked him, “If it’s so ordinary, why did you hide it? Why didn’t you tell us about it when we were searching the house?”
“It is not hidden,” Khaled insisted. “You didn’t ask about the office, so I didn’t tell you.”
Jack asked, “Why do you have an alarm on the window? Why the blackout curtains?”
Jack watched Khaled and noticed his eyes didn’t blink even once. Jack flipped the computer open and Khaled hurried across the room to shut it.
“You need a warrant to search my personal computer,” Khaled said.
“Is there something you don’t want us to see, Khalil?” Jack asked.
Khaled stood ramrod straight, arms to the sides, hands made into fists. “I know my rights.”
“Sorry. This is a very nice desk. And look at this chair. I mean . . . WOW!” Jack said. He plopped down in the chair and leaned back against the wall with a thump.
“Please, Detective . . . do not sit in the chair,” Khaled whined.
“Why shouldn’t I sit in the chair? Is it expensive or something?” Jack rocked forward and bumped the arms of the chair into the desk.
“Yes! Yes! Neiman Marcus. Very expensive.”
“Does all your furniture have names?” Jack asked. “Americans usually just give names to their kids and their pets. Sometimes guys name their privates. Do you have a name for your little thingy down there? Like Jihad Joe?”
“Jack,” Susan said, “out of the chair.” To Khaled she ordered, “Get back on the living room couch and stay there. Don’t make me tell you again, or we’ll be taking that trip I told you about.”
Khaled glared at Jack, bowed his head at Susan, and left the office. Jack examined the desk. It probably cost more than he made in six months. “How does some dirtbag like Khaled afford this kind of furniture?” Jack opened the drawers and found them all conspicuously empty.
He looked around the room again, got Susan’s attention and asked, “Do you think he has sex in the chair?” and earned a small giggle. He’d forgotten how nice her giggle was.
“I wonder where he got the money for all this.” Jack said. “I don’t know much about antiques, but he must have a hundred thousand dollars worth of furniture sitting around.”
Susan said, “I’ll ask him.”
“What’s missing from this picture?”
“What do you mean?”
“We saw at least two surveillance cameras outside. Unless the cameras were dummies, they were recording, because I saw a little green light glowing on each of them. And there is an alarm on the window here. Maybe Mohammad Wayne has a first-class security system because of the antiques. Or maybe he’s back in the illegal-arms business. In either case, where are the monitors? And why is there nothing in the desk?”
“Maybe the cameras really are just to scare away burglars,” she suggested.
“If I were a monitor, where would I be?” Jack said and gave the room a closer inspection.
The hardwood floor was immaculate. He lifted the flag and found nothing. He examined the engraving. It was at least two by two foot and an inch thick. He saw it was hinged on one side.
“Lookie here,” Jack said, and swiveled the engraving away from the wall. Behind it were three flat monitors built into the wall. Two of them showed the front approach to the house. The third showed a stretch of grass and trees.
Susan opened the computer again and the screen came to life but there was a prompt for a password.
“What’s he doing that he needs this type of security?” Jack asked.
“I can’t get a warrant for the computer just because he has cameras outside,” she said.
She was right. ACLU lawyers and a gaggle of misguided law students were busy attempting to castrate law enforcement and protect the criminals.
Jack considered taking the computer, but he wasn’t supposed to be searching the house so it would be hard for him to explain in court later.
“Can I ask him a few questions?” he asked.
“Sure. But remember this is just a routine parole checkup.”
Khaled’s demeanor was calm when Jack and Susan reentered the living room. Susan sat on one arm of the sofa but Jack stood behind Khaled and just out of sight. He’d found this was an unnerving interviewing position and a calm Khaled wasn’t a talkative Khaled. People let things slip when they were nervous or mad.
Susan went first. “Khaled, have you had contact with any felons?”
“Miss Summers, you know I am good citizen,” Khaled said, once again reverting to broken English. “I have been, eh—the straight arrow.”
The phony accent was too much for Jack. Khaled’s English was just fine when he was informing them of his rights. Jack put a hand on Khaled’s shoulder and dug his thumb into the nerve bundle behind the neck. “What she’s asking, Khalil, is if you’ve been contacted by any of your old customers.”
Khaled twisted away and came to his feet, squaring off with Jack, his face a mask of hatred.
“Answer the question, asshole,” Jack said, and came around the couch to stand face-to-face with Khaled.
“What is this shit?” Khaled demanded of Susan. “You don’t have a warrant. He isn’t a parole officer, and he doesn’t even have jurisdiction outside of the city. I don’t have to tell him shit! I’ll get a lawyer and sue your asses off. This is America. I demand my rights.”
“Well, well, your English has—how you say—improved,” Jack said. “Remember, if you lie to your parole officer, she can make you go away for a very long time. You won’t have a house, or security cameras, or Tommy jeans, or your John Wayne chair. There won’t be any more parties in your disco room.” Jack backed up a step ready to fight. “And if you threaten me again, you’ll have to talk to your lawyer via séance.”
Susan pushed between them and faced Jack like he was the problem.
“You didn’t answer the question,” Jack said over her shoulder.
“You come into my home and offend me with your vile comments.”
“Well, your sense of fashion offends me,” Jack said. “And I’m sure there are several health code violations in this zoo you call a home.”
“Detective Murphy! Leave. Now. Wait for me in the car.” Susan shoved him toward the front door.
He gave Khaled a wink and left the house, slamming the door behind him
.
Susan emerged from the house two minutes later. Jack leaned against the side of her car with a sheepish grin on his face.
“Good cop, bad cop,” he said. “Did he tell you anything?”
“No,” she said. “Get in.”
When he was in the car, she said, “Good parole officer. Bad cop. Bad, bad, psycho cop. I can’t believe I let you talk me into bringing you with me.”
“I’m sorry, Susan. I appreciate you doing this. I really do. Maybe I went a little overboard.”
“Ya think?” She gripped the wheel so hard her knuckles were white. She started the car and drove in silence. Only when she turned onto Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard did she speak. “You don’t have the right to physically abuse my parolees. What the hell were you thinking? Are you always like this?” Before he could speak, she said, “What am I saying? I knew you were crazy. Now I think I’m crazy.”
Jack said, “In my defense I’m a huge John Wayne fan, and Khalil was starting to piss me off.”
She parked behind the parole office and sat staring out through the windshield. When she was really angry, she got a slight tic at the side of her mouth. Jack saw the tic was a jackhammer now.
He said in his best imitation of John Wayne Khaled’s voice, “You are . . . how you say . . . pretty when mad, tiny infidel woman. Wuh huh.”
She tried not to smile but couldn’t help herself. She put a hand on Jack’s arm and said, “If Khaled calls an attorney and this gets reported up the line, how am I supposed to explain your behavior? I could get fired, you know.”
“Look. Susan. You know what I’m investigating. If I hurt Khalil’s . . . I mean Khaled’s . . . feelings, I apologize.”
“Shut up.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “What did Khalil tell you after I left?”
She reached across him and pushed his door open. He started to get out when she said, “Okay. Khaled did business with Eddie Solazzo in the past. He wasn’t charged with it, but Khaled says he has a deal in place with the federal prosecutor. I’ll have to check on that. He said he sold a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson to Eddie and a shotgun to Bobby. He said Eddie didn’t seem to know one type of weapon from another except for big and bigger. Eddie just wanted something that would go ‘bang’ real loud. Khaled said no one has approached him since he was placed on parole. But we’ll never know if he’s telling the truth, because I had to cut the interview short when he threatened a lawsuit again. I almost had to grovel. Thanks for that.”
“We both know he’s lying,” Jack said. “But what can you expect a convict to say? ‘Yes, small infidel woman, I sell many guns with hope you put me in prison. I miss . . . how you American dogs say . . . decorating cell with Bubba.’”
“Any other observations, Detective Murphy?” Susan asked.
Jack noticed her tone had turned sarcastic, dismissive even. He said, “I think we should have searched that van outside his house while we were there.”
“Good-bye, Jack.”
“I’m just saying . . .” Jack looked up to see Miz Johnson-Heddings glaring at them from the back door of the office. She seemed to be wearing a different head. This one had barbed wire for a mouth and eyes that glowed like red-hot coals in hell.
He asked Susan half kiddingly, “Does she bite?”
“Not unless you show fear. She can smell it. Are you afraid, Jack?”
“Damn right,” he said. He was a little serious. Their day together started out a little rocky, but he got the distinct impression that she enjoyed getting angry at him again. He was growing on her.
This is where she’ll say, “I want you so bad, Jack. I get off in a few hours, but I’ll always ‘get off’ for you.” Then she’ll go inside, and Miz Johnson-Heddings will smile and blow me a kiss.
Susan said, “Well, Pilgrim, the next time you feel the need to abuse someone, please don’t call me. Better yet, just kick in their doors and go in guns blazing. Who needs a Constitution anyway?”
Miz Johnson-Heddings now had a mushroom cloud billowing from atop her head. She stepped outside. The date was over.
Chapter Fourteen
Khaled paced his office, cell phone in hand. He’d punched in Mr. Smith’s number four times, but each time changed his mind before hitting the send button. He needed answers, but what would Smith do if he even had a hint that Khaled had talked to the police?
Never had he been treated so badly! Who did these crazy Americans think they were? He rubbed his shoulder, and was glad he had hidden his wound under his long hair. The ear had quit bleeding, but he felt the raw flesh from Smith’s bullet. At least he’d had the presence of mind to place the cheap oil painting over the bullet holes in the wall. It pained him to burn the photo of his brothers. Maybe he should burn the laptop too. If that woman came back with a warrant it wouldn’t just be his computer that would go up in smoke.
He tossed the phone on his desk. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” He had one more delivery to Smith. The thought of the money he would make brought a smile to his face. The pain was forgotten.
Whatever plans Mr. Smith had must be related to why the crazy cop had come. Too much for a coincidence. Smith had ordered two. 40 caliber pistols, and then this cop wants to know if he has sold a .40 caliber pistol to anyone. He remembered the name Jack Murphy. He was the one that killed Eddie Solazzo. Murphy had made the connection because Khaled had sold a gun to Eddie. But Eddie was dead. There were no other connections. Khaled was careful to sell only in other states.
He would make this last delivery. Then if Mr. Smith contacted him again, he would kill him. Or he would make an anonymous call to the ATF. It was an empty threat, he knew that, but he was sure that Smith had a lot more to lose than did he, Khaled Ahmed Shaliq Abutaqa.
In one year, he would be free. He would leave the U.S. Go back to Oman. His cousin owned a computer store there and also a nice nightclub with a Western theme and karaoke.
As he sat at his computer deleting everything from the hard drive, he wondered what it might be like to live in the Old West. He had ridden a horse in Afghanistan. He was quite adept actually. And he could shoot equally well with either hand. He would have a leather gun belt made. One with a holster on each side that would strap to his legs. When he got to Oman, he would take his cousin to the desert and practice shooting. But now he would destroy this computer and buy another later. He silently thanked Allah that the parole officer had not taken it.
Chapter Fifteen
Liddell was waiting in the front lobby when Jack returned to police headquarters.
“I met the ATF’s explosive expert,” Liddell said. “He’s so laid back I thought I’d have to take his pulse.”
“Did he find—?” Jack asked.
“Not anything useful.”
“Did Johnny—?”
“Hailman thought the K-9 indicated on a few places for explosives but we came up zip.”
“What did the—?”
Liddell said, “The ATF guy confirmed the detonator was what Misino thought it was. He didn’t think anyone used those nowadays and didn’t think you could buy it in this country. He said we were lucky it didn’t detonate when we picked it up.”
“Would you stop finishing my sentences? You don’t even know what I was going to ask,” Jack said.
“Do too.”
“So what am I going to say next, Bigfoot?”
“I don’t use that kind of language, pod’na.”
“Do you want to hear what I found out?” Jack asked.
Liddell put his hands on his hips. “Well, I was going to ask you, if I can get a word in edgewise.”
Jack told Liddell about Khaled, who was on parole, and had supplied the .40 caliber handguns to the Solazzos and that he had a past record of selling explosives. He told Liddell about the visit to Khaled’s house and finding the hidden office, the surveillance cameras, and how Khaled had gotten nervous about the computer.
“I’m telling you, Bigfoot, this guy is hiding something. My gut is telling
me he’s involved in the shooting.
“So now we go talk to Coin,” Liddell said. “I know where he’s been and where he’s going to, but I haven’t found him.”
“Coin’s not usually too hard to find,” Jack said.
“I know. Right? Anyway, I got to talking to Johnny Hailman when we were finished at the guard shack and we got to sharing jokes and stuff. Then I tried to chase Coin down but was one step behind him until I found out where he’s going to be in about twenty minutes.”
“Well, let’s go,” Jack said. He was still a little hurt that Liddell hadn’t told him Susan was back. He wondered who else knew about it and had kept it secret.
On the way to the car, Liddell said, “Let me tell you one of Hailman’s jokes.”
Jack sighed. “Do I have a choice?”
“No. Okay. Here goes,” Liddell said. “A guy leaves his divorce attorney’s office and storms down the street to a bar. He sits down, orders a triple Scotch, slings it back, orders another and slings that back and orders another.
“The bartender asks, ‘Hey buddy, why so angry?’
“The man says, ‘Goddamn lawyers! They’re all a bunch of assholes! ’
“A customer at the other end of the bar stands up and says, ‘Hey! I resent that remark!’
“The man asks, ‘Why? You a lawyer?’
“The other customer says, ‘No! I’m an asshole.’”
Jack stared at Liddell.
“Get it? He’s an asshole and . . . well, I thought it was funny.”
“You’re driving a bright red Crown Vic. Now that’s funny,” Jack said.
* * *
Coin bopped along the alley, a stained wooden box tucked under one bony arm. He was freakishly tall and emaciated. Thin gray hair grew in patches across a flaking scalp. The fingers of his right hand were permanently stained yellow-brown from smoking. Unfiltered Lucky Strikes when he could get them, stubs and bits of cigarettes from trash cans and street gutters and the floors of toilets when he was desperate. He hustled down the alley with a purposeful lope, panting like a dog, with lips falling back from toothless gums as he stepped over and around things that only he could see.
