Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Thanks,” she said, as she took her mug. “You remembered my cream, I see.”

  “That’s the only personal thing I know about you. You like cream with your coffee.”

  “Okay, what personal thing would you like to know?”

  “I don’t want to interrogate you. Just tell me about yourself.”

  “Hmmm. Let’s see. I’m not a very good housekeeper. Your house is much neater than mine is.”

  “That’s probably because you’re not an obsessive compulsive person like I am. Be thankful for that.”

  “Does that mean you go around making sure all the pictures are hung straight and your cabinet doors are completely shut?”

  “Yes,” I answered a bit embarrassed. “But we’re not talking about me.”

  She laughed. “You’re right. Okay, something else. Let’s see. Well, like most women, I enjoy shopping for clothes. Now that I’m a detective, that’s where I spend all my money. In fact, not having to wear a uniform was my motivation for trying to make detective in the first place.”

  “I don’t believe that. The part about the clothes shopping, sure, but I’ll bet you’ve always wanted to be a super sleuth. Were either of your parents on the police force?”

  “No.”

  A moment of awkward silence followed her emphatic reply. Finally, after several seconds, it became obvious she wasn’t going to elaborate on her answer.

  “See, I started asking questions,” I said. “It’s a trade hazard. You of all people should understand that. Please forgive me.”

  I noticed her nervously tapping her finger against her coffee mug, a gesture I’d seen her making the day before when she was interviewing me after the murder.

  “No, it’s okay,” she replied. “It’s hard for me to talk about my childhood, mainly because people usually end up feeling sorry for me, and I hate that.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything. Believe me when I say I’m big on privacy.”

  “You took a chance with me yesterday, so I’m going to do the same with you today.”

  I reached over and touched her hand.

  “I’m a very hard-hearted guy. I promise not to feel sorry for you.”

  She gave me a less than enthusiastic smile. “Okay.”

  However, she waited a few seconds before starting to talk. When she did begin to speak, her voice was so low I had to strain to hear her.

  “I never knew the identity of my father. I’m sure my mother never knew his name either.”

  She looked over at me. Perhaps she expected some sort of response, but when I didn’t give one, she continued. “When I was three years old, my mother was sent to prison for being involved in an armed robbery. After I was older, I learned she was high on meth at the time. Since the courts weren’t able to locate any of my relatives, they placed me in an institution called The Children’s Home. It’s run by a group of churches and resembles something between a boarding school and a foster home.”

  “Is it located here in Norman?”

  “No, it’s in Moore, a few miles north of Norman. It looks like a college campus, but instead of dorms, there are eight large houses. I lived in one of them with ten other children of various ages. A married couple—we called them Mom and Dad—took care of us, and they did everything normal parents do for their children. On Sundays, we all attended church together. I admit that was one of the most enjoyable times of the week for me, because, as we sat together in the service, it felt like I belonged to a real family.”

  “Why did you tell me yesterday you weren’t happy when you were attending Bethel Church?”

  “My house parents changed churches and joined Bethel when I was thirteen. The church itself was wonderful, and, without the guidance of some of the youth workers there, I wouldn’t have made it. However, when I was thirteen, my life turned upside down because I was suddenly forced to become reacquainted with my mother. She was paroled after being in prison for ten years, and it’s the policy of The Children’s Home to try and reunite families.”

  “Did you visit her when she was in prison?”

  “No. She could have had regular visits from me, but she wanted nothing to do with me. Once she was out of prison, though, she insisted she wanted to take care of me again.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard that was on you.”

  “I was in turmoil for almost a year while she was allowed to visit me under the supervision of my house parents. Later, she was permitted to take me out to eat by herself, and, finally, I had an overnight stay at her apartment.”

  “How did you feel about her?”

  “I went through a lot of different emotions. I was angry and embarrassed that my mother was an ex-con, but I was also upset that I had to leave my foster family. Whenever my mother and I were alone, she hardly spoke to me at all. Truthfully, I never felt as if she cared about me at all. However, my overwhelming emotion was guilt. I didn’t want to live with her, be around her, or get to know her. Yet, I knew I shouldn’t feel that way because she was, after all, my mother.”

  As if sensing Nikki’s painful recollections, Stormy raised his head and moaned softly. Nikki bent down and touched him lightly on the head. He whimpered once, and then lowered his head once again.

  “Did your mom have a job? Could she support you?”

  “No, not at first. When she got out of prison, she worked as a waitress at several different restaurants, but she hardly made enough money to pay her rent. For over a year, I only saw her occasionally, while I continued to live with my house parents. Then, out of the blue, she had money. She claimed it was because she’d become an apartment manager. She even bought a car. When she got permission for me to spend a weekend with her, the administrators at The Children’s Home were about to begin the process of having me released into her care permanently.

  “After dinner, on Friday night of that weekend, she told me she had invited some friends over. I wasn’t happy about that because the only friends she had ever mentioned were ex-cons, so I decided to stay upstairs in my room. Around midnight, my mother came upstairs and told me they were going out. I went to bed after they left, but I was awakened about four o’clock the next morning by two police officers banging on the front door. My mother and her friends had been arrested for trying to rob a convenience store.”

  “So that was how she was getting her money?”

  She nodded. “The police charged the three of them with two other robberies, and they found evidence my mother was also dealing drugs out of the apartment manager’s office.” She shook her head. “I can only imagine why she wanted me around the place.”

  “Is she still in prison?”

  “No, she died of breast cancer while serving another fifteen-year prison term.”

  “Did the authorities get you some help to deal with this? The psychological trauma must have been tremendously hard for a teenage girl.”

  She nodded. “I was in counseling until I graduated from high school; however, I believe it was my faith that sustained me during those years. I prayed a lot during that time.”

  “You’re obviously a very well-adjusted woman with a tremendous future ahead of you now.”

  Nikki smiled at my compliment.

  “I was so determined not to be anything like my mother, that even before I graduated from high school, I decided to go into law enforcement. I went to OU, majored in criminal justice, and, when I graduated, I was immediately accepted into the police academy. I think the best revenge against my childhood is becoming a success at this job.”

  Nikki scooted forward in her chair and said, “Now, I think it’s time for me to go. I’ve still got a lot of work to do tonight.”

  “Thanks for telling me this, Nikki. At least now I can say I know a few more things about you than just how you like your coffee.”

  She laid her hand on my sleeve. “Next time, it’s your turn.”

  “Could I ask you one more question?”

  She smiled and said, “Oh, sure, what’s one
more question.”

  “What’s the most important thing in the world to you?”

  She looked at me as though I might be teasing her.

  “Are you joking?”

  “No, I’m quite serious.”

  “Well, I thought it was fairly obvious. For me, the most important thing in the world is becoming a success at my job.”

  CHAPTER 28

  After finishing breakfast the next morning, I called Nikki to get the latest update on Shahid. However, she was just going into a meeting with her captain and said she’d have to call me back.

  When I got off the phone, I asked myself, “If I were Shahid, where would I be right now?”

  Although there were no witnesses to Farah’s murder, Shahid still would have had to consider the possibility someone had spotted him in the church’s parking lot. Thus, leaving town would have been his first option.

  However, since he was responsible for running a network here, with more cell members arriving soon, he would have been forced to go with his second option—remaining in town and finding a place to hole up, preferably a place with a garage so he could hide the Nissan.

  Danny had told me Shahid had been living in a rent house in one of the poorer neighborhoods of the city. However, when Danny’s agents had arrived at the location, it looked as if Shahid and his roommates had moved out in a hurry.

  So, where did Shahid and his roommates go?

  Suddenly, that gnawing feeling I’d been dealing with since reading the data on Paul Franklin resurfaced, and I remembered the photos Danny had shown me of Shahid’s roommates. They had seemed familiar to me then, and now I remembered why.

  On the day I’d gone to see Paul Franklin, there had been two Arab students in the hallway outside Franklin’s office. They’d been arguing about a rent payment. I suddenly realized the men Danny had identified as Shahid’s roommates were the students I’d noticed outside of Franklin’s office.

  I pulled up the email Carlton had sent me yesterday about Franklin and reread it. Besides his expensive home on the west side, Franklin also owned rental property near the University.

  I called Katherine’s number at Langley.

  “Hi, Katherine. It’s Titus Ray.”

  “Titus, how nice to hear from you. How are you?”

  “Great. Listen, I need a favor.”

  “Okay, so much for small talk.”

  “Sorry, I’m in a hurry.” I replied with a half-hearted apology. “I got the data you pulled up on Paul Franklin. I’m interested in the addresses of those rent houses he owns here in Norman.”

  “I’ll look them up and send them over to Carlton.”

  “There’s no need for that. Email them directly to me as soon as possible.”

  “It sounds suspiciously like you’re trying to keep Carlton in the dark about something.”

  “It’s strictly a time thing. I’m in a big hurry.”

  She was quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t believe you’re shooting straight with me, but I’m going to do this because I like your dog.”

  “Stormy sends his love.”

  Within an hour, Katherine had sent me the addresses of the four rental properties owned by Franklin. I immediately recognized one of the locations. It was the address on Peters Street where Danny had told me Shahid had been living with his two roommates. I crossed that one off the list, since Danny’s agents from OSBI had already discovered Shahid and his friends had cleared out.

  I wondered if all four of Franklin’s properties were being rented by Arab students. Reviewing the conversation the professor and I had had several weeks ago, the most likely answer was yes. In fact, if Franklin enjoyed expressing his sympathy for Arab causes—especially Palestinians without a homeland—there was no better way to do that than to provide housing for them.

  Whether Franklin knew one of his renters was a militant extremist, sent here by Hezbollah to establish a network of terrorists on American soil, was a matter for the FBI to deal with. However, I certainly hoped he hadn’t committed such a treasonous act.

  As I prepared to leave my house in search of Shahid, I knew the odds of locating him before Nikki had to turn her case over to the FBI were not good, but I was still going to try. I owed Farah and Bashir that much.

  In some strange way, I felt a responsibility toward them. They had come to America seeking a place of refuge, a place where they could worship God as they pleased, and my country had failed them. Javad and Darya had protected me in Iran, but no one had protected Bashir and Farah in America.

  Stormy was out by the lake chasing birds, so I put some food and water on the patio for him, threw a few items in the backseat of the Range Rover, and set my car’s GPS for the first address on my list.

  It felt good to be on the hunt once again.

  All of Franklin’s rental properties were located in a ten-block area north of the University and south of the downtown area of Norman.

  As I entered the vicinity, I recognized many of the homes—from the early 1900’s—had probably been upper-to-middle-class residences back then. However, as I drove by them now, I noticed they were presently occupied by poor college students, families struggling to survive, and senior citizens waiting to die. The yards were overrun with weeds and cluttered with trash and kids’ toys. Most houses seemed to be in need of extensive repairs to make them look even halfway decent again.

  Surveillance was not going to be difficult, though, because each side of the street was lined with vehicles. I took a parking spot two houses down from my target and settled in.

  No one appeared for over an hour.

  Finally, an Arab woman, with her hair discreetly covered and her long skirt almost touching the ground, came out the front door. She was pushing a baby stroller and she passed by me without a second glance.

  I moved on to my next address because I couldn’t imagine Shahid, plus his roommates, being able to stay in such a small house with a crying baby.

  When I arrived at the second location, I realized there was a better possibility of finding Shahid and his friends because the homes were much larger. Most were two-story residences with detached garages. A couple of them were so large they had been converted into duplexes. Once again, the narrow street was crowded with parked cars, and this time I was forced to park almost directly in the sight line of the house I was observing.

  After a few minutes, I began to feel uneasy. Whether it was my sense of exposure at being parked so near the house or my instincts telling me I’d found Shahid’s base, I wasn’t sure. However, before leaving my house, I’d thrown a couple of props in the car just in case I needed to get out and walk around the neighborhoods, so, as I got out of my car, I grabbed a clipboard from the backseat and headed in the opposite direction from the target house.

  Then I called Nikki.

  “Can you talk now?” I asked her.

  “Your timing is perfect. I'm about to go over to Midwest City to interview Bashir. Did I hear a horn honking? Where are you?”

  “Right now, I'm playing a hunch and watching a house at 707 Surrey Avenue. Are you familiar with that part of town?”

  “I know it’s a pretty rundown neighborhood. What are you doing there?”

  I briefly explained how I’d connected Danny’s photos of Shahid’s roommates to the two Arabs I’d seen outside of Franklin’s office. Then I told her about the information I’d received from the Agency about Franklin’s rent houses.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You think since Shahid was living in a rent house owned by Paul Franklin, he might be hiding in another one of his properties?”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “That’s only because I am.”

  “The house I’m watching also has a detached garage. You haven’t found Shahid’s car anywhere, and it’s been two days. Maybe that’s where he stashed it.”

  “Okay,” she replied, reluctantly. “I’ll swing by there and take a look.”

  I gave her the address, but we a
greed to meet two blocks south at a convenience store. I arrived by foot just as she was parking her car.

  As soon as I slid in the passenger seat, she said, “You look like a magazine salesman with that clipboard.”

  “I was going for the census-taker look.”

  “This isn’t the year a census is taken.”

  “You think people around here know that?”

  She smiled. “No, I guess not.”

  As I described the two-story house on Surrey, I could tell she was reluctant to pursue a search warrant without something substantial to go on. My gut feeling wasn’t going to impress a judge.

  “When I was walking over here,” I told her, “I saw an alley at the back of the property. What if I go take a peek in the garage and see if there’s a black Nissan parked inside?”

  She thought about my suggestion, but I saw the same look on her face I’d seen the day before when I’d asked her to go to the Skirvin Hotel with me.

  “That could go wrong on so many levels, Titus. I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “You’re right. Bad idea. I’ll go back to my car and see if anyone turns up at the house.”

  She looked relieved.

  “I’m driving over to Midwest City now,” she said. “I need to have a statement from Bashir before I turn my files over to the FBI. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Right. We’ll talk later.”

  I got out of her car and retraced my steps back up the block.

  When I reached the alleyway leading to the back of the houses on Surrey Avenue, I turned in and cautiously made my way to the rear of Franklin’s property where I hoped I was going to find a black Nissan.

  As soon as I reached the back of the house next door to Franklin’s property, I threw my clipboard in a big green trashcan. Then, I unholstered my gun. As I held it at my side, I carefully surveyed Franklin’s property from the cover of the neighbor’s privacy fence.