by Chris Culver
I make no excuses for the things I’ve done. Bukoholov is a murderer, and in an ideal world, I’d arrest him as soon as I could. I don’t live in an ideal world, though. In my world and in my experience, justice is a compromise, the least bad choice in an array of bad choices. In a world like that, one where you deal with true and radical evil, sometimes you’ve got to deal with the devil behind the backs of the saints.
Once I was sure none of the drivers around me were paying attention, I got out and popped the trunk on my car and then lifted the fabric trunk liner to expose the cavity that held my spare tire. Beneath that tire, I kept a prepaid cell phone. I grabbed it and entered the only number in its call history.
“Mr. Bukoholov, it’s Ash Rashid,” I said, closing my trunk.
“It’s good to hear from you, Detective Rashid. I heard about your friend Michelle. I’m very sorry.”
Michelle’s death had obviously made the news, but my relationship with her hadn’t. The fact that he had heard confidential information about a case didn’t even take me aback anymore. The man had resources the federal government would have envied.
“I appreciate that. I’m calling to ask if you’ve ever heard of a gang called Barrio Sureño.”
He paused, but for just a second, and I walked around my car to sit on the front seat. “Up-and-coming Hispanic gang run by an ambitious young woman named Carla Ramirez.”
I lowered my chin. “Carla? You’re sure about that?”
“I wouldn’t have mentioned her if I wasn’t sure. I maintain an interest in certain industries, and I watch the men and women who run them.”
And by that, he meant he watched his competitors closely, probably so he could kill them or recruit them when needed. I hadn’t considered Santino Ramirez’s wife in our murders yet, but I should have. Santino beat her so often and so soundly that she likely knew the physicians at the ER on a first-name basis, but she still stayed at his side, even through his trial and death sentence. Maybe she still loved him, or maybe he had some other hold on her. Either way, if she ran the gang now, I needed to find her.
“That gang is killing people around town. I’m going to take them out, top to bottom, and you’re going to help me.”
“Why would I do that?”
I didn’t always like the world I lived in, but I couldn’t escape it. A lot of well-meaning people believed that if we just rounded up the drug dealers from bad neighborhoods and sent them to prison for the rest of their lives, we’d make the streets safer, we’d get rid of the drugs, and we’d turn our urban neighborhoods into peaceful, wonderful places to live. The real world doesn’t work like that. In my world, if I take one drug dealer down, five more will stand up to take his spot. Sometimes that transfer of power and territory occurs without violence, but not often, and usually the innocent suffer the greatest number of casualties.
I grimaced before I even spoke.
“Because you’re going to take over their territory. You do that, we both win. The streets will be safer, and you’ll expand your reach into new areas without firing a shot.”
Bukoholov paused, presumably thinking the situation through. I wouldn’t say we trusted each other, but we hadn’t tried to screw each other over, either, and I needed him to bite on this.
“No.”
I opened my mouth, surprised and uncertain what to say. “What do you mean, no? If I do this, you get his territory. This isn’t a scam, and this isn’t a trap. I’m asking for your help and proposing more than adequate consideration.”
“Respectfully,” said Bukoholov, speaking slowly. “I know my limitations. You should as well.”
Again, I didn’t know what to say. I had only known Bukoholov for a few years, but I had heard stories about him and the things he had done. He kept old-world gangsters from New York, Chicago, and Cleveland out of Indianapolis with just a whispered threat, and he had a reach that extended into countries I barely knew existed. He could make a phone call, and I’d be dead within the hour. Never once had I ever heard of him backing down from a threat or a challenge.
“Who are you scared of?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m too old for anyone to scare me,” said Bukoholov. “Barrio Sureño unnerves me. Their leaders partner with some extraordinarily dangerous people.”
“Like who?”
Bukoholov took a deep, raspy breath. “Miguel Navarra. He represents and manages the interests of the Zetas cartel in the midwestern United States. As your friend, I’m warning you now. If you endanger his business interests, he will murder your entire family without hesitation or remorse. I can’t protect you from him, and I will not act against him.”
I hadn’t asked for protection, but I appreciated the warning. It also told me something important: Agent Havelock definitely knew more about Barrio Sureño and its business dealings than he let on.
“What’s Miguel’s relationship to Barrio Sureño?”
“From what I hear, he supplies them methamphetamine and weapons. I have little interest in either trade, so I know little about it. That’s really all I know.”
That explained the guns Paul had found, at least. My department could take on most any manner of crime, but only if we had time to prepare.
“They’ve threatened my family,” I said. “They already sent somebody to kill me.”
Bukoholov paused, but I could hear him breathe. “Then get them out of town. In light of the business we’ve conducted together, I might be able to make a phone call to at least get your wife and children off their list. That’s the only help I can provide in this matter.”
“Is Barrio Sureño really that dangerous?”
“My business thrives because I don’t find out. I advise you to adopt a similar attitude. Is there anything else?”
I shook my head and sighed. “If you can’t help, I guess not.”
“Then the next time we speak, I expect to hear a little deference in your voice. For your services, I am willing to give you wide latitude, but never presume to give me orders again. Is that clear?”
Even though it was just a simple phone call, I could actually feel myself shrink back.
“Yes.”
He hung up, and I sat still, my hands trembling ever so slightly. Bukoholov with his veins full of ice water may have been too old for anyone to scare him, but that old man scared me. I didn’t know what could unnerve him, but I didn’t want to find out. I took a few deep breaths, and once I had regained my composure, I slipped my throwaway phone into my pocket and pulled out my regular phone to call Agent Havelock once again. Like before, my call went to voice mail.
“It’s Ash Rashid again. You haven’t called me, but I would very much like to get in touch with you. I know you’re holding back on us, and the more I learn, the more nervous I get. I know Miguel Navarra is a member of Los Zetas, and I know he is in business with Carla Ramirez and Barrio Sureño. What do you say you call me back before more people die? We both know it’s going to happen unless you help me.”
I didn’t know if I had just lied to him or not, but I at least sounded as if I knew what I was talking about. After that, I put my phone in my pocket, turned on my car, and headed back to Indianapolis. When I arrived at the City-County Building about an hour later, I took the elevator to the homicide unit’s floor and took over the first vacant desk I could find. I wanted to take Bukoholov’s advice to heart, but I couldn’t back off now, not with a threat to so many people still out there. Besides that, the old man had given me a lead. Carla Ramirez. Maybe if we could get to her, we could shut this down before the situation escalated.
I started by looking her up on the state’s criminal record database and the FBI’s National Criminal Information Center’s database. She was thirty-five years old and had never been arrested as an adult, but she had a long juvenile record, including multiple arrests for possession, two assaults, and three counts of public intoxication. She had even witnessed a murder when her boyfriend, David Acosta, had shot and killed a
man named Reggie Johnson. I vaguely remembered her record from my investigation ten years ago, but we had such a strong case against her husband that I never considered her a suspect. Perhaps I should have.
I ran my fingers through my hair and then behind my neck. Nothing in her record frightened me, but Bukoholov’s warning did. At the very least, it told me I shouldn’t try to confront her without more information. I looked up David Acosta, her murderous boyfriend, next. The Department of Corrections had released him six years ago after serving a six-year sentence for manslaughter, and according to his parole information, he currently lived in Avon, a suburb west of town. That didn’t sound like the typical Barrio Sureño member, but if he had committed a murder with Carla, he might have kept in touch with her. I called the number listed as his cell phone and waited through three rings for him to pick up.
“This is Detective Sergeant Ash Rashid with IMPD. Are you free for a few minutes?”
He hesitated and lowered his voice before speaking. “I’m at work.”
Not what I expected from a gangbanger. I leaned back in my chair, hoping to sound relaxed. “Oh, yeah? What kind of work do you do?”
“I build kitchen cabinets.”
Again, not what I expected from a gangbanger, especially one who spent time in prison. For many men who went to prison, even a six-year stretch turned into a veritable life sentence. Every employment application in the world asks if the applicant has ever been convicted of a crime, so no matter how smart he is or how well an ex-convict fits a position, he rarely gets the job.
“You work for a company or on your own?” I asked.
He again hesitated. “For a company. Look, I’m not supposed to be on the phone. Can I call you back?”
Normally, I work around a source’s schedule, but I needed information and didn’t have time to wait.
“That’s not how this works,” I said. “Can you meet me somewhere in about twenty minutes?”
“I’m at work, man. I can’t lose this job.”
I tried to make my voice sound understanding. “Don’t worry about it. That’s fine. How about I get the name of the company you work for from your parole officer and come by tomorrow morning? Your boss does know you have a parole officer, doesn’t he?”
I could hear the tremble in his voice now. “And you have to meet me now?”
“I’m working a time-sensitive case. If you help me out, I’ll minimize the inconvenience. I’ll even write your supervisor a note telling him you had to take off because a detective needed your help in a murder.”
“Don’t do that,” he said without hesitation. “I’ll just tell him that I’m not feeling good.”
I grabbed a notepad out of my pocket. “That’s fine with me. Tell him whatever you need to tell him. Now where can I meet you?”
“You know Highway 36 in Avon? There’s a sports bar called Opening Day. It’s in a shopping center.”
I didn’t know it, but I could look it up. “Can you be there in twenty minutes?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Good. See you then.”
I hung up and tossed my phone onto the seat beside me and put my notepad back into my jacket. I had come on a little strong on the phone, but the call had clearly terrified the man. I tapped my foot on the floor and then rubbed my eye sockets with the palms of my hands. He would have brushed me off if he was the big, badass murderer I originally thought, but he could still shed some light on my case and Carla Ramirez. God knew I was getting tired of sitting in the dark.
Chapter 18
I left the office immediately and arrived at the bar within twenty-five minutes. As David had said, it sat in the middle of a strip mall beside Highway 36. I parked in the lot out front and checked my badge to ensure I still had it on my belt. The bar’s interior matched the sporting theme quite well. The ceilings stretched high above my head, and somebody had painted the walls a deep green. Projectors played ESPN on two screens on the west wall, and maybe a dozen people sat around the bar and nearby tables talking and drinking. Walking inside, I heard the clink of glasses and sucked great lungfuls of the familiar alcoholic smell that permeated every bar I’ve ever stepped foot inside, and I felt almost like I had just stepped into an old friend’s house. It felt comfortable, far more comfortable than it should.
I put my hands in my pockets and felt the leather keychain in my right pocket. If anybody in the world saw that keychain, they’d think nothing of it. Objectively, I knew it was just a strip of leather cut out and stamped with the word Baba. My daughter had made it for me in some kind of summer program at the YMCA. Feeling it between my fingers reminded me, though, why I didn’t drink. Since going to AA meetings, I’ve met a lot of people who lost their families because of their addiction. I couldn’t let that happen to me. My kids and my wife are all I’ve ever wanted in the world. More than the meetings, more than any number of steps, they keep me sober and made my sobriety worth the fight.
I pulled out a chair from one of the pub tables near the bar and sat down. A young woman in black jeans and a white T-shirt came over almost immediately to take my order.
“Can I get a Coke, please?” I asked, looking around. The girl nodded.
“Is that it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m meeting a guy named David Acosta. He might be a regular. You know him by chance?”
She nodded again and smiled. “Sure, I know David. If I see him, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
I watched TV until the waitress came with my soda. David Acosta—I recognized him from his license picture—came very shortly after that. He had a rounded face, spiked black hair, and sawdust on his jeans and T-shirt. At first glance, he looked like the kind of guy I’d suspect of being the class clown in high school, but something about his movements changed my perception. His eyes darted around the room, and he walked on the balls of his feet. Whenever he walked past someone, he made sure to stay well out of arm’s reach. Those habits had probably kept him alive and well in prison, but they marked him to those who knew the signs as a man who had spent time behind bars.
He walked directly to the bar and then looked around nervously before my waitress directed him to my table. I nodded to him as he walked up.
“Thank you for coming. I’m Detective Ash Rashid.”
“The news says you murdered that Dante Washington guy.”
Wasn’t exactly how I wanted to start our conversation. “I shot him while defending myself. I didn’t murder him.”
He nodded but his expression didn’t change.
“Do I sit down, or what do I do?”
“Sit down,” I said. “Have a drink if you want one.”
He pulled out a seat across from mine and sat down before nodding at my drink. “What are you having?”
“A soda. I don’t drink anymore. You want something, order it. It’s on me.”
He nodded to our waitress and ordered a beer. When she left, he looked at me again.
“What do you want?”
“I’m here for background information on a murder suspect. If you tell me you committed a crime, I can use that in court, but I’m not here to bust your balls. I just need information on Carla Ramirez.”
He started to say something, but I held up a hand to shush him, having noticed our waitress walking toward the table, a bottle of beer in her hand. She set the drink in front of him, and he nodded to her before grabbing the bottle and taking a quick pull.
“I don’t know how much I can help you,” he said, tilting his beer bottle on end and rolling it in a circle pattern on our table. “I haven’t seen Carla in like fifteen years, since we were in high school.”
He didn’t look away when he said that. Maybe he wasn’t lying.
“That’s okay,” I said, nodding and clipping my badge back to my belt. “Her name’s come up in a murder investigation.”
He furrowed his brow. “Not her dad, is it? Because I didn’t have anything to do with that. I was in Pendleton then.”
&nbs
p; I hadn’t come about her father, but any background information could help. “Tell me what you know about her dad.”
He looked down at his drink and mumbled something. I asked him to speak up.
“He knocked up a girl who went to our high school. I think he paid her for the sex. It was gross.”
Middle-aged men having sex with high school girls was gross. And illegal.
“He ever get caught?”
David hesitated. “Not by the police.”
I waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. “What happened to him?”
He quickly looked down at his beer. “He OD’d. He did a lot of drugs, but I heard Carla switched his stash with something stronger.”
Carla had several juvenile arrests for possession, so she had clearly had access to drugs, and if he had slept with her friends, she could have had motive to kill him. “She’d do that?”
He nodded and took a deep pull on his beer, his brow growing red. I’ve been a cop long enough to know the look. David had a burden on his soul, something he wanted to free.
“Tell me about her.”
He started talking and didn’t stop for half an hour, telling me a story about a far different young woman than the one I had met ten years ago. In his narrative, Carla had a void where her heart should have been. David had loved her, and he believed she loved him, but now he knew otherwise. She dealt drugs and used David as her muscle to ensure people paid her. One day, she told him her supplier, a man named Reggie Johnson, had sexually assaulted her during a routine drug buy. David killed the guy for it. He committed murder, plain and simple, but because Reggie had a gun on him, the prosecutor let David plea-bargain to manslaughter. Carla never visited, never called, never sent a letter, never answered the letters he sent her. Years later, after his release, one of Carla’s high school friends confided in him that Reggie had never touched Carla. David killed a man and went to prison because a drug dealer had called his girlfriend fat.
