by Chris Culver
I knocked on Mrs. Phelp’s door and talked to her for a few minutes. She had signed for a dozen yellow and white daisies in an over–sized, yellow coffee mug. I thanked her and headed back towards my house, pulling the card from its spindly plastic holder as I did.
‘I have my eye on you. –A’
Must have been delivered to the wrong address.
I turned the card around so I could see if it had any other identifying marks. I read the address and felt my legs stiffen. The flowers were addressed to my daughter. I opened the card again, rereading the message. I have my eye on you. If they had been addressed to Hannah, I could attribute it to a simple mistake. I had bought her flowers on ftd.com several times in the past, so the local floral shops had her name and address. No one would have had Megan’s, though. My fingers trembled. Someone was watching my daughter.
I slipped the note into my pocket and walked back to my house. Hannah and Megan were in the kitchen when I got back. I put the flowers on the counter beside the stove and sat down to think.
“Those look nice,” said Hannah, picking up the mug and turning it around, presumably looking for a card. She put it down and looked at me. “Who are they from?”
I cleared my throat, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack.
“A shop in Plainfield. I think it was a delivery mistake. I’m going to make some calls and make sure somebody gets her daisies.”
Hannah nodded.
“Okay. I think I’m going to change and pull some weeds in the backyard.”
“That sounds good,” I said, already turning and heading towards my office. I plopped down in my chair and called Olivia Rhodes on my cell phone. She picked up on the third ring and cleared her throat.
“Ash, what’s up?”
Olivia’s voice sounded gravelly. I looked at my watch; it was a little after one in the afternoon.
“I get you up from a nap?”
“Yeah, power nap in Pamela’s room.”
Pamela’s room was a storage room in the basement of Olivia’s station house. It had a pair of cots in it, a bunch of empty filing cabinets, and one poster of Pamela Anderson in a Baywatch red swimsuit. Detectives used it when they were working a case and needed a break but couldn’t go home. Olivia must have been exhausted. She once told me she’d never use Pamela’s because too many hairy asses had touched those cots during illicit midnight trysts.
“Sorry to wake you up, but I’ve got a problem.”
I told her about my stalker at Rana and Nassir’s house the night before, my meeting with Susan Mercer, and now the flowers someone had sent Megan. Olivia’s voice was clearer when she spoke.
“That’s creepy. You run this by your CO yet?”
“She’s not going to want to hear it,” I said. “I’m going to see what I can turn up before I turn this over to anyone else.”
Olivia didn’t say anything for a second.
“You considered backing off?”
“No. If I show them my back, I’ll find a knife in it eventually. I’m going to find out who’s threatening Megan and make sure they can’t do that again.”
Olivia again didn’t say anything.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s a fucking terrible idea, but it’s my only option,” I said, my voice rising in volume and timbre. “Look, I’m calling to give you a warning. If they’re after me, they’ll be after you, too. Watch your back.”
“Thank you, then,” she said. “Be careful, okay? I hate funerals.”
I promised her that I would before hanging up and walking to the kitchen. Hannah was drying dishes at the sink while Megan played with a doll in the backyard.
“I’ve got some errands to run this afternoon,” I said. “But what do you say to a matinée while I’m gone? That movie about the Princess with the long hair is in theaters now, I think.”
Hannah put down the pan she had been scrubbing, her eyebrows raised.
“Why do you want us out of the house?”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. I had learned early on in my marriage not to hold things back from my wife. She was too smart, and I wasn’t very good at keeping secrets.
“Those flowers were sent to Megan. I want to find out who sent them.”
Hannah stood straighter.
“And why would anyone send our daughter flowers?” she asked.
“Someone wanted me to know that they could get to her,” I said. “It was just a threat, so we shouldn’t be too worried.”
Hannah crossed her arms across her chest and leaned her hip into the counter.
“Why should we not be worried?”
“Because a threat means whoever sent the flowers wants something. That gives me time to find out who he is.”
“And what should we do in the meantime? Sit around like nothing’s wrong?”
I shook my head.
“No. Everything will be fine. I’ll have some officers come by the house. Don’t worry; I’ll find this guy and take care of him.”
It looked like Hannah was going to say something, but she held back and closed her eyes.
“No one better hurt our daughter,” she said a moment later.
“Nothing will happen.”
Hannah turned back to the dishes.
“Fine. Do whatever you’re going to do. We’ll see that movie while you’re gone.”
I stayed put for a moment, trying to come up with something comforting to say. I failed on all accounts, so I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. Hannah squeezed my hand with her own. It was soapy and wet, but it was comforting. I dried my hands on my pants and headed to my cruiser. Someone was about to find out that threatening my family was a very bad idea.
Chapter 9
I drove quickly. Within thirty minutes, I was in suburbia and within forty, I was in the parking lot of a modern, gray stone building with a vine–covered, ceder pergola out front.
I got out of my car and pulled open the building’s front door a moment later. The interior felt cold, like a meat packing plant, and it smelled earthy, but clean. I walked past the displays of plants to find a waist–high counter with a cash register on it. A teenager reading a Psychology textbook sat behind the counter. A row of binders and framed pictures of wedding flowers rested on a desk beside him.
I cleared my throat. The kid barely looked up from his book before reaching for a thick binder and throwing it on the counter in front of me.
“Pick out what you want and fill out an order form.”
I furrowed my brow.
“Excuse me?”
The kid didn’t even bother to look up that time.
“Open the binder, find the flowers you want, and then fill out the form in the back. It’s not that hard.”
I leaned over the front desk and grabbed the kid’s book. He jumped as I ripped it out of his hands but didn’t stop me. I dropped it on top of the binder and smiled.
“You looked a little distracted. I thought that might help.”
The kid stopped blinking at me and closed his mouth. He leaned back.
“Whatever, man. What do you want?”
“Someone sent my daughter flowers, and I’d like to find out who.”
The kid scoffed and reached for his book.
“Probably somebody she’s bumping uglies with. We don’t give out that kind of information.”
I breathed out of my nose and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough that my fingers turned white. I wanted to rip the book out of his hands and beat him with it. Instead, I leaned over the counter. The kid instinctively leaned back, probably so I couldn’t grab anything else out of his hands.
“My daughter is four–years–old, jackass. Care to reevaluate your position?”
“Not really,” said the kid, flipping through the textbook to find his spot. That was it for me. I reached over the counter and grabbed his book. The page he was holding ripped down the middle. The kid looked shocked for a second, but when he composed himself, his face g
ot red and he vaulted upright. I smacked him on the ear hard enough that I could feel the book’s cover bend and flex. He staggered into a table behind him, holding his head with one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other. “What the fuck, man?”
Instead of answering him, I reached over the counter again and yanked the telephone cord out of the wall so he couldn’t dial 911. The kid stood upright, his hands flat against the table and his breath shallow.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “I’ll look up whatever you want me to look up.”
“Good,” I said, dropping the clerk’s textbook. It thumped against the desk before falling on the floor behind the counter. I could see the clerk’s throat dip as he swallowed. “I want you to find out who sent flowers to Megan Rashid this afternoon.”
He nodded slowly.
“Cool. Give me a second.”
He turned to go through the door behind the counter, but I grabbed his sleeve before he could.
“Give me your cell phone first,” I said. “Hate for you to get distracted back there and call somebody while you should be helping me.”
He looked from me to the front door, as if gauging whether he could get past me. I leaned against the counter, and my jacket flared out around me, allowing the clerk to see my firearm. My nylon holster dug into my shoulder. I hated it when it did that. After being shot, my shoulder always ached. My physician said the discomfort would eventually fade, but he had never felt a steel–jacketed forty–five caliber bullet rip through the muscle and sinew of his shoulder. The discomfort never went away.
The clerk swallowed again and handed me his iPhone before disappearing through the door that led to the back room. I put the phone on the counter beside his textbook.
The kid came back a moment later with the order form in his hands. He slid it in front of me and backed off quickly, his hands in front of him defensively.
“Relax, kid,” I said. I reached to my belt and unhooked my badge. I held it up. “I’m a good guy.”
The clerk’s shoulders relaxed but not completely. I clipped the badge back to my belt and skimmed the order slip. The buyer was John Smith at 123 Anystreet, Anytown, Ohio.
“How were these flowers paid for?”
The kid swallowed.
“It’s on the bottom of the form.”
I slipped my eyes down to the correct line and felt a tightening in my gut.
“You accepted cash from John Smith at 123 Anystreet, Anytown, Ohio? Does that sound like a legitimate name and address to you?”
He shrugged, his face going pale.
“We’re a flower shop. We don’t run background checks.”
“Even still, at least get a fucking credit card imprint. This was a threat to my daughter.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten, calming myself.
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “Who took the order?”
“Me.”
“Do you remember what your customer looked like?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shifting on his feet. “It was a couple of days ago.”
I rubbed my scalp line and breathed deeply, trying to keep myself from exploding.
“Think hard.”
“Come on,” he said, shaking his head. He started to speak a few times but then stopped and restarted. “He was old. Like, maybe thirty or thirty–five.”
“What else do you remember about him? Was he tall? Short? Did he have tattoos or anything like that?”
“He had a tattoo on his neck, and he wore a frilly shirt like he was a pirate. I thought he was weird.”
“Are you sure the tattoo was on his neck?”
“Yeah. I know a neck when I see it.”
I ignored the barb and took my notebook from my inside jacket pocket.
“What was it a tattoo of?”
The kid shrugged.
“Some sort of weird design. It looked like a spiderweb.”
I jotted it down.
“Was he white, black, or what?”
“He was like Chinese or something.”
“Anything else you remember about him?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know. It was a few days ago.”
I asked him a few more questions, but that was all I got out of him. When I finished, I nodded, closed my notepad, and slipped it back in my jacket pocket. The trip hadn’t been a complete waste, at least. I thought I had enough for an ID. I looked up and leaned forward so my face was about a foot from the clerk’s.
“If my kid gets flowers from your store again, I’ll put your head through the front window. Do you understand me?”
He nodded, his face pale. I turned and walked out of the store, flexing my fingers. I inhaled deeply and opened my car’s door as I tried to put my thoughts in order. I couldn’t be sure, but I had a pretty good idea who had sent those flowers. Now I had to figure out why.
I took out my cell phone and thumbed through its memory until I found John Meyers’ phone number. After blowing him off earlier, I hoped he’d still take my call. The phone rang twice before he picked up. I spoke before he could.
“Hi, this is Detective Ash Rashid with IMPD. There have been some new developments in Robbie Cutting’s case, and I wondered if I could take a look at the safe Mrs. Cutting found.”
I heard Meyers cluck his tongue a few times.
“I’m in court this afternoon, but I think I can arrange that,” he said. “I’ll have Maria call you when she’s ready.”
“That’s fine,” I said, climbing into my car and turning the key. “I’m in Plainfield right now, but I can be in Indianapolis shortly.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
Meyers hung up, and I turned on my car and headed to the first drug store I could find. I bought a pint of Maker’s Mark and put it in my glove compartment. I like bourbon and Maker’s Mark is one of my favorites. It comes in a square bottle, so it doesn’t roll around in my glove compartment. A big part of me wanted to drink the entire pint right there, but I still had work to do. More than that, drinking in the middle of a parking lot was almost a surefire way to be arrested for a DUI. I closed my glove compartment and left the lot.
Mrs. Cutting called as I pulled onto the interstate. She agreed to a meeting at her place in twenty minutes. I threw my cell phone on the empty seat beside me after hanging up. As soon as I flipped on my car's siren and lights, traffic parted in front of me as if I were leading a Presidential Motorcade.
Twenty minutes later, I parked beside the Cuttings' guest house and got out of my car. It was stiflingly hot, and I could feel beads of perspiration slide down my back. I opened my cruiser’s trunk to get my evidence kit. Olivia’s evidence collection kit was neat and orderly in a fishing tackle box; I’m not that fastidious. Mine was in a cardboard box that had once held paperbacks my wife bought on the Internet. I grabbed it and walked to the open front door.
I hadn’t been in the guest house before, but I recognized it from the crime scene photos. The home was open–concept and had a small entryway that led to a kitchen and living–room area. Under normal circumstances, I would have taken off my shoes to avoid tracking in mud or other contaminating particles, but the situation being what it was, I wasn’t too worried about collecting legally admissible evidence. I didn’t expect my investigation to end in a courthouse.
“Hello?” I called, pausing near the kitchen. Maria Cutting shuffled out of a hallway on the left side of the room. She wore a green tank top and bluejeans that were tight around her hips. I hadn’t noticed it before, but she was more than a little attractive despite the puffy, gray patches under her eyes. She nodded at me, her lips thin and straight.
“Detective,” she said.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Cutting,” I said, crossing the room towards her. “Your attorney says you have something to show me.”
She nodded and led me down the hallway from which she had come. The guest house's master bedroom had a vaulted ceiling and a large picture window overlook
ing a formal rose garden. The furniture was gone, and most of the carpet had been pulled up, exposing the plywood subfloor. Mrs. Cutting stopped in the center of the room, her eyes transfixed by a red stain on what remained of the carpet. I looked at my feet, preferring my shoes to the intimacy of her grief.
“If you’d like, I can give you the name of a cleaning service that specializes in situations like this,” I said. “You don’t need to take care of the room by yourself.”
“Yes, I do,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Robbie was my son. This is my responsibility.”
Stepping into the room without explicit permission felt wrong somehow, almost as if I were invading a religious shrine, so I stayed in the doorway. Eventually, Mrs. Cutting looked back up at me. Her eyes were momentarily confused, as if she were surprised I was there, but then she regained her focus and waved me over. My feet drummed hollowly against the plywood floor, and I could see a tear slide from the corner of one of her eyes to her cheek.
“It’s on the floor in the far corner of the room,” she said, pointing to a spot about ten feet away. “Please, look at it and leave me alone.”
I nodded, knowing that anything I had to say would have been inappropriate. I shuffled across the room towards the far window. As Mrs. Cutting had said, there was a green safe lodged between floor joists. It looked like Robbie had peeled back the carpet and cut through the subfloor with a saw. The metal was thin, and it flexed beneath my fingers. On closer inspection, it looked more like a cash box with a combination dial than a safe. I looked back at Mrs. Cutting, but she had turned her back to me.
I reached into my evidence kit. I didn’t usually collect evidence myself, but part of my job was to be prepared at all times. I had the usual things – latex gloves, bags, and evidence tags. But I also had a number of hand tools, including a thick, flat head screwdriver. I jammed my screwdriver in the seam between the safe’s door and side and wrenched it to the right. The metal flexed and gave way, exposing a sliver of the interior. I placed the tip of my screwdriver into that slot and pulled again, prying the door open as if I had a crowbar.
I looked inside, and for a moment, it felt like someone had put my guts through an old–fashioned clothes wringer. I hadn’t expected much in the safe. Instead, I found a snub–nosed, thirty–eight caliber revolver and some sort of Styrofoam container. I glanced at Mrs. Cutting. She was watching me now, but I didn’t think she could see the handgun from where she stood.
