by Chris Culver
“You guys have some nerve, you know that? I’m not working with the city again until I’m paid.”
“This isn’t for IMPD,” I said. “Consider it a private matter.”
Mack paused before speaking, and I heard him draw in a deep breath.
“I like you. We don’t know each other very well, but I like you. And I say this as someone who likes you. Your wife’s not doing blow. I would have heard about it. And besides, you can’t afford me. Frankly, you probably can’t even afford a consult, let alone lab work.”
“This isn’t about Hannah. I’ve got a case with two dead kids, and my department is ignoring it. If we don’t do something, we’ll probably have more to follow. I just need a little help.”
Mack growled into the phone.
“Jeeeesussssss,” he said, drawing out the two syllables. I heard him breathe deeply for a moment as if he were thinking. “I volunteer in a charity hospital for children. I can’t afford to do outside work without pay. What can you give me? Can you at least fix some parking tickets?”
“Probably. Tell me the car and I’ll make some calls.”
“My girlfriend’s Mercedes. It’s in my name. I’m sure you can look it up. Last I checked, she had two or three dozen.”
I rubbed my brow.
“I’ll do what I can about the tickets.”
“Good. Come by the hospital tomorrow at ten. I get coffee then.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you there.”
I hung up the phone and stuck it back in my pocket. The meeting was in fourteen hours. Hopefully I’d still be alive.
Chapter 11
I helped Hannah with the dishes for about twenty minutes before hopping in my car. It was earlier than I intended to head out, but I needed a drink and couldn’t get one at home. I stopped at a sports bar near Plainfield and had bourbon with a beer chaser. I felt like myself after that. The bar was relatively uncrowded, so I imagined The Abbey would be as well. Even still, if Azrael made a living selling coke to would–be vampires, he’d be there.
I finished my drinks and got back in my car at a quarter after nine. I drove through the now–familiar countryside. The parking lot outside The Abbey was about half–full. I saw several parking spots near the entrance, but I backed into a spot facing the exit on the edge of the lot. I didn’t anticipate problems, but shit happens and I wanted to be prepared if I had to leave in a hurry. I checked my firearm before stepping out of the car and onto the gravel lot.
The wind was strong enough that it whipped across the old church’s steeple, creating a low moaning sound. It was kind of creepy, actually. I slammed my door shut and pulled my jacket tight around me so my firearm wouldn’t be exposed. There were a few other people in the parking lot, and from what I could see, they were all wearing black clothes and various shades of dark makeup. A good number had facial piercings. I ignored them and walked toward the old church. Rope lights bathed the limestone steps in purple incandescence.
I stopped at the foot of the steps. There were three bouncers at the top. Two of them were big enough that they could have been NFL lineman, while the third was smaller and held a clipboard. He looked like a Slim to me. They were checking driver’s licenses and patting everyone down before they let them inside. I took my badge from my belt and held it up. The crowd parted in front of me until I reached the top steps. The larger two bouncers folded their arms across their chests, probably trying to look intimidating, while the smaller guy said something into a two–way radio. All three glared at me.
“Is there a problem here, sir?” asked Slim.
“Not if you get out of my way,” I said, holding up my badge. “There’s somebody in there I need to see.”
Slim looked from the badge to me and back.
“This is legit?”
I nodded.
“Yep. You can call IMPD’s dispatcher to confirm it if you want,” I said. “They’ll vouch for it.”
Slim paused for a second, but then he shook his head.
“That’s not necessary,” he said. “Is there a problem that we need to know about?”
I shook my head no.
“Shouldn’t be. I’ve got to see somebody. I’ll be in and out. Don’t worry.”
Slim nodded and then looked over his shoulder to the two larger men. They stepped aside, clearing a path to the front door.
“If there’s an issue,” he said. “I want to know about it”
I clipped the badge back onto my belt.
“You’ll be the first,” I said, already walking past him. The club’s music was so loud that it rumbled my chest like a mild case of indigestion. I stepped into the front room. It was dark and crowded, and the overhead lights cast a red incandescence made hazy by smoke. Every table looked full, and nearly everyone wore black from head to toe. I didn’t recognize anyone from my niece’s high school. The club must have tightened security after my conversation with Mick a few days earlier.
I pushed through the crowd, the music growing louder as I passed the velvet drapes that separated the church’s narthex from its sanctuary. It was a good use of the building, really. Club goers who wanted to dance could do that in the remnants of the sanctuary, while those wanting a more relaxed atmosphere had it in the old narthex. The main room smelled like beer, cigarettes, and more than a hint of body odor. I took a quick look around. Couples, threesomes, and more grinded against each other on the dance floor. It was actually tamer than I had anticipated. Despite what Mick had implied on my last visit, no one was obviously having sex with anyone else. Maybe that was a Friday night only occurrence, sort of like marriage.
Mick was behind the bar. I walked to an empty spot and leaned against the counter to watch him at work. He had a bottle of vodka in each hand and a tray full of small, plastic cups in front of him. He emptied both bottles into shot glasses. I coughed, and someone behind me took that as an invitation to press her hips against mine. Mick looked up and waved her off before I could tell her to leave me alone.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, not even breaking stride with his drinks. “Nice jacket. Did you beat up a philosophy professor for it?”
“Something like that,” I said.
Mick put the empty bottles down and waved over a blond in a T–shirt so tight I could tell both of her nipples were pierced. I’m sure her father was very proud of her. She took the tray and disappeared into the crowd.
“Order something.”
I looked around the bar for a draft tower, but didn’t find one.
“Shot of Jack and a beer chaser.”
He handed me a bottle of a cheap, domestic beer before filling a plastic cup with a generous shot of Jack Daniels. I pounded the shot and followed it with a swig of the beer. The beer was cold enough that it set my teeth on edge. Mick turned his attention to a girl beside me. She ordered a bloody gin and tonic. From what I could see, it was like a regular gin and tonic with a dash of grenadine. Mick moved so quickly behind the bar filling drink orders that I couldn’t get his attention until the blond waitress came back with a tray full of empty cups and a thick pile of one–dollar bills. She handed everything to Mick. He threw away the cups, put the bills in a cash box behind the bar, and started making a new tray of shots beside me while the waitress waited.
“I haven’t found anything about your girl,” he said as he poured. “I told you I’d give you a call if I did.”
“I’m not interested in that right now. I need to know something about Azrael. Does he have a tattoo on his neck?”
Mick looked as if he were going to say something, but a white towel hit him in the shoulder. We turned at the same time. His assistant had five people shouting drink orders at him from the other end of the bar. I took another pull on my beer and turned around as Mick went to work.
On my first glance, I thought the club’s patrons had all looked alike, but that was wrong. There were at least three distinct groups. Nearly everyone was young, but some dressed in form–fitting leather or v
inyl outfits, some dressed in comfortable street clothing, and others wore silky, almost old–fashioned garb. None of the groups intermingled. It was almost like a junior high dance with the boys on one side of the room and the girls on the other.
“It’s a Maori tribal symbol,” said Mick behind me. “He’s here tonight in one of our VIP rooms. Feel free to go up if you want to see him.”
That confirmed my suspicion even if it didn’t make sense. Azrael had threatened my daughter. I turned toward the bar, and Mick handed me another generous shot. I tilted it towards him, showing my thanks, and drank it in two gulps. The liquor bit into my throat and esophagus pleasantly. I washed it down with a sip from my beer.
“I don’t need to see him,” I said. “But can you give him a message?”
“I’ve got a waitress who can.”
I took two twenties and my business card out of my wallet. Before handing them over, I wrote ‘fuck you’ on the back of the card with a pen from my pocket.
“Give Azrael the business card. Do you know what he drives?”
Mick looked at my card and raised his eyes.
“You’ve got a real gift with people, Detective.”
“He threatened my daughter. She’s four. This is me being nice.”
Mick looked back up at me.
“He picked up a girl I know. Took her home in a gray BMW 5–series. I think he parks behind the building so nobody will scratch it accidentally.”
I nodded and finished the beer before shuffling back outside. The parking lot had more cars in it than on my way in, but the line to get inside was shorter. I followed the club’s exterior wall to a small, unlit parking lot around back. There were roughly ten cars there, most of which were older and American. A nearby dumpster reeked like rotting citrus.
True to Mick’s word, there was a gray BMW in the middle of the lot. Like me, Azrael had backed into his spot, although I doubted it was out of a desire to escape quickly. I walked around the vehicle until my back faced the woods. Even behind the building, the club’s music was so loud I could make out the lyrics. Something about crimson regrets, tourniquets and salvation. The woods behind me were silent.
I wrote down Azrael’s license plate number and then grabbed my firearm. For the second time that day, I smashed a car window. I wasn’t sure if the first guy deserved it; Azrael definitely did. The drinks were setting in by the time I got back to my car, and I was buzzing pretty hard. I thought about calling a cab, but as far from Indy as I was, I’d be dead sober by the time it arrived. I’d probably also be out fifty bucks for cab fare. I was slightly impaired, but everyone drove impaired. On my morning commute, I routinely saw women putting on makeup or men shaving. I had even seen someone reading a newspaper, but that one might have been taking it too far. I was fine; no worse off than anyone on a cell phone.
I exited the parking lot and headed toward the interstate, feeling pretty relaxed. I almost made it, too. About a mile from the on–ramp, a pair of blue and red lights flashed behind me. The remnants of my buzz disappeared, and I pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall. Except for a greasy spoon diner, all of the nearby businesses were closed for the night. The officer pulled up behind me. The markings on his cruiser pegged him as a county sheriff, which meant I doubted we knew too many people in common. I sat up straighter, hoping my face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.
The officer turned off his lights but didn’t get out for a few minutes. Presumably he was looking up my license plate to make sure my car wasn’t stolen. It was standard procedure. I closed my eyes and waited for what seemed like an hour before he got out of his car. He was middle–aged and heavy. His khaki and brown uniform had a sergeant’s chevrons on his arms. I opened my window.
“So,” he said, leaning against my car. “What’s IMPD doing out here?”
“Covering a case,” I said. “I’m on my way home.”
The sergeant nodded.
“And how much have you had to drink tonight?”
I guess there wasn’t much point in lying. He’d field test me no matter what I said.
“A few.”
“A few as in two or three…”
I sighed.
“I don’t count, Sergeant.”
He nodded and looked over the empty parking lot.
“Can you give me your license?” he asked.
I handed it to him. He stayed in his car for a few minutes, and when he came back, he was holding a breathalyzer. I blew a .10; it was over the legal limit, but not by too much. About ten years earlier, I wouldn’t have even been considered drunk. The sergeant took the breathalyzer and my keys back to his car, where he stayed for another ten minutes, presumably calling for back up to drive me to the drunk tank. I didn’t look forward to the conversation I would have to have with Hannah the next day.
The sergeant came back to my car, my license and keys in hand. He stared at me for a moment, shaking his head.
“I called my brother–in–law in IMPD’s robbery squad,” he said. “He said you were a good detective. He also said your niece just died.”
I didn’t know where he was going with it, so I nodded.
“Yeah, a few days ago.”
The sergeant nodded and looked around for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card. He scribbled something on the back.
“This is my cell number,” he said. “I lead an AA Group. We’re all sworn officers, and we’ve all been in your shoes. If you ever want someone to talk to, give me a call.”
I took the card.
“Thank you,” I said.
“This is your only freebie,” he said. “You’ve seen the statistics, and you’ve probably been to as many accidents as I have. If I see you driving under the influence in my town again, I’ll haul you to jail faster than you can blink. Since your record’s clean, I’m not going to jam you up if you promise to stay at that Waffle House for about an hour and sober up before heading home.”
I nodded, and he handed me my license before walking back to his car. I slumped into my seat and rubbed my sinuses as he drove off. AA was a good organization from what I had seen, but it was for guys with problems. I didn’t have a problem; I had a hobby that happened to involve drinking.
I closed my eyes. I don’t know how long I sat like that, but eventually I took out my cell and called Hannah’s cell phone. It was our routine. If I had to call late, I called her cell so I wouldn’t wake Megan up by calling the land line. Hannah picked up before the first ring finished.
“Hey, honey, it’s me,” I said.
“How are you?” she asked. “I was worried. I didn’t know how late you’d be.”
“I’m fine, and it may be a little while yet,” I said, glancing at the Waffle House. “I’ve got a couple of things to do before I head home. Might be an hour or so.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I tried to call you earlier, but it went straight to voicemail.”
I pulled my phone away from my ear to make sure the battery was still charged. It was fine.
“Must have been out of cell range.”
“Yeah,” said Hannah. “Megan and I aren’t home right now.”
“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting up quickly.
“We’re fine,” said Hannah. I heard her start and stop speaking. It took her a moment to form words. “I feel silly. We were by ourselves, and it was dark. I got a bad feeling like someone was watching us. I feel like a kid.”
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“With Yasmina and Jack,” she said. “I didn’t feel comfortable at home. Do you think that’s childish?”
Yasmina was Hannah’s sister; she and her husband lived near our mosque on the east side of town. I ran my fingers through my hair.
“No, that’s not childish,” I said. “Do you want me to come by and pick you up?”
“It’s awfully late,” she said. “I think we’ll stay the night here. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said. We se
ttled into an uneasy silence after that. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, just a little paranoid, I think,” she said. “I’m going to head to bed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I love you.”
Hannah told me she loved me, too, before hanging up. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. My stomach twisted. I should have gone home earlier, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have had as much to drink as I had. I felt guilty, but there wasn’t much use fretting over what I couldn’t change. I glanced at my watch. It was after eleven, so there weren’t many productive things I could do except sober up. Even still, there was one. I thumbed through the address book on my cell phone until I found IMPD’s central dispatcher. The guy who answered sounded even more tired than me.
“What do you need?” he asked.
“This is Detective Sergeant Ashraf Rashid. I need a trace on an Indiana license plate.”
“What’s your badge number?”
After reciting the number twice, I gave the dispatcher Azrael’s plate number and a description of the car. Keys clicked intermittently as the dispatcher typed.
“Your Beamer’s registered to a Plainfield company called Sunshine Blood Products, Inc.”
I grabbed a pen from my jacket’s inside pocket and wrote the company’s address on my notebook as he read it to me. I wanted an actual person’s name, but a company name was almost as good. They had to pay taxes, so there’d be a paper trail. I could follow that to Azrael. I pocketed the address, thanked the dispatcher for his time, and hung up.
The case didn’t make a lot of sense yet, but things were coming together. Hopefully my life wouldn’t fall apart before that happened. I spent the next forty–five minutes drinking coffee and reading the newspaper in the Waffle House. It wasn’t the best use of my time that I could think of, but it beat sitting in a Hendricks County drunk tank.
***
I woke up the next morning when my cell phone rang. The sun beat against my blinds and birds sang outside. I sat up and swallowed a few times, trying to get my bearings. I was in my bedroom, and my head felt as if a thousand tiny jackhammers were pounding away at the interior of my skull. Mornings suck. I swung my legs off the bed and yawned before snatching my cell phone from the end table. It was my wife.
