The Abbey (a full-length suspense thriller)

by Chris Culver

  I tried to shout for Hannah to call a lawyer, but someone put his knee on the back of my neck, pressing my face against the ground so I couldn’t speak.

  “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer. If you don’t shut up, we will shut you up. Do you understand?”

  I guess Bowers counted those as my Miranda rights because two of the uniformed officers threw me in the back of a squad car after that. One of the officers even made a point of putting the windows up. My entire body hurt, and I tasted something coppery and metallic. I was dizzy, but that could have been the heat. With the windows up and the sun blazing, the black vinyl seats were so hot they almost burned the exposed portions of my body.

  As I waited, the heat scorched the hard edge of my anger away, and my rationality returned. Assaulting an officer was a felony, but Bowers wouldn’t charge me with that. Not if he wanted the charges to stick. I partially instigated the attack, but he made the first move. I saw it, my wife saw it, and I’m sure some of my neighbors saw it. The officers on the scene would close ranks around their Lieutenant and say whatever they could to make it look as if he had acted in good faith, but it’d get ugly.

  Hannah stood in the doorway. Her shoulders rose and fell quickly, and her eyes smoldered; I was glad they weren’t directed at me. The back seat smelled almost vinegary from its previous occupant’s body odor, but that was better than vomit. I don’t know who made the call, but the patrol vehicle’s back door opened about twenty minutes later, and Jack Whittler stuck his head in.

  “You really pissed in somebody’s sandbox here, Detective,” he said, sitting on the seat beside me. “This car stinks. Hold on a second.”

  He stepped out before I could respond. A moment later, one of the uniformed officers, a young blond guy this time, opened the door nearest to me and pulled me out.

  “You’re not going to do anything stupid if he takes off those cuffs, are you?” asked Whittler.

  I shook my head, and the officer unlocked me. I rubbed my wrists where the cuffs had been, hoping to regain circulation. Whittler put his hand between my shoulder blades and led me to a black Mercedes with dark tinted windows parked on the street. We sat in the back with the air conditioner blaring. The seats were supple black leather, and there were dark burl wood accents on the doors and vents. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have questioned how a public servant could afford the car; given what I was in there for, I thought it might have been inappropriate.

  Whittler didn’t say anything at first. He stared at me as if waiting.

  “Did you nail this Lieutenant’s wife?” he finally asked.

  I rubbed my wrists and shook my head.

  “I’m about the only one who didn’t from what I heard.”

  “Did he nail yours?”

  I shook my head no again.

  “Then help me understand what’s going on. ‘Cause I stepped into a cluster fuck that I do not appreciate.”

  I filled Whittler in on the details of my previous encounter with Bowers and with the surveillance detail he had put on me the night before. Whittler folded his hands in front of him and stared at them for a moment when I finished.

  “The search didn’t turn anything up, so you’re fine there. Problem is you got into a Goddamn fistfight on your front lawn. You know how that would look if that got out? A decorated Lieutenant and one of my lead investigators? Jesus. I heard you were smart.”

  The hidden undercurrent was ‘do you know how that would hurt my chances in an election?’ Whittler shook his head and wiped sweat off his forehead before speaking again.

  “I want you out of my office. E–mail a letter of resignation to my secretary. Say it’s for personal reasons or that you got a better job offer from another department. I don’t care. If you do that and keep quiet, I won’t press charges.”

  I figured that was coming. Unfortunately, it meant the next stop on my roller–coaster career was probably a mall security office.

  “Can I ask you something first?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Did you see the affidavit Lieutenant Bowers used to secure the search warrant?”

  “Of course I saw it,” said Jack, staring out his window. “That’s part of the reason you’re not under arrest. The warrant was issued by Judge Thurman. I could shit on a piece of paper, and he’d sign a search warrant for the White House.”

  “What was Bowers’ probable cause to search my house?”

  Jack shook his head and ran his hand across his mouth before answering.

  “Said he had a confidential informant who swore you had a test tube full of something called agua rica. He said you hid it in a stuffed lion in one of the bedrooms. Whole thing was bullshit, and you took the bait. If you had sucked it up…”

  He kept ranting, but I tuned him out. Mike Bowers shouldn’t have known about the agua rica, and nor should he have known about my daughter’s stuffed animal collection. Whoever was tipping him off had been in my house. I spoke up when he finished speaking.

  “Thank you. I’ll get on that e–mail.”

  The Mercedes pulled away as soon as I shut the door. Bowers and the other officers followed shortly after. I met Hannah on the front porch and slumped beside her on the steps.

  “I think you should go back to your sister’s house.”

  She looked over her shoulder at our hallway.

  “We need to clean up first,” she said. “Megan will be fine with Jack and Yasmina for a little while.”

  “I’m not worried about her right now. You know those people who sent Megan flowers? They’ve been in our house.”

  Chapter 13

  Hannah stayed long enough to fill a duffel bag with clothes before driving back to her sister’s house. I hated watching her go, even if it was for the best. She wanted me to go with her, but it was too late for that. Azrael and Karen Rea had already killed Robbie Cutting and Rachel. Unless I missed my mark, their organization had probably also taken out Rollo and James Russo. I doubted they’d hesitate to take me out, too. If I quit, Hannah, Megan, and I were dead.

  I started to walk back inside but stopped in the front entryway. The frame around my front door was cracked, leaving a gap between the door and sill big enough that every bug in the state could crawl into my living room. I didn’t have time to reframe it before dark, so I grabbed a sheet of uncut plywood from my garage and nailed it against what was left of the door frame. It wouldn’t stop anybody from getting into my house if they were really determined, but at least it’d keep the squirrels from getting into my living room.

  That done, I went through my kitchen door and grabbed a soda from the fridge. I rolled it against my forehead. It was fair to say that Azrael had gotten my message the night before and sent one right back to me. He might have been ready and looking for a fight, but I wasn’t. I needed a new tactic. I gulped the soda and threw it in the trash before heading to my cruiser.

  I turned on my car but left it in park as I flipped through my notebook. If the incorporation papers for Sunshine Blood Products were accurate, I had Karen Rea’s home address. She and Azrael seemed to know a lot about me; it was time I learned something about them. According to my notes, Karen lived in Fischers, a wealthy suburb northeast of the city. I entered her address into my cruiser’s GPS. It said the drive would take me twenty–five minutes, which would put me there at roughly two–thirty. I had plenty of time before most people came home from work.

  I put my car in gear and headed out. Karen’s neighborhood was typical of her area. The houses were roughly three–to–four thousand square feet, and all had yards large enough to field a baseball game. Very little was ostentatious or showy; it was a neighborhood where the upper class congregated to raise children outside the corrupting elements of the city. Unfortunately, a wrought–iron fence surrounded the complex and a guardhouse stood in front of the only entrance. That complicated things.

  I pulled up to the guardhouse and opened my window. A young guy stepped out. He looked lik
e he was in his early thirties. He was wearing a gray uniform that was a few sizes too small on a thick neck. As far as I could tell, he was unarmed, but he had a radio on his belt. He leaned over, and I caught sight of his name tag. John A.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  I shifted on my hip to grab my badge. John put his right foot back and brought his hand to his belt as if reaching for a weapon. His movements were smooth, practiced, and deliberate. They taught cadets to do that at the Police Academy to protect their firearm.

  “Take it easy,” I said. “I’m getting my ID.”

  John nodded but kept his right hip back. I held my badge out for him. His breathing became more relaxed after that. He nodded and leaned against my car.

  “What can I help you with, Detective?”

  “I’m here to see one of your residents. Karen Rea. She lives on Oakwood.”

  “Is Dr. Rea expecting you?”

  Doctor?

  “I hope not. And I’d like it to stay that way.”

  John shook his head.

  “Unless you have a warrant, I can’t let you in without Dr. Rea’s permission,” he said. “That’s company policy.”

  “I appreciate your policy, but I’ve got to get back there. Dr. Rea has been ducking our subpoena for a week. If she knows I’m coming, she’ll be gone before I get there. I’m making a delivery; I’ll be in and out in ten minutes.”

  “What’s she being subpoenaed for?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. It’s important that I get this to her. I’m just doing my job.”

  John’s scowl didn’t leave his face, but he held his right hand up, fingers spread apart.

  “Five minutes as a favor to IMPD. I’ll call Dr. Rea in five minutes, so you’d better get over there before I do. Oakwood is the third cul–de–sac on the right.”

  Five minutes was tight, but it was doable. I nodded and put the car into gear. True to John’s directions, Karen Rea’s street was the third on the right. Like every other house in the neighborhood, her driveway was uneven cobblestone set in concrete, and her lawn was trim and green, a surprising luxury in the middle of a heat wave.

  I climbed out of my car and onto an empty street. Karen had a single–story home with a two–car garage and a covered front porch. I walked up the driveway to her front door. White lace curtains blocked most of my view inside when I looked through the windows. I couldn’t see any furniture. I knocked hard to see if anyone was home. Nothing stirred. I looked through the windows again and then took a step back to look at the black house numbers tacked to the brick beside the front door. I was at the right place.

  Maybe she’s moving.

  I looked up and down the street again but saw no one. I figured I still had some time, so I jogged to the backyard. Karen’s lot was large enough that anyone looking through the windows of neighboring houses would need binoculars to make out my face. I figured I was safe as far as witnesses went. There were planters along the fence line, but the bushes looked like twigs and weeds sprouted everywhere. The lawn crunched like dead wood, and its green shade ended abruptly as I stepped behind the house. I bent down and squeezed some of the green grass between my fingers, but the tint came off like print on a newspaper. Paint.

  I hate the suburbs.

  I skipped a search of the yard and went directly to Karen’s concrete patio. A pair of French doors led into a living room. I looked through the window. As expected, I couldn't see a stick of furniture. I was beginning to think the house was a dead drop. Our narcotics squad used them to communicate with confidential informants and officers under deep cover in the field. We’d rent an apartment, mail something to it, and our undercover officer could pick it up without having to meet us. It was a nice system.

  As helpful as they were for us, though, they were even more helpful for organized criminals. A drug wholesaler could rent a house or apartment, stash his drugs inside, and be halfway across town by the time his dealers came and retrieved them. It wasn’t uncommon to pop street dealers who hadn’t even seen the guy they bought their stashes from.

  I looked at my watch. Four minutes left. I took a deep breath and pressed down on the curved, metal handle of one of the French doors while simultaneously throwing my hip into the frame. The tumblers inside the lock slipped, and the door popped open.

  Cool air blasted towards me as I stepped in. Karen’s living room was open to the kitchen. It had vaulted ceilings, dark hardwood floors, and enough windows overlooking the backyard that the homeowner wouldn’t have to turn on lights during the day. I took a few steps around, my footsteps echoing as I did.

  The builder hadn’t skimped when he built the house. The molding around the windows and door frames was thick mahogany, and there were speakers mounted in the ceiling for a home theater. The kitchen was just as nice. The cabinets looked like mahogany, and the countertops were two inch thick gray granite flecked with silver. It looked like a model home. The hardwood floor was clear of scuff marks, the stainless–steel refrigerator lacked magnets or pictures, and the stove top was pristine. The only things out of place were a black rice cooker beside the fridge and a teakettle on the stove.

  I rubbed the back of my head. Every dead drop I had ever seen was a shithole. With no one staying there, no one cared how the place looked. In fact, it was better if the place was messier. It's easier to hide things in a cluttered space than in a clean one. Karen’s house felt wrong.

  I opened the fridge. It had a pitcher of water, a bottle of soy sauce, and a green jar with Asian writing on it. Probably wasabi. I let the fridge door swing shut and opened a few of the surrounding cabinets. I found Tupperware in one and a few plates and glasses in another, but that was it.

  I left the kitchen and followed a T–shaped hallway beside the living room. The left branch led to the garage and laundry room, but I didn't find anything exciting in either except for provocative, black lingerie in the laundry room. The other end of the hallway held bedrooms, each of which had an attached bathroom. The first two bedrooms were empty, while the third, presumably the master, had a small bed, bookshelf, and computer desk alongside an en–suite bathroom. At least it was something.

  I jogged to the bathroom. It had a jacuzzi tub and separate glass enclosed shower opposite the door. There was a double vanity sink to my left, while the toilet had its own separate room, allowing multiple people to use the bathroom at once. I opened drawers on the vanity and found Tylenol, heartburn medication, and generic Xanax prescribed for Karen Rea. I knew a couple of guys I could sell the Xanax to, but I left it in the drawer. I might have broken into the house, but I was still an investigator. One or two felonies a day was enough for me.

  I went to the bedroom next. The room was big enough that it could have comfortably fit every piece of furniture I owned. I checked out Karen’s desk first. It was laminated particle board, the sort of furniture sold in flat packs at discount stores and assembled with an Allen wrench. I pulled out the desk chair and shuffled to the waist high bookshelf nearby. The top shelf had a Latin–English dictionary, a copy of Dracula, and a few history books on Eastern Europe. They were probably source materials for her postings on fangporium.com. The other two shelves had thick green binders. I pulled one out and opened it to an academic journal from the Australian Society of Microbiologists. I slid it back onto the shelf and pulled out another at random. It had a similar academic journal, this time on virology.

  I shelved the binder and clucked my tongue. So Karen Rea was a microbiologist. That was odd; I didn’t find too many drug dealers with advanced degrees.

  Since I didn’t have much time, I ignored the computer and took a look at the desk. I picked up a coffee cup that sat beside the computer monitor and took a whiff. Green tea. I put it down and examined the only other thing on the desk. It was a picture frame. I picked it up to get a better look at it. The photo was faded and yellowing on the edges, but it had a young Asian family on it. The adults couldn’t have been more than twenty–five. The o
nly man in the picture wore a white shirt and thick, black glasses, while the woman had an infant on her hip. It was a personal memento, the last sort of thing I’d expect to find at a dead drop. Something was wrong about that place.

  As I reached to put the frame down, time seemed to slow. I noticed a barrel–shaped, HD web camera with built–in microphone attached to the table. The green recording light was on.

  Shit.

  I vaulted forward, shaking the desk so violently I nearly knocked the monitor off its pedestal. I blocked the camera’s lens with my palm. It must have been motion–activated. As I did that, the phone started ringing in the kitchen, signaling that my five minutes in the house were up. I looked around quickly, following the camera’s cord into the computer. Chances were good that the video was being streamed somewhere over the Internet, but I didn’t have time to find out.

  I scooted back from the desk and grabbed the mug of tea. In the off chance the video was stored locally, I tilted the computer forward, exposing the connection posts and air vents in back. I poured the tea inside. It sizzled as it hit the hot components, creating a cloud of plastic–smelling steam. The computer’s fans ceased operating, but the hard drive still whirred, indicating the computer was still working. Hopefully it’d short out and overheat.

  I jogged out of the house and pulled the French doors shut behind me. The yard was as bereft of life as it had been when I entered, so there shouldn’t have been any witnesses to see me break in. I straightened my jacket and rolled my shoulders. I might not have found anything that would get Karen arrested, but at least I had learned something new. She was a microbiologist. I didn’t know what to make of it, but it was interesting.