by Chris Culver
“Trust me on this,” he said. “Do what I say, and I’ll make sure you make it through safe.”
I nodded before laying my head back down on the ground. Price and his men went from room to room, presumably checking the closets and anywhere else large enough for someone to hide. After a few minutes, one of the SWAT guys rolled me onto my stomach and secured my hands behind me with a zip tie. They let me sit up after that and lean against the wall. Detective Price slid beside me a moment later and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his utility belt. I thought about telling him my wife and I had a nonsmoking house, but I didn’t see the harm at the moment. It’s not as if we had working doors to hold the smoke in. He lit up, took a puff, and offered it to me. I shook my head no.
“Glad you finally made it by the house,” I said. “I would have had you earlier, but school and the job keep me pretty busy. You should have brought your wife. We could smoke a chicken or something out back.”
Price laughed softly and stared at the cigarette dangling from his fingertips. He didn’t look at me. I paused for a moment, processing.
“How bad is it out there?” I asked.
“Bad.”
“Media?”
He nodded and took a drag on his cigarette.
“That Asian chick from Channel Seven,” he said. “She got here before we did.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll let me slip out the back and pretend you didn’t see me.”
Price chuckled and shook his head.
“When I give the all–clear, Bowers and his boys are going to come in and arrest you. I thought I’d give you a minute to breathe.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Don’t mention it. Ever. And a bit of advice. You’ve still got people in the department you can trust, but not many. Watch what you say around Bowers. Rumor is we’re not playing on the same team.”
I nodded. I was glad to hear I wasn’t the only person with that thought. Price took a final puff of his cigarette before leaning forward and standing up.
“Remember what I said. Watch your back.”
As soon as Price left, I pushed myself back against the wall and twisted my hands, trying to loosen the zip ties securing my wrists. The sharp plastic bit into my skin as it stretched. It was going to leave a mark, but with the ties loosened, I could move a bit. I rolled my shoulders, while Price went to my living room and radioed an all–clear to the officers outside.
Mike Bowers was the first man through the remnants of my front door. The last time I had seen him, he had been practically giddy. He had aged since then. His face was pale, he needed to shave, and, judging by the rumpled state of his suit coat, he could have used a fresh change of clothes. He leaned over me, and I caught a whiff of citrus–scented aftershave. He probably threw it on in lieu of a shower; it wasn’t a very good substitute.
He gestured for me to stand up.
“This is a prime opportunity to kick me while I’m down,” I said. “Might as well get your licks in while you can.”
“Get up, Rashid. I haven’t got all day.”
I floundered around for a moment, but made little actual movement to stand until a pair of uniformed deputies slipped their arms through the crooks of my elbows and pulled. Bowers rubbed his eyes and sighed.
“You have a back door to this place?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You don’t want to pose for the cameras?”
“No, I don’t want to pose for the goddamn cameras.”
I took a deep breath and leaned my head back as if I were thinking deeply.
“Then no. We don’t have a back door.”
Bowers muttered something inaudible, grabbed me by the elbow, and led me down the hallway. The plywood erected to cover my front door was broken in two, but there was little additional damage to the frame. At least I had that going for me. I squinted as I stepped onto the porch. It was overcast outside, but it was still hot and muggy. There were two news vans parked in front of the house. This was going to be a hard one to explain to Hannah.
Bowers led me straight to his unmarked police cruiser without a word. Most cops in his situation would have wanted to savor the limelight as long as they possibly could, but Bowers had spent a significant portion of his career undercover and probably didn’t want his face broadcast on statewide television. As someone whose family has been the target of criminals, I could respect that. I made little move to call additional attention to us and climbed into the back of his cruiser.
“You’re not going to let me put my seatbelt on?” I asked once Bowers sat on the seat in front of me. “That’s a nonmoving violation. Somebody could give you a ticket, not to mention the safety issues.”
“Pray we don’t get into an accident.”
I leaned back into the seat and tried to get comfortable, a difficult task with my hands secured behind my back. Unlike a patrolman’s vehicle, Mike’s cruiser didn’t have a computer or mesh screen separating the front and rear passenger compartments. It was more like a taxi than anything else, and Bowers drove it as such. We ran two red lights and damn near hit a group of pedestrians before making it to the downtown police station.
He parked in a garage beneath the building, patted me down, took everything out of my pockets, and led me to an interrogation room. There was a polished metal table bolted to the floor in the middle of the room with a matching metal chair bolted in front of it. Unknown to most suspects, the legs of the chair had purposefully been cut short so that a suspect would have to look up to his interrogators, and the table was too far out of reach for the average person to lean against and become comfortable.
Bowers cut the zip ties from my wrists and gestured toward the center of the room.
“Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
I took a step in and leaned against the table, rubbing my wrists where the plastic had worn my skin raw.
“I think I’ll stand, but thank you.”
Mike shook his head.
“Have it your way.”
He walked through the room’s stainless–steel door and shut it behind him. I knew it wouldn’t budge, so I didn’t bother trying to open it.
Plain and simple, a good interrogation is about power. Mike was going to do everything he could to take me out of my comfort zone and make me feel powerless. More than likely, he was going to crank the air conditioner as low as it would go and watch me squirm for a good half–hour. After that, he’d come in and apologize for the delay and the temperature and offer me a cup of coffee to warm up with while he finished paperwork. It would seem like a nice offer except that I’d eventually have to use the bathroom, thereby giving him something else to hold over me. I pulled myself onto the table and laid back with my legs hanging over the edge.
The smartest thing a suspect can do in an interrogation room is to sit down, shut up, and ask for an attorney. Since I didn’t seem to have that option, I closed my eyes as if I were going to sleep.
Mike walked in about twenty minutes later with a cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other. He set the coffee cup on the table beside me. I sat up and yawned.
“Peace offering,” he said, motioning towards the cup with his chin. “For earlier. I was doing my job.”
“You’re going to pay to have my door reframed; I’m telling you now.”
“Don’t worry about your door,” he said, starting to take a step backwards. “Drink the coffee, and I’ll get the forms for you to fill out for the city to reimburse you.”
“Cut the shit. If you leave, you won’t be back for another half hour. No games. I want to get this over with. Tell me what you’ve got on me, and I’ll tell you why it’s bullshit.”
Bowers smiled.
“Cocky, aren’t you?”
“Innocent.”
He leaned against the wall beside the door and crossed his arms.
“You know there’s a camera recording this, so don’t try anything,” he said, flicking his gaze to a corner of the room behi
nd me. “Tell me what you know about Caitlin Long.”
I climbed off the table.
“The redhead?”
Bowers nodded. I shifted and shrugged.
“She was my niece’s best friend. I might have met her when she was a kid, but I don’t remember. She was supposed to give me a call, but she never did.”
Bowers unfolded his arms and tossed the manila folder on the table.
“That’s the extent of your relationship? You never talked to her on the phone? You never met her after that?”
I shifted again uncomfortably and took a seat in the room’s only chair. That was probably what Bowers wanted, but I didn’t care.
“No. Why do you ask?”
Bowers took a step forward and leaned against the table. From my angle, I had to crane my neck to catch his gaze.
“Never flirted with her? Asked her on a date?”
I started to say no, but stopped myself quickly. Bowers wouldn’t have asked the question unless he had heard something. I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands. My legal sense was screaming at me to shut up, but an even louder voice was telling me to explain myself. Bowers counted on that second voice; every detective does. I leaned forward and put my hands flat on the table.
“I wanted an appointment with her to talk about Rachel and Robbie. That was it. I never got in touch with her, though.”
Bowers nodded as if he understood.
“Do you try to set up a lot of appointments with young girls?”
My stomach fluttered, but I forced myself to chuckle and lean back in my chair.
“If you broke down my door for this, I think I’ll be walking out of here pretty soon. This is fucking ridiculous.”
“Is it?” asked Bowers, sliding the manila folder he had tossed on the table toward me. “Check it out and then tell me how ridiculous it is.”
A pit grew in the bottom of my stomach. Folders weren’t good. I hesitated and looked at Bowers for some sort of tell, but he didn’t blink. I swallowed, opened the folder, and almost immediately felt my stomach clench. I’ve seen a lot of crime scene photos, but you never get used to seeing dead young people. It was an outdoor shot with pine needles and thick tree roots on the ground. Caitlin Long’s lips were blue, and her red hair was splayed out around her head. There was an ugly ligature mark on her neck.
“She put up a good fight,” he said. “She had bruises on her palms and skin under her fingernails. I noticed you were limping, Rashid. Can you explain that?”
“I jumped over my fence and twisted my ankle a few days ago. Where were these taken?” I asked, leafing through the photos. The second photo was a wider angle shot. The girl was wrapped in what looked like a bed sheet or maybe a large role of fabric. I looked up.
“Eagle Creek Park,” he said. “Where were you last night at around nine?”
I ignored the question and continued flipping through the contents of the folder. There were multiple pictures of objects found around the body, including a wrapper from a condom.
“Was she assaulted?” I asked.
“She’s fucking dead. What do you think?”
“Sexually?”
“That is yet to be determined, but judging by the fact that she was nude and wrapped in a sheet, I’m guessing yes. So let me ask again. Where were you last night and what was your relationship with Ms. Long?”
My stomach lurched. I had a pretty solid alibi, but I doubted telling Mike that I was in a gunfight with a Russian gangster would improve my situation greatly.
“We had no relationship. And I don’t remember where I was at nine last night. I was drinking.”
Mike nodded and reached across the table for the folder.
“Was anyone with you?” he asked, flipping through the contents of the folder.
“Not that I remember.”
“Must have been quite a night,” he said, pulling a sheet of paper from the back of the folder and sliding it towards me. “This is a dump of Ms. Long’s last hundred calls. She called your house five times yesterday afternoon. Maybe you were too drunk to remember.”
Fuck.
I leaned forward and looked at the paper Bowers had pushed towards me. He was telling the truth. Someone had even conveniently highlighted the calls. Four were less than ten seconds, but one lasted a minute and a half. Since I hadn’t spent much time at home for a while, I hadn’t checked the answering machine in the past day or two.
“I gave my business card to my sister so she could give it to Caitlin. That’s how she had my number.”
“So you talked to her?”
I shook my head.
“She must have left a message.”
Bowers nodded, seeming to take it in stride.
“So why’d you give her your home phone number? Why not your office phone?”
“I gave her my business card. It has my home number on it for emergencies.”
Bowers nodded again, but paused before speaking. He leaned forward.
“Did you give her the card before or after your wife left you?”
I closed the folder so I wouldn’t have to see the body anymore.
“Hannah didn’t leave me. She took Megan to her sister’s house for a few days. They’re visiting, like a vacation.”
“Vacation,” said Bowers, smiling. “That’s what my wife said, too. She left you, but let’s focus on what’s important. You’re dealing coke with your partner, Detective Rhodes. You gave some to your niece, and she gave it to her boyfriend. She OD’d on your product. Shit happens, right? Robbie is upset and offs himself. Your wife finds out and leaves you. Meanwhile, Caitlin’s not too pleased with you after your shit killed her best friend, so she threatens to out you. You get drunk and decide to shut her up, so you took her to Eagle Creek Park last night, assaulted her, and strangled her. That sound about right?”
I didn’t say anything for a moment as the story sunk in.
“That sounds insane.”
“Really? Rachel Haddad, dead. Robert Cutting, dead. Alicia Weinstein, tortured and dead. Mark Patterson, Alicia’s boyfriend, tortured and dead. Caitlin Long, raped and dead. James Russo, dead. Rolando Diaz, dead. You sense the pattern here? They meet with you, and then they die.”
I swallowed and looked up.
“I want to talk to my lawyer.”
Chapter 21
Bowers stood up, grabbed the folder full of pictures, and left as soon as I said it. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the blood rush in my ears. I leaned forward and rested my face in my hands.
Shit.
If I had been in Bowers’ position, I’d probably be doing the same thing he was. I wouldn’t have arrested a suspect so early without substantial physical evidence, but that might not have been his choice. With so many dead young people, the entire judicial system would have been pushing for an early, quick resolution.
I closed my eyes. Caitlin’s death didn’t fit into my puzzle. She went to a different school, hung out with a different crowd. She was a bystander as far as I knew, and her death didn’t help anyone. On the other hand, it sure did hurt me. I wanted to vomit.
“Detective Rashid,” said a deep, booming voice. I looked up and noticed the figure in the doorway. He was black and tall with graying hair and deep brown eyes. Danial Reddington. He was the Chief of Detectives, one of the most powerful men in the police force. “You’re free to go at this time. Make sure you’re available for the next couple of days because we’ll probably want to talk to you again. There’s a car waiting for you out front. The driver already has your possessions.”
I stayed in the chair for a moment. Something wasn’t right. They shouldn’t have released me like that, and they sure as hell shouldn’t have handed my belongings over to whoever was picking me up. Someone was pulling strings and throwing an awful lot of weight around, which gave me the feeling that I was about to incur a debt I couldn’t afford to pay. I wished I had a choice in the matter.
I nodded to Reddington and stood up. He esc
orted me out of the station without saying a word. It was awkward. The interrogation rooms were deep inside the station. I knew half the people who worked in that building, some of them very well. Most pretended they hadn’t seen me, which I was grateful for.
There was indeed a car waiting for me outside. It was a big, gray Mercedes. Konstantin Bukoholov’s number two, the Hulk, leaned against it, smoking a cigarette. He nodded at me as soon as Reddington and I stepped through the glass front doors.
“You’re out of here, Detective,” said Reddington. “Our office will be in touch.”
“Thank you,” I said. Reddington didn’t wait around to see me off or even respond to my thanks. He disappeared into the station. That was probably a smart move on his behalf; it wouldn’t have been very political for him to be seen escorting a suspected murderer to a suspected crime boss. I took a step forward, but stopped before I got within an arm’s length of the Hulk. He nodded at me, threw his cigarette down, and ground it under his foot.
“Kostya’s waiting for you. Get in, please.”
I hadn’t anticipated a polite exchange, so it took me a moment to come up with an equally polite response.
“Is your son doing okay?” I asked.
“Get in the fucking car.”
That was more like it. I walked to the rear passenger door and climbed inside. When I saw it a few days earlier, I had thought Jack Whittler had a pretty nice Mercedes. Bukoholov’s car was in a different class, though. There was enough leg room that my wife could have given birth in there, and there was a console between the two rear seats with a built–in cigar humidor and controls for the radio and air conditioner.
“Did you guys buy this from Saddam Hussein or something?” I asked, rolling the rear window down. The glass was at least half an inch thick. Armored. The Hulk ignored my question and walked around the car to the driver’s seat. As soon as he climbed in, my window rolled up and would no longer respond when I hit the switch.
Asshole.
“Do you have the stuff the police took from me?”
The Hulk threw a manila envelope at me without looking over his shoulder. The envelope was light.
