By Any Means (24 page)

By the time he got back to the assistant warden's office, Terrance had returned with sweat beading on his brow and dark patches on his uniform. Ross and his cellmate had been in the exercise yard outside, so it took several guards to find them amid the other prisoners. With that many bodies on that much concrete, the temperature must have been off the charts. Ash didn't plan to use anything the cellmate said, so he almost felt guilty for asking the guards to bring him. On the other hand, Terrance's comments about women had proven him to be an asshole, and Ash didn't have a lot of sympathy for assholes.

He asked the guards to put both men in separate interview rooms but he didn't go immediately to either one. Instead, he let them stew and wait alone for about twenty minutes. When he went into the room with the cellmate, the guy had his head on the table and looked to be asleep. Like a lot of prisoners, he had several visible tattoos, one of which was a crude drawing of a red bird sitting atop a baseball bat; the lines were blotchy and the ink looked faded, but Ash recognized the logo. Ross's cellmate liked the St. Louis Cardinals. Ash gently woke him up and introduced himself. He didn't have to say much to get the prisoner talking. As soon as Ash asked if the prisoner had seen the Cardinals and Astros game, he opened his mouth and only stopped talking to take a breath.

Unbeknownst to the prisoner, Ash wasn't the only person watching him talk. If Terrance had gotten the timing right, he would have “accidently” led Ross to the wrong room, thereby allowing him to see through the one-way mirror built into the door. To him, it would have looked like a detective and his cellmate were having an animated discussion. The technique may have been old and clichéd, but turning people against each other and playing them for information worked well. Ross probably didn't tell his cellmate everything, but everybody talks in prison and that creates opportunities.

About five minutes after starting his baseball discussion, Ash ended the conversation and pounded on the door for the guard to let him out. He then crossed the hallway to peer through the one-way mirror on the door of the other interview room. Ross had thin shoulders and a scar on an otherwise unadorned chin. Unlike the other men Ash had run into on the case, no tattoos covered his arms and little malice glinted in his eye. He paced the room, his arms at his side. He never stopped moving his fingers. Had he been on the outside, Ross could have passed for an accountant who had just blown a meeting with his most important client. Ash let him pace for another moment, letting his nervousness build before walking inside.

“Hey,” said Ross, taking a seat and leaning against the table. “I wondered when someone would come to talk to me.”

Ash sat across from him at the table and rested his elbows on top. Ross crossed his arms and put his hands on top of his biceps. He tried to keep his nervousness under wraps, but his hands trembled and his breath came shallow and quick.

“Sorry about the delay. I was in the bathroom.”

Ross's eyes darted to the door and then back to Ash.

“Fine, sure. Who are you and what do you want?”

Ash pulled back his jacket so Ross could see his badge.

“I'm Sergeant Ashraf Rashid with the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. I'm here to give you an opportunity to come clean and maybe stay out of trouble.”

He looked at Ash's badge and then at his face. “What trouble could I get into in Indianapolis? I've been in prison if you didn't know.”

“Have you had any contact with anyone in Indianapolis in the past couple of weeks?”

“My lawyer won't return my calls.”

“How about anybody else?” asked Ash, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe an old business partner, maybe someone you made documents for.”

He shook his head. “I've been out of that life since I went to prison. I'm making amends.”

Ash nodded and removed his notebook from his pocket. “The woman who prosecuted your case offered you a pretty good deal. Fines and probation in exchange for testimony. I've seen a lot of people brought to trial, and not many would turn down a deal like that. Why did you?”

He blinked a few times. “I rejected it on the advice of my counsel.”

Ash shook his head. “No, you didn't. You were caught dead to rights. Your lawyer wouldn't advise you to reject that deal.”

He leaned back and adjusted his arms, apparently getting a little more comfortable. “If you don't believe me, I don't know what to tell you.”

“How about you start by being honest. Your cellmate was. He said you talk too much for your own good. How do you know Marvin Spencer?”

Ross sat forward. “Whatever that son of a bitch told you is a lie.”

“Which son of a bitch are you referring to?” asked Ash. “Your cellmate or Spencer? I've talked to them both. I want to hear your story.”

Ross shook his head and licked his lips, not answering immediately. “I know Spence, all right? I haven't talked to him in a long time.”

“I know,” said Ash. “He doesn't want to take your calls anymore.”

“What'd he tell you?”

Ash shrugged. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that. He told me about the girls you made IDs for. Was sex with them part of your payment, or did you do that on your own?”

Ross narrowed his eyes. “I don't know what Spence has told you, but I never touched anybody. I thought he was just smuggling girls in.”

“And you didn't ask.”

“I made new identities for people. That's why I'm here. I didn't ask my clients why they needed my help.”

Ash nodded and pretended to write something down.

“Why didn't you take the plea deal Susan Mercer offered you?”

Ross didn't say anything, but his face had turned red. The question made him nervous; Ash would have to come back to it.

“How'd you get Rita Morehouse to let you call him?” asked Ash.

“Leave Rita alone.”

Ross's tone had shifted into a throaty growl. He almost sounded protective.

“Why do you care about Rita? She's just a prison guard, and she's not even going to be that anymore. Hell, she's probably going to be behind bars. Maybe you guys can become pen pals or something.”

“She didn't know who I was calling. Leave her alone.”

Ash had definitely stumbled on something. Ross cared about her.

“I'd like to leave her alone, but I can't. I don't even know how much damage you've caused.”

“I didn't cause any damage. Spence didn't call me back. And even if he had, it wouldn't have hurt anybody.”

“What'd you want from him?”

Ross looked past Ash's shoulder and licked his lips.

“He puts money in my commissary account every month, but he was late. I wanted to find out what the holdup was.”

“Is that why you didn't testify against him and the rest of his partners? They promised you money?” Ross didn't respond. “If you want me to help Rita, you've got to help me. I'll talk to the prosecutor on her behalf. She's up for some serious charges.”

“What charges? She hasn't done anything.”

“That's not my call,” said Ash. “I can guarantee you, though, that without help she'll go to jail for a long time. It's called accomplice liability. She'll go to jail for every crime you committed.”

Ross seemed to weigh that for a moment before coming to a decision.

“They offered me four hundred grand. A hundred large for each year until I'm up for parole.”

“And they'd give you some spending money while you were in prison.”

“That was the deal.”

Ash nodded. “Okay, we're getting somewhere. Do you know the name Palmer?” Ross shook his head. “How about Ann?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I've met Ann. She's the one who paid me.”

“Did you ever go to that bed-and-breakfast of hers?”

“No. I always met her somewhere else.”

“Where?”

Ross leaned forward. “If I tell you, you'll talk to the prosecutor about Rita?”

“I'll do everything I can for her. You have my promise. I think she made a mistake, but I don't think she's a bad person.”

Ross thought that through before nodding. “It was a house in Avon. In one of those new subdivisions, the kind where every house looks alike.”

“You'll have to be a little more specific than that,” said Ash.

Ross sighed exasperatedly. “The neighborhood was called Rabbit Run. I remember because I thought it was a stupid name. The house was on the third cul-de-sac on the left side after the entrance. It had a big stone deer on the front lawn. Good enough?”

It didn't sound like a great place to lie low with seven girls, but it was a lead. Maybe he'd get lucky.

“If it pans out, yeah,” said Ash. “If you're lying to me and wasting my time, I'm going to come down hard on you.”

“What about Rita?”

“Let me worry about Rita. I told you that I'd do what I can for her, and I will.”

Ross seemed to accept that because he didn't say anything else. Ash pounded on the door for the guard, who led the prisoner back to his cell and allowed Addison and Terrance inside. Ash filled them in on his conversation. Terrance seemed a little disappointed that Ash didn't have further titillating details about the relationship between Rita and Ross, but he'd get over it. Addison said he'd look into things and get in touch with Ash again if they found anything that seemed pertinent to his case, leaving Ash free to pursue his lead.

He got his firearm and left the prison almost two hours after arriving. The sun baked the surrounding fields, causing visible fissures to form in the earth. Ash opened his car to let it air out and called Susan Mercer again. He didn't talk to her long, but he told her that Ross had cooperated, but only on condition that Ash would try to help out Rita Morehouse. Susan said she'd call the local prosecutor and put in a good word; that ought to be enough.

A
sh's phone rang about ten minutes after he left the prison. Arid fields full of stunted corn and soybean plants surrounded him. Having seen enough car accidents involving distracted drivers to know how dangerous it was to do otherwise, he pulled off on the side of the road, but kept the windows closed and the air conditioning cranked. Even through his cruiser's filters, the air felt gritty in his mouth. Bits of dirt carried by the breeze pelted his car.

He glanced at his cell phone before picking up and groaned after seeing the time.

“Hey, Mike,” said Ash. “I missed my meeting. Sorry.”

“Really? You missed our meeting?” he said. “It's funny you say that because I was just sitting with Chief Reddington and Charity Lewis from the prosecutor's office and Kristen Estrada—I asked the union to send your lawyer down, by the way—and I couldn't figure out what was wrong. We had a great conversation about how our department can better utilize its resources, but I couldn't help but feel we were missing something. Now I know. You weren't there for debriefing. Thanks for telling me. I wouldn't have figured that out.”

Ash hadn't heard Bowers use sarcasm before, so he didn't know what to make of it.

“You sound perturbed,” said Ash.

“Perturbed?” asked Bowers. “What is that? Some word they teach you to use in law school? I'm pissed off, Ash. I fought to have you kept on this case. Everybody else wanted you gone. By not showing up, you made me look like I couldn't do my job, and worse, you wasted everyone's time.”

“I apologize. I've been working on the Elliots' case, and I lost track of time. It wasn't intentional.”

“And you didn't have a phone with you at the time?”

“I was visiting a prisoner at the Pendleton Correctional Facility. He was caught trying to call Marvin Spencer eight times over the past few days. I didn't think to call you.”

Bowers swore. “Did you at least find anything useful?”

“A house in Avon potentially linked to the people who ran the Dandelion Inn. They might have taken the girls there.”

“It's not even in our jurisdiction. We'll have to call the locals.”

“I will, but I'm going to drive by first and see if I can even find the place. I didn't get an address, just the name of the neighborhood and a description of the house.”

“That's not liaison work.”

“It is if you consider how pissed off our partners would be if I start giving them leads that don't go anywhere.”

“Fine,” said Bowers after a moment's pause. “Check out the house. If it looks promising, make a call.” He cleared his throat. “We're not done talking about the meeting you missed, though. A gangbanger skips a court date, and we issue a warrant for his arrest. You missed a meeting, so you're going to get the same treatment. I'm going to write a letter of reprimand and stick it in your personnel file.”

“It was an oversight, Mike. I got wrapped up in some interviews. It wasn't malicious.”

“I don't care. It was unprofessional. You're paid to do a job, and part of that job is to give statements when required.”

Unfortunately, Ash agreed with Bowers. He took a deep breath.

“It was a mistake. I admit that, and I—”

Bowers interrupted before Ash could finish the apology. “Stop before you say anything else. You made a mistake. Thank you for admitting it. Don't do it again.”

“I won't.” Ash paused. “Did Chief Reddington say anything?”

“He wanted to know why I defend an officer who can't be bothered to show up for a simple meeting. I'm starting to wonder that myself.”

“It won't happen again.”

“If it does, I'm done with you. We'll set up another appointment shortly.”

Bowers hung up before Ash could say anything else. He gripped his steering wheel hard. A letter of reprimand might not hurt him directly, but it did make him feel like an asshole. Worse, he knew he deserved it.

Ash pulled back into traffic a few minutes later. The afternoon had quickly worn into early evening during his visit to the prison, leaving the sun low on the horizon. He flipped the visor down and scowled. Under normal circumstances, he would have sent uniformed officers to cruise by the house in Avon, but with such a nebulous description of its location, he didn't even know if it actually existed. He needed to check things out himself before wasting someone else's time.

He settled into the slow lane for the drive, watching as cars on both sides of the road suddenly braked whenever his car came into view. Courtesy may have been a lost art on the area's overcrowded roadways whenever he drove a civilian vehicle, but it amused him to see it found once again when he drove his department-issued cruiser. By the time he reached the outskirts of Indianapolis, rush hour had begun in earnest and traffic had slowed to roughly a quarter of its usual speed. At least they could still move; a lot of times, they couldn't even do that.

It took Ash almost an hour to cross Indianapolis and reach Avon on the city's west side. By that time, traffic had thinned considerably, allowing him to make good time into the community. Like a lot of small towns in the area, the community of Avon had existed for well over a hundred years, but the town had been incorporated only since the midnineties. It had a decent grocery store, a strong public school system, and relatively low taxes for the services offered. During the housing boom, developers saw the potential and built neighborhoods of inexpensive tract homes in the middle of every cornfield they could buy. Unfortunately, the families who bought those homes couldn't always afford them. At its height, there had been several hundred home foreclosures a month in a county with just under a hundred and fifty thousand residents. The housing market still had yet to recover, leaving neighborhoods full of vacant and abandoned homes. Of course, the same could be said for nearly every town in America.

Ash didn't know Avon well, so he used a map on his cell phone to find Rabbit Run, the subdivision the prisoner in Pendleton told him about. As expected, the homes inside it appeared uniform and gargantuan, a common theme of homes mass-produced during the housing bubble. Ash had several colleagues with large families who had bought into similar developments only to find that their new home came with construction so shoddy it started falling apart within weeks of completion.

Ash followed the prisoner's directions until he found a two-story, siding-clad home with a gabled roof. The sod in the front lawn had been improperly laid, leaving dead streaks like spaces on a checkerboard, and the flowers had been left to wilt and die in the summer heat. A late-model Chevy with rusting wheel wells had been parked on the street between his target home and the one beside it, while a Hispanic man with thin graying hair watered his lawn next door with a garden hose. Judging from the stone deer on the front lawn, he had found the correct home.

Ash parked in his target's driveway, stepped out of his car, and swept the area with his eyes. He heard kids playing somewhere distant and smelled manure, presumably from the neighbor's immaculate flowerbeds. In order to convince a judge that they had enough probable cause to issue a search warrant, they'd need more than just the word of an inmate. They'd need corroboration, which the neighbor might be able to give. Ash waved and started across the lawn toward the Hispanic man.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, sir?”

Before the man could answer, Ash heard a door being slammed from behind his targeted house. The Hispanic man flinched and Ash took one step forward and then another before vaulting into a sprint. A figure streaked toward him from the home's rear yard, his shoulder down. Ash tried to brace himself but found little traction on the grass and dirt. The runner barreled into Ash's stomach. He didn't carry a lot of weight on him, but his momentum sent Ash sprawling backward, knocking the wind out of him. The runner meanwhile ricocheted across the Hispanic man's yard, his arms flailing to catch his balance.

Ash rolled onto his stomach and gritted his teeth before pushing up, forcing air back into his lungs. His ribs felt bruised, and his breath came back slowly in gasps. The neighbor ran toward his porch and then heaved hard on his hose so it rose a few inches over his yard. The man who had run from the house paid so much attention to Ash that he didn't even see it until it entangled his feet. He crashed onto his face, and Ash sprinted toward him, his lungs and chest hurting. If he had a Taser, he would have just shot him right there and taken him down safely and easily. With only a firearm, a particularly lethal one at that, Ash's options were limited.

Before the runner could push up and take off, Ash grabbed his wrist and yanked it across his back while putting his knee in the back of the suspect's head, forcing the man's cheek into the dirt. He tried to push up with his free arm, so Ash cranked the suspect's wrist upward at an angle contrary to the shoulder's design. If the suspect kept fighting, he'd rip his joint out of socket and potentially do some significant, permanent damage.

“I don't want to hurt you,” said Ash. “Stay down.”

He stopped trying to press up, but he squirmed and writhed on the ground. Ash released some of the tension on his arm and reached to his belt for a pair of handcuffs. As soon as Ash shifted his weight, the suspect tried to push up again and then started screaming when Ash responded by cranking on his arm.

“If you keep fighting me, you will get hurt. Stay down.”

Apparently having learned his lesson, the runner stayed down this time and let Ash put the handcuffs on his wrist. Once he had the runner's arms secured, Ash stood him up and patted him down for weapons—finding a switchblade—before sitting him in the backseat of his cruiser. He got his first good look at him then. The runner had thin, willowy arms, hollow cheeks, and bones that seemed ready to protrude from skin as thin and light as white tissue paper. His eyes darted from one object to another, never lingering long enough to focus. Ash glanced at the inside crook of his elbow. Red and purple track marks ran the length of his arms where the veins had collapsed, probably from intravenous drug use.

“Was anyone else in the house with you?”

He shook his head, but that didn't matter. Someone needed to look anyway.

“Good. Stay put.”

He started to protest that he hadn't done anything wrong, but Ash tuned him out and shut the door. Rather than leave him to cook in the heat, Ash opened the windows on both front doors, allowing some air in and his prisoner's curses out. The neighborhood children might learn a few new words, but it'd keep the department from being sued. He called the local sheriff's department and requested that they send officers and an ambulance out. The dispatcher estimated that she could have deputies out there in ten minutes, but an ambulance would take a little longer. Ash felt okay with that; he had called the ambulance as a precaution more than anything else.

He waved toward the Hispanic neighbor and walked to the edge of the lawn. “Thank you for your help with the hose.”

He nodded toward the house. “I'm glad he's gone. He gave me a bad feeling. I didn't like my grandkids around him.”

“Does he stay here often?”

The Hispanic man shrugged. “Three nights out of five. I don't know where he went the other two.”

“Was he alone, or would other people stay, too?”

“For the past week, he's been alone. Before that, a lot of girls went through there.”

Ash nodded; the neighbors at the Dandelion Inn probably thought the same thing.

“How about men?”

He shook his head. “Almost never. He was the only one who ever stayed the night.”

Amina said she lived in an apartment in Chicago with a number of other girls when the traffickers first brought her to the U.S. Maybe they used the Avon home for the same purposes.

“Would you mind repeating this to a detective later?”

He nodded, so Ash handed him a business card and asked him to stick around for a few minutes until local officers arrived. The neighbor went back to watering his lawn, giving Ash a moment to consider his options. He wanted to walk through the house and see what was in there, but it'd be stupid to go in without backup. He waited beside his car for about ten minutes.

The first two squad cars came from the Avon Police Department. Ash didn't even know they had a department, but their officers seemed to know what to do. Two men waited by the home's rear entrance through which Ash's runner had emerged while the other two went through the front door to perform a safety search. Almost as soon as they went in, one of the officers ran out to call for an ambulance, claiming he had found a girl. Ash jogged to the front porch but stopped before going through the door so he wouldn't surprise the officer already inside.

“I'm Detective Rashid from IMPD, and I'm coming in.”

“Get an ambulance. We're in the bedroom upstairs.”

“It's on its way,” said Ash, stepping across the home's threshold into a two-story entryway. A light oak stairway wound upward to a second-story landing, while rooms branched left, right, and straight ahead. The drywall above the front door had already begun to crack and Ash could see water damage on the ceiling near a skylight. The finishes throughout appeared utilitarian and plain, and the interior smelled musty.

Ash took the stairs two at a time until he reached the carpeted landing. A hallway spanned the length of the second floor and had several empty bedrooms jutting off. He jogged toward the bedroom at the end of the hall from which he had heard the officer shout earlier. The master bedroom occupied the entire space above the garage and had a vaulted ceiling with two skylights, an en suite bathroom, and a large, open closet. A king-sized bed—the only furniture Ash had seen in the house—occupied most of one wall, and a girl wearing only a pair of black panties occupied the bed. She didn't move even when the Avon police officer felt her neck for a pulse.