By Any Means (33 page)

Ash squeezed his wife's shoulder before walking to his son's nursery. Kaden slept in his crib, his arms raised above his head victoriously as if he had just kicked the game-winning field goal in the Super Bowl. His skin was light brown, and his brown eyes sparkled whenever he smiled. He was a good baby, and he seemed to like his father. At least he had stopped peeing on him whenever he changed his diaper.

Since Kaden was asleep, Ash stayed outside the room, watching. After finding out that Hannah was pregnant with a boy, Ash had converted his old home office into a nursery by replacing the dingy carpet with oak hardwood and painting the walls a cheery, pastel yellow. Hannah had then drawn bumblebees near the ceiling. Islamic tradition was to sacrifice a pair of animals and have a party for friends and family when a boy is born. Since Ash was reasonably sure his neighbors would object if he slaughtered a pair of sheep on the front lawn, he and Hannah had instead donated money to Heifer International. Heifer used the money to purchase bees for poor families in Africa; Ash thought the décor fitting.

He watched his son for another minute before joining his wife and daughter in the kitchen again. It was time for
salat al-Maghrib
, dusk prayer, but nobody made a move to grab their prayer mats from the living room. Ash's mind was focused on his conversation with Bukoholov. At any given time, half a dozen government agencies had open investigations on the old man, and he still managed to conduct his business with relative impunity. He didn't get that power by nosing into other people's business, and he didn't act without thinking first. He expected to get something from his trip to the Rashid household. What, though, Ash didn't know, and that left him unsettled.

As soon as Hannah handed him a sandwich, he kissed her and hugged his daughter good-bye for the evening. In general, traffic accidents were handled by uniformed patrol officers from the various precinct houses around town, but hit-and-runs that ended in death or grave injury went straight to the homicide squad. Ash had spent six years in Homicide, so he knew a good number of the detectives assigned to the unit; hopefully someone would talk to him. He ate his sandwich on the drive but stayed in his car for a moment upon parking and called the dispatcher for an update on the safety check he had requested for Cassandra's place. A pair of officers had swung by the house, but no one answered the door. Unfortunately, without signs of forced entry or other problems, that was all they could do. He'd go by later to see if he could find anything himself, but in the meantime, he'd try another angle.

Ash left the car and went to the homicide squad's floor. As he should have expected at that time in the evening, the office was deserted. He took a few tentative steps inside and weaved his way around desks and stacks of cardboard file boxes, hoping to find someone but knowing he probably wouldn't.

When his suspicions came true, Ash took the elevator to the lobby and walked to the watch sergeant's desk. IMPD's headquarters had been built when public buildings were a source of community pride. Its white marble floors and granite walls had seen more than their share of abuse, but it was hard to deny the craftsmanship of the ornate crown moldings and perfectly straight joints on the floor. For all its aesthetic appeal, though, it was hardly adequate for a modern police department. Deep cracks in the granite walls ran from the floor to the ceiling, and the entire first floor smelled like laundry that had sat soaking in a washing machine for several nights. Ash didn't envy the officers who spent considerable amounts of time there.

He coughed, getting the attention of both the sergeant behind the front desk and a couple who were sitting and holding hands in the lobby. Ash didn't recognize him, but the sergeant looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. Police work was taxing, both mentally and physically, so a lot of officers hoped to retire by that age. About a decade ago, that was a real possibility for a lot of people. But now that the world's economy was in an extended and seemingly never-ending slump, more and more officers kept plugging away until they were pushed out the door at sixty-five. At least those guys would have a pension and Social Security to fall back on; the way the economy was going, Ash and his family wouldn't even have that.

He leaned against the counter. “You got a minute?”

“If it's important.”

Ash removed the badge from his belt and held it up. “It is important. I'm Detective Sergeant Ashraf Rashid, and I'm an investigator with the prosecutor's office. I've got a couple of questions that you might be able to help me with.”

The sergeant slowly closed the magazine he had been reading before lacing his fingers together and leaning forward so he was only about a foot from Ash's face. Ash glanced at his nametag. Robert Doyle.

“And for what reason are you gracing me with your presence, Detective Rashid?”

It smelled as if the sergeant had eaten something with garlic for dinner. Ash forced himself to smile and took a quick step back, glad for the fresh air. “Have you heard anything about a woman named Cassandra Johnson tonight?” he asked, clipping his badge to his belt. “She may be a hit-and-run victim on the north side.”

Doyle broke eye contact and picked his magazine back up. “If she was a hit-and-run, patrol has it.”

“Someone told me she died at the scene, so Homicide might have it. I'm trying to find out what happened. Cassandra is a family friend.”

Doyle stared back with a pair of dull, expressionless eyes. “Since someone told you about her, why don't you talk to him and stop wasting my time?”

Doyle was evidently quite a charmer. Had Megan been so charming, he would have called her Miss Grumpy Pants and made her sit on the naughty chair until her attitude improved. He doubted Doyle would respond well to the same sort of treatment.

“I did consider it, but I haven't had the opportunity yet. When'd your shift start?”

Doyle stared at him a moment, unblinking. Eventually, he must have figured out that Ash wasn't going to leave because he sighed and closed his eyes.

“Six. Anything else?”

“If there had been a call at four, would you have heard about it?”

“It depends.”

Ash waited for Doyle to continue. He didn't.

“On?”

“Any number of things. Look, Detective, I don't know anybody named Cassandra Johnson. We didn't get a call about her, and I didn't hear about a hit-and-run. I don't have any clue what you're talking about, and I've got things to do.” He opened his magazine again. “So unless there's anything else?”

Ash held up his hands in front of him, palms toward the desk. “That's it. Thanks for all your help.”

“Anytime.”

The sergeant had buried his face in his magazine. Doyle must have been on a complex case;
Sports Illustrated
didn't often make it into investigations. The lobby had room for twenty or thirty people, but it didn't feel very welcoming. He walked through the front doors and exited onto the street. The night was cold, and the street was wet from a downpour earlier that evening. Thursdays weren't big nights downtown, so the area was empty save the occasional passing car.

Ash buttoned his jacket and rubbed his arms for warmth, considering his options. There were two or three bars within walking distance, and chances were high that at least one would be quiet enough for him to make a couple of calls from. He considered going but decided against it. Even a quiet bar would be more distraction than he needed. Besides, he had been trying to stay out of bars after someone from his mosque spotted him walking into one about a month ago. That had been difficult to talk his way out of. Islam forbids the consumption of alcohol; unfortunately, drinking was one of the few activities that allowed Ash to sleep soundly at night and forget about the things he saw at work.

He stepped into the glow of a nearby streetlight and thumbed through his cell phone's directory until he found the entry for IMPD's dispatcher. News sometimes took a while to trickle through a bureaucracy, so if Cassandra had been in an accident, it was possible that Doyle just hadn't heard about it. The first officer on the scene might have even skipped the regular channels and called the homicide squad directly. Patrol officers weren't supposed to do that, and it screwed up normally clear lines of communication, but it did occasionally happen.

The dispatcher picked up after two rings and transferred Ash's call to the watch sergeant at the Northeastern Precinct house. Unfortunately, she knew as little as Sergeant Doyle. In the off chance the calls had gone through them, he called the two precincts bordering the Northeastern Precinct as well but got the same story both times. Nobody had heard of Cassandra.

Ash paced under the light, considering his next move. Bukoholov might have lied to him about the accident, but Ash couldn't figure out what he would get out of that. Moreover, despite having fewer moral scruples than most of the men and woman on Indiana's death row, Bukoholov hadn't ever lied to Ash before. Something else was going on, and he needed to find out what. He dialed the gangster's number and waited through two rings for him to pick up. Ash spoke before Bukoholov could.

“I just asked around, and nobody's heard of Cassandra Johnson. Tell me what you know.”

Bukoholov paused. “I'm fairly old and I know a lot of things, so that may take a while.”

“Cute. Tell me what you know about Cassandra Johnson.”

“I've already told you everything you need to know.”

“No, you haven't. No one has heard about the accident, and I can't find Cassandra. You know more than you're telling me. Where is she?”

“By this point, I would presume she's at the morgue.”

“No, she's not. If she was killed in a hit-and-run, my department would know about it and they would have told me.”

“I assure you, Detective, the accident did occur, and Ms. Johnson is, unfortunately, deceased. If you're half the investigator I think you are, you'll find out why. Just follow the evidence.”

Bukoholov may have been a criminal, but he had his finger on the city's pulse better than anyone alive. When something in town was rotten, he knew it even if he wasn't always willing to share his information.

“What's really going on here?”

“You need to find out on your own. It will be better that way.”

“Better for who?”

“You'll find out that, too.”

“Okay,” said Ash, hoping his growing frustration didn't seep into his voice. “If you're not going to tell me anything else, tell me this. If I keep going, what am I going to step into?”

Bukoholov chuckled. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. If you're still stuck in a couple of days, give me a call. Otherwise, rely on your instincts and you'll do fine.”

The Russian hung up before Ash could say anything else. Rely on your instincts. Follow the evidence. It wasn't the most helpful advice he had ever received.

Ash paced the empty sidewalk, thinking. If Cassandra were dead, her body would still be around. Finding that would answer some of his questions. More pressing than that, though, Lisa would still be around. He needed to make sure someone was taking care of her. He thumbed through his phone's contact list until he found the home telephone number of Julie Sims, the assistant director of Marion County's Department of Child Services.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Julie, this is Ash Rashid. I need a favor. I've heard rumors that a family friend has been in a car accident, and I want to find out if you guys have her daughter.”

Julie rattled what sounded like a drawer full of silverware.

“I'm at home. Did you call the information line?”

“Why would I need to call the information line when I've got good friends like you?”

Julie grunted. Good friends do that sort of thing when they're asked for favors.

“I guess my date with Ben and Jerry can wait, then. I'll see if she's in the system. What's her name?”

“Lisa Johnson. She's Megan's best friend.”

“Give me five minutes.”

Ash slipped his phone back into his pocket after hanging up. It was cold, but he was so lost in thought that he barely felt it. Julie called back within two minutes. A uniformed patrol officer had brought Lisa in a few hours ago, but Child Services hadn't placed her with a family yet. She agreed to a meeting if Ash met her downtown; he didn't need to think before saying yes.

As soon as he hung up, he glanced at his watch. It was a little before eight, and Julie would take at least twenty minutes to drive into town. For the second time that night, he considered going to a bar, and for the second time, practical concerns overruled his desire. He couldn't show up to the Child Services office with liquor on his breath. Instead, he went by a diner and grabbed a cup of scorched coffee and a slice of cherry pie. Neither improved his mood, but at least they distracted him for a while.

At the appointed time, he met Lisa and Julie in the Child Services office. Lisa brightened when she saw him, and he forced himself to smile in response. If her mom was dead, she evidently hadn't been told. Lisa had dark hair and dark brown skin. She had been Megan's best friend since the day they met almost three years ago. Now they spent more time in the principal's office than any other kids in school. They were both good girls at heart, just too rambunctious for their own good. Megan got that from him, and if he was any guide, they'd grow out of it.

“Hi, Uncle Ash.”

“Hi, sweetheart. I'm going to talk to Miss Sims, but I'll be right back, okay?”

Lisa nodded, so Julie led her to a nearby playroom with a two-way mirror for observation. Once the door was shut, Ash slouched against the wall and put his hands in his pockets, one eye on Lisa and one eye on Julie.

“You guys have a file on her yet?”