Trust Me (15 page)

    Samir was in intensive care, flat on his back in bed, and Ricky couldn't believe how lucky he was. The heart-rate monitor was beeping behind him, and the respirator made a weird pulsing sound. Samir had IVs in both his arms, and there was a plastic oxygen tube that snaked across his chest and disappeared in his nose. Ricky couldn't believe this incredible turn of events. He was happier than he'd ever been in his life. Samir was near death and he was in charge, the one calling the shots. He wanted to yell, he wanted to scream.

    O'Clair walked in the room, ignoring him, eyes fixed on Samir.

    "He's in a coma," Ricky said back in concerned mode. "May never wake up and if he does, who knows if he'll ever be the same."

    "Is that your medical opinion?" O'Clair said. "Or is that what the doctor says?"

    "Doctor don't know shit. Mentions things he calls scenarios, what could happen. Covering his ass," Ricky said. "I wanted you to see what they did to him." The side of Samir's face was bruised and swollen. O'Clair put his hand on Samir's wrist and felt his pulse. "I'm running things till he comes back," Ricky said trying out his new role of authority.

    "This ought to be good," O'Clair said.

    "Hey, fuck you."

    "I'll bet you know who did it," O'Clair said.

    Ricky said, "What're you talking about?"

    "Somebody you do business with," O'Clair said. "Or did. Maybe somebody who works for Samir. It could be you."

    "You got a lot of fucking nerve coming in here, saying that to me." Ricky's right hand made a fist. God he wanted to hit him. Step in and drill him. Thinking about it calmed him a little. "Maybe it was you," Ricky said.

    "Relax," O'Clair said.

    "You relax." Ricky could feel the adrenaline pumping.

    "I'm making a point. Whoever it was knew his routine." O'Clair paused. "Knew when to hit, who'd be in the house, where the safe was. It wasn't random, if that's what you're thinking. They happened to be in the neighborhood, picked the house with the lions out front." O'Clair rubbed his knee. "The neighbors see anything? Three guys dressed like cops rolling a welder's tank up to the front of the house."

    Ricky said, "How do I know?"

    "You talk to them," O'Clair said.

    Ricky paused, remembering he'd heard a girl's voice when he was on the kitchen floor, and it definitely wasn't Minde. He decided to keep it to himself, not say anything to O'Clair about it. Ricky didn't trust him, not when it came to a safe full of money.

    The door opened and Dr. Kirshenbaum walked in the room. He had silver hair combed back, glasses balanced on the end of his nose, and an angry look on his face.

    "Who said you could come in here?" he said to O'Clair. "This patient's in critical condition."

    "That's what you're going to be," O'Clair said, "you say one more word."

    The doctor turned and walked out.

    O'Clair said, "He the one giving you the scenarios, can't make up his mind?"

    "Yeah," Ricky said, "that's Dr. Kirshenbaum. You better get out of here before security comes,"

    O'Clair moved for the door.

    Ricky said, "Hey, tough guy, you find Bobby yet?"

    He didn't answer, just opened the door and walked out of the room.

    When O'Clair told Ricky he could've been the one who robbed Samir it was as if O'Clair was reading his mind. No, Ricky didn't have anything to do with it, but he sure had thought about it—in debt up to his eyeballs, staring at that safe full of money every day. Ricky was still in the hole fifty grand to Wadi Nasser and the Iraqis were hounding him, driving him crazy.

    Thinking about them gave Ricky an idea. Why not use the Iraqis to find Samir's safe? Proposition them. Christ, offer them a piece of the action. "Whatever Wadi's paying you I'll double it," Ricky could hear himself saying. But even if they were interested, where would he tell them to look? If he didn't know who stole the safe, how would they? Samir had enemies. There were plenty of people who might have a motive. But how many would have the nerve and ability to pull it off.

    Maybe O'Clair had something to do with it? But if he did, why would he be hanging around? Johnny was another possibility. Ricky knew he had money problems, who didn't, but where the hell was he at? Ricky had been calling Johnny since the robbery. No answer. It was like he'd disappeared, vanished.

    O'Clair left the hospital thinking about Ricky. He reminded him of the hothead son with the big dick in
The Godfather.
Sonny—that was his name—Sonny in a warm-up suit. He drove to Samir's and parked in the circular drive. There were strips of yellow police tape across the front door. He got out of the car and went around to the back. More tape crisscrossed the kitchen door. He turned the handle. It was locked. He punched in one of the panes, and unlocked the door.

    There was blood everywhere on one side of the room, and holes in the wall from the shotgun, big ones, right through to the studs. He pictured Yalda, who didn't take shit from anyone, standing up to the robbers.

    O'Clair went to the house across the street and told a woman with curlers in her hair he was with the West Bloomfield police, investigating the homicide of Yalda Naseem, who'd been murdered the night before, right across the street. The woman looked forty and had a mustache and reminded O'Clair of a guy he'd played football with at Bishop Gallagher. She was real sorry to hear about the poor man who was killed, and hoped Samir would be okay. He was a good neighbor. He didn't make noise and kept his yard nice. No, she hadn't seen anyone, although there was a minivan parked out front for about twenty minutes, a dark-colored one she'd never seen before.

    O'Clair went to five other houses. Nobody saw or heard anything or even asked to see his ID. So far all he had was a minivan. Down the street, a teenager was washing a car in the driveway. At first, he thought it was a girl 'cause of the long hair and skinny arms and the way the kid moved. O'Clair walked up and said, "Hey, how you doing?"

    The kid didn't say anything, just stared at him, holding a big pink sponge dripping soap bubbles.

    "I'm investigating the murder last night of one of your neighbors down the street, Yalda Naseem," O'Clair said. "Did you see anything?"

    "No," the kid said. His voice was too deep to be a girl and he had a bulging Adam's apple. He turned away from O'Clair and started washing the driver's side of the car O'Clair now recognized as a Volkswagen Jetta. "You know there's a reward for information…"

    The kid stopped washing the car now and turned toward O'Clair. "How much?"

    "Five thousand dollars," O'Clair said, giving the little sissy something to think about.

    The kid said, "When do you get the money?"

    "First, you've got to tell me what you saw," O'Clair said.

    The kid dropped his sponge in the brown plastic bucket.

    "There was a girl in the minivan parked in front. She said she was with Neighborhood Watch, whatever that is."

    O'Clair said, "What'd she look like?"

    "She had red hair."

    O'Clair took off heading for his car, moving as fast as he could without running. His leg hurt, but he didn't care.

    The kid yelled, "Aren't you going to take my name? Hey…"

    When the sissy said the girl in the van had red hair, Karen's face appeared in his head. Karen, who else? When she was hanging out with Samir, she was Karen Delaney. He never did find out what happened, but one day Karen was gone and Minde, the Automotion dancer, had taken her place. O'Clair'd heard Karen was living with a Greek who owned a chain of restaurants, guy named Lou Starr.

    On the way to Karen's, O'Clair stopped by the warehouse in Clawson. He parked and walked in the reception room and waited for the guy behind the counter to get off the phone. The guy wore a decorative western shirt with pearl buttons and piping around the pockets, and a lot of turquoise jewelry: a ring, bracelet and a necklace. The guy's nametag said: "Randy." He was talking and enjoying himself. It sounded like a personal call and he didn't seem to be in any hurry to get off. On the wall behind him was a sign advertising additional services. Ask about special pricing on packaging, assembly and trucking.

    O'Clair moved to the end of the counter where there was a hinged section and lifted it and went behind where Randy was.

    He stopped talking now and said, "Whoa, what do think you're doing? This is for authorized personnel only."

    O'Clair grabbed the phone out of his hand and hung it up. "First rule of business, never keep a customer waiting."

    "Chief," Randy said, "you're not allowed back here, period in a sentence."

    O'Clair handed him the receipt he found at Robert Gal's apartment. "See if it's still being rented."

    "It is," Randy said. "There's a three-month minimum. See here? Date's June 10."

    O'Clair said, "Remember who rented it?"

    "Was two of them as I recall," Randy said.

    O'Clair took a photograph out of his pocket and held it up.

    "Oh yeah, he was definitely one of them."

    O'Clair said, "What about the second guy?"

    "Stocky fella with a goatee," Randy said.

    O'Clair said, "I'm going to need you to open the warehouse."

    "I can't do that, chief. See, that would be against the law."

    "Randy, you seem like a bright guy," O'Clair said, "so let me tell you what your options are so there's no mistake, okay? You can give me the key, stay here mind your business and everything'll be fine. Or you can continue to fuck with me and take your chances. Tell me how you want to do it."

    O'Clair hit the light switch on the wall. Above him the huge mercury vapor lights hissed and came on, warming up, taking a few minutes to get bright then casting the huge room in yellow-green light. The walls were white, the floor was industrial gray with a clear epoxy that gave it a shine. There were muddy tire tracks just inside the entrance, the marks heavier where a vehicle was parked for some period of time, the outline of the tread visible on the concrete floor.

    O'Clair studied the scene. Samir's safe was in the middle of the warehouse floor, it was black with ornate gold accents, and said "Abou A1 Fakir," Samir's family name in gold Arabic characters. Samir told O'Clair how his grandfather had bought the safe at the Mosler factory and had it shipped to Beirut. He brought it back when he moved to Dearborn in the fifties. O'Clair remembered Samir telling it like it was an important event in American history.

    The top of the safe had been cut open. There was a contractor- grade circular saw on the floor along with an extension chord, a crowbar, three chewed-up blades, and a pair of dust-covered safety glasses. They knew what they were doing. All around the safe and floor was red dust. He could see footprints-some clearly visible, others obscured. There was a lot of blood too, a few feet from the safe. Somebody had gone down and was dragged to a car or van. He followed the footprints and streaks of blood back to where the car had been parked. Okay, Bobby and his crew stole the safe that much seemed clear. What he didn't get, what didn't make a lot of sense was the connection between Bobby and Karen. How'd they know each other?

    Karen closed the door. She could hear the shower on in the bathroom. That's what she wanted to do, take a shower and sleep for a couple days. On a table between the two queen-size beds was a brown plastic ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it. The bottle had an orange Day-Glo sticker on it. All that money, he was drinking ten-dollar champagne.

    One bed was made and the other one was a mess like somebody had been sleeping in it for a week. She heard the shower turn off and a couple minutes later Johnny appeared, coming out of the bathroom with a small white towel around his waist and another one over his shoulder, hair slicked back and wet. He had a gut. She hadn't really noticed before. He saw her looking at him and sucked it in.

    "Jesus, when'd you get here?" Johnny said. "You don't come in, say hello? I was starting to wonder."