They left Vaughan’s Crown Vic at the restaurant and drove Davidson’s Bronco to the Crescent Garage and Body Shop. Outside, several cabs were double-parked along the street. Men dressed in the traditional salwar kameez-long, cotton tunics over loose-fitting trousers that stop just above the ankles-stood in front talking. Many had long beards without mustaches and almost all of them were wearing sandals. Vaughan couldn’t tell if he was in Chicago or Karachi.
As the two police officers walked up, the men ceased their conversations and stared at them. Davidson had purposely left his jacket in his truck and all eyes fell to the shield clipped to his belt and the large pistol he wore on his hip. For his part, Vaughan didn’t flash anything. He didn’t need to. They all could tell he was also a cop.
With the overhead door down, they accessed the garage via a standard entrance next to it. There were four hydraulic lifts: two on each side. In the far corner was a makeshift painting bay. Tool chests lined the walls and there were fenders, bumpers, mirrors, body panels, and other parts stacked everywhere. At the far end, another overhead door led to a small lot crammed with beat-up taxis out back. The garage was lit with sputtering fluorescents hung from the ceiling.
The first thing Davidson noticed when he walked in was a man attaching a medallion to the hood of a freshly painted taxicab. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
If there was one thing Davidson had learned from dealing with the cab communities it was that their cultures only respected strength. If you showed any weakness whatsoever, you were screwed. You had to get in their face from the get-go, project power, and never let them forget who was in charge.
All of them came from countries where the police were famous for abusing their power. They carried with them a deeply ingrained fear of law enforcement that Davidson used to his advantage. It wasn’t any different from how he handled the inner-city thugs he’d been dealing with his whole career as a cop.
“Are you deaf?” he said. “I asked you what you’re doing with that medallion?”
“Nothing,” replied the mechanic as he stepped away from the cab and set his drill down.
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me.” Turning to Vaughan he said, “Get his name, his ID, all of his information.”
“Why?” asked the mechanic.
“Why? You know damn well that only the office of Consumer Services can touch a taxi medallion. You’re in a lot of trouble.”
The mechanic was about to speak when an old man with a long gray beard came out of the office yelling in Urdu. He was followed by another man who looked to be in his late twenties.
“Who’s in charge here?” demanded Davidson.
The old man walked up to him, still yelling in Urdu until the younger man put a hand on his arm and pulled him back.
“My father doesn’t speak English,” said the younger Pakistani man.
“That’s okay,” replied Davidson. “I’m sure the court will provide an interpreter for him.”
“The court? What are you talking about?”
“What’s your name?”
“I am Jamal and this is my father, Fahad Bashir. I still don’t understand what you are talking about, though.”
“I’m talking about four cabs double-parked outside,” said Davidson as he wrote down the two men’s names. “I’m talking about your mechanic over here affixing a city of Chicago medallion to the hood of that cab. And that’s just for starters. Tell your father he can send all of his employees home. He can tell the customers to beat it too. You’re going to be closed down.”
“Closed down? Sir, please. There must be something we can do. We can’t afford to be closed down.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before you helped cover up a hit-and-run accident.”
“Cover up?”
Jamal’s English was perfect, and Davidson figured he was probably first-generation American. “When you help destroy evidence of a crime, we call that a cover-up.”
“What crime? Sir, please. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Though he had all of the details committed to memory, Davidson flipped back several pages in his notebook and recounted the facts. “On Friday, June 9, in the early morning hours, a Yellow taxicab was involved in a hit-and-run accident. Shortly thereafter, the cab was brought here for repairs. You fixed it.”
“We fix many cabs that have been in accidents. That’s what we do.” The young man stopped and translated for his father, who was demanding to be filled in.
After communicating briefly with his father, Jamal turned back to Davidson. “We don’t ask our customers how their damage happened. We simply repair the vehicles. Even if a customer told us how the damage had been committed, why would we suspect that they had not done the right thing and alerted the police?”
“I don’t like being messed with,” said Davidson, bypassing the young man’s excellent point. “We’ll hash this out in court. In the meantime, you’re going to be shut down.”
The older Pakistani man said something to his son and gestured toward the office area.
Vaughan came back from collecting the mechanic’s personal information and stood next to Davidson.
“We keep very good records,” stated Jamal. “My father doesn’t want any trouble. If you come to the office with me, we’ll see what we can do.”
The old man bowed his head and gestured toward the office, encouraging the policemen to follow his son.
The office reminded Vaughan of many he had seen while in Iraq. There were prayer rugs in the corner and the walls were relatively unadorned save for a Pakistani airline calendar that looked as if it was ten years out of date. He looked up at the stained acoustic ceiling tiles above the room’s three desks and figured it had to suck being in here when it rained. In fact it probably sucked being here at any time. He could only imagine the toxic mold that was growing up in the ceiling.
Jamal was looking through a filing cabinet when his father returned with three mugs and a small dish of sweets. Vaughan didn’t have to look inside the cups to know what was being served-tea.
The old man gestured to a threadbare couch fronted by a nicked-up coffee table and two mismatched chairs. Davidson nodded for Vaughan to sit down. Both of the officers knew that nothing got done in the Muslim world without tea.
As Jamal continued to look through his files, the other men sat and took tea.
Finally, the young man said, “I can’t find it.”
“Can’t find what?” replied Davidson, the tone of his voice indicating that he wasn’t happy.
“Our logbook. We keep one with all of the details of the repairs we do. I can’t find it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious,” said Jamal, who then spoke several words to his father. Once the old man responded, Jamal pointed at one of the desks and said, “The other man who works here. He keeps the logbook.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ali Masud.”
Davidson wrote it down. “Where is he now?”
Jamal shrugged.
“Do you have a phone number for him?”
“Yes.”
“Call him.”
The young man removed his cell phone and dialed. Moments later, he began speaking. He chatted for less than a minute and then hung up.
Davidson looked at him. “So? Does he have the logbook?”
Jamal put his palms up and smiled. His head bobbed as if he had just been given the answer to a profound riddle. “Ali Masud took the logbook home with him last night.”
“And?”
“And he’s coming in to work in about three hours and will bring the book back.”
Davidson stood and said, “Then we’ll be back in two, and if that book isn’t here, I’m not only going to have you closed down, I’m going to arrest you and your father for obstruction of justice. Is that clear?”
Jamal nodded as Vaughan stood, and the two officers left the garage.
Out on the sidewalk Davidson asked, “What do you think?”
“I think he’s lying.”
“I do too.”
“So what do we do?”
Davidson fished his keys out of his pocket as they approached the Bronco. “We give him the two hours and if he dicks us around, we go to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”