their investigative edge. Jane couldn’t figure out how anyone could handle dealing with prostitutes, child pornography, hardcore druggies and all of the gutter swine that accompanied the vice gig. Years before, before she scored a slot in homicide, she had had her fill working assault and dealing with battered kids and drugaddled women. After 20 years of working with filth, she understood why Miles wasn’t as connected to the job as he used to be. She also sensed that he bent his elbow to the
breaking point at “choir practice” with the same passion and frequency as she did.
“Nothin’ like a three-day weekend to fuck up your Tuesday mornin’,” Miles grumbled.
“Catch a case this early?”
“Yeah. Suicide on Saturday night. Guy swallowed an Ambien, Valium, Oxycodone and whiskey cocktail.”
“Since when did suicide become a vice?”
“When you’re layin’ butt naked amidst your child porn collection when you kick.”
Jane tried to erase the disturbing image from her mind. “Fuck. You get all the choice cases, don’t you?”
Miles lit a cigarette. “This one’s got one of those added complications to make it even more interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“A cultural taint.”
Jane was somewhat aware of the stigma that stained a family when suicide occurred and the various superstitions that proliferated, especially in the more upper crust Middle Eastern bloodlines. “Muslim?” she asked.
“Nah,” Miles flipped open the file. “This guy is from the rice and curry crowd. Wealthy East Indian importer.”
Jane’s throat tightened. “What…what’s his name?”
Miles glanced at the page. “Devinder Bashir.”
It isn’t possible. That’s what Jane kept saying to herself, as Miles walked away and got into his Buick. No, no, this is a dream now. But no matter how many times Jane pinched, slapped and poked herself, she didn’t wake up. Be rational, she counseled herself, as she tried to reconcile the distorted thoughts racing through her mind. But there was nothing rational about this.
Nor was Jane’s next move. Instead of heading upstairs to her third floor homicide office, she ducked back into her Mustang and followed Miles out of the parking garage.
It took three cigarettes to reach the upscale neighborhood in Cherry Creek, where the grieving widow Bashir resided. In some ways, Jane was surprised that Miles didn’t see her tailing him. Then again, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the cop shed as of late. She parked the Mustang behind a large truck on the opposite side of the street and watched as Miles lumbered over to a thirty-something, blonde Caucasian woman watering her lawn. They shook hands before she led him into the sprawling two-story McMansion.
Jane lit another cigarette and mused over Devinder Bashir choosing a blonde, white chick as his wife. Jesus, she ruminated, she must have been some catch for him to marry outside his culture. Maybe she’s one of those white women who likes to meditate and chant, burn incense, listen to zither music, use Ayurvedic herbs, and can’t get enough Bollywood film classics? Devinder’s mother must love this cross-cultural union. Then, once again, the memory of the dead man manifesting to her in a boozeinduced dream reared its ugly head. That distorted sensation of standing outside her body swelled around her and was about to rattle her cage when she saw a rough-looking, Caucasian male emerge from the house’s three-car garage. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, well built and physically fit. The guy wore a tool belt, which he appeared to be well acquainted with. While Jane observed him from afar, over the next 20 minutes, he went about changing sprinkler heads on the lawn, securing the rain gutter over
the garage and doing a host of other sundry jobs. He continued to work when Miles re-emerged from the house, followed by Mrs. Bashir. She walked Miles down the brick lane that led to the street, shook his hand solemnly, and brushed
breaking point at “choir practice” with the same passion and frequency as she did.
“Nothin’ like a three-day weekend to fuck up your Tuesday mornin’,” Miles grumbled.
“Catch a case this early?”
“Yeah. Suicide on Saturday night. Guy swallowed an Ambien, Valium, Oxycodone and whiskey cocktail.”
“Since when did suicide become a vice?”
“When you’re layin’ butt naked amidst your child porn collection when you kick.”
Jane tried to erase the disturbing image from her mind. “Fuck. You get all the choice cases, don’t you?”
Miles lit a cigarette. “This one’s got one of those added complications to make it even more interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“A cultural taint.”
Jane was somewhat aware of the stigma that stained a family when suicide occurred and the various superstitions that proliferated, especially in the more upper crust Middle Eastern bloodlines. “Muslim?” she asked.
“Nah,” Miles flipped open the file. “This guy is from the rice and curry crowd. Wealthy East Indian importer.”
Jane’s throat tightened. “What…what’s his name?”
Miles glanced at the page. “Devinder Bashir.”
It isn’t possible. That’s what Jane kept saying to herself, as Miles walked away and got into his Buick. No, no, this is a dream now. But no matter how many times Jane pinched, slapped and poked herself, she didn’t wake up. Be rational, she counseled herself, as she tried to reconcile the distorted thoughts racing through her mind. But there was nothing rational about this.
Nor was Jane’s next move. Instead of heading upstairs to her third floor homicide office, she ducked back into her Mustang and followed Miles out of the parking garage.
It took three cigarettes to reach the upscale neighborhood in Cherry Creek, where the grieving widow Bashir resided. In some ways, Jane was surprised that Miles didn’t see her tailing him. Then again, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the cop shed as of late. She parked the Mustang behind a large truck on the opposite side of the street and watched as Miles lumbered over to a thirty-something, blonde Caucasian woman watering her lawn. They shook hands before she led him into the sprawling two-story McMansion.
Jane lit another cigarette and mused over Devinder Bashir choosing a blonde, white chick as his wife. Jesus, she ruminated, she must have been some catch for him to marry outside his culture. Maybe she’s one of those white women who likes to meditate and chant, burn incense, listen to zither music, use Ayurvedic herbs, and can’t get enough Bollywood film classics? Devinder’s mother must love this cross-cultural union. Then, once again, the memory of the dead man manifesting to her in a boozeinduced dream reared its ugly head. That distorted sensation of standing outside her body swelled around her and was about to rattle her cage when she saw a rough-looking, Caucasian male emerge from the house’s three-car garage. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, well built and physically fit. The guy wore a tool belt, which he appeared to be well acquainted with. While Jane observed him from afar, over the next 20 minutes, he went about changing sprinkler heads on the lawn, securing the rain gutter over
the garage and doing a host of other sundry jobs. He continued to work when Miles re-emerged from the house, followed by Mrs. Bashir. She walked Miles down the brick lane that led to the street, shook his hand solemnly, and brushed
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