Grimm: The Chopping Block (23 page)

“Everything okay?” Decker called.

“Back in five seconds,” Monroe said absently. He grabbed the printed image from his printer’s output tray and returned with it to the kitchen, where he set it on the table. Nick wanted to know if he recognized it, but the image meant nothing to Monroe and, with dinner at risk, he decided to check it properly later.

“I kept the house from burning down,” Decker said as he backed away from the stove and took a swig from the microbrew’s IPA. “Now what?”

“You could set the table,” Monroe suggested. “Put out plates, a couple glasses and flatware.”

“Flatware?” Decker said. “You don’t eat with your hands? You know, sometimes I shove my face right into the plate and rip the meat from the bone with my teeth alone.”

“No bones here,” Monroe said evenly. “So you can stick with a knife and fork.”

Decker was silent as Monroe finished cooking and turned off the burners. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Decker hadn’t made a move toward the cabinets to retrieve plates and glasses.

“What?” he asked.

Decker looked at him and pointed to the flyer. “Do you know what this is?”

“No. Should I?”

Decker shrugged. “Looks like some kind of puzzle, but I’m stumped. Maybe that circle is supposed to be the sun. Where’d you get it?”

“Nick—Detective Burkhardt—sent it,” Monroe said. “Part of a case or something.”

“Why send it to you?”

Monroe frowned, not wanting to open the Wesen can of worms.

“He’s trying to figure out what it means. Guess he thought a second set of eyes might help. Plates?”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Decker said, setting down his half-empty beer bottle. After opening a couple cabinets, he located the plates and glasses and set down two place settings on opposite sides of the table, facing each other, adding the flatware last. “I know you went to a lot of—”

The doorbell rang.

“Sit,” Monroe said. “I’ll get it.”

“But…”

As Decker’s voice trailed off, Monroe answered the door and found Hank on crutches on his front door stoop. Alone. Monroe leaned out a bit and looked left and right.

“Hey, Hank, is Nick…?”

“Nick said you weren’t answering,” Hank said. “Asked me to drop by.”

“Come in,” Monroe said, swinging the door open and stepping aside so Hank could maneuver inside. “I had my phones turned off. Meditation session.”

“Oh,” Hank said. “Didn’t know you were into that.”

“I’m not, usually, although I have tried it in the past a few times, but today I had a—”

“Who’s your friend?” Decker asked, approaching. “Ah, another cop.”

“Detective,” Hank corrected.

“Hank Griffin,” Monroe said. “Nick’s partner. Hank, this is Decker, an old friend of mine. We’ve been… catching up.”

“And meditating?” Hank asked.

They shook hands briefly.

“Gave it a shot,” Decker said. “Bit
too
relaxing for me.”

“Sometimes ‘relaxing’ is just what the doctor ordered,” Hank said.

“Speaking of doctors,” Decker said, indicating the crutches with a sweep of his hand. “Hope that’s not too serious.”

“Torn Achilles.”

“Ouch!”

“Few days away from the cast coming off,” Hank said, shrugging. “End in sight.”

“Sure,” Decker said. “But until then, something like that must put you off your game. No chasing suspects on foot, am I right? Can you even drive?”

“I get around all right,” Hank said, clearly wishing to drop the topic. He turned to Monroe. “Nick sent you a photo. Have you had a chance to look at it?”

“I have, but only for a minute or so,” Monroe said. “It’s in here.” As he walked to the kitchen, Hank and Decker followed him. “I had my phones turned off during meditation and forgot to turn them back on before I started cooking dinner.”

Monroe grabbed the printed copy of the flyer photo and looked it over again, the circle surrounded by triangles and the address at the bottom.

“Nothing’s ringing any bells. Decker thought maybe the circle represents the sun. I’m not familiar with the address on the bottom but maybe that will help the cause.”

“Nick’s tracking down addresses.”

“There’s more than one?”

“More than one version of the flyer,” Hank said. “Each one’s the same except for a different address. That address took Nick to a market, where he found another one, which took him to a bank. Not sure where he’s headed now.”

“I wish I could help, Hank,” Monroe said, shaking his head as he continued to look at the image. “I got nothing. But I could, you know, look into it later.”

“Appreciate it.”

Monroe set the flyer back on the table and saw the two place settings, awaiting the food cooling in the pans on the stove.

“Hank,” he said. “I’d like to offer you a meal, but I wasn’t expecting company, well, other than Decker, that is. I could split my veggie steak with you, if…”

“No need,” Decker said. “I started to say earlier, I need to bug out. Hank’s welcome to my veggie steak.”

“But I cooked—Decker, we planned to—” Monroe’s frustration began to rise again. Decker flaking out yet again. Why he let his friend continue to disappoint him, he couldn’t say. But, clearly, it was time for Monroe to let go. No regrets. “Okay, man. I’m sorry you can’t stay.”

“It’s something I really need to take care of, brother,” Decker said. “Completely slipped my mind until I grabbed the plates. Unfortunately, the… temptation of fake meat doesn’t trump what I gotta do, you know?”

“Okay.”

“We’re cool?”

Monroe offered his hand. “Eyes forward, full bore…”

“No regrets,” Decker said and shook his hand. “Ain’t it the truth, brother?”

This time Decker’s grip was firm, but without the dominance display. Monroe walked him to the door, watched him stride down the walk, closed the door behind him and shook his head.

Finally, it was over. No more classes or exercises. No more pep talks. No remaining calendar commitments. Monroe had probably seen Randall Vail Decker for the last time. But he truly had no regrets. He’d said goodbye to the man—and the time he represented in Monroe’s life—long ago.

“So, Hank,” Monroe said, walking back to the kitchen. “Looks like the numbers worked out. Veggie steaks for two.”

Hank looked over at the stove dubiously. “Actually, I need to get back to the precinct, some reports to fill out and loose ends to tie up, before I call it a day.”

“Oh,” Monroe said, his disappointment obvious.

“You could save it for Nick,” Hank offered. “Heat it up later?”

“I’m sure Nick has something planned with Juliette,” Monroe said. “But that’s okay, I have a healthy appetite and can manage two veggie steaks—again.”

* * *

Nick pulled onto the parking lot of the Rosedale Community Center and double-checked the address on the bottom of the flyer he’d brought from PFNB. He had the right place—and it was open late, no doubt for evening activities.

Inside the building, he found an expansive main room with a high, canted wood ceiling, scattered tables and chairs, and an information desk that faced the front entrance. Each end of the main room connected to additional rooms visible through glass walls.

He noticed a cork bulletin board against the near wall and veered in that direction. Again, he found several copies of the circle-and-triangles flyer hanging on the cluttered board and took one. But the address at the bottom of the flyer looked familiar. After a moment, it came to him. It was the library’s address.

He’d reached the end of the line.

He approached the information desk, staffed by two middle-aged woman engaged with their computer displays. A banner hung over the curved desk advertising free Wi-Fi. Others pamphlets mentioned various exercise classes, and rules for use of the pool and a gym.

Nick identified himself to the closer of the two women and asked if she knew anything about the flyer. The other woman scooted her chair next to the first and they both examined it. Then shook their heads. Nick also discovered they had no formal approval process for hanging flyers.

Between the corkboard, plastic wall racks, one long table with stacks of neon paper, and the information desk itself, the place was a sea of flyers, pamphlets, newsletters and business cards. Nobody asked permission. When the quantity became too heavy, they tossed expired event information first, followed by items that looked particularly old. The community center had no surveillance equipment, but Nick hadn’t looked forward to the idea of spending several more hours zipping through days of footage only to see the concealed figure pop in, pin flyers to the board, and hurry out, while revealing nothing identifiable about himself.

Nick really had come to a dead end.

He drove back to the precinct with the grainy image of the large man in a hoodie and sunglasses. The net result of a day’s worth of investigation.

* * *

Back at the precinct, Nick swung by his desk to check for messages, saw that Wu had stopped by while he was out, and checked in with Captain Renard, showing him the security camera image of the hooded figure and the four versions of the circle-and-triangles flyer.

“Anything to connect the four locations to the murders?”

“Library, supermarket, bank and a community center,” Nick said and shook his head. “Other than places that let people leave information for others, I don’t see it.”

“No chance those places are involved?”

“Community center… possibly,” Nick said. “The others seem unlikely.”

“We need something to connect Crawford and the flyers to the murders,” Renard said. “Nothing incriminating on the flyers themselves.”

“Something on Crawford’s computer,” Nick said. “I’ll get an update from the techs. Barring that, we may need a search warrant for Crawford’s residence.”

“Hank mentioned it,” Renard said. “Let me know if you need me to run interference.”

Nick returned to the conference room with the burial site boards and long table piled with missing person folders. Hank sat on one side of the table taking notes. He looked up when Nick entered and said, “Checked with Monroe. Nothing registered. Got the impression he’d research it later.”

Before Nick took a seat, Sergeant Wu arrived and stood in the doorway.

“Good. Got you both together. Checked with computer techs. Most of the data on the hard drive is encrypted or corrupted by the partial wipe, so it’s slow going. So far, nothing incriminating.”

“Something is definitely there,” Nick said. “He had that computer ready for wiping the second anybody discovered his involvement in the murders.”

“There are leasing records, information on various business sites, copies of contracts, but nothing criminal—other than some of the rates they were charging.”

“The restaurant equipment is key,” Nick said. “Crawford had no intention of opening that restaurant. They need to focus on any names or addresses or activity related to those orders, other than the orders themselves or the supplier.”

“Any mention of the driver by name?” Hank said. “Crawford claimed to have never met the man. Prior knowledge would be a red flag.”

“I’ll check with them,” Wu said. “But at this point, corruption and encryption are bogging down information retrieval.”

“What about Nancy, the receptionist?” Nick asked. “She might have a copy of the encryption key or at least know where Crawford kept it.”

“They asked her,” Wu said. “She denied any knowledge of it. They also checked her hard drive, which wasn’t encrypted, and came up empty. Looks like Crawford kept her in the dark.”

“Same with his own family,” Hank commented. “No idea about the flyers or the so-called specialists treating his illness.”

“What about Rio?” Nick asked. “Crawford indicated this happened before, a long time ago in Rio, and that he participated. That’s why they contacted him.”

“Right,” Hank said, remembering that part of the conversation. He picked up the phone and called the Crawford residence. As it rang, he placed the call on speaker.

After a half-dozen rings, a woman answered—Ellen Crawford—her voice a bit raw. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Crawford, this is Detective Griffin,” Hank said. He apologized for the intrusion during a difficult time. “As I said earlier, I want to find the people who drove your husband to this desperate act.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. How can I help?”

“Your husband mentioned something about a trip to Rio,” Hank said. “Rio de Janeiro, I assume. Do you recall that trip?”

“Lamar mentioned that he had been to Rio on vacation once,” she said. “But that was long before we were married. As far as I know, he traveled there alone.”

“Do you know when that trip occurred?”

A few moments of silence. “I’m not sure,” she said. “More than twenty years ago.”

“Did he bring anything back? Pictures? Souvenirs? Anything?”

“I haven’t seen any photos from that trip,” she said. “That was at least three homes ago. If anything remains, it might be in an unopened box in the attic. But my husband isn’t—wasn’t sentimental about that kind of thing. I doubt he would have carted that stuff from house to house. But, if you want, I could check.”

By the tone of her voice, she dreaded the idea of rifling through musty old boxes of her husband’s forgotten belongings. Considering what she had to deal with in the present, Nick couldn’t blame her.

Hank cleared his throat.

“This could be important,” he said. “If you’re not up to it, I could swing by—at a convenient time—and check those boxes for you.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said, resigned. “I’ll check for any unmarked boxes in storage.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Hank said. “And, again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said and disconnected.

Hank set the phone in the cradle and shook his head. “Not promising.”

“I’ll report back on the techs,” Wu said and left the conference room.

Nick looked up at the two side-by-side bulletin boards with the photos and names of identified victims.

“Few more identified from the second site,” he commented. “Any leads?”

“Been on the phone, notifying next of kin,” Hank said. “And checking again with whoever was last to see them alive. Nothing. If they’d seen anything suspicious at the time of the abductions, it would have been noted in the files.”