Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [35]
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