Foreign Influence by Brad Thor Page B

Middle Easterner. If you’re Pakistani, you go to a Pakistani operation. If you’re East African, you go to an East African one, yada, yada, yada.”
    “How come I haven’t heard about these places before?”
    “Like I said, they’re under the radar. They operate around the clock, only deal in cash, and don’t advertise. They do business only within their own ethnic group.”
    “And you think the driver who hit Alison Taylor used one of these body shops to repair the damage to his cab?”
    “According to my source, there was a Pakistani driver who brought his vehicle into a particular shop on the night in question. He was shaken up and was dumb enough to blab about clipping some woman. He wanted to get his cab repaired as soon as possible and was willing to pay extra for it.”
    “This is fantastic,” said Vaughan. “When can we pay a visit to the shop?”
    “Right after we’re done with breakfast.”

CHAPTER 16
 
    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 attachinga 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