What next?
She thought of texting her contact at the Department of Motor Vehicles to check on the driver’s license for Moses Mohammad but decided he was probably illegal and didn’t have a legit ID, anyway.
Instead, she’d follow him. Just like when she was a new reporter on a beat. Her cell rang. Carolyn looked at the caller ID, saw it was her producer, and answered.
“Reggie, how wonderful to hear from you,” she said with faked enthusiasm.
“Bullshit. If you never heard from me again, you’d be happier than a whore at the end of the night. Where the fuck are you?”
“Covering the murder case.”
“You’re lying.”
“To you …? Never.”
“What’ve you got?”
“I’m not sure yet, but it’ll be good. Trust me.”
Carolyn saw Ben hurry out of the store and run to an older car. “Hey, Reggie, gotta run, sweetheart. Keep it in your pants.” She clicked off.
Ben pulled away from the curb and drove north. Carolyn threw the phone on the seat beside her and swerved away from the curb to follow him.
He meandered through the neighborhood until he came to the Riverside Avenue bridge over I-94. He crossed it and followed Riverside west. Near Augsburg College, he turned onto Cushing Street and parked near the end.
Carolyn slowed at the opposite end of the block so he wouldn’t become suspicious. She watched him get out and hurry into a small, frame house with an open porch.
She felt uneasy but not from fear. What did she know about this street? Had she ever been here before? Carolyn tried to remember. After Ben went into the house, she pulled up beside his car and read the number of the house-657.
Carolyn backed up, parked, and waited. An hour later, and Ben still had not come back out. Even with the car windows open, the sun baked her. Sweat threatened to smear her make-up. Then, it struck her.
Six-fifty-seven Cushing Street was the same address where the murderer Ibrahim El-Amin was living when he was arrested.
Suddenly, the clues came together and made sense to her. Mohammed worked with young Somali men, young men disappeared, the FBI thought they left to fight in Somalia, and one came back to be killed by a guy named El-Amin who lived with Mohammed.
Another thought caused her stomach to tighten. Paul Schmidt.
Several years ago, they’d had a wild, short affair when she covered one of his cases. He’d dumped her hard. A cold, introverted pig, Carolyn remembered. Now, he was working on the case of the disappearing Somali boys. If she could break this story, maybe she could embarrass the hell out of him. He deserved it.
Nineteen
Nervous about her meeting with Michael, Zehra treated herself to a latte. Normally, the calorie count deterred her, but tonight, Friday, Zehra waited at the Caribou Coffee shop in Northeast Minneapolis for him. She had to admit he’d impressed her at the party, but she was still cautious.
But the caution came from the left side of her brain, calculated from past experience. The right side, instead, longed for a relationship. For someone to have fun with, talk about her work, hold her, and ease the loneliness.
Northeast, one of the earliest areas to be settled in the city, rose up from the banks of the Mississippi River. At the highest point above the river stood the old church of Our Lady of Lourdes, topped by a steeple visible from the entire neighborhood. Jackie attended mass there. She said the church still had a hint of its old French heritage, which reminded her of services in Vietnam.
Zehra glanced at her watch. She thought of the mountains of work waiting for her. They had less than two weeks to pull together the defense. If this new guy, the Egyptian dude, didn’t show in five minutes, she’d bail.
She took a deep, calming breath. At least, she had a small table outside on the sidewalk. To Zehra’s left, stretched a garden of peonies, red, yellow, almost purple, and shades of colors she couldn’t even name. And hanging beside her, almost touching her hair was a pot of begonias, one of her favorite plants because they were easy to grow and produced big flowers of such lush intensity.
When she looked back, he walked up to the door of the shop.
Zehra remembered dark skin, the tall, thin, athletic body that moved with an unusual grace compared to most Americans. He looked European. She noticed the long nose, like hers, that moved back and forth as he searched the shop for her. Zehra ran both hands through her hair to make it bigger, then stood and waved.
He smiled immediately and came over.
She shook his outstretched hand. It felt strong and warm.
“Zehra.” He started to sit.
“Michael? Nice to see you again.” Dark, quick eyes were framed with the longest, most beautiful eyelashes she’d seen. Zehra felt jealous.
“Call me Mustafa. Your father always tells me how attractive you are-he’s right.”
Phony obviously, but it still sounded nice to hear. “Thanks. You work directly with him?”
“No. I’m in genetic engineering.” He wore a black cotton t-shirt made with expensive material. When he twisted to see the counter, she noticed the muscles in his chest. “I’ll be right back. Want anything?”
After he left, Zehra thought of her “checklist” for these dates her mother set up. Let’s see … no bad breath, good looking, not grossly overweight, not too short, seems intelligent … so far, so good.
He returned in five minutes. “Busy tonight. Guess it’s the nice weather.” He leaned back. “It smells good.” His head turned toward her and looked into her face. “You said you’re a lawyer. Tell me more about your work.”
“I’m a pubic defender. I used to work as a prosecutor but switched sides a few years ago.”
“What do you like about it?”
“Uh well, I like the courtroom. I don’t have to sit at a desk all day and read boring contracts. I work on real-life problems that affect people, like their freedom. It’s meaningful, and I feel like I can do some good.” She caught herself and stopped. Why was she blabbering like this?
“I don’t know much about those things. Do you have any interesting cases?” He sipped his tea.
“Right now, I’m working on the murder case I told you about. The Somali boy who had his throat cut open.” Zehra purposely emphasized the details because people seemed most interested in that part. “Maybe you saw it on the news? I’m defending the man accused of the murder. Trial starts in less than two weeks. The FBI is also involved.” She looked to either side and said, “I’m trying to pump them for anything they know about the murder but won’t reveal.”
Mustafa frowned. “Yes. My Somali friends talk about the case. It sounds like hard work. How can you do it?”
Her cheeks bulged, and Zehra blew out a puff of air. “It’s really tough.”
“I’m curious, you said you think you can do some good, but how can you do that for a murderer?”
“Good question. Sometimes, the only thing I can do is make sure the people I represent get a fair trial and vigorous defense.”
“I’ve done some work with the Somalis in the mosques. They’re so poor. I try to help them.
“You have? I wouldn’t think they’d accept you … I mean, educated and Egyptian.”
He smiled. “I know. It took a long time to gain their trust. But I feel sorry for many of them and try to help when I can. I know some of the leaders in various communities. And it helps that I raise money for them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Zehra said. She stopped again. Unlike any of the other men she’d met, this one sounded genuinely interested in something other than himself. “But, let’s talk about your work.”
“Not much to talk about in comparison to yours. I work in genetic engineering research. For you, it would be boring by comparison.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Oh, we’re working with viruses now. Trying to see if we can find a cure for the common cold.” He laughed a little and showed pretty teeth. “It is, how do you say, ‘a long shot,’ but can you imagine the profits if we could actually figure it out? We try a variety of things like, manipulating the genes, enhancing them. Then, we expose them to various antibiotics to ‘heat them up,’ to see how they react.” He paused. “That is what I’m trying to do for the good of the world.” He pronounced “s” like “sh.” It sounded lush to Zehra.