“Uh … my car … Paul … I can’t believe it …”
“What?”
“They blew up my car!”
Paul had difficulty concentrating on his driving. He’d been so busy he hadn’t heard about it. “Has the FBI been notified?”
“Yeah … everyone’s been here …”
“Zehra, I’m right in the middle of something big. Do whatever the agents tell you.”
“I have to keep going. The trial’s still starting in a few days. You know anything else? Paul, what the hell’s going on? I’m losing my mind.” Her voice cracked with hysteria. “I was doing ok, then just collapsed. Can’t help it, I’m scared.”
“Zehra, I don’t know any more than you do,” he lied to her. “I always thought this was a lot bigger than your client. And now we’ve got some leads.”
“What? What leads?”
Paul sighed and weighed the harm in telling her what he was doing. It didn’t seem to be connected with the defense of her client. He said, “We’re following up on a suspect, a Pied Piper, who’s getting some Somali boys together at a mosque in Burnsville real soon. We’re not sure why, but we’re breaking it down right now.”
“Good for you.” She paused. “Maybe this guy is the real killer, not El-Amin.”
He felt a rush of emotion flood into his body. How many times in the past had he longed to comfort her, to hold her? It hadn’t worked out for them, but the longing
still remained. He thrust the thoughts away. No time for that now.
“Don’t know if there’s any connection. Hey, Zehra, I’d like to talk more, but
I gotta run.” She agreed and hung up
Paul circled the block until he saw the small sign for the mosque. Like many Muslim groups in Minnesota, they didn’t have the money for a fancy mosque. This one occupied the end unit of a one-story row of offices. From his drive around the back side, Paul found several cars parked there.
He stopped in the front, made sure he had his badge out, checked the Glock under his arm, and stepped out of the car. A tall ash tree covered the corner of the building and leaned over the roof. Bright green leaves dotted the branches. Cardinals flitted from branch to branch as Paul approached.
When he got to the door, he knocked.
Paul rapped harder. He peered in through the dirty window in the door. Finally, a lone man shuffled toward the front. When he reached the door, he pulled it open slowly. He wore a tan skull cap, had a long black beard, and a full-length brown robe.
Paul lifted his badge and stuck it in the man’s face. “FBI. I’d like to talk to you.”
The man squinted at the badge as if near sighted. “What do you want?”
“Anyone in charge. I’m looking for a man named Mr. Kamal or Ammar, a scientist, who’ll have a group of boys here in a day or two.”
The man stretched himself to his full height. His black skin glistened in the sunlight. Without speaking, he gazed at Paul. Finally, he said, “I do not know anyone. He is not here. Goodbye.”
Before Paul could jam his foot into the open door, it slammed shut.
Paul realized he was breathing deeply. Frustrated, there was nothing more he could do at this point without a warrant. At least, the man’s actions confirmed what they all suspected. Mr. Kamal was going to bring the boys here in two days. Paul felt elated.
Back in his car, Paul called Conway. “Bill, I’m at the mosque in Burnsville. This is the hot spot. We’ll need a stake-out immediately, and we’ve got to move fast.”
“Great work, Paul. I want you back here right now.”
Something in Conway’s voice bothered Paul. “Huh? I told you, I’m out here and I’ll handle surveillance until the team arrives.”
“Get back here now.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got a meeting starting in ten minutes. I got through to the Army Medical Research Institute. They’re meeting with us, along with ICE.”
“But … the mosque …”
Conway dropped his voice and spoke slowly. “Paul, we’ll get someone out there as soon as we can. In the meantime, you’re gonna want to be here …”
Thirty-Four
We haven’t got a lot of time,” Zehra reminded BJ while they sat in her office. “I’ve got a meeting with Harmon in ten minutes. Coming along?” I’m with you all the way, Z.”
When they walked outside her office, they crumpled under the oppressive blast of wind and humidity. An FBI agent assigned to Zehra followed a few steps behind them.
“Something’s wrong with this weather,” BJ said. “Storm must be coming.”
They crossed the street and took the elevator in the Government Center to the County Attorney’s office. BJ didn’t say anything during the ride.
“What’s up? Out too late last night, listening to music?” Zehra asked him.
He shook his head. “Naw.”
Her thoughts returned to Mustafa, to the feel of his smooth skin and the smell of it. She tried to place the fragrance … sandalwood cologne maybe. She wondered what he was doing right now and longed to see him again. Her loneliness lifted for a moment.
In a few minutes, they met with Steve Harmon in his office.
“Have a seat, guys.” His face softened. “Hey, Zehra, sorry to hear about you. Are you okay?” He paused, then said, “Any last minute things we should cover?” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Judge Goldberg’s anxious to get the trial started.”
Zehra leaned forward. “Yeah, Steve, there is something. We watched the video of the crime scene yesterday and noticed the gloves. Have you seen it yet?”
“Uh … yeah, of course. Gloves? I guess I don’t remember any gloves … heh, heh,” he forced a laugh.
Zehra knew he hadn’t seen the film. “The killer wore gloves. Latex from the look of them. Why? More critical, where are they? Are you holding out on us?”
Harmon’s eyes opened wide. “Don’t ever accuse me of anything unethical,” he shouted. “I’ve given you all the Discovery material I have.”
“Then, where did the gloves go?”
“Maybe El-Amin kept them and tossed ’em later.”
“The killer dropped the mask, why not the gloves?”
Harmon stood and moved around his desk. “How the hell should I know? I don’t need any gloves to get the conviction.”
“You’ve got to admit,” Zehra said, “this is an odd murder-the type of mask, gloves, glasses. It’s more than a disguise.”
“You can argue your case in court. To me, it’s simple-a cold-blooded murder of an innocent young man.”
No one spoke for a while.
Zehra said, “Can we get a look at the evidence in the property room?”
“Sure. I’ve already called ahead. Sergeant Miller’s waiting for us.”
In ten minutes, they’d all gone down the elevator to the second floor of the Government Center, crossed under the street in the tunnel past the cafeteria, and come up in the massive City Hall where the police department had its headquarters. In the basement, they stopped at a worn wooden door with a frosted glass window in the top half. Large letters stenciled on the window told them it was the property room.
As they walked through it, Sergeant Miller came out from a secured door and shook hands all around. He smiled broadly when he saw BJ. “Hey, dude, still on the wrong side, huh?”
“Pays better,” BJ lied. “Everything’s cool. By the way, nice threads,” he joked about the officer’s uniform with the frayed blue shirt cuffs.
“Budget cuts.” Miller led them back into the large room. Rows of metal shelves towered around them as they worked their way deeper into the room. Each shelf held dozens of banker’s boxes, numbered and marked with the name of the case they came from. They were filled with exhibits for hundreds of cases.
Other than the clopping of their shoes on the cement floor, silence hung in the air like old dust.
After four turns, Miller stopped and reached for the appropriate box. “Here it is,” he grunted. Although a younger man, he looked like he’d been in the basement, alone with the boxes, a long time. His skin seemed as dry as the shelves, and his left eye twitched unnaturally every once in a while.