He carried the box to a small metal table at the end of the row. “I’ve almost got everything down here computerized now. We’re getting some of that federal drug-bust money to help us upgrade things. It’s a bitch to convert it all from those old files to computers, and no one appreciates all the work I’ve done.”
Since forensics had already analyzed the evidence, they could touch it with bare hands. Miller lifted out various items. Most of the things had been taken from El-Amin’s apartment or found at the crime scene. Some items, like the mask, had been sent to the BCA for testing. It should have been back here, but the case loads were so heavy, no one had gotten around to returning it, Zehra thought.
She watched as shirts, shoes, pants, a pair of glasses that resembled the ones in the video, and the curved knife were laid on the table.
The knife was unusual. From a long handle, the blade curved slightly, resembling a scimitar. It had been tested for blood samples, revealing the victim’s blood type. Nothing else, including fingerprints, was found on it.
Zehra held it in her hands. A shiver ran through her when she thought of what had been done with this weapon. Who had held it? she wondered. As she turned it back and forth, the fluorescent lights from the ceiling glistened off the shiny blade. A similar light flashed across her mind. There was something … something she tried to remember. About the knife? After a few moments, Zehra gave up, hoping her memory would come clear later.
After rummaging through all the items, Zehra and BJ thanked Miller and left with Harmon.
Outside the door, Zehra asked, “Hey, Steve, got time for coffee?”
“Too busy fighting crime. Thanks anyway. At least you got Judge Goldberg.”
“He’ll do a good job.”
“Aw … he hasn’t got any balls.” Steve walked away.
BJ said, “That offer of coffee good for me, Z?”
“As long as you’re paying.”
In fifteen minutes they sat in a Caribou Coffee shop on the second floor skyway. It connected the Government Center to most of the downtown area. With the brutal winters and steamy summers in Minnesota, the skyways bustled with life as the entire city flooded into them.
They reminded Zehra of the ant farm she had as a child. The ants scurried through the narrow passageways on their way to work or food. Similarly, people moved in lines through the skyways for the same reasons.
BJ licked the foam off his upper lip from his latte. His eyes flicked up to Zehra’s. He cleared his throat. “Uh … Z, I got something to say to you.”
Zehra could tell he was serious. He dropped his usual smile, and the brightness in his eyes dulled. She set down her cup. “What? What’s up?”
“Well, it’s none of my business of course, but like my momma always told me, ‘If you got something to say, say it.’”
She waited.
“It’s about your friend, Mustafa.”
Zehra sucked in her breath. “Denzel, look, we got a lot to do in the next couple days. Can it wait?”
“Sure, but I gotta say it quick.” He looked at the settling foam in his cup and then to Zehra. “He’s lying to you.”
She jerked back. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what it’s about, but you know my FACs training. At least I can tell when somebody’s probably lying.”
Zehra wrestled with her emotions. Sure, she didn’t know Mustafa well, but so what? That was the whole purpose of dating. “Maybe because he’s foreign, his way of talking and expressions are different than ours.”
“Don’t make any difference. The signals are universal.” He leaned forward and reached out to her. “I know how you feel about him, but I have to warn you.” His hand covered hers. “You don’t know this guy, and, well, he’s foreign, like you say. You know I got your back.”
“Yeah, but I can’t think about it now.” She waved her hand in front of them. “Too much dropped on me …” She looked at BJ’s eyes and found them wet and shiny again. “I’ll be careful. Thanks for always thinking about me.”
He shrugged and stood. “I got a few errands. I’m still gonna see if we can find the missing imam.”
Zehra nodded as he left.
She sighed and tried to think straight. With the trial and all its problems, it was difficult to sort through her emotions. Maybe in her thrill of meeting such an attractive Muslim man, she’d missed things she’d normally spot. Of course, he was too conservative, and Zehra worried about his flexibility.
At times, he’d been patronizing toward BJ. Was it racism? Was BJ reacting to that without recognizing it himself? Was it the immense cultural differences between Americans and Egyptians?
Zehra had agreed to meet Mustafa for a quick dinner later. She looked forward to it and hoped things would work out. But BJ was good at what he did. She decided to at least look at Mustafa more critically.
Her phone rang. It was BJ again.
“Zehra, girl. I’m picking you up in three minutes.” He sounded out of breath.
“What?”
“Coppers found the missing imam. My pals called me and we’re going to the crime scene.”
In twenty minutes, they squealed into a three story parking ramp on the West Bank, near the hospital where the imam had worked in the supply room. They bounded out of BJ’s car and ran to a circle of squad cars, Medical Examiner’s van, yellow tape, and a few reporters.
Carolyn Bechter was there and waved to Zehra.
As she and BJ closed in on the activity, a cop in uniform came out to meet them. “BJ,” he said. “Gotta stay back.”
“Thanks for the call. What’s shakin’?”
“A citizen saw the car parked here and thought there was an unusually big pool of oil underneath it. When he got closer, he saw it was blood. Looks like the killer backed the car over the pool after killing the victim. To hide it. They’re tire tracks in the blood.”
“Where’s the imam?”
“Trunk. It’s his own car. M.E. says he’s been there a couple days.”
“Leads?”
The cop shrugged his shoulders.
“Lemme take a quick look.”
The cop looked back and forth. Sighed and said, “Okay. But just a minute. I’ll get my ass whooped.”
“Yeah.”
BJ and Zehra moved slowly toward the car. As they got closer, Zehra saw the trunk standing open and a lumpy form stretched out inside. A pallid white hand with dirty fingernails hung over the edge. She started to shake.
BJ stopped and put his arm around her. “Okay, Z?”
Taking a deep breath, she nodded yes.
They came up from the side of the car. A tech bent over the body. She worked on something and then stood up. When she moved to the side, BJ squirmed to the end of the trunk. Zehra moved beside him. She forced herself to look at the body.
Just a glance was enough. She felt sick and her knees began to buckle. She gagged on the fear rising from within her body.
The imam’s head flopped back at an unnatural angle. His neck had been sliced open from ear to ear, penetrating deeply into his throat. It was an identical wound like the one that killed the young Somali boy, the victim in her case.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Zehra met Mustafa at a small Thai restaurant across the street from the Guthrie Theatre. BJ had stayed with her for awhile until she felt calm again. She wanted to see Mustafa, to get away from all the blood and killings she’d seen lately. When he insisted on meeting, she readily agreed. Zehra walked the few blocks from her office and arrived sticky from the humidity.
As she stepped into the air conditioning, she fluffed her blouse and ran her hands through her hair to lift it off her shoulders. Zehra normally would have put it up but thought it looked better down for now.
Mustafa, handsome as ever, stood in the corner and came to her quickly. He opened his arms toward her.
Zehra paused, worried that she was a little sweaty.
When he touched her arms, for a moment, she wondered about him, hoping BJ was wrong.