didn’t want to share it with anyone else. Her editor thought she was at the Government Center, covering the court appearance of the guy charged with the murder, El-Amin. Carolyn knew she could get that information from any of the other media sources and feed it back to her editor. He’d never know. In the meantime, she could pursue this lead.
When she saw the Johnson Deli on the corner, it made her laugh. The Scandinavian name didn’t fit, because now it served Somalis and other immigrants in the neighborhood. Probably owned by new people, too. Ben Mohammad worked part time there, and Carolyn meant to interview him.
She stood across the street for a long time, looking at the people in the street-a mixture of white and colored. The whites looked poor, and the colored looked Middle Eastern or African. Carolyn marveled at the difference in clothing. The whites dressed in faded blue jeans and gray or tan sweatshirts for the most part. The other people looked like walking rainbows. Every imaginable color of cloth covered them.
The women, especially, reveled in bright greens, yellow, blues, deep purple. Most wore the head covering but not the young girls.
Many of the men wore beards and small white skull caps.
Carolyn crossed the busy street and walked to the deli. She looked through the large plate-glass windows. A sign inside offered
Carolyn didn’t understand any of the babbling people at the counter. The deli sold an interesting collection of American junk food, organic food, and foreign things she didn’t recognize.
Several women stood at the counter arguing with one of the clerks. A few glanced over their shoulders at her. Some white women came in and ordered sliced beef from the second clerk.
Where was Ben Mohammad?
Carolyn waited until the American women left. She approached the clerk and removed her sunglasses. “Hi. I’m looking for Ben Mohammad. Is he here?”
The clerk frowned. “Ben …? No one here named-”
“That’s probably the name he uses at school.”
“Oh, you mean Moses Mohammad. Yeah, he works at a school.”
“Is he here?”
“He’ll be back in a minute.”
Twenty minutes later, Carolyn still waited. She looked at her watch. Put her shades back on and pulled the strap of her purse up on her shoulder.
Ben came through the front door.
She intended to cut him off before he had a chance to get to the back and avoid her. Carolyn stepped in front of him. His head jerked up when he saw her. “Hi, Ben. I’d like to talk with you some more.” She spread her legs the width of her shoulders and stared at him. That usually worked with most people. Surprise was a good weapon also.
“Uh … what do you want?” he stammered.
“Just to talk with you. The people I met at the school speak highly of you.”
He didn’t seem to understand what she said. “I don’t have anything …”
“This won’t take long. If you talk to me now, I’ll go away.”
“What do you want?” He had a puffy black face that looked soft, unlike his eyes that were hard, like black marble.
Carolyn heard a shuffling behind her. “I want to know what you do with the young Somali boys at the school. What’s your job there?”
His eyes darted back and forth like they had when she’d met him at the school. “I’m an outreach worker to the Somali community.”
“But you take these young boys on trips, don’t you?” Suddenly, she noticed the store had gone quiet. She sensed more movement behind her. Saw the reaction in Ben’s face. Then the clerk was at her back, shoving her toward the door.
“You’re not welcome in our store,” he shouted.
Carolyn jerked back. No one treated her like this. “You don’t know who I am, do you? I’m from Channel Six TV, and I could have twenty cameras and reporters down here in ten seconds to investigate your shitty little dump,” she shouted.
“You will leave now.” A second clerk moved beside the first one. Two of the African women crowded her on the left.
Carolyn realized the odds were bad. She wasn’t scared and knew she wouldn’t get any more information now. She sniffed at them and turned to leave.
She took her time walking back to the Benz, laughing by the time she clicked the locks open. That little scene proved that her instincts were right. There was something going on with Ben and the school. Otherwise, why would he and his pals react the way they did? She tingled with excitement.
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.
