O’Brien smiled and showed crooked teeth. He coughed with a smoker’s bark. “Well, the glasses and the mask, yeah. The ID from the guy on the porch wasn’t great. If it hadn’t been for the snitch who heard the killer braggin’ about it, I don’t know …”
Paul started to move toward the door. “But gloves as part of a disguise? Sounds odd.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
Paul shrugged. “The gloves and mask, maybe we got someone who works in a hospital or a medical facility.”
“But Schmitty, we got the killer already.”
Back at his office, Paul paced around his desk, wondering what to do next. He felt like time was running out. Should he go to Conway with the DNA and glove information? Paul worried he would be fired if Conway found out he was investigating the murder. No, he’d wait a little longer. Put together a tighter case before presenting it to Conway. Paul took a deep breath. One more screw-up and he knew he’d end up doing security work at power plants for a living-if he didn’t go to prison.
His cell phone rang.
“Hey, it’s Zehra.”
“I just heard about the DNA test. Quite a knock-out punch, Counselor.”
“We haven’t knocked out anything yet. The prosecutor won’t bail on the case until he’s checked it out completely. Can’t blame him for that. At least I can trust Harmon to be honest about things.” Her words came out in a jerky fashion.
“Then, you’ve got the alibi witness. Where’d you say he was?”
“Oh, the imam at the mosque on the West Bank, Mr. Moalim. Yeah, he’s cool. I think the combination of his testimony and the faked DNA, should give us a great defense.”
“Zehra, remember I told you to be careful? The real killer’s still out there, and someone is protecting him.”
Twenty-Four
Carolyn Bechter watched with growing horror. She had just mixed a third Mojito in her tenth floor condo overlooking the Mississippi River and the Stone Arch Bridge. High white clouds puffed up on the northern horizon. Shoes off, air conditioning on high, chilled glass sweating in her hand, she clicked on the Channel Six news.
After following Ben Mohammad, she’d kept searching but hit stone walls. No matter which source or friend she contacted, Carolyn couldn’t shake anything loose. She knew she was on the trail of something big, which caused even more frustration.
She understood the Somali community was hard to crack, that they didn’t trust many people outside their individual clans. But Carolyn had pushed on her contacts in the police department, FBI, snitches, and even a few seedy, self-appointed “spokesmen” from the Somali community who were always willing to talk to the press. Not a damn thing.
On her couch before the TV, Carolyn had put her feet up on the ottoman and crossed her legs. She had been thinking of the last time she’d been laid-too long ago, when the news show had started.
Watching her employer try to deliver the news-especially since she was rarely a part of it anymore, always frustrated her. To Carolyn, the holes and weaknesses were so obvious. Did they really think the public would buy the shit they called “news” anymore? Ratings were down, and Carolyn knew why.
The familiar pounding rock music cued up, and the graphics started flashing on and off to create a sense of something happening, even if the lead story was just a suburban art fair.
This show was different.
Out from the studio, Reggie had cut immediately to a street scene. The usual young blonde with a quivering voice stood with a strained face. Suddenly, the scene looked familiar to Carolyn. She reached for the remote to turn up the sound.
“Antoine,” the reporter said to the anchor as if they were intimate friends-which they were, but the public didn’t know that, “I’m here in the Seward neighborhood of south Minneapolis. It looks beautiful and serene but don’t let that fool you.” She stretched out her hand in a practiced manner. “There’s apparently been a robbery gone bad- very bad.”
Carolyn recognized the Johnson Deli.
The camera man, probably Ray for this shot, moved to the front of the deli. Sure enough, Carolyn could see the large dirty windows. The door was propped open.
“Witnesses tell us that about four-thirty this afternoon two men came into this small deli and tried to rob it at gun point.” The camera traveled in through the open door. “The two men working inside were cooperative. When a customer came in behind the robbers, something went wrong. Wrong because it caused the death of the two workers and the customer.” A breeze pulled the reporter’s hair up on the left side.
Carolyn couldn’t believe her eyes. She had stood right there a couple days earlier.
The reporter made a nice move between the camera and the open door to get inside. “All three men are dead, shot to death. We don’t have information as to why they were killed. Two of the victims, the workers, are identified as Jason McMillian and Ben Mohammad …”
Carolyn stood unsteadily. It couldn’t be true. She’d seen plenty of death and violence in her career but this frightened her for another reason.
“Police are searching this normally quiet, integrated family community for other witnesses. As of now, they don’t have any suspects and are baffled as to how this could happen in broad daylight.”
A creepy feeling worked its way over Carolyn. She’d sensed a big story and every step of her investigation confirmed that. This killing couldn’t just be a random robbery gone bad. That was bullshit. This was a hit, a hit on Ben Mohammad.
But why?
Where was the FBI in this? They missed it and missed it big. That is, Paul Schmidt missed it. And Carolyn would make sure the public knew all about him.
Twenty-Five
Back in her office, Zehra shut the door in order to pray. Christians often asked her why Muslims prayed so often. Although she never managed to fit in five times daily, she tried for a few. It was a wonderful way to remind her of the blessings of the day, and it also brought her peace in the midst of a hectic job. With all the problems facing her, it helped. The past day’s events had shaken her badly.
She faced northeast, looked out her window to St. Paul on the horizon, and started her prayers.
In fifteen minutes she was finished and refreshed. Better than meditation, she thought and she didn’t even need a bite of chocolate cupcake. Zehra called for Jackie to stop by the office.
Ricky from forensic IT had left her an email. He’d never seen an email like hers before. The sender had used a series of anonymous servers and mirror sites. Very sophisticated stuff. He’d keep searching, but so far, he’d come up empty.
Zehra thought she should call Paul. He’d know how to handle this. She started to dial his cell and then stopped. Was this serious enough to involve him and the FBI? Zehra didn’t know what to do. Pulling open her lower drawer, she reached in for a bite of a chocolate cupcake.
In another fifteen minutes, Jackie arrived and looked at the chairs pushed to the edges of the floor. “Praying again?” She looked up at Zehra. “Is the case that bad?”
Zehra laughed. “No. One of the ‘Five Pillars of Wisdom’ of Islam is to pray five times a day.”
Jackie pursed her lips. “That’d be a good practice for a lot of Christians I know.”
Soon, she had the El-Amin file spread over the small conference table that they pulled from the corner. Jackie
