“I know. But why would someone want to frame El-Amin? What’s going on that I don’t see?”
“Do you think your client will be found guilty?”
“I don’t know. The faked DNA helps the defense, but so far, the prosecutor won’t dismiss.”
Mustafa turned onto Cedar Avenue a few blocks from the mosque. He hummed quietly to himself. “What do you think the federal agents will do when they find out the DNA was faked?”
“I’m sure they know. Agent Paul Schmidt is an old friend of mine. He knows by now.”
“So, what action will they take? Will they look for someone else as the killer?”
Zehra was flattered that Mustafa asked as many questions as he did. Few of the men in her life were as interested. “I know from my friend that he doesn’t believe the Somali men were used just to fight in their country. Although the local FBI isn’t backing him, he thinks there’s something behind the disappearances and the killing. He’s still digging into it a lot deeper. After what I’ve seen in the case, I agree.”
He turned and faced her. “What do you think is going on?”
His eyes stared into hers, making her feel a combination of unease and excitement at the same time. This man was certainly different from many others. She found herself attracted to his intensity and passion.
Zehra said, “I don’t know. It scares me to think what I may be getting into, but if it’ll help with my case, I’ve got to follow up.”
“What do you think this agent … uh, Mr. Schmidt, will do?”
“He’s determined to crack the case. I know he’ll be relentless, and I don’t trust him.”
“Why not?”
“He knew about our alibi witness almost before we did. And now, the witness has disappeared. Maybe the feds grabbed him and will interrogate him.”
Mustafa stopped talking and pulled up in front of the mosque. Several robed men slouched at the door. Every set of eyes watched him get out of the Benz.
“
One of the men finally called back, “
Zerha stood by the car while Mustafa approached. The men stood up and surrounded him.
“I am a friend of your imam, Mr. Moalim,” Mustafa said. “I have worked with him. Is he around to meet with us?”
No one spoke. Then, a younger man from the back stepped forward. “I know you. You are Mustafa Ammar. You have worked with some of the young people before, in the schools.”
“Yes.” Mustafa cleared his throat. “Is the imam here?”
“He has not come in today. We are worried since this is not like him to fail in his responsibilities here.”
“Has anyone checked his home?”
“He has not been there for two days,” the young man replied.
Mustafa asked, “He worked at a hospital, didn’t he? Have you checked there?”
The man turned to his right and pointed down the street. “He works at that hospital, down there. In the kitchen. No, we have not been over there to look for him. He would come here first.”
Thanking the group, Mustafa and Zehra got back into the car and drove five blocks to the hospital.
Zehra noticed the new flowers standing in the window boxes of the coop food store. The petals looked like they opened themselves to worship the sun. “Do you know gardens were first recorded in ancient Persia?” When he nodded, she continued, “You can imagine how magical and wonderful they must’ve been in the middle of a desert. Cool, fragrant, shaded, and with running water usually. Maybe that’s where I get my love of gardens.”
“Probably.” He turned sharply into the parking lot of the hospital. “You must show me your gardens at home some day soon.”
“Are you really interested?” She looked at him.
“Of course. I am interested in them because you are. I want to understand your love for flowers.”
“They’re spiritual for me. Allah has given us many blessings, Nature being one of the greatest.”
“I agree that Allah has given us many blessings. It is too bad most people do not see them.” His voice had a sharp edge to it.
“Should we check the kitchen first?” Zehra said. “I think the HR people would be better.”
Inside, they identified themselves and were led into the Human Resources offices. After waiting ten minutes, a small man came into the lobby to greet them. “I’m Roger Weber, director of Human Resources.” He wore a stiff white shirt with red suspenders. Blond hair spiked over the top of his head. He shook each of their hands and offered them seats in his small office.
“You say you’re looking for Mr. Moalim.” His eyebrows furrowed. “That’s interesting, because we’re looking for him also. He hasn’t been at work in two days.”
“Has he done this before?” Zehra asked.
“No. He’s one of our most reliable workers. We employ many of the Somali community here. They’re so good with the patients. They’re very warm, kind people.”
“He worked in the kitchen?” she said.
“Yes, and he also worked in the supply room.”
“What’s that involve?”
“Oh, you know, keeping inventory, stocking, things like that,” Mr. Weber said.
A thought poked into Zehra’s mind. “Does the supply room contain face masks?”
“Of course. In a hospital, we have to be particularly careful. We only use the 3M N95, 8000 model respirator here. It’s the best on the market for screening most of the nasty things we don’t want to breathe.”
Zehra felt her chest tingle. The same type found at the crime scene. She didn’t
say anything else.
After they left, Mustafa drove Zehra back to her condo.
At the door she hesitated, then invited him in. She walked into the kitchen and marveled at the way he seemed to glide as he walked, so graceful. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Do you have tea? I don’t drink alcohol, of course.”
“Of course.” She pulled out a box of green tea and heated water. “I try to be faithful, but once in a while I’ll have wine.”
His face clouded. “That is not good. You should try to be more faithful.”
She felt flustered. “Well … of course, but here in America most people drink a little. I don’t think it affects my faith.”
“Zehra, do you not understand how all the little transgressions can add up?”
“Transgressions?”
“It is against Islamic law.”
“I think that’s a matter of interpretation.”
He frowned, and Zehra could tell he was thinking. Had she offended him? “But it’s not that important to me, I mean, to drink. Let’s have our tea.”
“What do you think your friend, the FBI agent, will do about the witness missing?” He shifted the cup from hand to hand.
“Huh?” The shift in conversation surprised her. “I’m sure it’ll support his idea that something larger and more sinister is going on. I don’t know.” She looked at him. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m thinking about our talk in the car. I am trying to help you.”
“My part is only the murder case. What does the FBI have to do with that?”
Mustafa stood. “I am trying to think of anything to help you.” He looked at his watch and started to walk to the door. “I will be very busy in the next week but will try to help you as I can.”
“Are you going out of town on business, again?”
“I’m going to Cairo for a very short trip.”
“Maybe we can get together again soon.”
He stopped and his eyes focused somewhere outside the deck. “Yes … yes, that would be wonderful.” His attention came back to Zehra and he reached for her. His eyes roamed over her face, he smiled, and squeezed her arm gently.
He pulled her toward him and leaned down. He stared into her eyes and, at the last minute, turned his head
