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.
As he pulled back, his eyes opened into a smile. “You look hot and starved.” He caught himself. “I did not mean ‘hot’ like …”
“Of course, you didn’t,” she laughed and followed him to the table. It felt good to laugh, to have a man look at you and tell you he liked what he saw. She relaxed and
tried to clear her mind of every horrible event of the past days.
He had already ordered chicken satay. They sat, and Zehra launched into the food, surprised at how hungry she was until she remembered she’d missed lunch.
While they ate, Mustafa asked dozens of questions. The waiter brought an order of vegetable curry and Pad Woon Sen, a noodle dish with shrimp that Mustafa had ordered previously for her. For a moment, this bothered her, but his formality was sweet, thoughtful. She let it slide.
Suddenly, BJ’s words echoed in her head. Was Mustafa more interested than normal? Was he simply curious about her work? When she met people and told them what she did, they usually reacted with fascination. Maybe Mustafa was like them.
“You seem so interested in this trial. Is there a reason?” she asked.
His eyes dropped to the table for an instant and flicked back to her. “I am interested in anything you do. There are few Muslim women in my country who are like you.”
Impressed, Zehra still pushed on. “But I’m wondering why.”
“Why? There is nothing special. It is you.”
Her thoughts twisted. Was BJ correct or was he too critical? To stall for time, she leaned over her plate and twirled some noodles around her chopsticks. When she looked up, her body shuddered. Mustafa’s expression had changed to something Zehra’d never seen before. The look slipped away quickly, but it left her shaken. She leaned back in her chair.
His voice resumed the pleasant tone of before. “All right, if you insist. Let us talk about me for a while.” He told her of his volunteer work at three mosques with younger people.
“As I have told you, Islamic scientists used to be the best in the world, many centuries ago. One of my missions in life is to resurrect that leadership. I work with younger Muslims to encourage them to go into the sciences. No one else does that for them.”
“What do you do?”
“Science fairs are coming up tomorrow at many of the schools. In cooperation with my company, the schools let us scientists help the kids with their projects.” He lifted his shoulders. “This is how I can help them.”
“How wonderful.”
His head tilted up. “Maybe you would be interested in visiting with them.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, Friday afternoon.” He stopped. “I forgot. You are probably too busy for that. On the other hand, it may be interesting for you. I could pick you up.”
Zehra paused. The work required for the trial grew larger, but in the back of her mind small suspicions, like the new weeds in her pots at home, poked their way out. She had to find out the truth about him. Zehra smiled. “Sure, I’d love to come.”
But before she went, she’d call BJ with the details just in case.
Thirty-Five
When Paul returned to the FBI office in downtown Minneapolis, he could feel humid hints of a coming storm. As he walked into the lobby, a similar sense of tension struck him. It wasn’t so much the level of noise or activity as it was the lack of both.
Conway’s voice had a panicky edge to it and this time, he hadn’t yelled at Paul. Something was wrong.
He hurried to the conference room to find Conway pacing back and forth. Several people Paul didn’t recognize surrounded Conway. Paul was surprised to see Joan Cortez, standing in the corner.
He walked up to her and said quietly, “What are you doing here?”
