by Kate Flora
He waited until the Imam had finally, reluctantly, taken the document from Melia. "Understand. This is a homicide investigation, Mr. Ibrahim. Do you have any questions?"
"You have violated the sanctity of my home and frightened my family."
Pretty darned good English, Burgess noted.
"Regrettable," Burgess agreed. "And you brought it on them yourself." He gestured toward the boxes. "We will go through these papers. Any that are not relevant to our investigation will be returned to you as promptly as possible."
He changed the subject. "Upstairs we found a locked closet hidden behind an armoire. Items found in that closet suggest that a woman and an infant stayed in there. So tell me, please, sir, whether the girl and the infant found at the mosque were ever present in this house?"
The Imam glared at him, and didn't answer.
"Do you know the name of that girl?" No answer. "Of her child?" No answer. "Is the infant related to anyone in your family?"
Beside him, Sage's calm voice translated. Across the room, the huddled women stared. The Imam ignored the questions.
"We are going to ask the women of your family the same questions," Burgess said. "And you should understand—if we determine that you do know the identity of that girl and her child, and that she was ever present here in your house, you and any members of your household sharing that knowledge will be accessories after the fact to murder and likely subject to prosecution for kidnapping, child abuse, and child sexual abuse."
Across the room, he saw one of the younger women staring at him. She was holding a baby tightly to her chest and there was something in her expression—not the fear and hostility of the others—that suggested she understood what he was saying and that she had something she wanted to tell him. The challenge would be when, and where, and how.
He let Sage finish translating for the Imam, then said, "Do you understand?"
"I understand only that you choose to pick on us because we are vulnerable. Because it isn't enough that we have lost our place of worship and our offices to provide services to our community. When any young girl might have gone into that building, seeking help or advice. I understand that you target us because the baby that died was black. None of that has anything to do with us."
Thank you, Mr. Ibrahim, Burgess thought. The race of the baby had never been reported.
Chapter 25
Often, investigation was like following a maze. Today it felt like a game of hopscotch. He was at the beginning and his goal at the other end; he kept having to hop on one foot and work around obstacles and distractions, and while he hopped and jumped, the other end never seemed to get any closer.
Whatever he might have thought he'd learn from the woman with the signaling eyes, he didn't. She wouldn't tell him anything in the presence of the others. It had taken more than another hour to get identities from the women, and question them, and it had all been worthless. They all said the girl and her baby had never been in the house.
They had left Wink working the locked closet and Stan Perry and Sage Prentiss to search the cars. He went to see Jason Stetson and his foster mom. Kyle went to see if he could track down his elusive informant. They would meet up when they were done and execute the warrant at Hussain Osman's apartment. Osman's condition remained unchanged.
* * *
Burgess was sitting at the kitchen table with Jason Stetson and his foster mother, while a smaller boy in the corner entertained a baby in a playpen. Both Jason and his foster mother looked anxious. There was a sliced, homemade loaf of banana bread on a plate, and the room smelled of baking, and lemon polish, and fresh, strong coffee.
The foster mother's name was Molly. She was late thirties, Chris's age, and pretty in a wholesome, outdoorsy way, with bright brown eyes and short, efficient hair. He figured she was a runner. He was trying to find a way to help her relax when Jason said, "It's okay, Mrs. Andrews. Detective Burgess may not look it, but he's really nice."
It did the trick. She swatted him affectionately as she said, "Jason, that's not very polite."
Jason grinned and ducked his head, and Burgess grinned, too. Family could make all the difference. A couple years ago, Jason was living with an abusive stepfather and a mother who'd disappeared into a bottle and was definitely heading toward a bad outcome.
"Jason has been really helpful to us in our investigation of that fire at the mosque, Mrs. Andrews. He's very observant. I'm hoping you may have noticed things as well." He led her through the easy stuff first. The rhythms of the day, who came and went, the relationship of the mosque's members with the neighborhood. It pretty much confirmed what he'd already heard from Jason. Then he asked her about the men on motorcycles. Had she seen them? Could she describe them? Had they appeared to be harassing the Muslims?
"Harassing the Muslims?" She shook her head. "I think that's what we're supposed to think, Detective Burgess. Because they're so obvious, riding around on those noisy machines." She smiled a self-deprecating smile. "When you've got a baby in the house, you really notice loud noises. Anyway, as I'm sure Jason has told you, we've seen them roaring through the parking lot and calling out rude things to the women. The behavior you'd expect from a motorcycle gang that's prejudiced against immigrants or outsiders. But I've seen those same men coming at night, not on motorcycles but with those white box trucks, and those times, they seem friendly enough with the Imam and his followers. Well, maybe not friendly. But like they're working together."
Burgess made a note. "What time of night?"
"Late," she said. "After midnight." She gestured toward the baby. "Grace isn't a good sleeper. I never should have put her bedroom at the front of the house. She and Jason have their rooms there. But it was the smallest room, see. And she's the smallest of us." She hesitated. "This used to be a quiet neighborhood."
The "us" warmed his heart, and flashed him back to last night.
A mosque should have been quiet in the middle of the night. And there were those white box trucks again.
"Those trucks," he said. "Did they have anything written on them? The name of a business?"
She shook her head. "Just plain white."
"How many trucks?"
"One or two."
"Did you see them on any kind of regular basis? Did they seem to have a schedule?"
She started to shake her head, but Jason interrupted. "Usually every other week," he said, "and always either on a Sunday or a Monday."
He made another note to figure out what that might correlate to, and pulled out the photo of their mystery girl. "Did you ever see this girl at the mosque?"
Molly Andrews took it and studied it, frowning as she did, then shook her head. "Not that I recognize. She might have been one of those ones who didn't just wear the headscarf but was totally covered. But they're usually the old ones." She passed the photo to Jason. "What about you, Jase? You ever see this girl?"
Jason looked like he didn't want to answer. Then he said, "I think maybe she's married to one of the In Man's sons. Not the one with the scar. The other one. The one the In Man likes better. He... the In Man... he's always mean, but he's meaner to the scarred one. That is... I can't always hear what they say, but I can see their faces, and the In Man is always talking to this son, I think his name is Ishmael, and when that son turns away, his face is always twisted, like he hates his old man or something. And I've seen him looking at the girl like maybe he wanted her for his wife. I don't think he has a wife. That is, I've never seen him with one."
Burgess thought about Ismail's words when they were driving him away from the shooting. Ismail had said he had to contact his family and let them know he was all right. Burgess had just assumed Ismail meant his own family. And he hadn't followed up, had he?
"Jason, have you ever seen this girl with the Imam's grandson? The one named Muhammad?"
Jason looked down at his shoes. "No. I've seen her walking with some of the other women. And I've seen Ishmael looking at her. About her being Muhammad's wife? It'
s just from something I heard at school. From that girl I told you about? Only she doesn't want to talk to you. You can ask me questions, and I can ask her and bring you the answers, but out of school, she can't be seen talking to you, Detective Burgess. You know how that is."
He knew how that was. He also knew that time kept slipping through their fingers like the sand blowing around out there. Days went by and all they got was more bodies and more work and few answers. He tried to remember whether the younger Muhammad Ibrahim had been among the men surrounding the Imam during their interview. It would be in his notes.
"Okay, Jason. We'll do it your way, but what about—"
"Detective Burgess," Jason interrupted, a confused look on his face. "You know that stuff that was written on the wall? That hateful stuff? Here's something I don't get. I saw them write that. It was at night, but my window looks out that way, and there's a security light on the building. You know, the kind that comes on when someone moves? And who did that writing? Well, I didn't recognize the man who did it. He's not one of them, but the In Man, he was right there watching. Him and his mean son. The tall one without the scar on his face. This man... he wasn't African like them... he did the writing and the In Man and one of his sons, the one that isn't Ishmael, he's maybe Muhammad, too, they were watching and telling the man what to write."
As Kyle would say, the plot kept thickening. It was getting to be like a pea-soup-thick fog.
"When was that, Jason?"
"The night before the fire."
* * *
Kyle's piss-poor mood matched his own. His informant was playing games with him, setting up meetings and then not showing. She wasn't in any of the places she could usually be found and she wasn't answering her phone or responding to texts.
"I don't know whether she's got some valid information and I should be worried or whether she's just screwing around, Joe," he said.
"Worrying won't help you find her any faster."
They both knew that worrying was part of the business, especially about informants. People could get too cocky or careless and get themselves into a lot of trouble. No amount of cautioning on the part of their handlers made any difference. Most of their informants were cooperating because they were already in trouble with the police. Their lifestyles were not normally cautious and well-regulated.
"Heard some interesting things from Jason Stetson and his foster mom," Burgess said as he steered through what passed for rush hour in Portland.
"Interesting? Or helpful?"
"Both."
"Do tell," Kyle said. "And can we grab some coffee and something that won't make me think of maggots? Like maybe a blueberry muffin?"
It was almost dinnertime, but dinner, like lunch, was something their morning with the late Butcher Flaherty had put them off. "Blueberries have maggots, Terry."
"Screw you, Joe. Can we just stop. Please?"
Of course he stopped. Burgess believed in feeding Kyle. The man ran at such high revs he burned through his fuel quickly. And Kyle hadn't had the benefit of Molly Andrews' banana bread.
"One of those women at the Imam's house wanted to tell us something," Kyle said, as Burgess beat out a woman in a MINI for the last parking space.
She flipped him the bird. He flipped her his blue lights.
"Yeah. I'm just not sure how we'll ever get a chance to find out what." He swung the door open and got out, feeling old and stiff. "The foster mom says that the same motorcyclists who harassed the Muslims during the day were back there at night, loading and unloading white box trucks."
Kyle stared at him over the roof of the truck. "You're kidding. We've gotta find those damned trucks."
"And Jason says that some white guy wrote that anti-Muslim graffiti at the Imam's direction. Something our oh-so-innocent Imam failed to mention when we interviewed him. Jason also thinks our mystery girl is the Imam's oldest grandson's wife."
Kyle sighed. "I should have come with you. It would have made my day feel productive."
"At least you didn't get the trash, like Stan."
"Low man on the totem pole. Have we met this grandson? This is not our friend Ismail? The one with the scar?"
"No. According to Jason, though we've got to take this with a grain of salt, the oldest grandson, named Muhammad like his grandfather, is the favorite, and the Imam doesn't like Ismail."
"If he's the black sheep, why did Ismail go silent on us the other night?"
"Because someone had just shot at him, Ter? Maybe he'd been showing signs that he was not with the program and that was a kind of 'warning shot.' Or maybe because he knows the Imam's secrets and he's still bucking for his grandpa's love. That happens all the time."
Burgess tried to recreate the incident in his mind. Had that felt like a warning? Had Ismail not really been in any danger? It had felt like an authentic hit to him, and the shooters had been willing to burn a car, instead of just parking it and going back to business as usual. Had that been because he and Perry had been there? He needed to take another look at the scene photos. Wished they had the car back at 109 in their growing collection.
When Kyle had been fed, they drove to Osman's apartment. Burgess had Osman's keys, but when the door was open, they found themselves staring into a nearly empty room. Nothing there but a lamp, a table, and a mattress on the floor. There was no food. No dishes. No clothes. No signs of human occupancy. Either Osman had been in the process of moving in or out or he lived a beyond-monkish existence. Or the place was just an address to hide behind. There were other keys on the ring.
He dropped Kyle at 109 and went to the library to check out his hunch about the yearbooks. As he pulled to the curb, his phone rang. Andrea Dwyer.
"I'm at the hospital," she said. "And before you get anxious, everything is okay. Our girl is fine."
"Thought our surveillance had been canceled."
"It has. I'm off tonight, with time on my hands, so I just figured I'd stop in for a bit and see how things were going."
"You shouldn't have to," he said, again feeling something shift. The small, silent, damaged child in the center of this case was managing to work some kind of positive magic on the people around her.
"I didn't become the kiddie cop because it was going to make me rich."
She had that right. "Thanks. I'll try to swing by later, see how things are going."
"Always a treat to see your smiling face," she said.
His face felt hard and heavy and very far from a smile. But Dwyer could usually coax one out of him.
Burgess grabbed the keys from the ignition and went inside. A helpful librarian helped him locate the books. Twenty minutes later, he was at the copy machine, copying a photo of Addison Westerly.
Chapter 26
Back at 109, he found Melia had people working on the files under Stan Perry's supervision, and wasn't surprised to learn that they'd found an existing relationship between Addison Westerly and the Imam. Rocky's dogged research had established that Westerly was the owner of a company that was the owner of a real estate trust that owned the building that had housed the burned mosque. Westerly's offices were in a building on the waterfront near the warehouse that had become the new mosque site.
Everything they could connect Westerly to—building, vehicles, and boats—was in the company name. Even his driver's license listed the office address. Stan Perry had had patrol go by the office and check out the fishing boat. No sign of Westerly. They'd go by the office again in the morning.
Burgess looked through Rocky's report, hoping for box trucks, and didn't find any.
It felt like they were on the cusp of a breakthrough, in their first death case at least. The feeling that important information was close, coupled with the need to wait, made Burgess restless and cranky. Kyle was cranky. Perry would have been cranky if he wasn't buried in paperwork.
Burgess left a note for Rocky, asking him to locate any businesses operated by the Ibrahims. One way or another, he was going to find those trucks. And Weste
rly. And the thread that connected everything.
They also needed to track down the links between Butcher Flaherty and the Imam. Or the Imam's grandson. To find the Imam's oldest grandson. He'd checked his notes, and despite a crush of Ibrahims at the Imam's house during their first interview, a younger Muhammad Ibrahim had not been present. Press Devlin was out, still trying to find people with knowledge of Flaherty's activities. The dead biker's friends, he'd reported in a text, were being unusually taciturn.
Leaving Perry to bully those sorting through the Imam's papers, he and Kyle, the family men, shook off the pressure of all the places they needed to be and all the people they needed to see, and went home to dinner.
* * *
Hours later, familial duties done, the pressure of unanswered questions had brought both of them back to 109. The office was quiet and they sat at their desks, organizing messages and writing and reading reports, looking for something to break, and prepping for another strategy session in the morning. Despite Burgess's sense that results were close, the whole case felt like swimming against a riptide. He was being pulled along by the force of circumstances and not going where he wanted to go.
"Hey, Joe," Kyle said, tipping back in his chair. "Maybe Stan wants to do maggot patrol in the morning. What do you think? He could take Sage with him, see if the kid turns green again."
It was a good idea if he could just get his inner control freak to go along. Burgess had been dreading the trip to Augusta for Flaherty's autopsy. It felt like there was too much to do here. Perry had been asking for more chances to observe. And Sage Prentiss was ambitious.
"You've gotta let him grow," Kyle said. "He's good. He won't miss things and he'll appreciate the chance. It doesn't always have to be you. You've done your share of maggots."
"You think I'm a control freak, Ter?"
"I know you're a control freak." Kyle changed the subject. "What's up with Osman's place, do you think? I mean seriously, who has an apartment with just a bed, a lamp, and a table?"
