“I didn’t find it this morning.”
“That’s because it was used as the detonator at Riverview.”
Jafar’s lips formed a tiny ball as he processed the revelation. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“You think Omar’s blowing up cars?”
“He’d already been in jail if we did. We think the person who took his cell phone last night is blowing up cars.” Gold cleared his throat. “You were the only other person here.”
Jafar’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t take Omar’s phone.”
“Prove it.”
“I can’t prove a negative. Maybe he dropped it outside. Maybe somebody stole it on the bus. Either way, you’re talking to the wrong guy.”
“Was anybody else here? A custodian? A security guard?”
“No.”
“Any chance someone came inside and took his phone during prayers? Maybe a delivery person or somebody off the street?”
Jafar’s tone turned testy. “I told you nobody else was here.”
“What about later last night? Any chance somebody broke into the building?”
“Nothing was broken or missing when I got in this morning.”
“We need to look at your security videos.”
“I’d be happy to show them to you, except we disconnected the cameras while we were painting. The security company is coming tomorrow morning to reset them.”
Gold inhaled the pungent fumes. “What about your painter?”
“Mike finished work a few minutes before we started prayers.”
“So he was in the building when Omar arrived?”
“Briefly. He went out in back to finish cleaning up. I think he left around six-thirty.”
“Is it possible that he came inside and you didn’t see him?”
“No.” Jafar frowned. “Mike’s a war hero and a good guy, Detective. He isn’t setting off bombs.”
Chapter 39
“I DON’T BELIEVE IN COINCIDENCES”
Mojo and her cameraman accosted Gold and Battle as they emerged from the mosque. “Why are you here?” she snapped.
Gold didn’t want to conduct an impromptu press conference in front of the flash mob of reporters on Milwaukee Avenue. “No comment.” He put on his sunglasses and walked with Battle toward the Crown Vic.
Mojo kept pace. “A car belonging to this mosque was blown up at the Addison El. Our sources tell us that the detonator phone at Riverview belonged to a man named Omar Sayyaf, who is a member of this mosque and a Chicago PD employee. We understand he was here last night.”
“No comment.”
“It’s the second time you’ve been here in the past two days. There must be a connection.”
No, I came here to play four-square with the kids. Gold opened the door to the Crown Vic, got inside, and lowered the window. “I will provide additional information later today. In the meantime, I’d suggest you get down to police headquarters. Chief Maloney will be providing a press update at one-fifteen.”
* * *
Battle shot a sideways glance at Gold as they drove north on Milwaukee Avenue. “Nobody mentioned anything to me about a press conference.”
“I lied. I was trying to get a little breathing room.”
“Does the chief know about this?”
“I texted him. He announced a phantom press conference at one-fifteen. He’s going to postpone it for an hour, then he’ll cancel it.”
“Well played.” Battle looked at the chopper overhead. “We won’t be able to ditch them for long.”
“I know.” Gold head throbbed. They were in the only vehicle on Milwaukee Avenue in the middle of the day. The sidewalks were empty. Many of the shops were closed. “What did you think about Jafar?”
“He looked you in the eye. His story didn’t change. He didn’t get defensive.”
“Is there a ‘but’ coming?”
“We now have three connections to the Shrine of Heaven: the car at the Addison El, the donation by Al-Shahid to the Chicago Islamic Council, and Sayyaf’s stolen cell phone. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither do I,” Gold said. “You think Jafar is involved?”
“Way too obvious. He wouldn’t have blown up his own car, and he wouldn’t have stolen a phone from a Chicago PD employee—especially since he was the only other person in the building. He knows we’re watching him.”
“Somebody’s going to a lot of trouble to point us in his direction.” Gold glanced at his watch. “Let’s find the painter. Maybe he saw something last night.”
Chapter 40
“I’VE HEARD RUMORS”
“Got a minute?” Gold asked.
Father Stash’s wide face transformed into a broad smile. “Of course, David.” The priest was working on a crossword puzzle and eating a paczi—a traditional Polish jelly doughnut—as he sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair beneath an etching of St. Hyacinth in the modest dining room in the rectory. “What brings you back here?”
“We’re looking for Mike Janikowski.”
“He was painting a couple of our classrooms this morning.” Father Stash’s bushy right eyebrow shot up. “You didn’t come here to talk about a paint job. Is Mike in trouble?”
“The phone used as the detonator at Riverview may have been taken from the Shrine of Heaven during evening prayers yesterday. The owner of the phone isn’t a suspect.”
“I thought you cut off access to all the cell phones.”
“Except law enforcement. It belonged to a Chicago PD employee whose alibi checked out. Ahmed Jafar was the only other person inside the building.”
The priest’s expression turned serious. “You think Ahmed is blowing up cars?”
“Seems doubtful.”
“Where does Mike fit in?”
“He was working at the mosque yesterday evening.”
Father Stash’s eyes narrowed. “You think he took the phone?”
“We have no reason to believe he did.”
“The fact that you’re here means you have no reason to believe he didn’t.” The priest folded his arms. “I think he’s still out in the back.” He placed the crossword puzzle inside his briefcase—a signal that the conversation was over.
Gold started to walk away, but Battle stopped him. Battle addressed the genial priest. “You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you, Father Stash?”
“Since he was a baby.”
“Noticed any unusual behavior since he came back from overseas?”
“He’s a hero, Detective Battle.”
“I know.” Battle took off his glasses, wiped them with a small cloth, and put them back on. “You didn’t answer my question.”
The priest took a sip of tea. “He’s having a tough time. His father died while he was overseas. His mother is sick. He’s had trouble finding work.”
“Is he angry? Depressed?”
“I don’t think so. Just more serious—with good reason.”
“Understood. Is he resentful that so many Muslims have moved into the neighborhood?”
“I don’t think so. He’s done work for several Muslim businesses—including the Shrine of Heaven.”
“Do you know anybody who has an axe to grind with the mosque?”
“No.” Father Stash lowered his voice to confession level. “You really think Mike had something to do with the explosions?”
“No, but maybe he saw somebody who did.”
* * *
“You’re back,” Janikowski said. He was sweating through a spattered T-shirt bearing a faded U.S. Marines logo.
Gold looked at the freshly painted classroom. “Nice work.”
“Thanks.”
They’d found Janikowski in a cheery first grade room on the ground floor of the red brick school building across the courtyard from the basilica. He was loading empty cans, soiled drop cloths, and used rollers onto a cart. His beard was flecked with yellow droplets.
Janikowski forced a smile. “You need a pa
inter? Bet your station could use a fresh coat.”
“It could. I’ll talk to our facilities guy. You willing to drive down to the South Side?”
“Sure.” Janikowski handed Gold a dog-eared business card. “I’m serious, Detective.”
“So am I, Mike.” Gold waited a beat. “Father Stash told me you might be interested in going to the academy.”
“Maybe.”
“Call me if you’d like to talk about it. I’d be happy to write you a recommendation.”
“I appreciate it. What can I do for you other than sell you a paint job?”
“Answer a few questions. What time did you finish at the Shrine of Heaven last night?”
“A few minutes after six.”
“Was anybody else around?”
“Just Ahmed and a guy who came in for prayers. I didn’t catch his name. I went out in back. I was trying to be respectful.”
“How long were you there?”
“Five or ten minutes. I loaded up and drove home.”
“Were you home all night?”
“Yeah.” Janikowski’s eyes flashed anger. “I did two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq. I have a bum leg and a bad ear to show for it. You think I’m blowing up cars?”
“No.”
“Then why are you treating me like I’m a terrorist?”
“I’m not.” Gold tried not to sound patronizing. “We’re on the same side, Mike. It’s my job to confirm everything I hear.”
Janikowski’s voice filled with sarcasm. “Fine. Call my mom. She’ll give you all the corroboration you need. Search our house if you’d like. Knock yourselves out. Satisfied?”
“Yes.” Gold lowered his voice. “Father Stash told us that your mother is undergoing cancer treatments. I hope everything goes well.”
“Thank you.” Janikowski paused. “What’s this really about, Detective?”
“The cell phone used as the detonator at Riverview belonged to the guy who came in for prayers last night. His alibi checked out. We think somebody stole the phone at the mosque or on his bus ride home.”
“Ahmed was the only other person there last night.”
“Did you see anybody else? Even for just a minute?”
The crow’s feet at the corners of Janikowski’s eyes became more pronounced as he scowled. “A delivery guy from Salaam Printing dropped off some flyers by the side door right before I went home.”
“Any chance he went inside?”
“Could have.”
Gold’s heart raced. The FBI hadn’t mentioned anything about a deliveryman. “You know this guy?”
“I’ve seen him around the neighborhood.” Janikowski described him as late twenties or early thirties. “Tall. Wiry. Dark hair. Beard.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He asked if Ahmed was still around. I told him to knock on the door, but he didn’t want to interrupt prayers.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Tariq.” Janikowski said he didn’t know his last name.
“You know anything about Salaam Printing?”
“It’s on Pulaski just north of Milwaukee. They do print jobs in Arabic and Farsi.” Janikowski lowered his voice. “I’ve heard rumors that it’s a front for other stuff.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“Guns, drugs, computers, cell phones, auto parts.”
“You have any substantiation?”
“I’ve heard rumors,” Janikowski repeated. He gave Gold a knowing look. “And if I were in your shoes, I’d be careful if I went over there.”
“Why?”
“I’m pretty sure Tariq was packing.”
Chapter 41
“HE ISN’T HERE”
They didn’t wait.
Gold and Battle called Commander Roman Kuliniak at Logan Square, who confirmed that there had been suspicions about Salaam Printing for several years. Kuliniak helped them lead a full frontal assault on the print shop. Six squad cars and two SWAT units pulled up in front of the nondescript one-story building on Pulaski Road between Johnny and Tina’s Hair Salon and Polski Skelp, the Chicago Polish Store. Four more units filled the alley. The raid was over in minutes. It was hard to hear above the high-tech printers, but eight terrified employees and two customers obeyed Gold’s orders to lie down on the floor. Tariq wasn’t among them. The SWAT team found stolen computers, cell phones, and HD TVs in the basement.
The owner of Salaam Printing was a middle-aged man with a thick mustache and flowing gray hair who identified himself as Yousef Al-Issawi. Gold and Battle sat him down on a stool behind the counter, his hands cuffed behind him.
“This is outrageous,” he insisted. “I want to talk to my attorney.”
Gold pointed at the ceiling. “You hear those copters? You’re the proud owner of the most famous print shop in the world, Yousef. If you cooperate, we might take you out the back door and drive you downtown in an unmarked car. Otherwise, we’ll walk you out the front and tell everybody you’ve been harboring a terrorist.”
This got Al-Issawi’s attention. “What are you talking about?”
“Where’s Tariq?”
“I don’t know. He isn’t here.”
“He’s been setting off bombs since yesterday.”
“That’s impossible.”
“He’s killed twenty-six people. That makes you an accessory to murder.”
The bravado left Al-Issawi’s voice. “I don’t know anything about it. I swear.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“He left about ten minutes ago.”
“Which way did he go?”
“Out the back door. I don’t know where he was going.”
Gold got into his face. “We already have you for felony theft, Yousef. Next we’re going to up the ante to accessory to murder. If that doesn’t get your attention, we’ll throw in a terrorism charge. That’s a federal crime. If you think dealing with us is no fun, wait until you get a load of the feds.”
The owner was now sweating through his dark blue work shirt. “His name is Tariq Abdullah. He lives around the corner: 3250 North Harding.”
Gold was about to call it in when he heard a voice crackling over his radio.
“All units! We have visual contact with suspect! He came out of the gangway of the currency exchange two doors north of Salaam Printing. Suspect is running south in the alley. Repeat: suspect is on foot heading south through the alley toward Belmont.”
Gold answered immediately. “In pursuit. Suspect is armed and dangerous. Approach with caution.” Gold turned to Battle. “You stay here. I’m going after him.”
“Let the uniforms handle it, Dave.”
“No way.” Gold sprinted behind the counter and out the rear door, followed by two uniforms. He pounded through the cluttered gangway past a storage shed. He was already drenched in perspiration when he got to the alley, where he caught a glimpse of a young man sprinting south with four uniforms in pursuit.
Gold drew his weapon and chased Abdullah for about fifty feet. The deliveryman’s path was blocked by a patrol car coming north from Belmont. Abdullah stopped abruptly, made a sharp right turn, opened the gate to the backyard of a three-story apartment building, and ran inside. He overturned the trash cans behind him to slow down Gold. He ran through the litter-strewn yard and ducked into the gangway, which dead-ended into a locked door. He banged on it in frustration, then retraced his steps, where he came face-to-face with Gold, who ordered him to stop. Abdullah lowered his shoulder into Gold’s chest, knocking him backward. He tried to scale the rotting wooden fence, but Gold recovered in time to pull him back. He landed awkwardly on Gold’s left shoulder, and Gold writhed in pain.
Abdullah pulled himself up, kicked Gold in the thigh, and tried again to jump the fence. Gold scrambled to his feet and dove for his legs. It was enough to upset Abdullah’s balance, and Gold wrestled him to the ground. Gold grabbed his collar with his left hand, and used his right fist to land a solid punch to th
e solar plexus. Abdullah crumpled to the ground, and two uniforms piled on to subdue him. They flipped him onto his stomach, where Gold put a knee in the middle of his back, and helped the cops cuff him. They found a knife in his pocket, but no gun.
The cops lifted Abdullah to his feet and propped him up against the brick wall. His beard was caked with dirt; his soiled Cubs shirt was torn. He glared at Gold through seething black eyes. “Asshole,” he spat, blood coming from his lip.
“What’s your name?” Gold asked.
“None of your business.”
Gold kneed him in the stomach. “Tell us your name.”
The young man gasped for air. “Tariq Abdullah.”
For the first time in a day and a half, Gold felt a modicum of relief.
A uniform pulled a wallet out of Abdullah’s back pocket, where she found his driver’s license and a dozen hundred-dollar bills. “License confirms the name.”
“Call it in. Make sure.” Gold turned back to Abdullah. “You’re lucky you didn’t get shot.”
“Fuck you.”
Nice. “Where’d you get the money, Tariq?”
“I have a job, man.”
“They pay you in hundred dollar bills?”
“It’s a cash business.”
“Bullshit.” Gold grabbed him by the shirt. “Who’s paying you?”
“Fuck you.”
Gold was drenched in sweat and his shoulder was on fire. “Why have you been setting off bombs?”
“I want to talk to a lawyer.”
“You’ll get to talk to your lawyer down at 26th and Cal.”
Chapter 42
“HE’LL ONLY TALK TO YOU”
“You got him,” Battle said.
Gold corrected him. “We got him.”
Sirens blared and helicopters hovered as Gold sat on the hood of a squad car in the alley behind Salaam Printing. His powder blue dress shirt was caked in dirt. An EMT was removing shards of glass from his bloodied right knee.
Battle pointed at the reporters behind a wall of uniforms at the entrance to the alley. “What are you going to tell them?”
“Nothing. We did our job. The chief can take the glory.” He gestured at the print shop. “What else did you find inside?”
The Terrorist Next Door Page 18
