“I have a question,” said Nate. Everyone looked at him. “After he shot the two of you, did he continue working at the computer?”
“Yes, I could hear him. I couldn’t see, but I heard him.”
“Can you take a guess at how long he stayed working at the computer before he ran?” asked Nate.
“Hard to say. It seemed like forever before the police got there.”
“Was he there more than one minute?”
“Oh yeah, maybe two or three.”
“Could it have been five minutes.”
“Possibly.”
“Six, seven, eight?”
“No more than ten minutes.”
“So he operated the computer between three and ten minutes, would you say?”
“Yeah, at the outside. But, I was bleeding and in terrible pain. Maybe I passed out for a while. I don’t remember.” Bartle moved off the pillows and laid his head down.
Seeing that Mr. Bartle seemed to be tiring, Cliff said, “Thank you, Mr. Bartle. You have been very helpful. We’ll let you rest now.”
“You are going to get that guy, aren’t you?” Bartle pleaded.
“We’ll give it our very best, I promise,” said Nate. “If you think of anything more, we’ll probably stop back in a day or two. In the meantime, please get well, okay?”
“I will,” said Bartle, “Thanks for coming.”
Back in the car, Cliff asked, “Well, what do you think?”
“The murderer was trying to find my room number,” said Nate.
“You think?”
“No question about it, Cliff. On the airplane I checked in as N. Mavis. But, at the Inn I was N. Sheldon.”
“Yup, no question. Smart thing you did, changing your name.”
“I suppose so, but that poor woman didn’t deserve to die in my place, did she?”
~~~~~
Lobbyist Directive Pooh-poohed
Back at the office Cliff and Nate worked hard, bringing all their notes up to date and thinking about the case. “We can question George for a few more days, maybe,” said Cliff. “but, we’ll have to let him go without bringing charges. It’s more important to round up the entire cell.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
As Cliff sorted through fresh directives in from Washington that morning, he came across one thing of interest. “Listen to this, Nate. Home office is warning about possible lobbyist connections.”
“Oh, how’s that?”
Cliff paused while reading, holding up one finger. “Um … one second.”
Nate watched and waited.
“I guess it is an unsubstantiated rumor. Something to the effect that they suspect some lobbyist is working for a terrorist group … it’s not real clear. Umm … they are trying to bring down an American passenger liner.”
“Well, so what else is new?”
“Nothing much, except …” Cliff was still reading the directive.
“I guess some doh-doh thinks that they are putting spies into airplane manufacturer’s boards of directors, officers and engineering departments and trying to somehow plant something into brand new passenger planes.”
“Brilliant,” said Nate. “And how much is this desk-jockey getting paid for coming up with these hare-brained ideas? Besides, how could spies be on passenger planes, anyway? No way can they be pilots. We’ve been there, done that.”
“Not pilots. They say it could be through other means. All sorts of people service the planes, you know—mechanics, food service people, luggage handlers. Who else?”
“Yeah, but none of these people actually stay on the plane, do they?”
“How about the cleaning people?”
“Hmm, I suppose,” mused Nate. “but cleaning people do their thing and leave, and then, their work is inspected.”
“Could something be planted in luggage and then, just shipped off?”
“Well, I suppose it is possible, but no luggage is allowed without an accompanying passenger. Besides, all luggage goes through more than one inspection. The terrorists have not been able to make it work in over sixteen years.”
“Flight attendants?” asked Cliff.
“Not likely,” Nate replied. “They have to pass rigorous background checks, and annual exams.”
“Oh,” Cliff put the paper aside, adding it to the pile.
~~~~~
The George Problem
“Dammit, Kabandha, how long are we going to stay holed up in this place? I’m going stir-crazy.”
“Shut your yap, Mohammad. You want stir-crazy? Just step out onto the street and you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life in a cell.”
A disgruntled J.M. Mohammad Mutawassit picked up a well-thumbed magazine and plopped down on an old sofa. The springs sagged with his weight.
“Come out here and help,” said Kabandha.
Mohammad heaved his large belly off the sofa and shuffled out to the tiny kitchen table.
“Sit your lazy butt down,” she ordered. “We need to decide what we are going to do.”
Mohammad adjusted his extra-large sized butt cheeks onto the small chair and leaned his elbows on the table.
“All right, I’m listening. What are our choices?” asked Mohammad.
“Well, only two as I see it. We can let them squeeze George, or we can take care of the problem.”
“I don’t see how we get to George. He’s on ice.”
“Maybe a lawyer can spring him.”
“Yeah, sure, on the grounds that he is such a nice innocent bystander, minding his own business, unjustly arrested, etcetera.”
“Grounds aren’t important.”
“Huh?”
“It’s all up to the judge.”
Mohammad merely stared at her.
“You have to have the right judge.”
“You got a judge?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said slyly.
“Will wonders never cease?” said Mohammad. “I’m impressed.”
“Let’s just say, our people are everywhere.”
“Okay, so someone springs George and then what?”
“And then you take care of George.”
“Eliminate the problem, so to speak?”
“Right.”
“I can handle that.”
~~~~~
Sari, the Snitch
At that very moment, the woman who lived across the hall was watching the evening news, pencil and paper in hand. She was waiting for the news report about that poor lady who was murdered at the Holiday Inn. She had already seen the report several times, and so was poised to write down a phone number. Citizens were told to be on the lookout for a man following the description, who was wanted in connection with two senseless murders of a woman and a cab driver. The segment always ended with an appeal for help from citizens along with a number to call.
Sari had made up her mind. She was going to make the call. This lawlessness and mass murder had gone on long enough. It was time for Americans of all faiths to put a stop to it. Sari was a good Muslim, peace-loving, moderate and conservative, and she had seen enough. It was time for the silent majority of honest law-abiding and patriotic people of faith to stop the madness.
And so, Sari picked up the phone.
A recorded message announced, “You have reached the Des Plaines Police Department Anonymous Tip-Line. Your message is being recorded. You may leave your message after the tone.”
Sari cleared her throat and began, “Hello, I’m calling about the murders. I have no proof, but people in our apartment building have been talking about the couple that live in apartment 2B. We just think they have been acting strange. We know they have weapons and we’ve heard yelling. Also there were some bloody clothes and rags in the dumpster. Maybe you could check them out, just in case, okay?
“I won’t leave my name. The apartment address is …” Her voice shaking, Sari left the street address and quickly hung up.
Nate -THE SEARCH –
Dorothy May M
ercer
Chapter 11 Rob
Gets Phone Number
A fter the worship service Rob had picked up a church directory. He hoped to find Sharon’s number and see what he could do. He thumbed through the M’s. Ah—McGillicuddy—bingo! But, it didn’t list Sharon, only Terry and Rose McGillicuddy. Hmm, well, he would just have to put on his most charming voice and give it a try. He ran his left finger over the listing while he held his cell phone in his right hand and tapped in the number with his right thumb.
“You must dial a one or a zero before dialing this number,” said a recorded voice.
Rob tried again. A distant phone rang ten times and then went to voice mail. Rob clicked off. This time he scrutinized the number shown on his display and compared it with the church phone directory. Oh darn, I missed one number. Fat fingers. He erased his error and typed in the right number. It started ringing.
“McGillicuddy residence,” answered a cheerful feminine voice.
“Hello, Mrs. McGillicuddy, this is Rob Goodrich. We may have met at church.”
“I don’t remember Rob, sorry. I’ve met Nate and Nan and their daughter Joy, several times. Nice people.”
“That’s my family,” said Rob. “I’ve been away at school. Did you see me on Sunday?”
“Hmm, sorry Rob.”
“I was sitting with Sharon.”
“Oh, now I know you. I noticed Sharon sitting with a stranger. Holding hands, actually,” she laughed. “Well, I guess you weren’t strange to her, huh?”
“That was me, Mrs. McGillicuddy. I’m calling to talk with Sharon. Is she there?”
“Well, no, Rob. Sharon doesn’t live here.”
“Oh.” His voice fell. “I don’t suppose you have her number.”
“Rob, I’m sure you are a nice man so please don’t take offense, but, Sharon is a lovely girl and I really think it is up to her whether she gives out her phone number. You understand.”
“You are so absolutely right,” said Rob. “Why didn’t I ask her for her number on Sunday?”
She laughed, “Maybe you need lessons, young man.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Well, I guess I’ll just have to wait until next Sunday. Thanks, anyway. I’ve taken too much of your time.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Just one more thing … if you happen to see Sharon, would you please tell her I called. Oh, and would you like to write down my phone number, just in case?”
“Good idea. Go ahead.”
Rob gave her his number and thanked her profusely. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”
Sharon Calls Him
Rob had a few more things to do today. One was to check in with the insurance company about the rotten egg damage. He needed to submit the two bills. Also, he had to deal with Totten’s lawyer. His car would be ready this afternoon, as well. He would have to ask Mom to drive him over to pick up his car. For now, he could step outside and check-out the brick cleaning job.
But first, he walked into the kitchen to refill his coffee that had gone cold. In the kitchen, he wrote a note on the slate, “Mom, can you give me a ride this afternoon, about 4 PM?” With luck, Nan would be home from work by then, or maybe not. Rob wasn’t sure of her hours. Boy, he was out of touch with his family. And so, he reached onto the slate and rubbed out the word Mom, replacing it with “Joy or Mom.” Joy was still in bed, lucky girl.
The bricks were looking almost like new. The only problem was that the front of the house looked cleaner than the sides and back. The insurance company would not pay to have the whole house cleaned, only the front. Well, Rob would take that up with old man Totten’s lawyer. Clearly Totten was more than anxious to keep this incident quiet, Rob thought, ruefully. He planned to wring Totten for as much money as possible.
Rob’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the display which read “unknown caller.” Darn it, everybody in the world has my number, now. More idiot robo-calls! He watched while it automatically went to voice mail. His thumb pushed the speaker button. “Hello Rob,” said a female voice. “This is Sharon. I understand you tried to call me. Here’s my number …”
“Thank you God!” Rob shouted, with a fist pump and air jump. “Wah-Hoo!”
~~~~~
Tip Line-Slows
The Des Plaines police department had hundreds of calls on their tip line. Sari’s message was merely added to the list to turn over to the Chicago police department, which had been following up any tips that were clearly in their area. However, they had plenty of murder and assault cases of their own to investigate. Lending a hand for the Des Plaines police was something they tried to do, when they had time. They would not process this list until tomorrow.
~~~~~
The Crooked Judge
Meanwhile a well-dressed attorney was applying for special access with the executive assistant to Judge Malik Faakhir. The judge’s office suite was in a towering downtown skyscraper. The elevator opened to a plush outer office on the 65th floor.
“Good afternoon, Fadl,” said the attorney by way of greeting. “Is the judge available?”
Fadl glanced meaningfully at the clock on the wall. “It’s Ase, right now. He will probably be at prayer. Is it something I can handle for you?”
“Oh, of course, I’m sorry. Please don’t bother the judge. Uhm, I think you can probably get his signature on this later.”
“All right let me see what you have.”
“I’ve already prepared the document. It is a writ for the release of one J. M. Muhammad Mutawassit, who is being held without charges in the federal jail. We need to get this innocent man released immediately.”
“Of course,” said Fadl. “Just leave it on the corner of my desk. I will take care of it in just a few minutes.”
The well-dressed attorney placed a legal sized envelope on the desk, as directed. Inside the sealed envelope a large treasury note was paper-clipped to the document.
Outside on the steps, the attorney spoke a quick message into his smart phone. “It’s done as requested. Your package will be delivered within the hour.”
~~~~~
Disguise
The receiving phone beeped, indicating an incoming message. Kabandha pressed a button and read the message. She nodded with satisfaction. “It’s time,” she said. “You know what to do.”
Mohammad had prepared carefully. This time he would not fail. He armed himself with several choices of weapon. He would only use the gun as a last resort. This must be done quickly and quietly, before George had a chance to slip away. “I’ll call a taxi,” he said.
“No! You fool!” said Kabandha. “Cabs keep records. Records can be traced.”
“Well, then, how?”
We’ve gone over this before. Can’t you remember anything I teach you?”
“Muhammad hung his head.
“All right, then, listen to me. You must stay out of sight. Take the elevated, and then the bus, and subway downtown, then walk to the jail. Have you got that?”
“Yes, Kabandha, I think so.”
“Let me see what you have on.”
Mohammad walked into the room to show her.
“Oh, hell, look at you. You can’t go out like that. Your description is all over the airways.”
“What can I do? I can’t help how I look,” he whined.
“Of course you can. Have you no imagination? Come here, you stupid oaf.”
Mohammad walked closer. Kabandha reached into a drawer and pulled out a kit. Opening the kit she selected a jar of stage makeup. “Hold out your hands,” she ordered. She smeared the very dark brown makeup on his hands and face. Pawing through a collection of fake hair pieces she selected a wig made of long black dreadlocks. “Put this on.”
Mohammad meekly obeyed.
“Now wear this.” She held out a dark gray hooded sweatshirt.
“But it’s in the middle of the summer, Kabandha,” Mohammad protested.
She paused thinking. “You’re right
. We don’t want you to stand out.” She rose and walked over to a small wardrobe and looked through his available garments. “Here, put this on.” It was a long-sleeved ratty-looking t-shirt with a sagging neckline. “I’ll have to cover up your neck.” She grabbed the makeup again. “Hold up your chin.” She smeared some more on the exposed skin. “All right, turn around and let me see you.”
Mohammad turned once around.
“That will do,” she nodded in satisfaction. “Do you have all your weapons?”
Mohammad patted here and there on his person. “Yeah,” he said.
“Money? Change?”
Mohammad reached into his pocket and pulled out his cash.
“Those bills are too big. You need something smaller, and plenty of coins for the machines.” She reached into a drawer and thrust some bills and change into his hands.
Mohammad put it into his pocket and stood there waiting.
“Go do your thing. Get out of here,” she waved him off. “And when you’re home, I’ll have your favorite supper ready.”
Thinking about the meal to come, Mohammad said, “I’ll be back for that.” He walked out and closed the door.
“Not very likely,” she thought.
~~~~~
Writ
Cliff Side picked up his desk phone. “Yeah.”
“Get over to the jail right away.”
“What’s up?”
“Some judge has issued a writ to spring our boy.”
“Oh shit!”
“Yup.”
“On my way,” said Cliff. He strapped on his firearm, and grabbed his jacket.
~~~~~
Sprung & Shot
At the jail, George looked up when he heard the key turning in the lock.
A guard opened his cell door, “You,” he pointed. “Come with me.”
Nate Page 12
