by David Spell
“Well, whatever, Arthur Jenkins. I’m sure Special Agent O’Reilly is about to install a new orifice on your backside.”
“Jervis. My name is Arthur Jervis.”
O’Reilly heard the last of the exchange and stared hard at the superintendent, holding out his FBI identification.
“I don’t care who you are. What I care about is where the hell this diplomat has gone.”
Jervis’ face flushed. “You missed what I told the detective here. Without a warrant, there is nothing that we can do to help you. Please leave before I…”
“Before you what, Andy?” Frank interjected. “Before you call the police? I am the police!”
The FBI agent laughed, looking at the NYPD detective.
“What a putz. Maybe he’s gonna call the FBI next. The director himself sent me up here so good luck with that, Mr. Johnson.”
“It’s Arthur Jervis,” the older man corrected them angrily, his face an even darker shade of red.
“Here’s what’s about to happen,” Walsh said. “We’re gonna lock this building down: no one in, no one out. I’m going to make a phone call and get another ten or fifteen police cars over here. Special Agent O’Reilly is going to call in more FBI agents. It’ll probably take us a couple of hours to get a search warrant and then we’ll smash in the door, because, of course, you’re not going to loan us a key, and then we’ll search the apartment. I wonder how your residents are going to feel about that, Alistair?”
Jervis’ face went from red to pale as he listened to the detective sergeant. The older man glanced at the woman standing next to him for help.
“May I make a suggestion, sir?” she asked respectfully.
Arthur nodded. She was wearing a white blouse and a knee-length black skirt. Her brown her was pulled back into a tight bun. She gave an embarrassed smile to the detective and to the FBI agent.
“As Mr. Jervis said, we try to do everything that we can to honor our residents’ privacy. I’m sure there’s a way that we can come to a compromise here. What about if I accompanied you up to Mr. Bamya’s apartment? We could knock and try to make contact. I also have a master key for emergencies or service calls. We could check to see if he’s there or not. After that, you can decide what the next step is in locating him.”
“The voice of reason,” O’Reilly grunted. “You good with that, Sergeant?’
“Let’s do it.”
Five minutes later, the young woman was on the elevator with the two investigators.
“Geesh, O’Reilly, I don’t think I’ve seen you since before the zombies showed up. I thought you’d retired.”
“I’m getting close, but the Bureau can’t do without me,” the FBI agent answered with a chuckle.
Joe glanced at the young woman. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Nancy Parker. Sorry about Mr. Jervis. He takes himself a little too seriously sometimes.”
“I was going to say that he was an asshole, but you seem to know how to deal with him.”
The young woman shrugged. “He’s my uncle, so I’ve had some practice.”
Parker knocked at the apartment several times before using her key. Frank and Joe both expected the odor of death when Nancy pushed the door opened.
“Abdallah Bamya?” Walsh called inside. “I’m Detective Sergeant Walsh with the NYPD. Are you in here?”
Silence was their only answer as they stepped into the foyer of the apartment, thankfully not picking up any bad smells. Frank glanced at Nancy, detecting the apprehension on her face.
“We’ll do a quick walkthrough,” he told her. “Please don’t touch anything.”
The apartment was empty and there was no evidence of a struggle or any type of crime. Nothing appeared to be out of order, but something caught Walsh’s attention. A wine glass sat on an end table in the living room. It was half full of wine. A second glass sat empty next to it.
“What do you think, Agent O’Reilly?” the detective asked.
“Everything seems to be in order,” the burly man shrugged.
“I don’t know if this means anything or if there’s any connection,” Nancy said, hesitating. “Well, it’s two things actually. When we came in, I stuck my head in the bathroom over there and picked up a hint of perfume. If I’m right it’s Miss Dior. I don’t think Mr. Bamya had a girlfriend but he occasionally had women visitors.
“The second thing is that we had multiple reports of a helicopter landing on the roof Wednesday night. We have a helipad and a number of our residents utilize UberCopter. It’s very unusual, though, to have a helicopter landing up there after dark.”
The two cops glanced at each other. Weirder and weirder, Walsh thought.
“Could you take us up to the roof?” O’Reilly asked. “After that, would you mind checking with whoever was working Wednesday night and see if they remember Mr. Bamya coming in and if he was by himself or had a guest?”
When the elevator door opened, they strolled out onto the roof, Nancy showing them around, pointing out the helipad. There was nothing out of the ordinary and Joe pushed the elevator button to take them back down.
“Uh oh,” Frank spoke up, kneeling a few feet away. He pointed to several dark stains on the gray surface. “That looks like blood to me.”
An hour later, a search warrant had been secured for Bamya’s apartment and the roof. An NYPD CSI team was processing the residence for evidence. Frank and Joe stood on top of the high-rise, enjoying their late afternoon view of the city, as two crime scene investigators worked on getting the dried blood off of the floor. Walsh puffed on a thick cigar, trying to make sense of the information and clues that they had.
Usually, by this point Walsh’s lieutenant would be on the scene, making a nuisance of himself. Frank had briefed his boss over the phone a half hour earlier. His strategy to keep the brass away was simple: give them something important to do somewhere else. In this case, the sergeant told his lieutenant that he needed an experienced detective to join the precinct investigators at the United Nations. This was too big of a case to take a chance on something getting left undone.
Lieutenant Corley readily agreed, heading to the UN compound. Walsh knew, however, that was only a temporary reprieve and he wanted to get as much done as he could before his boss showed up at Empire Luxury Apartments.
“So, what aren’t you telling me, Joe?” Frank asked, pointing with the cigar. “Why’d they send someone from the counter-terrorism division of the FBI to poke their nose into a missing person investigation? If anything, I’d have expected someone from the state department.”
“Bamya has been on our watch list for a while. The PLO is a terrorist organization and this guy is one of their diplomats. Up to this point, we haven’t been able to tie him to any terror activities, but we’re pretty sure he’s in it up to his eyeballs. His bodyguard is a guy by the name of Nassar. In his younger days, he was suspected of several killings and terrorist attacks inside of Israel. Of course, both of the bastards end up with diplomatic immunity.”
The detective nodded at the FBI agent. “Fair enough.”
A beeping let the them know that the elevator had just reached the roof. The CSI supervisor, Carol Tyson, walked over to the two men.
“What do you have for me, Carol?” Walsh asked with a smile.
“We lifted several sets of fingerprints from the apartment. We paid special attention to the wine glasses and that hall bathroom. Hopefully, they were able to get some DNA, as well.”
“Good work, as always. I’ll tell the commissioner that you deserve a raise,” Frank said, with a grin.
“One other thing,” she said, a serious look on her face. “I sent one of my guys down to the security office. The afternoon manager gave him full access to check the surveillance footage from the other night. Officer Jimenez found a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” Walsh asked, certain he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“There’s about an hour of video missing.”
/> “Missing?” O’Reilly questioned.
Tyson lowered her voice. “Not just missing. Jimenez said it looks like someone hacked into the system and loaded video to play on a loop. That way anyone watching wouldn’t have seen anything out of the ordinary.”
Before the two investigators had time to process what they had just heard, the elevator doors opened again. Nancy Parker joined the three officers, a piece of paper in her hand.
“Hi, Ms. Parker,” Frank greeted the manager. “I hope you’re here to tell us that Mr. Bamya just walked into the building and that we can go home now.”
“No, but I did speak with the man and woman who were working Wednesday night. John was busy with someone who was interested in renting with us and didn’t see Mr. Bamya come in. Maria said that he came in with a black woman. They were arm-in-arm, talking and laughing as they got on the elevator.”
“What did the woman look like?” Joe asked.
“She had on a red top with black pants. Her hair was cut very short and she had on big hoop gold earrings. The only other thing that Maria mentioned was that she was big. Not fat, not tall, but muscular like an athlete. Maria and John both worked until midnight and never saw either one leave.”
Walsh slowly nodded before answering, his mind already organizing the pieces of the investigation. “Thank you, Ms. Parker. That’s very helpful. I’ll need to speak with John and Maria at some point. Could I get their phone numbers?”
“Here you go,” Nancy said, handing the detective the piece of paper. “Do you have any more information? I heard the investigator downstairs in the security office saying something about our system being hacked.”
“That’s what it’s looking like,” Frank answered with a sigh. “Right now, we have a lot of questions and not many answers, but I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can. Fair enough? Do you have a card?”
Parker nodded at the investigator, handing him a business card. “That has my number here and my cell phone. I need to get back to work,” she said, smiling at the three officers.
After the manager had gotten on the elevator, Joe shook his head. “That has to be the sleaziest way that I’ve ever seen to get a girl’s phone number.”
WESTLAND, MICHIGAN, FRIDAY, 1600 HOURS
The Westland Democratic Club wasn’t large enough to accommodate the hundred plus reporters in attendance for today’s press conference. Club leadership had, however, anticipated the problem and rented a large tent, erecting it in the parking lot. With the FBI’s take down of an entire terror network in Brooklyn earlier that morning, including a deadly shootout, the journalists anticipated that Saleem Bashir would offer some controversial soundbites for their respective news outlets.
Bashir kept the journalists waiting, letting the anticipation build. At 1610 hours, he left the building and strode purposefully into the parking lot and up to the lectern. The chatter of reporters ceased as the former presidential candidate cleared his throat.
“Thank you for coming out today. Once again, we’ve seen President Asher, the Attorney General, the FBI, and the NYPD, racially profiling and attacking peaceful Muslims, violating their civil rights, and arresting them on trumped up charges. The police even murdered a fine young man named Anderson Ware. They gunned him down just as he was beginning his morning prayers. Anderson and all those arrested were active members of the Islamic Mission of New York. This mosque serves their community in many ways, feeding the poor and helping those in need.
“Imam Muhammad Hassan was one of those arrested this morning. The FBI says that he was one of the leaders of a terrorist cell and has been on their watch list for several years. This is another lie from our government. Imam Hassan is an elderly man with a heart condition. Those who know him, tell me that he is a gentle and peace-loving man. He’s a fine example of what a true Muslim looks like.”
Saleem paused for effect, looking down at his notes. He then lifted his eyes and looked into the CNN cameras.
“I am once again calling on President Asher and the Attorney General to request UN intervention in these investigations. I also call on Congress to begin impeachment proceedings against the president, as well launching an investigation into the director of the FBI, Cameron Pickard.”
As Bashir spoke, he was inwardly pleased at how the media puppets lapped up every word that he said. This next part was where he had to tread very carefully. He took a deep breath and glanced out over the audience, noting several journalists that he had built a rapport with over the years.
Saleem’s eyes rested on a young woman seated in the middle of the third row. Her eyes were locked on his, a slight smile on her face. For just a moment, Bashir forgot where he was, mesmerized by the attractive reporter. He forced himself to break away and return to his speech, looking down at the sheet of paper on the lectern.
“As I have said over and over, Islam is a religion of peace. At the same time, people should not have to live in fear of their government. No one in the Muslim community would ever call for violence, however, at some point people are going to get fed up with these baseless attacks and begin defending themselves against the government storm troopers who are persecuting them. I certainly hope we do not get to that point. Now, I’ll take a few questions.”
During the Q&A time, Saleem kept an eye on the pretty young reporter. When it was clear that the press conference was coming to a close, Bashir watched her stand and make her way out, disappearing into the parking lot. A sense of disappointment settled on him. After answering questions for ten minutes, Saleem held up his hands.
“I have several interviews this afternoon. Thank you again for coming out.”
He turned and walked away from the podium as the reporters called out questions after him. In reality, the former senator only had one interview scheduled. Ronald Meadows of MSNBC owed the former presidential candidate a favor after the Bashir campaign had secretly leaked information to him during the previous election. Meadows was ultra-liberal, sleazy, and lazy. The interview with MSNBC would assure that Saleem’s talking points would be the leading story on that network and all the others within twenty-four hours.
The staff of the Democratic Club had blocked off the area behind the tent to keep reporters out, allowing Bashir to get back inside without being accosted. He was reading over his notes again, refreshing his mind in preparation for his conversation with Meadows.
“Ma’am, you can’t be back here!” a large, black female staff member for the club yelled, startling Saleem.
He looked up to the see the attractive reporter that he had spotted earlier standing near the back door. She was wearing a sleeveless green dress that fit her like a glove, the senator thought, admiring the view. She had shoulder length sandy-blonde hair and appeared to be in her mid-to-late-twenties.
“Please, I just wanted to speak with Senator Bashir,” she responded, her voice on the verge of pleading.
“I’m not gonna tell you again,” the staff member said, anger in her voice. “This area is off-limits. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling security.”
Saleem stopped, watching the drama unfold. The reporter saw him and her eyes lit up.
“Senator, I’m sorry to bother you but I was hoping you might give me five minutes?”
“That’s it! I’m calling security,” the other woman said, reaching for her walkie-talkie.
“That’s not necessary,” Saleem interjected, smiling at the reporter. “I try to always make time for the press. I have an interview with MSNBC in a few minutes, but I’m sure we can work something out.”
The staff member rolled her eyes and walked away muttering to herself. Bashir pulled the door open and motioned for the young woman to go in.
“I have a room down on the right that they allow me to use when I’m here,” Saleem said, pointing to a small office.
Inside the cramped quarters, Bashir seated himself behind the tiny desk, laying his notes on top of his laptop computer as the reporter sat across from him in a foldi
ng chair, her eyes wide with excitement.
“So, what can I do for you Ms….?”
“I’m Julie Henderson. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me, Senator.”
Saleem smiled again at the beautiful woman. She was nervous; that was obvious. This might be one of her first big assignments.
“It’s my pleasure,” he replied, again taking in her curves. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before. I know so many reporters.”
“I work for the Michigan Journal.”
“The Michigan Journal? I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”
“I know,” Julie said, nervously. “It’s the student newspaper for the University of Michigan-Dearborn. I’m a graduate student there and have fallen in love with journalism. I’m also a big fan of yours and when I heard about the press conference today, I wanted to be here and maybe even ask you a few questions.”
Young, beautiful, impressionable, and gullible, Saleem thought, barely refraining from licking his lips. His wife had not returned home yet, still demanding that he get a job first. He’d told her that he had picked up a couple of short-term consulting jobs that had put some money in their bank account.
He hadn’t told her that the money was actually from the Brotherhood. She knew nothing about his involvement with them and he preferred to keep it that way. She had also expressed anger at his jumping back into the limelight with these press conferences. After the failed presidential campaign, she would have preferred a period of normalcy. While he didn’t want a divorce, he also knew that, for the moment at least, the Brotherhood was calling the shots. Hopefully, by being the mouthpiece for Islam in America he would earn his way back into the good graces of the Brotherhood as they continued their jihad.
During his time in the Senate and throughout his presidential campaign he had kept himself and his public image squeaky clean. The pretty reporter seated across from him, however, looked like exactly what he needed for a few hours of fun.
“I would be delighted to answer your questions, Julie, but first I have to go speak with a reporter from MSNBC.”
