Jihad

CHAPTER 97

Charlie Dean spent most of the night listening to the police interview the imam and several of his followers. Immigration had found that two of the mosque’s members had overstayed their visas, but this failed to supply much leverage, either with the men or the imam. The mosque’s spiritual leader was a naturalized citizen, with no police record and an unshakably placid demeanor. He listened politely to the questions about Asad, gave a few meaningless answers and insisted, in a logical and very calm voice, that he had never seen the man before afternoon prayers. The imam volunteered that he had spoken on the need for a believer to help others in his community, an imperative which all people of the Book, Jews and Christians as well as Muslims, surely shared. He wasn’t lying; a transcript of the talk had been forwarded to Dean by the Art Room.

But of course his very existence was a lie, created to facilitate the terrorist network Asad and others had assembled. How much easier it was to be a sniper than a policeman, Dean thought. You didn’t have to listen to other people’s falsehoods, let alone pretend you believed them.

The U.S. attorney had obtained a warrant to search the mosque and its records, but Telach told Dean to stay away, just in case the area was being watched by Asad’s associates or whoever had ordered the murder. Even though he’d already blown his cover at the motel, Dean didn’t argue; he doubted the search was going to come up with anything very useful.

Around four A.M., Dean finally left the interrogation area to check on the progress of the search for Kenan, which was going about as well as most missing persons investigations, which was to say not very. The FBI forensics team had taken the car to one of the city garages to examine the interior of the vehicle; since it was only down the block, Dean went there to have a look himself. When he arrived, he met one of the police detectives assigned to find Kenan: a short, Hispanic black woman around thirty years old who introduced herself as Elsa Williams.

“Guy did some grocery shopping this afternoon,” she told Dean, pointing to a table where the items in the car had been bagged and tagged after being checked for fingerprints. There were bottles of water, shoe polish, disposable razors, Post-It Notes, and a large collection of snacks. There were also two pair of sandals in different sizes. Kenan seemed to have stopped at six different stores in all; the receipts were laid out in plastic bags next to the items.

Dean slipped the camera attachment onto his PDA and beamed copies of the receipts to the Art Room. At best, he expected an exotic analysis of Kenan’s eating habits. What he got was a lead.

“We were able to get into three security systems at the stores Kenan was at,” Rockman told him twenty minutes later, while he was walking back to the police station. “He spoke to a clerk at this Rite Aid for a while. It looked like he knew him.”

“Where?”

“Clerk’s gone home,” Rockman said. “I’ve sent an instant message with his name and address to your handheld. It’s, um, a kind of grotty end of town.”

From Rockman’s description, Dean expected to find the clerk in the heart of a burned-out battle zone. Instead, he found him on the top floor of a three-family house converted into student apartments. Discarded mail sat stacked on the radiator just inside the door. Bicycles lined the downstairs hall and the second-floor landing. The place smelled like a gym locker.

After eying the lock, he took out a pick and small torsion wrench from beneath his belt and worked over the tumblers. Like any skill, lock picking required considerable practice to master, and while the lock on the clerk’s room wasn’t complicated, it took Dean almost ten minutes to get it open. When it finally gave way he nudged the door slightly, returning the tools to his pocket and taking out his gun. Then he eased the door open, expecting but not finding a chain lock.

The door opened into a small kitchen; beyond it to the left was a large room that served as combination bedroom, dining room, study, and living room. Textbooks were piled neatly in the middle of the floor, making an irregular wall about knee high.

A student. The books covered a variety of subjects — chemistry, literature, Plato.

Plato. Maybe the kid was a philosophy major, thought Dean.

The textbooks’ owner lay sprawled on the bed under a mountain of covers. Dean looked over the room quickly, making sure that Kenan wasn’t there. Then he retreated, checked the bathroom just off the kitchen, and went back to the door.

“Rockman, call the room here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I want to wake this guy up without waking everyone else in the house up.”

The clerk was either very tired or a very sound sleeper; it took six rings before he reached for the phone. Dean waited a second, then knocked.

“Now what?” asked a sleepy voice inside.

“Martin, I need to talk to you.”

“What?”

“There’s been a murder and we’re afraid there’s another victim. Please.”

Dean went to the stairs and gestured to the cop to stay put. There was no sense coming on too strong.

“What the hell is going on?” mumbled the clerk from behind the door.

“There’s someone we can’t find. We’re afraid he’s dead.”

“You’re going to have to show me a badge or something.”

Dean took a business card with a generic U.S. Marshal logo from his wallet and slid it under the door.

“How do I know this is real?”

“Call the number. But do it quick, all right? I’m not exactly sure if we have tons of time here,” said Dean.

The door opened. Bare chested and skinny, the clerk frowned up at Dean and asked what the U.S. Marshals were doing in Detroit.

“Do you know this kid?” Dean unfolded a print of Kenan made from one of the video bugs.

“Kenan’s dead?”

“No. At least I hope not,” said Dean. Something in his voice must have tipped the clerk off — Dean had never been a very good liar — and the boy immediately stiffened, suspicious.

“We think he may have been targeted by the person who murdered this man.” Dean gave him a picture of Asad, dead in the room, lying in a pool of blood.

“God,” said the clerk, his resistance gone.

“When did you last see Kenan?”

“I didn’t.”

Dean pulled out the print of the surveillance photo from the store where the kid worked, which had a time stamp on the bottom from that afternoon.

“Did you see him after this?” he said, trying to sound as diplomatic as he could.

“Jesus.”

“You’re not in any trouble, Martin. I just want to prevent another murder if I can. How do you know Louis?”

“Louis? This is Kenan Conkel.”

“Kenan. Yeah, I’m sorry, that’s what I meant. It’s been a long night. You know him well?”

“We were freshman.”

“At Upper Michigan?”

“No. Wayne State. I didn’t know he went to Upper Michigan.”

“You went to Wayne State with him,” said Dean, realizing why they hadn’t found Kenan. “When was this?”

“Three years ago, when I was a freshman.”

“Kenan Conkel, Wayne State.”

“Working on it,” said Rockman in his head.