Quicksand (22 page)

She held his gaze, feeling small.

He continued, his tone softer. “Look, Nora, Eric Burton is very smart. His input is usually very valuable, and he's
very
good at his job. He wants to watch you, let him watch. Show him what you've got. Don't you back down from anyone, and don't let anyone scare you. Just keep doing what you're good at, with good intentions, and the rest will work itself out.”

Nora shook her head, realizing she'd just said the same thing to Ahmad yesterday.

“And hey,” John continued, turning onto Walnut Street. “Chaplain Rogers told me about how things went with the victim's family yesterday. You calmed that woman down, and that was invaluable. You had the Arabic skills, the cultural skills—Who else was gonna be able to do that? Let's say for argument's sake that you were included because of your ethnicity. I don't see how that's a bad thing these days.”

She listened silently, watching the buildings slide by. She considered his words, wincing again despite herself at the memory of the scene with the al-Tanukhis. Finally she said, “We have to fast-track that body.”

John nodded. “Monty is digitizing every inch of every knife angle, trying to get it home to them today, don't worry. But don't forget that however impressive his grief, her father is still a person of interest in this case. Now, come on. We'll stop at that smelly Starbucks at Thirty-fourth. I'll buy you some mint tea. I owe you one for setting up my anniversary dinner.”

She had forgotten to ask him about it. “It was a good night?”

“I'll be paying it off through next year. But yes, it was a
very
good night…”

As he drove up onto the edge of the curb, he looked like he was about to add something by way of elaboration, but Nora held up a hand. “Leave it right there, Old Man.”

He laughed out loud, then shoved the gearshift into park and jogged into the Starbucks. There was no line at that hour, and he soon returned holding two steaming cups. He handed Nora hers, asking, “So are we ready for all this? You got all the information you need to ask the right questions?”

Nora considered this as she popped off the top to cool her tea. “I'm not sure, John.”

“Okay, go over it with me.”

“Okay. Hafsa is found, throat slashed and eyes cut out. We can assume that the eye thing means that she's witnessed something that could get someone else in trouble All this is in the heart of gang territory when we're in the middle of basically a war started by a drive-by and culminating in a rape and stabbing. Is she connected to all that in some way? We need to find out. Meanwhile, her dad's sort of a classic, potential honor-killing suspect, her brother doesn't really fit the part, but all we really know is that the mosque was the last place she was seen alive.”

Wansbrough continued, “So, for this reason, we're on our way to dawn prayer, ridiculously early, to see if we can find out something about her murder. And the imam?”

“Hafsa apparently disliked him—‘hated him,' according to her brother, although it's unclear why. She had wanted to talk to him about something on the day she disappeared. Burton gave him a pretty negative report. Says he's
salafi.
”

“
Salafi?
”

“Yeah, like people who are keen on getting back to what they think is the pure religion. Catch term for ultra-conservative.”

John took a long sip of his coffee, studying her. Then he said, “So what are we going in with here? What's our goal?”

“We need to know what happened the last day Hafsa came here. We need to know who Hafsa's friend Basheera is and where we can find her. We're going to ask the imam how his lesson went that day, and we're going to ask him for his help.”

*   *   *

Imam Anwar of
the Unity Masjid was frowning at them.

They had caught him in the hallway outside his shabby office, where he had headed after completion of the dawn prayer. He was shocked to see two visitors to the mosque that early, and his first reaction was to ask Nora to cover her hair. When they showed him their badges, and mentioned that they needed to ask him questions with regard to a crime, he was visibly disconcerted.

“I'm afraid your partner needs to cover her hair,” the imam insisted, “It is very disrespectful…”

“We're not in the actual prayer area of the mosque, Shaykh Anwar,” an irritated Nora reminded him. “And I don't think you're grasping what's going on here. We are investigating the murder of a young woman.”

The imam swallowed audibly.

John said, “Hafsa al-Tanukhi was a young woman who taught literacy here—right here in this very mosque. On a regular basis.”

Shaykh Anwar's face remained impassive as he entered his office and took his place behind his desk, gesturing at them to sit.

John continued, “She was recently murdered, Shaykh Anwar. Are you saying you don't know her?”

The imam frowned deeply, thinking. “This is a terrible thing, but I do not think I have heard this name before. I cannot say for sure.”

Nora felt anger bubbling in her stomach. She reached for the file and plunked the pictures of Hafsa's corpse down on the desk in front of him. The picture she had taken from Hafsa's home was clipped to the inside of the file folder.

The imam's gaze fell on the pictures, and his face wrinkled in disgust. “This is
haram
, you should not allow a Muslim woman to be exposed in this way.”

“We didn't expose her,” Nora retorted. “Her killer did.”

The imam sighed. “This is a terrible crime, very sad. What did you say her name was again?”

John Wansbrough leaned forward, tapping the desk with his index finger for emphasis. “We know for a fact that this young woman visited this mosque regularly. We also know that this mosque was the last place she was seen alive. I find it hard to believe that there are that many women teachers willing to volunteer their time here.”

The imam shook his head. “None of this is anything more than nonsense to me. How can I know the intimate details of all the Muslims who come to this mosque? I do my best to counsel with and get to know the young men, but women too? It simply isn't possible.”

“Well, perhaps it's something you'll need to work on,” responded Nora. “You were scheduled to teach the afternoon that Hafsa disappeared. She came with the intention of talking to you that day. And you still say you don't know her?”

“I'm not sure you understand the way a mosque functions,” the imam said, struggling to make his English keep up with his displeasure. “Anyone can walk in and pray here, any time. We don't keep records of the people who worship here or attend classes. And I certainly don't ask the women in my class who they are or what they're doing there. I come, I teach, I leave.”

“So you do not know Hafsa al-Tanukhi?” John pressed, botching the name's pronunciation.

“No, I do not.”

“There is a woman named Basheera, a friend of Hafsa's. How can we get in touch with her?” Nora asked.

“I do not know the women in my mosque,” he answered defensively. “I have no way of knowing this.”

Nora spoke. “And, with the understanding that making false statements to federal investigators can get you convicted and sentenced to prison, you assert that you do not know that an Iraqi-American woman was teaching literacy in your own mosque?”

The imam glared for a charged moment at Nora before looking away. “You might be speaking of the sister who came here volunteering to teach reading and writing to some of the more ignorant women.”

“Yes, exactly,” Nora confirmed, even though the imam was continuing to address Wansbrough.

“I did not know her.”

“You didn't want to see if she was qualified to teach?”

The imam answered quickly, “I sent my wife to sit in on one of her sessions.”

Nora smiled pleasantly. “Then we'll start with her.”

“No!” the imam practically shouted. “That's impossible.”

John Wansbrough leaned forward, his patience exhausted. “Why?”

“She—she doesn't speak to strange men,” Shaykh Anwar said thinly.

“My partner can interview her privately, if she prefers.”

“But—but she doesn't speak any English!” replied the imam, his voice taking on a desperate edge.

John turned to Nora, who said in dulcet-toned Arabic, “Is there any other reason?”

The imam's eyes darted between their faces, and his shoulders slumped.

The two agents stood. Wansbrough said, “We'll come to your home this afternoon to interview you both. At that time, you can decide if you'd like to be more forthcoming with information, or if you'd prefer to come downtown.”

The imam was silent. He did not escort them to the door.

*   *   *

“That guy is
really scared about something,” John said, as soon as they'd entered the car.

“I agree,” Nora said.

“Involvement in the murder?”

Nora shrugged.

They were interrupted by an incoming call. Wansbrough hit speaker.

“Hey guys, it's Ben. The semen thing was right, Nora. Monty stayed late last night and I just found his e-mail.”

“How right?”

“At least three other males besides Dewayne had intercourse with Kylie in the days before her death.”

John Wansbrough almost swerved into a car. “Jesus, I'm absent one day—”

Nora frowned at him. “We think Dewayne was pimping her.”

John shook his head. “God, that poor kid. It's a miracle she wasn't dead from some sexual disease already.”

“Well, she did have gonorrhea. Monty found out with a cervical swab, but it's hard to die from that. How do you want to proceed?” Ben was asking.

John thought. “You guys have a JBM girl in custody, right?”

“Rita Ross,” Ben answered. “Eric and I keep hoping to talk to her about supply lines.”

“Let's talk to her about pimping first.” John glanced at Nora. “Maybe
you
could talk to her.”

Nora took a deep breath, remembering how Rita had cursed her. “I can try. She gave me the impression she wasn't talking without a lawyer.”

Ben volunteered, “She's dismissed two lawyers already.”

“Dismissed?” John asked.

“Won't work with them. Apparently she's a handful.”

John grinned. “Then Nora is just the right person to speak to her.”

*   *   *

Nora walked into
the room, trying to exude confidence. Rita Ross's file was under her elbow, and two mugs were in her hand.

The woman looked up at her with disgust. “You?”

Nora smiled; she knew John and Ben were standing in the dimness beyond the mirror. “No one's ever happy to see me anymore.”

“What do you want?” the woman growled at her.

Nora placed the mugs on the table; the smell of the mint filled the small room, and Rita Ross frowned, staring. “I want to drink a cup of tea with you,” Nora explained.

The other woman pushed back her chair. “
Fuck you
.”

Nora had asked that she be uncuffed, and they'd debated this lengthily, but finally came to an agreement—provided that Ben and John could be close enough to intervene.

“Look, you can drink it or not. It's tea with mint and sugar in it…”

“I can throw it in your face,” Rita said.

“You could. But then I would almost certainly shoot you for wasting the perfect cup of tea.”

Rita stood and walked over to the mirror. “What the fuck is this? Can you get me a real cop up in here?”

Nora picked up her mug and held her ground, choosing to lean casually against the wall, even though it took real effort not to walk right out of the room. “So I told you what
I
want. What do
you
want, Ms. Ross? Looks like you've been firing a lot of lawyers lately.”

“I want some respect. They seem to think I'm some kinda gang ho.”

Nora nodded, finding her first opening. “I know, Ms. Ross. You are a full member of the crew. Without you, Dewayne Fulton's operation would fail.”

“What do you know about it?” the woman asked scornfully, leaving the mirror to walk back to the table and reoccupy the chair, folding her arms.

Way too much
, Nora wanted to respond. “You helped Dewayne build something. You were just getting to the place you wanted to be. You guys had made all the right connections, you were ready to take it all to the next level. Then Dewayne starts taking the organization in a different direction altogether…”

Rita Ross regarded her with narrowed eyes.

Nora continued. “He starts pimping. Sets it up on the Internet, sends out some runners to watch over the merchandise. Keeps the girls high so they keep coming back…”

The woman looked away, drumming false, blue fingernails against the tabletop.

“Starts working with a white hooker named Lisa Halston. Wants to take it up a notch…”

Nora watched as Rita's face darkened.

“But that's not your style, is it, Ms. Ross?”

She rounded on Nora. “Oh, I see where this is going. I say again, Bitch.
You do not know me
. I ain't your friend.”

Nora sat down across from her and looked her square in the eye. “Well, that's too bad. Because it's been a long time since anyone made me work to run them down. And I respect that.”

Rita glanced up, then looked away again. “Why, you think you pretty good?”

Nora said, “I do alright.”

“If I'd had my piece I wouldn't have had to run,” she said.

“Where was your gun that night?” Nora asked.

Rita was silent. Nora gently pushed the warm mug toward her. She took it, sighed, and sniffed at it before taking a small sip. “I had to trade my piece,” she said finally. “For shelter.”