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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
Ward had taken a flyer from the inn, tucked innocuously among all the fishing, boating, hiking, and skiing brochures. He read it before he went inside. There was a picture of the center on the front and the benevolent-looking director, in a suit and tie, on the back. Inside were statements about the open door policy toward the community, which were invited to use the Ping-Pong table, library, chess boards, and prayer space. Somehow, he didn't think they posed a threat to Papa Vito's and their pool tables. In fact, he couldn't think of anything designed to be less appealing to the locals.
The reason for that was obvious.
The center was probably sold to the city council as having something for everyone when, in fact, it was designed to be unappealing to local tastes. The 5,000 square-foot facility had been designed for a boom that was obviously expected in the Muslim population.
The reception area was like a doctor's office. There was a woman behind a window, and nothing visible through the frosted glass double doors on the left side of the lobby. The only differences were the pictures on the wall: poster-size photographs of street scenes in some Arabian market.
The receptionist was not especially pretty and not particularly young. The wedding ring made her the wife of the director, Ward guessed. The top of her head was wrapped in a black scarf.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was not unpleasant but it lacked warmth. She pressed a button on the telephone before he could introduce himself. “Mr. Ward is here.”
“How'd you know it was me?” he smiled.
She smiled back. That was all she did. That, too, was cold.
The glass doors clicked open—they obviously felt the need for an electronic lock—and the man from the brochure stood framed within the doorway. He wore a tea-colored Damascan jubbah, a slender overcoat that reached to his feet. His round face sat on the upraised collar. The jacket was smooth, his skin unwrinkled, his beard neat. It struck Ward as a somewhat studied effort to project serenity.
Peace
was an aura, not a declaration.
“Welcome, Mr. Ward,” Gahrah said with a slight bow. He stepped back from the door and invited Ward in.
Ward acknowledged him with a nod and Gahrah led him to a windowless conference room directly across from the door. There was a small, oval glass table with six chairs. In the center, on a tray, was a pitcher of water and six glasses. A telephone sat on one side of the table nearest the door.
“No tour?” Ward asked. “Your brochure promised—”
“I will be pleased to show you our facility after we've discussed your business needs,” Gahrah said sweetly. The director shut the door and took a seat by the phone. Ward sat as well.
“Okay,” Ward said. “Let's talk.”
“How much were you interested in investing?” Gahrah asked.
“Just enough to buy a pig farm.”
Gahrah smiled. “What do you know about pigs?”
“The porcine kind? Not a thing.”
“Then may I ask what your interest is in the farm?”
“Sure. I don't like what happened.”
“I'm certain no one does,” Gahrah replied, still smiling.
“Really? I guess—well, let me just lay it out.”
“Please.”
“I think this center was involved somehow in what happened.”
“Your tone and inference do not befit one who is a guest in another's community.”
“Which community is that, Mr. Gahrah? Basalt or the Muslim community?”
“I am a proud member of both,” the director replied. “Nonetheless, I am curious. You think we were involved. In what way?”
“You wanted the property.”
“Is that it? That's the entirety of your evidence?”
“So far.”
“Mr. Ward, it is hardly a secret that we wished to
buy
it.”
“But Scott Randolph would never sell, so you decided to lean on him.”
“Oh, really—”
“Right, you'd never do something like that,” Ward said. “My question is why? Why do you want it
that
bad?”
Gahrah's smile glistened with cool confidence. “Your question relates to private and proprietary business of the MRI, which I am not at liberty to discuss.”
“Of course not. Hide behind fiduciary double-talk. It won't do you any good.”
“As for your accusations—including that last one—they are insulting and defy reason,” Gahrah said.
“I don't think so,” Ward told him. “If this didn't stink, you wouldn't have sent that ox to spy on me at the bank.”
“Your phone message concerned me.”
“Why?”
Gahrah folded his hands on the table. “Mr. Ward, I am a realistic man. I know there is resentment of my people within the community, and wild charges such as these are an outgrowth of that feeling. I am also a cautious man. You cannot blame me for that. Not here. Not with people like you wanting to harm us.”
“Not
wanting
to, Mr. Gahrah. Being
forced
to. I don't know why, but Earl Dickson was crapping his pants. And I don't think it had anything to do with foreclosures or deposits. He was scared.”
“Once again, Mr. Ward, you blame us with absolutely no evidence to back your assertion.”
“And once again, what you're saying doesn't change the strong feeling I have that something's seriously wrong in this town—and you're at the center of it.” Ward rose. “Okay, Mr. Gahrah. If that's all you've got to say, I'm leaving.”
“Basalt?”
The question created the definite impression of a threat. That neither surprised nor impressed Ward. He turned to go.
“You know, Mr. Ward, there is a better way to do this.”
Ward looked back. “To do what?”
“Clear the bad air between us.”
“Does it involve your visiting the police chief and signing a confession?” the detective asked.
“It involves some sort of cooperation,” the director told him. “A form of accommodation, if you will.”
Now we get to it
, Ward thought. “A bribe, you mean.”
“Not at all,” Gahrah said. “As I said, we've done nothing wrong. Call it a stipend. We at the center sometimes feel endangered. And—I believe you could use a job? You could consult with us on matters of security.”
At some point in a face-off with the law every thug or pimp, pusher or mobster, reached this point—usually at the time Ward turned his back. Typically they were payoffs in fat wads or thickly stuffed envelopes, withdrawn from blazers or overcoat pockets and thrust at him. In the past, without exception, he had pushed through the cash to arrest the person behind it.
This was different and his hesitation scared him.
Hold on there, Boss Tweed. Are you actually
considering
this
?
Ward's own desperately rotten situation and lack of bargaining power hadn't fully hit him till he was looking into the eyes of temptation. The truth was he couldn't arrest Gahrah even if the conference table were piled high with pigs' feet. And the man was right. Ward was a detective without a beat, a father without an income, a man with zero savings. If, for the sake of argument, he were to take the money, what would happen? Megan would be safe. More than safe; he could actually continue to provide for her. Joanne might stop hating him if he proved that he could put their daughter's welfare above his sense of duty or pride or whatever the hell was driving him. He would also have legitimate employment as far as anyone knew. And a couple of months as security guard for a Muslim community center? That would look damn good on his résumé. It would help to neutralize what had happened in the park. Private companies wouldn't run from him, frightened by the hounds of political correctness.
What other opportunity could solve all his problems in one stroke? What was there in his life to counterbalance Gahrah's offer?
Ward saw a flicker of eagerness flash across Gahrah's face, like sunlight on a still lake.
“Work with me,” the director said. “We do not have to be enemies. You do not have to embrace my faith. All I ask is the right to pursue my religious interests and to look after the needs of my community.”
The sun was still shining on that serene lake, and Ward saw the eddy that nearly snared him. Gahrah, the inveterate marketplace haggler, regarded the detective as simply a commodity. The look on his face suggested that there was nothing to decide except Ward's price.
But there
was
something else. Something priceless.
Doing the right thing.
“Thanks, but right now all I need is the door and some air,” Ward told him. As he turned to go he saw it. The sun clouding over.
Here comes the next step—the one that always follows the failed bribe.
“Do not be rash, Mr. Ward. You have a family in Basalt.”
Ward stepped toward Gahrah. “That's right, I do,” he said. He bent low over the seated man. As he stared into the dark eyes and swarthy face, Ward found himself feeling things no civilized man should feel toward any human being. But there it was, directed toward Gahrah and the people he represented with their contempt for the diverse society whose protection they exploited. “You want to know my definition of rash? Some jerk who says what you just said. If you or any one of your goons commit violence against my family, I swear before God they will end up like Mr. Randolph's pigs.”
“Strong words from a broken man,” Gahrah said.
Ward smiled. “You were willing to pay pretty good money for this broken man.” The smile faded. “Anything bad goes down, you'll pay first.”
With that, Ward turned and left. It was difficult not to put his foot through the glass door, rip the framed pictures from the wall, toss the chairs around the lobby.
Difficult, but not impossible. Because in the end, he refused to let himself become what he had beheld.
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
Grand gestures were a bitch.
Ward realized the problem his had created for him even as he crossed the parking lot. All the Muslims needed to do was create the appearance of a threat to provoke him into overreacting. They could wait in a car and watch the house or school, follow him to the inn, do something he would see. That could very well force Ward's hand even if there were nothing legally actionable.
He
would end up being the lawbreaker. Or else they would apply pressure until Joanne or his daughter broke. The girls would complain to him and the result would be the same. He would have to act.
The Muslims weren't stupid or careless. Planning these kinds of actions were what radicals did, 24/7. Gahrah had shown himself to be the kind of guy who went from the playbook. Ward was the guy who had gone loopy.
Virtue might be its own reward but it defies the laws of self-preservation,
he told himself. And the pay stunk.
Ward decided to go back to the inn and do a little research on the MRI. Something actionable might turn up. As he approached the bank he noticed the Fawaz Dry Cleaner van in the parking lot. Angie visiting her father. He slowed and glanced in as he drove by, saw her sitting at his desk with a small bundle of laundry.
“
What kind of linen does a bank use?
” he wondered.
Maybe she was bringing him a bundle for home. But then why drop it here? Ward pulled into the lot and tucked the Prius into a corner spot, watching. The bank manager tore back the paper, slipped in two fingers, withdrew a shirt partway and gently rubbed the collar between thumb and index finger. Dickson nodded.
“
Starch is satisfactory,”
Ward guessed.
He replaced the wrapper and put the package under the desk. Nothing seemed suspicious other than the fact that his daughter was delivering her father's shirts to the bank. Maybe he spilled coffee after Ward's unsettling visit, needed a new one. Maybe she just wanted to visit and this was a good excuse.
Or maybe something else was going on. Why check the collar in public unless you wanted to show the people around you—and perhaps the security cameras—that the delivery, though odd, was perfectly innocent. Angie had told Ward that the Muslims hired her because she knew the town. That was reasonable, and maybe she believed that. But what if it were something more?
He decided to wait for Angie.
The young woman emerged a minute later. He wouldn't approach her where her father could see. If she were making deliveries he would follow her to the next stop.
He pulled out after her. As he did, a slumbering sense came to life and told him this was all too neat. He leaves the Al Huda Center in time to see a suspect receive a mysterious package from his daughter. Ward surmised that he was supposed to bust in, seize the package, and discover there were only shirts. The police chief would then have no choice but to put him on his horse and shoo him from town. That was the kind of setup a novice would concoct—and fall for. These jokers were still new at this. Ward hadn't bitten. Would they have a Plan B, and if so, what was it?
The Muscle
, he decided.
Ward glanced in his rearview mirror. He saw what looked like a familiar face several car lengths behind his. He couldn't be sure because of the distance but he'd bet his life on it. In fact, he might well be. Muscle usually didn't have an “off” switch. The lug would have been watching to see how things played out, to take pictures. And if Ward followed Angie he would be there too.
There was no real finesse or skill to the plan, but there didn't have to be. The object was to show Ward that they were not going to be intimidated, let him wonder if they were willing to trade one Ward family member for one Muslim. In terrorist circles that was considered a good deal. They were telling him this wouldn't be easy and there was definitely danger.
The question was, what would surprise
them
?
Angie's number was still on Ward's cell phone from the last time he was out here. He called.
“Hey, Mr. Ward. How's it going?”
“Not bad. Say, do you make pickups?”
“Of course!”
“I see. In New York they have all kinds of restrictions.”
“Not here.”
“Great. Can you stop by the inn? I've got a bunch of stuff that needs cleaning.”
“I'm right down the street, at my dad's bank,” she said. “I can be there in two minutes.”
“I'm heading back there myself but it'll take me a little longer—can you wait?”
“No problem,” she said. “I'll meet you in the lobby.”
He'd wait before asking if the stop at the bank were unscheduled.
There was a right turn coming up and Ward took it. As he expected, the other car went right by. Ward had slowed so he could check out the driver: it was Muscle, all right, driving the blue Ram. The big man looked down the street at him but didn't turn. When he had passed, Ward made a U-turn and edged to the end of the street. He stopped as the inn came into view. Angie had already pulled in. The Ram followed her. If the big man had her itinerary, he would know the inn wasn't on it. If he didn't have her itinerary he probably knew this was Ward's hotel and he'd want to know why she was stopping there—especially if Ward was not. Ward made a call and then waited at the corner for nearly two minutes before going back onto the road and continuing to his destination. He drove slowly, turning into the parking lot, choosing a spot carefully then sitting there with the engine running while pretending to check something on the GPS screen. He kept an eye on the road and on the Muscle, who was still in his car, watching and waiting—as was Angie.
Less than a minute after Ward pulled in, Chief Brennan's patrol car came racing down the street. As it neared the inn, the Muslim apparently realized it wasn't going to pass by. He went to pull out but Ward had picked a spot that allowed him to pull out and block the exit before the man could reach it. Ward saw Muscle's face which looked confused as hell. The man wrestled with his only option, which was to jump the curb; he clearly thought better of it. Ward saw his big shoulders remain defiantly taut as he glared at the detective in the rearview mirror.
The hotel staff and Angie had gathered at the door of the inn as Brennan rolled in. They watched as the police chief and Ward got out of their cars. Brennan went to the Ram and asked for the driver's license and registration. He handed her an Iranian card from his wallet and a folded paper from the glove compartment. When she took them back to her patrol car Ward sidled over to the driver's side window. The man attempted to roll it up. Ward put his hand on top of the glass and pushed in. There was an ugly cracking sound at the base.
“Muscle, you think this is the first time I've done this?” Ward asked.
The man said nothing.
“You've probably figured out by now that I called the police chief and reported that you were stalking me,” Ward went on. “In New York, what you did at the bank and now is a Class B misdemeanor. They've probably got something similar here. Now, if I tell the chief I think you were stalking the girl too, it probably gets bumped up to a Class A. Not likely to result in jail time, but do you really want to clean public toilets for thirty days? Besides, you don't want it on your record, especially if you plan on staying in a foreign country.
“So here's how this is going down,” Ward said. “I tell her I won't press charges and that'll be that. But there will be a record of this incident. If you do it again I'll see you get charged with a Class D felony which is for repeat offenders. Any questions?”
The man said something in what sounded like Arabic.
“Yeah, yeah, you don't speak English,” Ward said. “Well, you'll have plenty of time to learn it in prison if I see you on my ass again. Got
that
?”
He took a step back from the car as Brennan returned. She said the man's name, Hamza Zarif, when she addressed him and told him that his resident status can be revoked at the discretion of a judge if he is found guilty of stalking. She asked if he understood; if not, he could come to the station and a translator would be found.
He nodded once.
“So you understand me?” Brennan repeated.
He nodded again.
Ward stepped over and told the police chief there was no reason to take it to that level; they'd reached an agreement and it wouldn't happen again. When Brennan asked if this was the case, the man nodded. She returned the documents and let him go. He drove off, the window rattling comically as he went.
“I believe the technical term for what you did is called ‘escalation,'” the police chief told Ward. She didn't seem angry but her mind was clearly processing what-comes-next. Ward knew the look. It was a slightly off-target look, with a crinkle around the eyes. It haunted the features of every beat cop who routinely dealt with gang members or ethnic unrest.
“I made the only move I had,” he said. “I met with the director of the Al Huda Center. He tried to bribe me, implied he'd go after Joanne and Megan.”
“Did you think about taking it? The bribe?”
Her directness shouldn't have surprised him. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I thought about the problems it would solve. But I also thought about the ones it would create.”
“Pretty scary how strange you get when you're down.”
“It's unfamiliar territory,” he said.
“I've been there,” she confessed. “Well, not exactly. When I have to bust friends for vagrancy I think about how I'd like to buy a beachfront shack and sell clams. Only no one's made me that offer.” She thought for a moment. “You got someone looking after your girl?”
Ward nodded.
“I'll send a car up every couple of hours, just so we have a presence there,” Brennan said, thinking aloud.
“Thanks.”
“You need a firearm? We've got some throwaways.”
“Probably not a good idea,” he said.
“If you're saying you might use it, I don't have a problem with that.”
Ward was beginning to think he was in love. The NYPD came down hard on the practice of carrying an unmarked gun to plant on someone who was shot and killed by accident. He was glad the American West had not been tainted by that kind of delicacy.
“No, I'm good for now,” he said. “Thanks for your help—and the offer.”
“No problem. Stay in touch,” Brennan said as she got back into her car.
Ward turned toward the inn as she drove off, saw that Angie was the only one still standing in the doorway. He had one pair of underwear and, if he took them off now, a pair of socks and a shirt for her to clean. The young woman might suspect she'd been used as bait, especially if she knew whose nose Ward had just tweaked. Her worried expression suggested that she had a good idea what had gone down. What that didn't tell him was how
much
she might know.
He resolved to find out.
BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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