Carolyn Bechter cruised the Seward neighborhood of Minneapolis in her Mercedes, feeling completely out of place. Although the area showed many signs of revitalization, it wasn’t rich by any means, and her car attracted way too much attention. She turned a corner, parked it and got out, careful to make sure it was locked.
A warm breeze blew up the street, carrying the smells of spices and cooking meats. Dressed in a baseball cap, loose sweater, and running shoes, Carolyn wished she’d changed the tight jeans for something more modest. She put on a pair of sunglasses and started up the street.
Carolyn had purposely come alone. If her instincts were right, this story was big enough to save her career, and she didn’t want to share it with anyone else. Her editor thought she was at the Government Center, covering the court appearance of a guy charged with the murder, Mr. El-Amin. Carolyn knew she could get that information from any of the other media sources and feed it back to her editor. He’d never know. In the meantime, she could pursue this lead.
When she saw the Johnson Deli on the corner, it made her laugh. The Scandinavian name didn’t fit anymore, because now it served Somalis and other immigrants in the neighborhood. Probably owned by new people, too. Ben Mohammad worked part time there, and Carolyn meant to finally catch and interview him.
She stood across the street for a long time, looking at the people passing by—a mixture of white and colored. The whites looked poor, and the colored looked Middle Eastern or African. Carolyn marveled at the differences in clothing. The whites dressed in faded blue jeans and gray or tan sweatshirts. The other people looked like walking rainbows. Every imaginable color of cloth covered them. The women, especially, reveled in bright greens, yellow, blue, deep purple. Most wore the head covering, but not the young girls. Many of the men had beards and wore small white skullcaps.
Carolyn crossed the busy street and walked to the deli. She looked through the large plate-glass windows. A sign inside offered halal meat —whatever that meant. She didn’t like spicy food much, but the scents coming from the store drew her inside the door.
Carolyn didn’t understand any of the babbling people at the counter. The deli sold an interesting collection of American junk food, organic food, and foreign things she didn’t recognize.
Several women stood at the counter arguing with one of the clerks. A few glanced over their shoulders at Carolyn. Some white women came in and ordered sliced beef from the second clerk.
Where was Ben Mohammad?
Carolyn waited until the American women left. She approached the clerk and removed her sunglasses. “Hi, I’m looking for Ben Mohammad. Is he here?”
The clerk frowned. “Ben? No one here named—”
“That’s probably the name he uses at school.”
“Oh, you mean Moses Mohammad. Yeah, he works at a school, I think.”
“Is he here?”
“He’ll be back in a minute.”
Forty minutes later, Carolyn still waited. Most of the white people had left. More Somalis crowded into the deli, shouting, arguing, and waving their arms. Their voices sounded like the rattle of a baby’s toy. She looked at her watch, put her shades back on, and pulled the strap of her purse tighter around her shoulders.
Ben came in through the front door.
Carolyn intended to cut him off before he had a chance to get to the back and avoid her. She stepped into his path. His head jerked up when he saw her. “Hi, Ben. I’d like to talk with you some more.” Carolyn spread her legs the width of her shoulders and stared at him. That usually worked with most people. Surprise was a good weapon also.
“Uh, what do you want?” he stammered.
“Just to talk. The people at the school speak highly about you.”
He didn’t seem to understand what she’d said. “I don’t have anything—”
“This won’t take long. If you talk to me now, I’ll go away.”
“What do you want?” He had a puffy black face that looked soft, unlike his eyes that were hard.
Carolyn heard shuffling behind her. “I want to know what you do with the young Somali boys at the school. What’s your job there?”
His eyes darted back and forth like they had when she’d met him at the school. “I am an outreach worker.”
“But you take these boys on trips, don’t you?” Carolyn noticed the store had gone quiet. She sensed more movement behind her and saw the reaction in Ben’s face. Then the clerk was at her back, shoving her toward the door.
“You’re not welcome in our store,” he shouted.
Carolyn jerked away. No one treated her like this. “You don’t know who I am, do you? I’m from Channel Six TV, and I could have twenty cameras and reporters down here in ten seconds to investigate your shitty little dump.”
“You will leave now.” A second clerk moved to the other side of Carolyn. Two of the African women shoved Carolyn forward toward the door.
She realized the odds were bad, maybe even dangerous. She wasn’t scared and knew she wouldn’t get any more information. With a small jerk of her head to dismiss them, Carolyn left the store.
She took her time walking back to the Benz, laughing by the time she clicked the locks open. That little scene proved that her instincts were right. There was something going on with Ben and the school. Otherwise, why would he and his pals react the way they did? She tingled with excitement.
She thought of texting her contact at the Department of Motor Vehicles to check on the driver’s license for Moses Mohammad, but decided he was probably an illegal and didn’t have a legit ID anyway. Instead, she’d follow him, like she had when she was a new reporter on a beat.
Her cell rang. Carolyn saw it was her producer and answered. “Reggie, how wonderful to hear from you,” she said with faked enthusiasm.
“Cut the bullshit. If you never heard from me again, you’d be happier than a whore at the end of the night. Where the fuck are you?”
“Covering the murder case.”
“You’re lying.”
“To you? Never.”
“What’ve you got?”
“I’m not sure yet, but it’ll be good. Trust me; I can feel it.” She saw Ben hurry out of the store and run to an older car. “Hey, Reggie. Gotta run, sweetheart. Keep it in your pants.” She clicked off.
Ben pulled away from the curb and headed north. Carolyn threw the phone on the seat next to her and swerved away from the curb to follow him.
He meandered through the neighborhood until he came to the Riverside Avenue bridge over I-94. He crossed it and followed Riverside west. Near Augsburg College, he turned onto Cushing Street and parked near the end of the block under a linden tree.
Carolyn slowed at the opposite end of the block so he wouldn’t become suspicious. She watched him get out and go up the steps into a small frame house with an open porch. Dozens of identical houses lined the street—early century, inexpensive urban expansion.
She felt uneasy, but not from fear. What did she know about this street? Had she ever been here before? Carolyn tried to remember. After Ben went into the house, she pulled up beside his car and read the number of the house—657.
Carolyn backed up, parked, and waited. An hour later, Ben still had not come out. Even with the car windows open, the sun baked her inside. Sweat threatened to smear her makeup. Then it struck her.
Six-fifty-seven Cushing Street was the same address where the murderer, Ibrahim El-Amin, had been living when he was arrested.
The clues started to coalesce and made sense to her. Mohammad worked with young Somali men, the young men disappeared, the FBI thought they had left to become freedom fighters, and then one came back to be killed by a guy named El-Amin—who lived with Mohammad.
Another thought caused her back to twitch: Paul Schmidt.
Several years ago, they’d had a wild two-night affair when she had covered one of his cases. A cold, introverted pig, Carolyn remembered. Now he was working on the case of the disappearing boys. If she could break this story, maybe sh
e could embarrass the hell out of him. He deserved it.
Chapter Nineteen