Carolyn Bechter watched with growing horror. She had just mixed a third Mojito in her tenth-floor condo overlooking the Mississippi River near the Stone Arch Bridge. High white clouds puffed up on the northern horizon. Shoes off, air conditioning on high, chilled glass sweating in her hand, she had clicked on the Channel Six news.
After following Ben Mohammad, she’d kept searching but hit stone walls. No matter which source or friend she contacted, Carolyn couldn’t shake anything loose. She knew she was on the trail of something big, which caused even more frustration.
She understood the Somali community was hard to crack, that they didn’t trust many people outside their individual clans. But Carolyn had pushed on her contacts in the police department, FBI snitches, and even a few seedy, self-appointed “spokesmen” from the Somali community who were always willing to talk to the press. Not a damn thing.
On her couch before the TV, Carolyn had put her feet up on the ottoman and crossed her legs. She had been thinking of the last time she’d been laid—too long ago—when the news show had started.
Watching her employer try to deliver the news—especially since she was rarely a part of it anymore—always frustrated her. To Carolyn, the holes and weaknesses were so obvious. Did they really think the public would buy the shit they called “news” anymore? Ratings were down, and Carolyn knew why.
The familiar, pounding rock music cued up, and the graphics started flashing on and off to create a sense of something happening, even if the lead story was just a suburban art fair. But this show was different.
Out from the studio, Reggie had cut immediately to a street scene. The usual young blonde with a quivering voice stood with a strained face. The scene looked familiar to Carolyn. She reached for the remote to turn up the sound.
“Antoine,” the reporter said to the anchor as if they were intimate friends—which they were, but the public didn’t know that. “I’m here in the Seward neighborhood of south Minneapolis. It looks beautiful and serene, but don’t let that fool you.” She stretched out her arm in a practiced manner as the camera panned off the end of her hand to the background shot. “There’s apparently been a robbery gone bad—very bad.”
Carolyn recognized the Johnson Deli. Sure, that’s it, she thought and sat up.
The cameraman, probably Ray for this story, moved to the front of the deli. Sure enough, Carolyn could see the large, dirty windows. The door was propped open.
“Witnesses tell us that about four thirty this afternoon, two men came into this small deli and tried to rob it at gunpoint.” The camera traveled in through the open door. “The two men working inside were cooperative. When a customer came in behind the robbers, something went wrong. Wrong because it caused the death of the two workers and the customer.” A breeze pulled the reporter’s hair up on the left side.
Carolyn couldn’t believe her eyes. She had stood right there a couple days earlier.
The reporter made a nice move between the camera and the open door to get inside. “All three men are dead, shot to death. We don’t have information as to why they were killed. Two of the victims, the workers, are identified as Jason McMillian and Ben Mohammad—”
Carolyn stood unsteadily. It couldn’t be true. She’d seen plenty of death and violence in her career, but this frightened her for another reason.
“Police are searching this normally quiet, integrated family community for other witnesses. As of now, they don’t have any suspects and are baffled as to how this could happen in broad daylight.”
A creepy feeling worked its way over Carolyn. She’d sensed a big story, and every step of her investigation confirmed that. This killing couldn’t be a random robbery gone bad. This was a hit on Ben Mohammad.