At the elevator in the basement of her condo building, Zehra pounded on the button to retrieve it. She rode up, rushed inside her condo, and locked and chained the door.
She tried to calm herself. She gasped for breath but couldn’t seem to get enough. Zehra felt as if she were choking. That was too close.
To distract herself and calm down, she filled the old copper watering can her parents had given her for a housewarming gift. Gardening had always given her a respite, a spiritual retreat.
Zehra sprinkled the spinach and chives, then watered the begonias. It was easy because her hands shook. Gardening magazines had urged her to buy worms for the soil. They created a rich environment for the plants and disposed of garbage. They were right, of course, but the thought of all those worms crawling around her plants made her queasy.
The missing imam—their main witness.
Zehra keyed BJ’s number on her cell. When he answered, she told him everything as quickly as she could get the words out.
“Chill, girl. I’m there already.”
The trial was scheduled to start on Monday. Where was the defense now? Maybe the faked DNA evidence would be enough to win.
Like a dog sensing things before humans could, Zehra’s training as a lawyer caused her to feel a gathering storm. Someone had to have faked the DNA—but who? Now the imam had disappeared. Paul must be right—this was bigger than just the murder case. She felt alone and vulnerable.
She texted Michael. Since BJ wasn’t able to make headway with the Somalis, maybe Michael could. She explained what had happened at the mosque. To her surprise, he responded quickly. He might be able to help, and he suggested they meet later.
When Denzel arrived, Zehra let him in. She knew he probably couldn’t do much, but having him with her for a few hours comforted Zehra. He hugged her so close, she could hear his heart thumping, and that made her feel safe.
“What really spooked me was the guy kept asking where he could find me.” Zehra’s voice didn’t sound like her own. “Do you think he’ll come after me again? Here?” She started to shake.
“I’ll be here as much as you need me. I’ll also call my old partner and see if he can get a squad to hang around here.”
She buried her face in his chest and cried. His presence calmed her, and he let her cry as long as she needed it.
In twenty minutes, Michael also arrived. Zehra introduced the two men. Denzel said since Michael was there, he’d leave them alone. They shook hands, and BJ gave Zehra another long hug. “I’m with you, girl.” He parted and left the condo.
“I think it would be good if we got out of here,” Michael said. “Let us go for a ride since it’s a beautiful day. Get your mind on something else.”
Zehra agreed, went down to the public parking lot, and climbed into the front seat of his Mercedes. He opened the windows to let the warm summer air surround them. It felt good, and she relaxed a little. His car had a manual transmission, and she watched his strong hand maneuver the stick, shifting with confidence.
“I hate to ask you, but can we look for the imam? I think I’ll be okay with you there.”
“I have done some work for the Somalis in that area, but they still don’t trust me much. I don’t know if I can help much. Let us try if you feel okay to go back.”
Zehra told him about the faked DNA evidence, which surprised him. “Our expert said that if a criminal knew how to prepare the sample, it’s not too hard. Which means someone thought about this and planned to place the fake DNA at the murder scene. So, if El-Amin is the wrong guy—”
“You think your client is innocent?”
She turned in the seat to face him. “After defending people for a few years, I’ve come to distrust most of them. But the evidence here sure makes him look innocent.”
“He told you he did the murder?”
“Sorry, that’s confidential between lawyer and client.”
Michael nodded, and the sun glistened off his shiny hair.
“Why would someone want El-Amin to take the blame? What’s going on that I don’t see?”
Michael turned onto Cedar Avenue a few blocks from the mosque. He hummed quietly to himself. “What do you think the federal agents will do when they find out the DNA was false?”
“The agent working on the case, a guy named Schmidt, knows about it.”
“What action will they take?”
Zehra was flattered that Michael was so interested in her work. Most of the men she dated were more interested in the NFL or themselves. “I know that he suspects there is someone or some organization behind the killing. He’s actively searching for clues.” She dropped her head. “I’ve known him for a long time, but I don’t think I can trust him entirely.”
“Why not?”
“He knew about the alibi witness almost before we did, and now the witness has disappeared. Maybe the Feds grabbed him as part of their investigation, for all I know.”
He turned to face her. “What do you think?”
His eyes stared into hers, making her feel a combination of unease and excitement at the same time. This man was certainly different from many others. He was attractive for his intensity and passion. Zehra said, “I’m not sure. My focus is really on the trial of my client. But I’m worried, after what happened here, that I’m now a target for some reason.”
Michael pulled in front of the mosque. Several robed men slouched at the door. Every set of eyes watched them get out of the Benz. “As-salaam alaykum,” Michael called to them.
One of the men finally called back, “Wa-alaykum as-salaam.” No one moved.
Zehra remained in the car while Michael walked up to the men. They surrounded him.
“I am a friend of your imam, Moalim,” Michael told them. “I would like to talk with him.”
A younger man from the back stepped forward. “I have seen you among our people. You have worked with the children in the schools.”
“Yes. Is the imam here?”
“He has disappeared. It is not like him, and we even checked his house. He has not been there for two days.”
“Where did he work?”
The young man turned and pointed down the street. “That hospital. In the kitchen. We have not gone there because he would come here first.”
Thanking the group, Michael got back in the car and drove five blocks to the hospital. They decided to stop at the HR department and try to find Moalim.
Inside, they identified themselves and were led into the Human Re-sources offices. After they’d waited ten minutes, a small man came into the lobby to greet them. “I’m Roger Weber, Director.” He wore a stiff white shirt with red suspenders. Blond hair spiked over the top of his head. He took them back to his office, where the three of them squeezed into the chairs.
“So, you’re looking for Mr. Moalim. That’s coincidental, because we’re looking for him also. We employ many Somali people here because they’re good with the patients. He hasn’t been at work for two days.”
“Has he done this before?” Zehra asked.
“No. He’s very reliable. He worked in the kitchen and the supply room.”
“What’s that involve?”
“Oh, keeping inventory, stocking things we use in the hospital.”
An idea poked into Zehra’s mind. “Does that supply room contain face masks?”
“Of course. In a hospital, we go through thousands of them. We have to be careful, so we use only the 3M N95, 8000 respirator. It’s the best on the market for screening most of the nasty things we don’t want to breathe.”
Zehra’s chest twitched. The same type found at the crime scene. She didn’t say anything more.
They left, and Michael offered to drop her off at her condo. At the door, she hesitated, then invited him in. She led him into the kitchen and marveled at the way he seemed to glide as he walked. Graceful. She offered something to drink.
“Tea would be wonderful.”
She heated water and pulled down a box of green tea. “
I feel like a glass of wine after what I’ve been through.”
“That is not good for you. I know you’re not Muslim, but our rules are for everyone’s benefit.”
She stopped dunking the tea bag into a cup of steaming water. “If I want a glass of wine, I’ll have one.” She felt offended.
He shrugged and looked away.
“Hey, sorry. I know that’s important to you.”
Michael turned back to face her. “I am only trying to help you. There is a good reason the Prophet prohibited alcohol. You should consider it.”
The “help” he offered began to feel restrictive, controlling. Zehra kept her thoughts to herself, however.
“I like you and want to help.” He looked at his watch and stood to leave. “I will be very busy next week, and I must go to Cairo, Egypt on business. It will be a short trip.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done. Let’s get together when you return.”
At the door they faced each other. He pulled her toward him and leaned down. He stared into her eyes and, at the last moment, lowered his head to reach her lips. With any other man, the long stare would’ve made Zehra think he was weird. Instead, she found him exotic and kissed him back. She felt his strong body and wondered what it would be like to touch him.
He left, and she walked to the kitchen to wash out the cups. Thoughts pressed into her mind about Michael. Zehra was still cautious about him, didn’t know him, but found herself drifting toward him anyway. She felt a shudder of desire low in her body.
Her cell rang with a call from Jackie. “I’ve got great news.” Jackie talked quickly. “Dr. Portman said he’s got a window of time to meet us this afternoon.”
In two hours, they sat at the Ramsey County medical examiner’s office and labs in St. Paul. A tall man with long white hair that hung over his shoulders greeted them. Dr. Portman moved slowly. He sat deliberately in his leather chair and crossed his legs carefully. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
He made Zehra think of an old hippie. “Thanks for your time and for giving us a second opinion.”
“Dr. Wong is a friend of mine.” He smiled to reveal small teeth. “I found two things that are of interest to me. The red markings on the body that Dr. Wong noted—very unusual. Without actually viewing the body itself, I can only make my observations from the photos you provided.”
“What do you think?” Zehra asked.
“Looks like a rash of some kind. Something like you might think of with eczema, but different. Discounting any skin disease, which Dr. Wong didn’t observe, and therefore, I won’t speculate, the rash could only mean one thing.”
“What?”
“The young man was sick.”
Zehra and Jackie looked at each other.
Dr. Portman steepled his hands over his protruding stomach. “I don’t think I could testify to that under oath, but I’m telling you what I suspect. Yes, he was sick, and whatever he had caused the rash that covered his palms and feet.”
“Any other supporting evidence for this?” Jackie said.
Portman grinned. “Yes, and it’s even something you two could see.”
Zehra frowned.
“The list of the contents of his stomach. Alone, it wouldn’t mean much to me—as it didn’t for Dr. Wong. And it certainly wasn’t the cause of death. But together with the rash, it confirms the victim was deathly sick.”
“What was in his stomach?”
“Undigested pills—an unusually large amount of Advil.”
“A common cold?”
“Could be, but with the rash, I think it’s something more. I’m going back to lab samples. I want to test the blood to see if he was infected with something worse.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight