Zehra fought desperately. The early spring heat threatened to kill her plants before they even had a chance to get going. Since the growing season in Minnesota was so short, she was determined to win the battle. They probably just needed more water. If she could just get clear of the ringing in her ears—
Back in her condo the following day, Zehra came up from sleep and a dream. She awoke with a jerk and looked around. She saw the garden on the deck and her parents. Paul Schmidt stood behind them near the kitchen. “Wha—?”
“You survived—somehow,” Donald told her.
Prisha ran to Zehra’s side and leaned over to hug her tightly. She smelled faintly of curry, of course. It had never smelled so comforting to Zehra. “A bomb blew up your car. Luckily, someone called 911, you were taken by ambulance to the hospital, and you only suffered a few scratches. No one knows how that happened, but I prayed to Lakshmi to give you good fortune, as she always will.”
Zehra nodded. Her head throbbed, and her mother’s voice sounded like it was coming through cotton.
“The doctors said you’ll be okay. A good night’s sleep should help,” Donald added.
“This is why I want you out of the job,” Prisha said. “Engineering. Medicine. Can’t you see what I’m telling you? This is crazy, and it’s killing me with worry.”
“I remember the interview, starting my car—”
“Don’t think about it,” Paul said. “I’ve convinced the Bureau to put a guard outside for you. Meanwhile, we’ll be looking into this, and I promise, we’ll find out who did it and get them.”
Zehra fell back onto the couch and tried to hold off sleep as it stalked her. She lost.
The next day she felt better—enough to do some work from home. In the mirror, Zehra searched her face for the damage. She had a sore shoulder, a slight headache, and a few cuts around her cheek. Not bad for someone who’d survived a bomb blast. When Ray scrambled out from under the car, Zehra had known something was wrong. Apparently, she’d been able to jump from the car just before the blast. It saved her life.
At least her brain worked as it should. She had brought home the parts of the El-Amin case that she wanted to work on, including the video the prosecutor’s office had burned onto a DVD. It came from a security camera on the top of a light post at the crime scene. Zehra would see exactly what the killer and the scene looked like, even though the quality was poor. Denzel was coming to watch it also.
Like a dumb ox, she kept moving forward. At least action took her mind off the fear that haunted her now.
Zehra debated whether to call Michael. She had already told him about the car bomb in a quick phone call. He’d offered to drop everything and come to her condo. The video wouldn’t be of any interest to him, anyway. Now she held her cell phone, admitting to herself that she’d like to see him again. Zehra made the call. He said of course, he would come immediately.
Her mother called to check in. Zehra reassured her about her recovery.
“I forgot, in all this horrible stuff, to ask you about Michael. How is he?”
Zehra sighed. “Actually, he’s really great. I didn’t expect this, but he’s pretty cool.”
“How serious are you? He’s not Hindu, you know.”
“Aw, Mom. I’m just interested. Good-bye.” Zehra hung up before her mother could get going.
Her phone buzzed with the security app for the building. She let BJ enter the door on the first floor. In a few minutes, he was at her door. “Getting hot out there.” He whistled. “Not as hot as things have gotten for you. I’m worried about you, girl.” He reached around her and hugged tightly. “I leave you alone for a minute, and look what kinda trouble you get into.” His presence was so peaceful. She really needed it now.
Zehra slumped into his arms. “I’m okay—I guess. I’m coming back to some kind of normal. In a way, the trial is a welcome distraction. I can keep going forward.”
“What does the FBI think?”
“Who did it? Got to be the people behind El-Amin.”
“Will you get pulled from the case now?”
“Not likely. I can’t prove he was behind this, so I keep preparing for the trial. Starts on Monday.”
“What can I do?”
“Watch the video with me. But before you do that, here.” She handed him the copper watering can. “You can start with the hibiscus over there, the big plant with the red flowers.” He held the can as if it were radioactive. “Look, Denzel, just tip it and pour.”
He worked his way around the other plants. “My momma is not doing well. My father was a cop in Gary. Momma worried every night and raised all us kids. They were both a lot tougher than me.”
“Hey, Michael is coming over.”
BJ stopped watering. “That serious, huh?”
“No, he just wanted to see how I was doing. Don’t worry, I’m just shopping.”
“I’m still watching out for you.”
Her phone buzzed, and she used the app again. Michael came in. He wore tan slacks, perfectly pressed, and a cotton shirt that, once again, clung to his muscled body like spandex. A heavy silver watch glistened on his wrist when he stuck out his hand to shake with Denzel.
Michael carried a package wrapped in colorful paper. He set it on the table in the main room. When he came over to see Zehra, he put his hand on her shoulder and left it there. In spite of her reticence about him, it felt good. Glancing at the package, he told her, “For later.”
“How was Egypt?”
“Hot. The conference was boring, and nothing interesting happened.”
Zehra moved to the far side of the table and shuffled through the stacks of files. “I’ve got the DVD here. Denzel, if there’s anything you pick out, let me know.” He sat in a wicker chair next to the flat screen, but he studied Michael instead of the screen.
She warned Michael, “This will just take a short time. It’s the video of the killing. I have to watch it for my preparation. If you’d like, you can wait on the deck.” He shrugged but remained in the room.
Zehra pushed in the DVD and clicked it on to play. A scratchy, black-and-white scene came to life. She saw the edge of the deli, the parking lot below, and a fence. Nothing moved in the scene, but the picture jerked repeatedly.
“Cameras are usually programmed to take shots every two seconds,” BJ explained. “Cheaper that way.”
About five minutes into the film, the door on the fence opened out into the parking lot. The victim, a young black man, started into the screen. His jerky movements reminded Zehra of watching films from the early days of Hollywood. A bright light from the deli shone from the right side of the scene.
From the same door, another man jumped out. The young one didn’t react, so maybe he was unaware of the second man behind him. The second man was dark, tall, and wore glasses and a huge white mask over his lower face. He was dressed in a long robe. In one jerk, his left hand reached up to the boy’s forehead and yanked it back. Simultaneously, he drew something across the boy’s throat. It happened so fast, Zehra couldn’t see the knife itself.
The killer wore what looked like surgical gloves. She hadn’t seen any mention of them in the police reports and wondered why he’d worn them. Why hadn’t the police noted their presence at the scene? Maybe the killer had kept them as he escaped.
Zehra shifted in her chair and felt a horrid captivation with what was happening on the screen. It sickened her, but she couldn’t look away. Thankfully, the film didn’t have any sound.
Even with the bad focus and jerking of the film, it was clear that the boy’s head snapped back. The killer jumped out of the way. A black gush of blood exploded from the front of the boy. He staggered ahead one step, faltered, and dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The killer lurched out of view to the left.
No one moved in Zehra’s condo as they watched five minutes more. The boy sprawled on the ground, motionless, while a black pool spread from under his head. Otherwise, the scene remai
ned completely still.
Zehra found herself breathing faster than usual. Up until now, the killing had been on paper. The description of his death, the autopsy, the witness’ statements, and the police reports of the crime scene had held little more emotion than a stack of paper.
The film detailed the life and death of a real human. Zehra couldn’t talk for a few minutes.
BJ broke the silence. “What I wonder about are the gloves. Along with the surgical mask, it suggests someone who worked in a hospital or clinic.”
“Like the imam?” Michael added. He had watched the film silently.
BJ nodded and looked closely at him.
“Why the gloves?” Zehra said.
“Hide his fingerprints from the weapon, keep the blood off of him,” BJ said. “But where are the gloves?”
“I didn’t see him drop the gloves on the film,” she said and turned to Michael. “I’m so sorry—you must think I have a horrible job. I didn’t realize it’d be so—I didn’t mean for you to have to see this.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “That’s okay. The hardest part for me was when the curved knife actually cut the boy’s throat.” He sighed. “I do not like violence, but I will be okay.”
BJ cleared his throat. “Got a few clues, Z. I measured the height of the fence in person. It’s hard to tell for certain from the angle of the camera, but it looks like the killer was tall—much taller than El-Amin. Since he wore a robe, it’s hard to tell body shape. Notice he didn’t have African hair? The killer’s hair was straight.”
“Anything else we can pull out of this?” Zehra said.
BJ said, “Remember, during the trial the prosecutor’s going to stop at each frame and digitally enhance it. The face of the killer will be more recognizable.”
“Your client?” Michael asked.
“We don’t think so. The DNA doesn’t match, so the killer must be someone else. Our job at trial is to convince a jury there’s a reasonable doubt that El-Amin killed the boy.”
“So that will solve the case for you?”
“Not exactly. The police will continue to investigate, but if we can find the real killer, we’d certainly pass on the information to them, so we’ll continue to investigate ourselves.”
“So you think El-Amin will not be convicted?”
“Don’t know what a jury will do. If our DNA test results are admitted into the trial, I think our client will walk away.”
A frown flashed across Michael’s face. Perhaps he still didn’t understand the American justice system.
BJ stood and stretched. “Gotta hit the bricks.”
It surprised Zehra. “But we have more to review.”
“Can’t right now. I’ll be in touch.” He nodded at Michael and left.
Zehra moved to the sliding glass door that led to the deck. She slumped in a chair. “Sorry—I wasn’t sure you should come over, but I wanted to see you.” She looked out at her garden. Michael walked away but came back with the gift.
She felt uneasy about accepting something else from him, but he was so considerate. Most other men thought giving her an NBA t-shirt was an inspired gift.
Zehra opened the wrapping paper and the carton. From inside, she lifted out a small, beautiful jewelry box. Mother-of-pearl covered the outside. It felt smooth and cool in her hands. She opened it to find a silk scarf. Red, yellow, and green colors flowed through the exquisite material. It must have cost a fortune.
Zehra slipped the scarf around her neck and felt the softness of the silk on her skin. She looked up to find Michael watching her, his eyes big and alive. She didn’t know what to say. “Thanks,” she stammered. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Directly from Egypt. I looked for something special for you.”
Zehra felt her face blush. She stood slowly and wanted to kiss him. As she moved toward him, she reached out and he leaned forward. Their faces came closer, and Zehra stood on her toes to reach his lips. At the last minute, he kissed her firmly. She reached for his shirt and pulled on it, and he backed away. “Not now.”
“This is America, and I want to thank you—my way.”
“Soon enough.”
Zehra sighed. “Oh—all right. You have to understand, this is moving faster than I imagined.” She took a deep breath. “These gifts are beautiful. Thank you.”
They walked out to the deck. The sun burned down through a clear sky. With the watering, Zehra’s plants had perked up and stretched open to the life offered by the sun.
Michael turned to face her. He took hold of the ends of the scarf still draped over Zehra’s neck. “I thought these colors would look good with your skin color. Would you consider wearing it over your head?”
“What?”
He reached around the back of her head and flipped the scarf over it so the ends hung below her cheeks. “That is also attractive. Could you wear it this way with me?”
Zehra backed up from him. “Uh, I’m not sure. It reminds me of photos of my grandma with a shawl. This isn’t me.”
“In my opinion, it is important for women to be modest—”
“But, Michael, I’m an American. And I am modest—too modest sometimes.” Tension stiffened her body until she looked up at him and relaxed.
“I’m sorry. You are right.” He stepped into the living room and spotted the plant in the corner. “Is that a hibiscus?”
Zehra let her breath escape. “Yes. Look at the deep green of the leaves.”
“And those huge, red flowers—they are stunning. You should pick one and put it in your hair before it’s too late.”
“Too late?”
“Surely you know that hibiscus flowers bloom once in the day and then every night, the same blossoms fall off and die.”
Chapter Thirty-Three