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  Judy called a half hour later to say the task force had said “yes” to a meeting and wanted to convene that afternoon.

  “Mom, I have to go. Sorry I can’t stay to meet Mr. Constantine, but I need to ask you something. When Gloria stopped by earlier, she said she saw clothes strewn around the room. She was worried.”

  “Oh, so that’s it.” Ernestine began to laugh. “I was getting some things together for the Goodwill. They’re coming to the building tomorrow to do a collection, and I was organizing my donations. I have gobs of clothes I just don’t wear anymore; you know that. I wrapped ten pairs of shoes in newspaper because I don’t have the shoeboxes—I had those on the floor—and I was folding sweaters and skirts. Anyway, I have three big boxes of stuff ready to give away. They’re in the bedroom. Look for yourself.”

  Relieved, Charlie pulled her mother into a hug. Before she left, she peeked into the bedroom, then turned and gave Ernestine a wave.

  Chapter 4

  James Saleh was as handsome as Judy remembered. He shook hands with Charlie and Don, and kissed Judy on the cheek. She blushed for half an hour.

  Charlie and Don had first met James in his undercover persona as a young Arab-American shopkeeper in Birmingham, Alabama. He’d called himself Yusef, and worn a full beard and long hair, and had dressed like a savvy street operator. Today he was clean-shaven, with hair cut close to his scalp, and wore a dark suit and tie with a blue shirt.

  The Mack team sat together at a small table in an FBI conference room. James had responded quickly to Charlie’s call and had organized the impromptu meeting with leaders from the Dearborn and Detroit hate crimes units. While James didn’t say much in the meeting, he watched the dynamics in the room play out. The Dearborn police member was clearly offended by the Mack team’s involvement.

  “So let me get this straight,” Lt. Barry Kerner said, using an index finger on the table to punctuate some of his words. “You think you can do a better job at solving this crime than we can?”

  Charlie felt Don staring at her, but wouldn’t look his way.

  “No, that’s not what we’re saying,” Charlie responded. “But the family is understandably troubled by not having more progress in the case. So, with your permission, we’ll follow up on a couple of loose ends. It probably won’t lead to much, but it’ll give the family comfort that they’ve done everything they can to help find their loved one’s murderer.”

  James had a copy of the evidence roster for the Mack team, along with a list of people who had already been interviewed. Kerner distributed two dozen photos from the crime scene.

  The damage to the prayer room was extensive. Dark metallic paint had been sprayed indiscriminately, staining floors, walls, and furnishings. Profanity had been messily scrawled on the walls. The office had received the brunt of the bomb’s explosion with little more than rubble left on one side. Desks, bookshelves, and unbroken windows covered in a gray dust were on the other side.

  Hassan Pashia had been blown into the hallway. Two photos showed his lifeless body covered in the same gray dust, blood seeping from his lips. His eyes were wide open.

  The meeting ended cordially, with an assurance that Pashia’s laptop would be returned to the family, but with very little detail on the status of the investigation. There was a round of polite handshakes before the police force reps departed, leaving Charlie, Don and Judy looking at James with grim faces.

  “I’ll have someone send over a report on the spread of extremist groups in the US,” he said to Charlie. “It’s not yet available to the public.”

  “Thanks,” Charlie said. “Look, James, we really don’t want to step on anyone’s toes. Don warned us we’d get that reaction from the Dearborn force.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it. The truth is we could use the help. We’re stretched thin.”

  “What about the trace materials left by the explosion?” Don asked. “Nothing’s come from that?”

  “Nope. Our best leads so far are the latent prints. But a lot of people came in and out of the mosque.”

  “What about security footage?”

  “Nothing definitive.”

  “Can we see it?” Charlie asked.

  “I’ll see to it that you get copies of the video files,” James said.

  “You still have all of our email addresses?” Judy asked.

  “Of course I do, and I still have your mobile numbers.” James smiled at Judy, then looked at all of them with a more serious look. “I think you’ll be surprised at what you’ll read in that report. This is not like Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma bomber, who was a loner with a grudge against the government. There are organizations with dozens and sometimes hundreds of members. We’re keeping an eye on the ones we know about, but new collectives crop up all the time.”

  “I just saw a list on the Southern Poverty Law Center website,” Charlie said. “They include neo-Nazis, white nationalists, neo-Confederates, racist skinheads, and Klansmen. It’s disturbing.”

  “Disturbing and very dangerous,” James agreed. “Most are loosely organized gaggles of malcontents, but others are very sophisticated—using encrypted communications to recruit new members, and embedding their messages within apps. It’s pretty sophisticated stuff.”

  “Where do they come from?” Judy asked.

  “From all over. We’ve identified groups in every state.”

  “I’m sure you must do extensive profiling,” Don said.

  “We do. But what’s interesting isn’t what these groups have in common, it’s how different they can be. All are disaffected, but for a variety of reasons. Some don’t like Blacks or Jews, or Catholics. Others think they lost jobs because of the influx of immigrants, and more than a few of them are former military having grievances with the VA or the government in general. A group calling itself The Right Flank has eighty members in Macomb, Oakland and Wayne counties. They’re plumbers, telephone company employees, small business owners, teachers, even some EMT personnel.”

  “I heard these people have also infiltrated law enforcement,” Charlie said. “Is that true?”

  “I’m afraid it is. Think about it,” James said. “A lot of police departments give preferences to veterans, and some of them come back to civilian life with PTSD. Especially the ones who served in Iraq and Afghanistan. They return with issues around trust, disconnected from old friends, and suspicious of people who don’t look like them.”

  “You mean who look like you?” Judy asked.

  James nodded.

  “How is it for you in the FBI?” Judy asked. “I wondered about it four years ago. How you managed to operate in a culture where your fellow agents might not trust you. It must be a hard way to work.”

  “It was a challenge for me in the days following 9/11,” James said, looking somber. “But I take my job seriously, and I’m a good agent. To tell the truth the hardest part hasn’t been the agency. It’s been regaining the favor of my own family. That’s still an ongoing task.”

  Don pushed his chair back from the table. “Well, it’s getting late. Thanks for the information, Saleh. We really appreciate it.”

  After another round of handshakes Charlie had one last question.

  “Have you met with the Pashia family?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “It probably wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Well, someone has to return the family’s laptop. I guess it might as well be me. It’s still downtown with the forensic guys, but when I get it, I’ll call you. It would be great if you’d go with me to make the introductions.”

  # # #

  Mandy got home late, so Charlie prepared a dinner of sauteed vegetables with shrimp over penne. They were both good cooks, but they also had their go-to meals when the stress or length of a day called for it. Today was one of those days.

  By the time Mandy got home Hamm had been walked and fed, the table set for dinner, and a white wine opened and breathing. Charlie followed Mandy upstairs and, as she locked up her gun a
nd changed out of her uniform, told her about Ernestine’s boyfriend and her relief that Gloria’s concern was a misunderstanding involving clothes and shoes piled up for Goodwill.

  They opted for dinner in the family room, watching local and national news. The California Supreme Court was on the verge of upholding a proposition to ban same-sex marriage, and LGBT protestors were taking to the streets. A reporter with PBS NewsHour interviewed a tearful lesbian couple who said they would defy the ban by marrying out-of-state. Charlie and Mandy clasped hands. They had talked about marriage when they bought the house last year but they weren’t ready, and even if they took the big step, their union wouldn’t be recognized in Michigan. At least for now, they both agreed their domestic bliss didn’t require a license.

  After the kitchen cleanup Hamm was ready for another walk. There was still an hour of sun, and their neighborhood was showing real signs of spring, but as every Detroiter knew, you didn’t put your coat and boots away until after Memorial Day.

  As Hamm sniffed his way down the block toward the small park, Mandy eased her arm through Charlie’s. “So how’s the case going?” she asked.

  “The briefing today was helpful, especially the information from James, but honestly I got more background about these hate groups from mom. She’s been studying them.”

  “She’s a hell of a researcher,” Mandy said. “You know I’m really glad to hear Ernestine’s still doing okay, and thrilled at the idea of her having a romantic interest.”

  “I just wish I’d had time to meet him. He sounds very nice, but you know me. I need to see and talk to the guy before he gets a seal of approval.”

  “I think Ernestine is a good judge of character.”

  “Me too, but I still need to lay eyes on this Mr. Constantine.”

  Chapter 5

  Charlie drove her shiny white Corvette with purpose. She was meeting James at the Pashia home, and she wanted to arrive a few minutes before him. Only Jawaria and daughter Amina would be at today’s meeting. The two younger kids would be in school. When Charlie knocked on the door, Amina answered. Today she wasn’t wearing her hijab, and Charlie remarked on it.

  “I don’t wear my scarf every day. If I’m not going to be in public, or I’m doing work at home, I don’t wear it. Today I’m helping to pack up some of my father’s clothes.”

  “I promise we won’t stay long, but I knew you were eager to have his laptop returned, and I also thought it important for you and your mother to meet James Saleh. He’s one of the members of the task force, an FBI agent, and also a colleague.”

  “And a Muslim?” Amina asked.

  “Yes.”

  Charlie had personally seen the effect James had on women. The extra glances, the shy smiles, the outright admiring looks. Mrs. Pashia’s eyes were initially stern, but within fifteen minutes she had warmed to the conversation. She asked James a couple of questions in their language. He answered with his hands punctuating his words, and his smile indicating good memories and intentions. Amina stared brashly at James, but Charlie sensed it was more curiosity than admiration.

  “We’re probably being rude to Ms. Mack,” Amina said. “My mother asked James about his family. He still has family in Iraq. In towns we are familiar with.”

  Charlie nodded. “We have a few questions about the threats your father received,” Charlie said to Amina.

  “Yes?”

  “Did your father keep copies of the notes? You said they were from a student?” James asked.

  “Yes. We showed them to the two detectives who came to the house. We made copies. They looked at the notes but didn’t take them.”

  James and Charlie glanced at each other. Charlie remembered Don had also been totally dismissive of the threats from the student.

  “May we see them?” James asked.

  “We were just going through my father’s things, including files and folders from his desk. I’m sure they’re in one of those boxes.”

  While Amina searched for the notes, Jawaria took the opportunity to ask James more questions. This time in English.

  “How long have you been an FBI agent?”

  “More than ten years. During the Gulf Wars, the Justice Department began recruiting personnel with Arabic language skills. My father is a Professor of International Law, and one of his colleagues approached me about working for the agency.”

  “What were you doing at that time?”

  “I was a graduate student working on a business degree at Fordham. I grew up in New York City.”

  “Do you believe you are helping in what you do?”

  “I think so, Mrs. Pashia. I can tell you I have been in many rooms where my voice made the difference in the actions of law enforcement,” James said.

  Amina returned with a folder containing six notes. Two were handwritten. They were amorphous threats complaining of mistreatment by Professor Pashia. Several of the notes claimed he showed favoritism toward foreign students. One note specifically mentioned the hardship of having a C on a transcript when competing for jobs with “all these illegal immigrants.” Another note warned, “You won’t get away with your prejudice.” Prejudice was misspelled with a g rather than a j. Charlie took photos of the notes.

  “May we keep these?” James asked.

  “Of course. Those are the copies.”

  “Do you have any ideas who might have written them?”

  Mrs. Pashia shook her head. Amina took on a thoughtful demeanor, but said nothing.

  “Did something occur to you, Amina?” Charlie asked.

  She looked doubtful and shrugged.

  “Anything you remember or have thoughts about could be helpful to our investigation.”

  “Well, it occurred to me that it might be one of the students Baba brought to the house,” Amina said, looking at her mother. “There were a lot of different kids, but there were regulars, too. A lot of them were white kids. A couple of them made me feel uncomfortable because of the way they looked at me. They creeped me out.”

  “Anybody in particular?” Charlie asked.

  “There was one. I remember Baba said the boy tried hard in class, but just couldn’t seem to grasp some of the concepts. I don’t remember his name, but he was thin, really pale with short hair. He had a thing on his face. A mole I guess. It was like the size of a dime.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” Charlie said, taking notes. “James, anything else?”

  “No. Except to promise to do better at keeping you informed of our progress,” James said to Amina and her mother.

  # # #

  Charlie, Don and Judy looked at the six video files the task force had emailed to them. The other tapes, according to the Dearborn Heights PD communications officer, had no significance to the case.

  “I want to see the rest of the tapes,” Charlie said.

  Don agreed. “This isn’t much, is it?”

  “Don’t they know some of these guys will stake out a job weeks or months before? We need to see vehicle traffic, regular comings and goings, and compare the street views between the day of the bombing and other days.”

  “They probably have it, but didn’t think we’d want to see it,” Don said, making a lame excuse for his former colleagues.

  Charlie gave him a stony look.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll go down there tomorrow and see what else they have.”

  “Meanwhile, can we look at these one more time?” Judy asked.

  The first footage was from a camera mounted on the front corner of the mosque. The bombing had been reported just after10 p.m. The time code on the tapes showed a view of the lawn and street starting at 8 p.m. and continued until the police arrived after the blast. They watched a dozen cars travel up and down the street, but none of them stopped. At 9:15 p.m. a car pulled out from what they thought was the parking lot. The view showed only the driveway. According to mosque leaders, the cameras in the parking lot had been vandalized a week before.

  “So that’s Mr. Pashia’s car,” Judy said,
jotting notes. “We’re sure?”

  “It’s a Ford Taurus, and that’s the make and model of his car,” Don said.

  They watched another forty-five minutes. There was no activity at the mosque, and only vehicular traffic on the street until one man carrying a large bag was seen across the street heading toward Ford Road.

  “Where’d that guy come from?” Judy asked.

  “Up the block, I guess,” Don said.

  “Where’s he going on foot?”

  “Maybe to the liquor store. There’s a strip mall a couple blocks away at Ford Road.”

  “With a bag?”

  “Let’s see if we can get hold of the security footage from the strip mall. The liquor store will definitely have cameras,” Charlie said.

  Judy took the note. “I’ll check on that.”

  A few minutes later a bicyclist came into view. He looked over at the mosque before passing outside the camera’s range.

  “Hmm,” Judy said, looking at Charlie.

  “What is it, Judy?”

  “Why’d he look over at the mosque?”

  “What do you mean?” Don asked.

  “Well, did he hear some noise or see a light? Was there some movement over there?”

  “Maybe it’s just an innocent glance,” Don retorted.

  “I don’t think so,” Judy said. “It’s not a casual glance. He looks back and stares. It’s not just a quick look.”

  “Reverse the tape. Let’s see it again,” Charlie said.

  The video was being projected to their new whiteboard from Judy’s laptop. Judy whizzed it backward, then stopped and hit the play button. They all leaned in, waiting for the person on the bicycle to ride by. When he did, Judy hit pause and inched the tape into reverse.

  “Okay, watch what he does,” she said.

  The rider turned his head deliberately toward the mosque. He was still staring at the building when he rode out of the screen. Judy stopped the tape and reversed it again, this time frame by frame. The cyclist’s face could barely be seen. The man, or woman, wore a helmet, and was dressed head to toe in dark garb. They could see just a flash of a white face under the glare of the street light.