Warn Me When It's Time Page 4

  “We need to get another view of the street,” Don said.

  “Maybe some of the houses have security cameras,” Judy said. “I’ll check on that, too.”

  “Okay, you work on getting us more security footage from the liquor store and the neighbors, Judy. Don, you and I are going to the mosque.”

  # # #

  The mosque was an unassuming brown structure on a mixed-use block, surrounded by homes, small businesses, and low-profile office buildings. The adjacent parking lot was at least as large as the building, and the exterior sign was small and plain. Several cars and trucks were in the lot, and the front exterior was lined with orange cones. Charlie noted the location of the lot’s two security cameras before entering through the open side door.

  The interior was a work zone. The debris from last month’s blast had been cleared away, but the hallway, doors, and portions of the tiled floor were still being repaired. Charlie counted five men, all in hard hats and orange vests, spackling, hammering, sawing, and carrying construction materials to and fro. She counted two more men at the end of the hallway stirring paint and surrounded by drop cloths, brushes, paint rollers and poles. None of the workmen paid any attention to the visitors, but within a minute a man wearing a set of overalls and a kaffiyeh atop his head greeted them.

  “You are the private investigators?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Charlie said. “We’re here to see Mr. Rafiq.”

  “I am Rafiq. Please come in here where we can talk.” He led them back toward the side entrance to a door marked Private. The deep space contained a storage area, a wall of furniture, and a desk surrounded by five folding chairs. This was the janitor’s makeshift office.

  “I’ve been asked to give you every consideration,” Rafiq said. “How can I help?” He looked nervously at Don who hadn’t said a word or stopped scowling.

  “We’d like to know why the security cameras didn’t work the night of the break-in?” Charlie asked.

  Rafiq’s face colored in embarrassment. “Oh, I explained that to the police, and the imam. The cameras had been spray-painted. I think I noticed them five days before the break-in. I was waiting for the replacement lenses I ordered.”

  “Are the cameras working now?” Don asked, startling the man.

  “Why yes. They work fine.”

  “But not the night of the explosion,” Don said sarcastically.

  “No. No, I’m afraid not,” Rafiq said, feeling Don’s intimidation.

  Charlie gave Don a stern glance. They wanted this guy to cooperate with them. She lobbed a softball question.

  “Mr. Rafiq, I understand the room that had the fire and explosion was an office.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Were there explosions in any other rooms?”

  “No. I don’t think so. There was only damage to the office, the prayer room, and here in the hallway.”

  “Were there things stolen from the office or any other room?”

  “Uh. Some file cabinets were open and papers thrown about that we don’t think were a result of the explosion. The fire damaged a lot of our files, so we haven’t been able to determine if anything was stolen.”

  “Had you seen anyone suspicious hanging around before the break-in?” Don asked.

  “No. We’ve had minor property damage before, but nothing . . . nothing like this,” Rafiq said, fighting his emotions.

  “Have you ever noticed a guy on a bicycle hanging around?”

  Rafiq paused. “I have seen someone on a bike recently, but we get a lot of kids who use our parking lot for skateboarding and those fancy tricks on their bikes. I think they’re neighborhood kids.”

  “Could they be the ones who spray-painted the cameras?” Charlie asked.

  “That’s what I thought happened. Although they’ve never done anything like that before.”

  “Mr. Rafiq, we’d like to see the prayer room.”

  “Of course.”

  They paused at the entrance. One of the workmen was stirring paint and cleaning brushes. He nodded at the group. Charlie could see three others painting the walls that had been primed. Rafiq removed his shoes, and Charlie followed suit. She reached for the scarf she’d remembered to bring, tying it under her chin. Rafiq smiled at the gesture. Charlie squinted at Don and pointed to his feet. He didn’t move. Then he crossed his arms.

  “Yeah. Well, I’ll wait out here,” Don said. “Maybe I’ll walk the perimeter of the building. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  Don retraced his steps through the side door into the parking lot and immediately examined the nearest camera. It was the round-globe type, mounted on a twelve-foot pole. The other camera was the same.

  You’d need a ladder to get to those things. Unless you had one of those automatic paint sprayer doohickeys.

  From the parking lot he scanned the vicinity. He hadn’t spent much time in this area between Dearborn Heights and Garden City. It was a working-class community with a few blocks of expensive homes. He and Rita had considered the area when they were trying to place Rudy in a special-needs school. The lot entrance was on a fairly busy street. It had two lanes in each direction, wide enough for a bus route, and “no parking” signs. Along the front and far side of the mosque were low hedges and the front security camera was perched near the roofline. There were no windows on the prayer room side of the building which faced the adjacent street, and large three-story homes. On the next corner, diagonal to the mosque, was a bus stop. Don crossed the street and checked the view of the mosque from the covered bus shelter, then walked the half block to stand directly in front of the mosque. The sidewalks were wide. Don moved to a tree directly across from the mosque.

  # # #

  “See anything interesting?” Don asked when Charlie got into the Buick.

  “Not much. The spray-painter hit every wall and some of the floor. Rafiq said it was automotive paint, the kind used to touch up cars. It took a week to use some kind of degreaser over the paint, and another week to cover it with three coats of primer.”

  Don grunted. Charlie looked at him.

  “You didn’t want to take off your shoes? You got holes in your socks?”

  “I just wasn’t in the mood.”

  “I see. Rafiq also said a couple of prayer caps were missing. They keep spare ones near the shoe racks. They were the knitted kind, not expensive.”

  Don shrugged. It wasn’t that he was uninterested. He was very uninterested. Not just because it was a mosque, but because he’d stopped thinking about religion altogether. He’d grown up in a Polish Catholic parish, but quit going to mass years ago. He had a church suit that Rita kept in a storage bag in the front closet. He only used it for funerals, christenings, and weddings.

  “How’s the outside?” Charlie asked.

  “They have pretty cheap security cameras. The mosque has a rear entrance, which looks like it’s never used and opens only from the inside. I walked across the street to the bus stop. That would be a good spot to watch the comings and goings at the mosque. I did find this.”

  Don handed Charlie a plastic bag with a chewing gum wrapper and a slender, round piece of aluminum.

  “Where’d you find these?”

  “Across the street next to the tree.”

  “What’s this?” Charlie flipped the band in her hand, which didn’t even weigh an ounce. It had a shimmery yellow coating on the outside.

  “I think it’s a trouser clip. Bicyclists use them to keep their pants from getting clogged in the chains.”

  “You think our guy dropped these things? They would have been sitting there for over a month.”

  “Maybe. The grass in that tree box is high. I only noticed it because I was standing right over it.”

  Charlie placed the plastic bag in her tote. “Where to next?”

  “We have an appointment with the Chief in Oakland County. Then I was thinking about a fish place I know that’s nearby.”

  # # #

  Police Ch
ief John Rappon was about Don’s height, age, and disposition. He had walked a beat in Pontiac, Michigan, at the same time Don had been a patrolman in Detroit. They’d met through a mutual friend at a Fraternal Order of Police fundraising event. Rappon was a championship bowler, and it was the one recreation, besides working on cars, that allowed Don to relax for a few hours.

  As their meeting began, the two men talked about their latest scores and their new bowling balls. Rappon had just won a regional tournament with something called the Brunswick Activator. Charlie learned that Don didn’t mind at all shedding his shoes if it was to exchange them for his Strikeforce bowling shoes.

  It wasn’t that Charlie was uninterested. She was very uninterested.

  Fifteen minutes into their banter Charlie cleared her throat.

  “I think your partner there is ready to get to the matter at hand,” Rappon said. “Sorry, my wife says I can bore people to tears with my bowling talk.”

  “I didn’t know a thing about Don’s love of bowling,” Charlie said, “but it’s good to see his enthusiasm.”

  “You and Don have been doing some good work in your new agency,” Rappon said. “It was an impressive accomplishment breaking up that terrorist attack against Cobo Hall. Mighty fine work.”

  “Thank you, Chief. It was a lot of walking around, asking questions, and no sleep. And as I’m sure you’re aware, we were very lucky.”

  “Luck is always a factor, even with all this new technology. But good police work is all about having the right people on the job. My technology budget has increased by 300 percent, but my staff budget is down thirty.”

  “Do you have enough personnel on this task force?” Don asked.

  “No, not nearly enough. But the cross-jurisdictional cooperation is a good start, and the Feds bring a lot of resources to the work. As you know, Don, a lot of our energy and budget is focused on drugs and gangs. Those are our everyday concerns. These church fires, and such, happen sporadically.”

  “But they’re growing in frequency,” Charlie countered.

  “That’s true, Ms. Mack, and these crimes can so quickly become political. We’re taking them very seriously. We have a large Chaldean population in Oakland County—many of them are Catholic—and there have been a few incidents at their places of worship, so the archdiocese has been pressuring us for answers. We also have an affluent Black population in Farmington Hills, Bloomfield Hills, and a few other neighborhoods, and we’ve heard from those pastors. Last week I met with the congregants of Temple Beth El about these crimes. They’re the oldest Jewish congregation in Michigan, you know.”

  “You’re right, Chief. It’s bound to be political so it makes sense to have a focus on this as a regional problem,” Charlie said. “Don and I know from experience that Homeland Security and the FBI can provide some political cover but they also come with baggage. I’ve heard some of the victims have been resistant to talking to the Feds because they fear being profiled and added to some database or targeted for future surveillance.”

  “Yes, we’ve heard that too. Look, I’m not naïve. I have constituents from our minority communities who tell me that even though these crimes are being committed by a bunch of unhinged white guys, they know they’ll be the ones who get screwed in the long term.”

  # # #

  “I didn’t know you were such a big bowler,” Charlie said as they walked to Don’s car. “How could I have missed that?”

  “I’m a multifaceted man, Mack. Don’t underestimate me.”

  Charlie scoffed. “Yeah. I’ll remember that the next time you won’t take off your shoes at a mosque.”

  Don could usually take a good teasing, but his shoulders sagged and he lowered his head. Charlie shifted gears.

  “So where are we getting this fish you promised for lunch?”

  At the mention of food Don perked up. “You’ll see.”

  # # #

  Don’s so-called “fish place” turned out to be Lily’s Seafood in Royal Oak, one of the most popular dining places in the metro area. The lunchtime crowd was gregarious and hungry. There was a not-too-long wait for a table, but Charlie suggested they eat at the bar. Don ordered fish tacos and fries. Charlie chose the calamari and a side salad. They both passed up the in-house beer selections for soft drinks.

  “The last time I was here was when Mandy and I were dating,” Charlie said, looking around the restaurant. “I really like this place.”

  Don nodded and took a long draw on his Coke. Charlie watched him with amusement. The only time she’d ever seen him turn down anything to eat or drink was once when a witness had served them coffee. Once Don discovered it was made with cinnamon, he’d pushed it aside as if it was poison.

  When their food arrived, they chatted about microbrewing and the best crab cakes they’d ever tasted. Don recounted the time he’d won a popcorn shrimp-eating competition.

  “I could have told the other contestants it was a mistake to go against you in any kind of eating match,” Charlie said, laughing.

  They hadn’t had a meal out together in a long while, and it was nice to eat and relax like two old friends. Charlie picked up the check when it came. “I’ll expense it,” she said, and they headed to the car.

  “Sorry about the mosque thing. Not going into the prayer room, I mean,” Don said, looking straight ahead and merging into the line of traffic headed to the freeway.

  “Hey, I was teasing you. It’s no big deal. I’m just glad I remembered to bring a head scarf.”

  “I’m still pissed off about 9/11,” Don blurted.

  “What?”

  “I still have a bias when it comes to Muslims. I can’t help it.”

  Charlie didn’t say anything right away. She tightened her seatbelt, and they fell into an uneasy silence as they traveled the fast lane on I-96 heading downtown.

  Don had law enforcement friends who had perished on 9/11, and Mandy’s brother had worked in one of the Trade Center towers. It took four years of therapy to deal with her grief around his loss. So, Charlie understood the painful memories people still carried about that tragic day.

  Charlie and former partner Gil had discussed leaving Homeland Security and going independent for six months before suggesting it to Don. He had immediately nixed the idea. “You can’t fight terrorism with empathy,” he’d said when they pointed out the primary flaw of racial profiling—hurting good people in the zeal to get the bad ones. But a few weeks later Don sought out Charlie to revisit the offer. For very personal reasons, he’d had a change of heart.

  He and his wife, Rita, both held full-time jobs so they could pay for the education needs of their autistic son. Rudy was the center of their lives—a great kid with a sunshine smile, his mother’s sparkling eyes, and his father’s sturdy build. On weekdays, Don’s parents picked up Rudy at school and drove him to their house in Hamtramck until Rita got off work. One Wednesday, on the way home from school, his grandfather stopped by a convenience store to buy his weekly lottery ticket and a hotdog for his grandson. Rudy—then three years old—took a huge bite of the sandwich and began to choke. Don’s dad, scared into inaction, watched Rudy flail at his throat—his face discolored, and his eyes bulging. That’s when Rauf Al-Hamzi took control. The teenage store clerk dropped to one knee and executed several swift blows between Rudy’s shoulder blades until the hunk of hot dog and bun dislodged from the boy’s throat. Don said his father cried as he described what had happened, saying: “That Arab kid saved Rudy’s life.” The act of kindness had tempered Don’s prejudice toward Muslims, and prompted him to leave Homeland Security to work with Charlie.

  “I thought what happened with Rudy at the convenience store had helped you with those feelings,” Charlie said after a few minutes.

  Don shook his head. “I don’t really want to talk about it, Mack.”

  They were both silent for the rest of the ride to the office. Don pulled into the underground garage and found a spot near the elevator. They didn’t speak as they rode up,
or when they entered the office where Judy and Tamela were occupied on the phones. They moved to the conference room, checked phone messages, and looked through their notes.

  “We can’t just ignore what you said.” Charlie finally broke the silence.

  “I know.”

  “Does Rita know you’re harboring these negative feelings about Muslims?”

  Don nodded. “Occasionally something will slip out, and she’s warned me about any kind of hate talk around Rudy.”

  “Don, you’re not ever going to be Mr. Liberal, but I know you’re not a racist.”

  “Why? Because you and I are friends?”

  “No. Not just that. It’s because you don’t intentionally use your privilege as a white man to keep me at a lower status. You also don’t look at the color of my skin and automatically believe I’m less worthy of all the things you want in life.”

  “So you don’t think I’m a bigot? That’s what that kid, Kamal, said in my ear when we were leaving his house.”

  Ahh. So that’s what the soul searching is all about.

  Charlie shook her head. “You can be sexist, and you’re surly and overly suspicious of everyone. I’ve definitely seen your prejudices—like toward people with substance abuse problems.” Charlie paused for a moment to get the words right. “You’re also not great at censoring the things you say. But if you dislike somebody, it’s not because of their race or ethnicity. It’s because of their behavior.”

  When Judy joined them in the conference room they dropped the subject. Charlie passed around copies of the threatening notes Mr. Pashia had received.

  “There are six threats from someone who seems to be a former student. Four of the messages appear to be written on pages or pieces torn from a lined notebook. The other two are on small squares of plain paper. Perhaps sticky notes,” Charlie said.

  Don looked at each one, then slid the notes to Judy. He pulled out his notebook and turned a couple of pages before looking at one note again. He repeated the action with a second note.

  “You notice the spelling on these?” Don asked.