Quicksand Read online

  Nora sighed. “Well, I guess the other thing is just that … I think that at least one or two of these women will be Arab immigrants with a deep, inbred fear of authorities.”

  Laurie nodded. “I’ve seen that in Latino populations. The secret police are so brutal and so random down there that they expect the worst up here. And the African American population deals with similar issues in this country with our own police.” She glanced at Nora. “No offense.”

  Nora shrugged. “My cohort at PPD has been made up of some really good people. I know not all cops are. I guess more than anything I’d like to gain trust today and see if it gets us anywhere.”

  Laurie looked over at her and smiled. “Good luck with that.” She paid for her inattention to the road by having to swerve to miss sideswiping a poorly parked car. As they approached the mosque, Nora wrapped a cream-colored scarf around her hair, and handed a light blue one to Laurie. Nora had taken both scarves from a shoe box in her mother’s closet, and she refused to dwell on the fact that her mother’s scent was still infused in the silky fabric.

  Unity Masjid was a revamped twin, with a tiny gravel parking lot behind it that seemed merely symbolic. Undaunted, Laurie Cruz wedged her Buick between two battered compact cars. “Did I do it right?” she asked Nora, pointing at the scarf. Nora tucked in the edge and added a straight pin, careful not to poke Laurie.

  “Fabulous,” she said, and they got out.

  The building was gasping for a new coat of paint, and parts of the roof looked to be worn through. Nora pushed open the door marked SISTERS’ ENTRANCE. Her eyes adjusted to the light, and the first thing she saw was a child. The little girl had a crown of excited curls tamed by a Dora the Explorer headband.

  Nora and Laurie removed their shoes and added them to the tall shoe rack by the door. Then Nora and Laurie took places on a long bench at the back of the prayer area.

  Nora regarded the scene, trying to remember the last time she had prayed in a mosque. She had stopped praying altogether when her mother died.

  It was not Friday, and so the noon prayer was sparsely attended. Less than a dozen women stood aligned with precision along the patterns traced in the carpet. Nora inhaled deeply; the bowing and prostrations of the praying women crashed and receded like waves on the shore of her own limbs. But she remained completely still as she watched them.

  As the prayer ended, each woman uttered words of peace over her right and left shoulders. It was then that Nora walked over and knelt on the carpet next to the last woman in the row. “As-salaam alaykum,” she murmured, extending her hand. The woman looked Arab, and Nora hoped that she would return the greeting.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she gave the appropriate response, reluctantly shaking Nora’s hand.

  Nora placed her badge in front of the woman on the carpet, and spoke in Arabic. “My name is Nora Khalil and I am investigating a murder. Please, sister, I’m in need of some help. Are you, or do you know, Marwa Abd al-Hamid? Do you know Basheera Johnson or Fatma al-Bakry? A woman called Karima?”

  The woman paled and withdrew her hand. Her voice riddled with fear, she hissed in rapid Arabic to the woman next to her, who had begun praying a supererogatory prayer, “It looks like they’ve sent the intelligence agency—”

  The praying woman heard her and, to Nora’s surprise, broke off her prayer. She pulled her niqab over her face and started walking swiftly toward the door.

  Nora felt panicked; it was her only chance to talk to these women. “Please, sisters—One of your own sisters has been killed. I am working hard to find who did this, and to understand who is terrorizing your neighborhoods. Please help me. Help me help you. I have just a short list of names of women who might have the right information. We’re here in the mosque, where no one can see you speaking with me. If I have to get a warrant to speak with you, it will be very public, very open.”

  The woman who had been making for the door turned to regard her. Her dark eyes glistened with tension.

  “Who are you looking for?” she asked, her voice emerging from behind her veil strongly but on edge. Her dialect was as Egyptian as Nora’s.

  Nora recited the names again, realizing that a few of the African American women were watching the exchange anxiously.

  The Egyptian woman said, “I’m Fatma al-Bakry. I won’t speak for any of the others.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much. I just need a few minutes of your time.” Then, Nora looked at the small cluster of black women. She said in English, “Does any of you know Basheera Johnson? Or a woman named Karima? Marwa Abd al-Hamid?”

  Two of them exchanged glances. Against a general murmur of discontent, an older woman stepped forward, a gray widow’s peak protruding from beneath a satiny black scarf. She looked closely at Nora, “Who are you, sister? Are you even a Muslim?”

  Nora noticed that Laurie had risen from her place on the bench just behind the group. Nora displayed her badge. “I’m Officer Nora Khalil of the Safe Streets Violent Gang Task Force, and this is my partner, Laurie Cruz of the FBI.” The women turned to look where Nora had gestured. She continued, “We’re investigating a murder here in Kingsessing, and the victim was last seen here at this mosque.”

  Voices erupted in fearful murmuring.

  “Who? Who was it?”

  “A young woman who taught here, Hafsa al-Tanukhi.”

  This set off more murmuring, and Nora fought the instinct to question all of the women in the room. But with time weighing on them, she had to focus herself on the leads from Imam Anwar’s wife.

  “She was killed here, in Kingsessing?” a voice asked from the group.

  Nora replied, “Her body was found not far from here.”

  “My cousin’s body was found not far from here,” a woman said, pointedly. “No fancy task force came asking around.”

  Bitter words followed this statement, with more snatches of personal stories. Nora raised her voice slightly over the grumblings. “If you have unsolved issues, please call me and I will do what I can,” she said, as she passed business cards to each of the women, looking each one in the eye. “But right now, right here, it’s my job to find out what happened to this woman who came and taught among you, and to try to make sure this sort of thing doesn’t happen to anyone else here.”

  Seven women held the cream-colored card with the navy-blue embossed seal, and each one of them studied Nora’s name.

  The older woman said, “Well, you can imagine that we’re a little nervous over here. The imam’s house was burned down last night.”

  “I know, and I’ve been to the hospital and seen the imam. The task force is working very hard to return a sense of security to this neighborhood.”

  The woman looked at her incredulously. “And when was there ever a sense of security in this neighborhood?” A woman behind her laughed softly. “Listen, I know my Muslim obligation to provide trustworthy witness. I do have Basheera’s number, and all of you are my witnesses before Allah, that it’s my desire to please Him that’s having me tell what I know. I could just as easily walk out the door.” The women behind her were nodding. “I’ve never known Karima’s contact information; she only comes every once in a while. But Basheera is usually here every day, doing this or that, helping out—this place is like a home to her. Now she hasn’t come to the masjid all week, and won’t return our calls. We’ve been worried about her.”

  Nora said, “She’s not—listen, she’s not in any trouble, please understand. I just want to speak with her as part of an investigation of this crime.”

  The older woman nodded, then pulled out an iPhone. “I guess that’s okay. Allah forgive me otherwise.” She called up Basheera Johnson’s number and showed Nora the screen. Nora hastily scrawled the numbers onto her notepad, then she handed her a card. “Thank you, sister.”

  The women began exiting in twos and threes, leaving Nora with the two Arab women. Fatma al-Bakry had lifted her niqab again, revealing her chestnut complexion and high chee
kbones. The little girl with the headband clung to Fatma’s abaya.

  Nora looked at the woman whose hand she had shaken. “Are you, by chance, Marwa Abd al-Hamid?”

  The woman inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. “I’m Marwa.” Her fear was palpable.

  Nora sat down cross-legged on the carpet, and the women seated themselves next to her. “Thank you for talking to me. I know it must be scary. But it’s much scarier thinking that there’s a—” she glanced at Fatma’s little girl “—criminal out on the streets, isn’t it?”

  Neither woman responded, and the girl began circling the trio, humming the theme song to “My Little Pony.”

  Nora swallowed, then looked to Laurie for help, who understood her look immediately. “Could I—Madame Fatma, would you mind if my partner entertained your little girl? Just for a few moments?”

  Fatma nodded slowly, reluctant. She turned to her daughter. “Can you sit with the nice lady while I talk to the sister here?” The girl protested in a soft voice, but her mother insisted, as Laurie sank down onto the floor. She had pulled out her notebook, and she started folding paper airplanes, a move that seemed to bridge the language gap. Nora felt a wave of relief.

  “What is it you have to ask us?” Marwa asked. Her dialect was Palestinian.

  “How well did you know Hafsa al-Tanukhi?”

  Both women looked reticent. Fatma finally said, “She began coming here about six months ago. She began teaching a class. Some of us came to it to learn English. Some black sisters came also to learn to read better. Sometimes she came to the imam’s lessons.”

  “What happened at the last lesson the imam gave you?”

  The women exchanged glances.

  “He gave the lesson. We listened. We all left. Nothing happened unusual,” said Fatma.

  One of Laurie’s small paper airplanes sailed into their small circle. Fatma’s daughter dashed over to retrieve it, then returned to Laurie.

  “Hafsa left without speaking to the imam?”

  Both women nodded.

  “And you all left at the same time?”

  They nodded again.

  “Do you understand that this is the last place she was seen alive?”

  Fatma said, “This is a tragedy. But it doesn’t surprise me about this neighborhood. This neighborhood is hell on Earth. The worst back alley in Boulaq is paradise next to this place, all these blacks killing each other for the drugs and more drugs.”

  Marwa Abd al-Hamid nodded. “It is worse than anyone can imagine. God curse the day my husband brought us here trying to save a few dollars on the rent, may God take him and free me!”

  Nora listened, concentrating hard as she followed the nuances of Marwa’s Palestinian dialect. Finally she asked, “Do you have anything else you want to tell me? Anything at all?”

  They stared at her with blank expressions, save for the occasional twitch from Marwa’s eyelid. Reluctant to end the conversation, Nora handed them each her card. “Please, please call me if you remember anything that can help us find whoever killed Hafsa.”

  They assured her that they would call. When they didn’t move to leave, however, Nora asked if there was something else. Fatma replied, “We will wait for you to leave. We don’t want anyone to see us walking out of the mosque with you.”

  “Why?” asked Nora.

  Fatma looked at her as though it were obvious. “Someone burned down the imam’s house. Someone is watching.”

  * * *

  Nora and Laurie walked gratefully into the cool November sunshine.

  “What do you think?” Laurie asked.

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yes,” Laurie said, turning the screen of her phone to display the long voice memo she had recorded as the women spoke.

  “Okay, e-mail it to me, will you? I’m gonna compare it with the statement I got from the imam’s wife. But I’m pretty sure those women were given a script.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I heard nearly identical vocabulary used to describe that last lesson with the imam.”

  Laurie nodded. She tapped the Blackberry’s screen a few times and the voice memo whooshed through cyberspace. Then she turned the key in the ignition, carefully backing the Buick out of the cramped space.

  “Something bad is going on here,” Nora said. “Some kind of creepy cover-up. We need to track down this Basheera Johnson woman right away.” She was about to call up the number she had taken from the woman in the mosque, when a bearded face appeared at the passenger side window.

  Nora let out a yelp of surprise. “What?” Laurie demanded, slamming on the brakes, her right hand sliding into her jacket for her Glock.

  Nora struggled to catch her breath as she looked into the face of Rashid Baker. Cautiously, she lowered the window of the Buick.

  “As-salaam alaykum,” she said, her heart pounding.

  “Wa alaykum as-salaam,” he answered.

  “You surprised me. Is this your mosque?” she asked.

  “Sometimes,” he answered slowly. “Are you worshipping here now?” she caught a thread of sarcasm in his tone, and saw his eyes skate over Laurie’s hand on her weapon.

  “Working,” she said simply.

  “You’ve already solved my sister’s murder?” he asked, the calm eyes looking steely. “So now you have another case you’re pursuing?”

  “How is your mother?” Nora asked, ignoring his implications. She knew she could not possibly tell him about their latest case or the possible links with Kylie’s murder, or that he was now perhaps himself one of those links. “Did she find any bullets from the drive-by in her home?”

  Rashid shook his head. “And your partner?”

  “Al-hamdu lillah,” said Nora. Thank God. “He’s alive.”

  “Al-hamdu lillah,” echoed Rashid. He paused to give in to a deep cough, then said, “We are still waiting, Officer Khalil, to bury my sister. I hope that your time on other business is well-spent. Because, for my mother and me, every day we cannot put my sister to rest is another day of hell.”

  Nora nodded. “We are working as fast as we can.”

  He regarded her steadily, and then dropped his gaze. He mumbled the parting words of peace and walked off into the neighborhood.

  Laurie exhaled as he walked away. “I didn’t see him coming at all,” she said, as something of an apology.

  Nora said, “Me neither, don’t worry…”

  “Don’t worry? If he had had bad intentions, he could have killed us both in an instant. I’m sorry, Nora, I let you down.”

  Nora grinned at her. “Laurie, you had your hand on your gun before I could even get out a word. I knew you had my back.” She thought for a moment. It hadn’t occurred to her to try to figure out in what mosque Rashid worshipped. She could have kicked herself. If nothing else, he might have insights into the imam’s behavior. Her mind began manufacturing a long list of questions for him, and she had to prevent herself from pursuing him through the streets. But she wanted Wansbrough with her when she approached Rashid, not Laurie, who—though sharp—still didn’t have enough background on the case yet.

  Laurie pulled onto the street and aimed the car back toward Center City. With a sigh, Nora gripped her phone and again tried calling Basheera’s number.

  There was no answer.

  Laurie glanced over at her when she heard her exhale in irritation. “Gonna leave a message?”

  Nora nodded. “I hope it’s the right number.” This doubt was dispelled when the voice mail message said, As-salaam alaykum, you’ve reached Basheera. Leave me a message and in sha Allah I will call you back. Nora left her name, title, and number, asking as directly and urgently as possible for the woman to call her immediately.

  Laurie asked, “Why do you think those women in the mosque would lie about what they know?”

  “No idea. But the imam has something to do with it. He was really scared before we talked to him and his wife. Now—”

  “Yeah, well, didn’t y
ou get his house burned down?” Laurie asked.

  “I did indeed,” Nora admitted, regret surging through her. “And now he’s not talking at all.”

  It was then that Nora’s cell phone vibrated. She rushed to answer it, but realized it was just a text from John. She looked at it. “Something’s up. We need to get back to the office.” For Laurie this was an invitation to drive even more recklessly, and she started weaving in and out of traffic, with Nora almost wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.

  When they walked back into the office, Wansbrough, Calder, and Burton were deep in conversation. “What’d we miss?” Nora asked.

  John’s expression was grave. “We’ve found Kevin Baker.”

  * * *

  Kevin Baker’s face was a raw and swollen mess.

  Nora stared, shocked, at the haggard-looking figure splayed across the hospital bed. She looked at Ben, then whispered, “They really just dumped him on the sidewalk outside the William J. Green?”

  He nodded, his eyes still reflecting the astonishment they all felt. “It was like someone was handing us a gift.” He, Nora, and Laurie were perched in a row on the wide windowsill, as far from Kevin as they could be and still be in the room.

  Nora tried to ignore the radiating warmth where her thigh touched Ben’s. She whispered again, “And the security cameras picked up nothing?”

  Ben shrugged. “It was a roll-by. Nondescript sedan. Door opens, Kevin’s pushed out, car continues down Sixth Street. The best Libby could show us from the camera feed were a couple of baseball caps and some dark glasses.”

  Wansbrough and Burton entered the room. Wansbrough greeted Kevin’s attorney. She was a thin woman named Catherine Zucco, whose carefully coiffed blond hair betrayed the money and time spent on it and did little to distract from the fact that she was at least fifty. It had taken her a very long time to get to the hospital, and the team was worried Kevin would lose consciousness again.

  Burton began, “Welcome home, Kevin.”