Читать книгу The Third Brother - Andrew Welsh-Huggins - Страница 12

4

COHEN LEANED FORWARD, OPENED A MANILA folder on the edge of the desk, pulled out a picture, and handed it to me. I examined a photo of a rail-thin kid with a smile big enough for three, wearing a Columbus Crew soccer team cap while he gave the camera a hearty thumbs-up.

“Disappeared?” I said.

“Left school one afternoon, never came home. Week before graduation. Parents didn’t think anything at first, figuring he was at a buddy’s or maybe work.”

“Which was where?”

“Bagged groceries at a Kroger. After a few hours his folks started to panic. They called his friends, but nobody knew anything. Eventually they called the police. Next day the FBI’s at their door.”

“Why?”

“To ask questions. Starting with, ‘Tell us where he is before he does it.’”

“Does what?”

“Kill a bunch of people, apparently. He posted something on Facebook to that end after he went missing.”

“What’d it say?”

Cohen pulled a sheet of paper out of the folder. “It rambles a bit. Well, a lot. But the main points are pretty scary.” He scanned the document for a second, then started reading. “‘America, stop interfering with other countries, especially the Muslim Ummah. We are not weak. We cannot be ignored.’”

“Ummah?”

“Community. Like the Muslim world. Then there’s this: ‘I will kill them in their own lands, behead them in their own homes, stab them to death as they walk the streets.’”

“How old’s this kid?”

“Nineteen. And finally this one: ‘I can’t wait for another 9/11, San Bernardino, or Boston bombing!’”

Cohen handed me the paper. He was right, it rambled. But along the way, like poison ivy on a meandering trail, was plenty of ugly stuff. It wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to read on Facebook. It made me long for some of my relatives’ screeds about their neighbors’ dogs.

“Is this all?”

“A few other posts after that. Next couple of days. Images of the ISIS flag. Videos of suicide bombers, articles on martyrdom, attacks on the American government. The usual stuff.”

“And the family says this is out of character?”

“Completely.”

“But wasn’t it out of character for his brother, too?”

“They say it’s different. Hassan was an angry guy. He just shifted the focus of his anger. Abdi was happy-go-lucky, always in a good mood. And he didn’t go through any of the stages of transformation. That’s the key thing. His usual self one day, gone the next, Facebook posts the day after that.”

“Did he go to Syria?”

“We don’t think so. There’s no evidence he left the country.”

“Has he been charged?”

“Not yet. Right now the feds are just trying to find him.”

“So how are you involved?”

“The family hired me, figuring something’s coming down the line. I’ve represented a couple Somalis over the years for khat possession, so they know who I am.”

“Khat?”

“The weed of East Africa. Nasty stuff, but nothing to go to prison for, in my opinion.”

“So why am I here?”

He sighed. “The family asked me to bring you on.”

“The family? Why?”

He sighed again and shifted his position. “Your little parking lot escapade.”

“What about it?”

“Apparently they think you’re some kind of hero. I tried to persuade them otherwise, but they were adamant. They think you can help.”

“Help them how?”

“They want you to find Abdi.”

IN THE SILENCE THAT followed, Cunningham got up from his desk, walked around it, and refilled my cup. He looked at Cohen, who shook his head.

“I tried to talk them out of it,” Cohen said. “I told them everything you touched you made worse. You’re like a three-legged bull in a china shop with narrow aisles. Should have heard Abukar try to translate that. What were you doing out there, anyway?”

“Who’s Abukar?”

“Abukar Abdulkadir. He’s a community liaison of some sort. He’s the one who reached out on the family’s behalf. Answer the question.”

“Out where?”

“On the west side, where you helped that woman.”

“I was grocery shopping.”

“You live on the other side of town.”

“I’d just wrapped up a job. I needed some things for the weekend. My boys were coming the next day.”

“What kind of job?”

“I was following someone.”

“In a grocery store?”

“At the casino.”

“That makes more sense,” Cohen said. “Who were you following?”

“Someone.”

“Someone like who?”

“Freddy,” Cunningham interrupted, taking his already deep baritone down a notch. “Perhaps we should stay focused on your situation.”

“Of course, of course. It’s just that the wanderings of Junior Lew Archer here always fascinate me.”

“I’m sure they do, but—”

“First off,” I said, “I see myself more the Continental Op type. Secondly, I was following a man who’s having an affair with one of the blackjack dealers. I needed a picture of them together when she took a break. Satisfied?”

Cohen looked as if I’d punched him in the nose. The fact we both knew he’d been more or less asking for it didn’t make me feel any less bad.

“Did you get it?” he snapped.

“Get what?”

“The picture?”

“Yes.” It was one of my better efforts, in fact, the two of them holding hands over sodas at the bar like middle school kids at the roller rink.

“Good to hear,” Cohen said.

“Freddy—”

“Don’t,” he said, putting up a hand.

Cunningham cleared his throat again, but this time he meant it. “You were saying the family wants Andy to look for the boy.”

Cohen made a face as if he’d just sniffed sour milk. “To find him, were their exact words. They’re determined it has to be Andy. They said you kept helping the lady even after one of them jumped you. They said you were the only person to intervene.”

“I was the first. There’s a difference.”

“They don’t see it that way. They said”—he frowned and paused to cough, as if suddenly tasting bile—“they said you’re a great man. That’s why they want to hire you.”