Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [68]
“Were you alone when you met with Detective Burton?
“No. Hassan was with me.”
Jack wondered if Hassan’s presence had caused the detective to hold back—if Burton had given in to the same guilt-by-association prejudice that Jack was fighting now.
Maryam slid to the edge of her chair, her dark eyes like lasers aimed right at Jack. “I need to know where that call came from.”
Jack looked back at her, then shifted his gaze toward Hassan. It was purely instinct, but Jack sensed that Hassan wanted to know as much as she did.
“At the time, I didn’t know where it was coming from,” said Jack.
“But surely you’ve checked the number,” said Maryam.
“Yes.”
“And?”
Again Jack glanced across the room at Hassan. Jack could have lied and said he didn’t know, but in the end, the balance tipped in favor of a mother’s right to know.
“It was from a pay phone,” said Jack. “In London.”
Maryam froze. Hassan rose and crossed the room, no longer pretending to be an outsider. “Where in London?” he asked.
“Bethnal Green.”
Maryam closed her eyes for several seconds, as if to absorb the news. Finally, she opened them.
“Is something wrong?” asked Jack.
Hassan spoke up. “That’s where my brother and I parted company. Sixteen years ago.”
Only then did Jack pick up the hint of a British accent. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” said Hassan. “My brother is the only sympathizer of al-Shabaab in our family, though I suppose that, to you, I look like a terrorist, too.”
Jack suddenly felt small. “No, uh—not at all.”
Maryam said, “That area along the Mile End Road between Whitechapel and Bethnal Green underground stations is called Somaal Town. Lots of Somali ex-pats, and also some cool clubs and pubs. I met Hassan’s brother when I was visiting London one summer. He and Hassan were sharing an apartment, but they were never anything alike.”
“Still aren’t,” said Hassan.
“Are you saying that Jamal’s father is behind this phone call?”
“Who knows?” said Maryam.
“We do know this much,” said Hassan. “That area has changed over the years. It’s what some people would call eclectic, but you still have gangs, more crime. To be blunt about it, there are a lot of dead-end Somali teenage boys, which makes it a fruitful recruiting area for al-Shabaab. And there is one thing we all know about my brother.”
“He’s a recruiter for al-Shabaab,” said Jack.
“Exactly.”
“I still don’t see the connection to a panicked young girl who calls me in the middle of the night to tell me that she knows who killed McKenna Mays.”
“You haven’t looked,” said Hassan.
Maryam was suddenly emotional. She’d held herself together well, but it was all too much. Hassan went to her and gave comfort. Tears were in her eyes as she looked at Jack.
“Someone has to find out what happened to my son.”
“I’m sure the police . . .” Jack stopped himself. With the resistance he’d faced at every turn—the Department of Justice, the state attorney’s office, the CIA, the private security firms, even his own fiancée—he couldn’t peddle false hope that the police would get to the truth.
Hassan took her hand, and then looked at Jack. “Our faith teaches that when one dies, everything in this earthly life is left behind. There are no more opportunities to perform acts of righteousness and faith. But the Prophet Muhammad once said that there are three things that may continue to benefit a person after death. Charity given during life, which continues to help others. Knowledge, which grants enduring benefits. And third, a righteous child who prays for him or her.”
Maryam wiped away a tear. “I’ve lost my righteous child,” she said. “My only son.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Jack.
“For whatever reason, Jamal trusted you. So I trust you. And that is why I’m asking you this favor: Help me find the man who took my child away from me.”
“I honestly don’t know what I can do.”
“Please,” she said. “Help me.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to. But I’m a lawyer, and the sad fact of the matter is that my client is dead. I’m not a private investigator.”
“You missed the operative words,” said Hassan. “Jamal