WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (34 page)

“What does it mean?” Mustafa asked.

“We believe those are the notes he took the morning his car was struck by your server. Al-Zubaidy’s name, his Tennessee driver’s license number and the license tag for the car that struck the Acura.”

“I do not know what to say,” Mustafa said.

“We’re still gathering facts. This is why we need as much information from you as possible about all this.”

“Detective,” Mustafa said appearing shaken, “I need to know whether or not all this will damage my assignment.”

“What assignment is that?” Mike asked.

“I was chosen months ago to provide the traditional Kurdish meal for the Kurdish-American Conference on Friday at the Centurion Nashville Hotel. This could bring the wrong kind of attention to my business. I cannot afford for my good name to be a part of all this ... this turmoil.”

“Honestly, I don’t know if this could have any impact on that decision,” Mike said. “I hope not, for your sake. With less than two days until the event, I can’t imagine the conference committee making any changes.”

“Besides,” Cris said, “al Zubaidy only worked here. As his employer, you’re not responsible for his actions or what happens to him outside his work hours.”

“Yes, I understand that. But, I have worked for many years here in Nashville to build a good reputation for my restaurant and myself. Surely, you realize the obstacles we as immigrants face as we attempt to build new lives for our families here. Even our names when spoken aloud prime the pumps of hatred and fear. When we come here, at first we are forced to try and become invisible, to find a way to blend in without drawing attention to ourselves. Then as we slowly build credibility and trust, we are hopefully allowed to become hyphenated Americans; Iraqi-Americans such as my family. Later, we pray that at some point over the years we may be known only as Americans, without condition.” He paused. “I fear something like these killings could destroy all I have worked for.”

“Mr. Mustafa,” Mike said, “we will do all we can to see these unfortunate events don’t draw negative attention to you or your business.”

“Thank you, detectives.” Mustafa offered his hand to Mike, then to Cris. “I have been fortunate since I came to America and to Nashville years ago. I have made many friends. I was welcomed and allowed to start a new life here. I owe this country and this city so much. I hope they will allow me to repay them.”

“You sound like an American to me,” Cris said, smiling.

Saint Thomas Hospital

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Morning

“Morning, Milwaukee.” Mike yelled as soon as he pushed back the door and confirmed there was no one else in Norm’s room. “How’s my favorite cheese-head?”

“Partner,” Norm said with a weakened voice and a strained smile. “Hi, Cris.”

“Hello, Norm.” Cris walked to the foot of his bed and squeezed his toes. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I got tackled by Green Bay’s entire defensive line.”

Mike walked to the side of the bed and took Norm’s huge hand and squeezed it for a moment. “You sure know how to scare the crap out of your friends.”

“I was only testing your ability to negotiate the streets of our city under the stress of emergency driving conditions.”

“Right. Did I pass?” Mike smiled.

“Yep, I gave you an A. The patient survived the drive. Now, if I can survive the hell Cheryl’s going to put me through to lose weight.”

“It’s for your own good, big boy. And beware, she’s recruited me to help her.”

“No way,” Norm said.

“Yeah, we’re gonna be coming at you from both directions. The bulk’s coming off, Bubba. You’re too important for us to let you kill yourself.”

Mike’s cell phone vibrated. He looked at the display. “Excuse me a minute.” He stepped outside the room.

“So, what do you think about our partner,” Norm asked Cris as the door closed behind Mike.

“I think he’s a rare bird,” Cris said.

“Definitely one of a kind,” Norm agreed. “I’ve never known another cop with his level of compassion for victims.”

“I can believe that,” Cris said.

“I don’t know how much he’s told you about himself, but he’s had a rocky life. Over the years, he’s lost a number of people close to him. It’s caused him to be cautious with relationships.”

“Yeah, he told me about some of it,” Cris said.

“That trauma may be the reason he’s as caring as he is. Rather than choosing to become hardened like some cops, they’ve made him more perceptive of his relationships and their value to him. I think he has a unique ability to understand other folks’ pain. As I’m sure you know, in this job, he gets plenty of opportunity to practice.”

“That’s for sure,” Cris agreed.

“Now I owe him for taking care of me and getting me to the ER when he did.”

“I’d say Mike did that out of love, Norm. No favor owed.”

Norm nodded.

Mike pushed the door open. “Sorry, boys and girls, but it’s time to go to work. That was Burris. Moretti was able to influence the TBI. They called with results on some of the prints from the apartment. He wants us in front of him, post-haste.”

“What apartment? No, don’t tell me. I’ll only get pissed off because I can’t go with you.” Norm shook his head. “Shit.”

“Easy, partner.” Mike took Norm’s hand. “You’re still in the game. You’re just warming the bench for a few weeks. Do what they tell you, so you can get out of here.” Mike stepped backward toward the door. “Okay? You get well,” Mike pointed his finger at Norm, “or I’ll be kicking that big Yankee ass.” He laughed. “I’ll call you later.”

Cris grabbed Norm’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Take care.”

“Thanks for coming by, guys,” Norm said.

The door came open as Mike reached for it. He stepped back. A young lady in dark blue scrubs entered carrying a tray with a bowl of oatmeal, a small bowl of berries, a scrambled egg white, a piece of whole wheat toast and coffee.

“Feast,” Mike said when they passed the dietician.

As they paced the long hallway toward the elevators, Mike said, “I’m sure glad he’s okay.”

“Me too,” Cris said. “He sure thinks a lot of you.”

“It’s mutual; I assure you.”

As the stainless steel doors to the elevator separated on arrival at the first floor, the new partners spotted a wall of dark blue approaching them. Almost two dozen uniformed officers and a handful of familiar faces in plainclothes stopped in front of the elevators.

“How’s he doing?” Doug Wolfe asked.

Mike smiled at their display of camaraderie as he looked across the group.

“He’s going to be fine.”

“We’re gonna see if we can cheer him up,” Wolfe said.

“You will definitely do that,” Mike said. “Thanks, guys.”

Criminal Justice Center

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Morning

Burris spotted the detectives from his desk as they came through the door. He waved them in.

“Good morning,” Cris said.

“Have a seat.” Burris stuck out both hands, each containing identical copies of the fingerprint report.

“Here’s what we’ve received from the TBI, so far. One set of partial prints came back from the FBI’s AFIS and they’re being reviewed by the examiners, but they feel the point count is low and they’re still working for a better match. The extra effort is being made because a valid match could put one of the names from the FBI’s Terror Watch List at the al-Zubaidy crime scene. His name is Abdul Malik Kadir and he’s aligned with known terrorist leader Farid al-Rishari. The FBI says al-Rishari is a confederate of bin Laden.”

“Wow,” Cris said.

“What’s the plan?” Mike asked.

“Captain Moretti is talking with Burton Jarvis, Special Agent in Charge at the Nashville field office of the FBI,” Burris said. “The probability of a connection to international terrorism is high. Hell, the feds got the print report before we did.”

“Wonderful,” Mike said with a sarcastic tone. I thought you said they matched two sets of partials,” Mike asked.

“That’s even more interesting,” Burris explained. “The other partial set had only been in the database a short time.”

“Really?” Cris said.

“Yeah, only since TBI checked the state’s AFIS yesterday.” Burris looked at the detectives for their reaction.

“Yesterday?” Mike asked, wrinkling his brow. Then he said, “Hamid’s car.”

“That’s right,” Burris confirmed. “The second group of partials was taken from the Acura yesterday. But, even though we have a match, it was still with an unidentified set of prints.”

“Geez,” Cris said.

Burris hesitated. “Until about thirty minutes ago.”

“What?” Mike said.

“Dr. Jamison called. The unidentified set of prints from the Acura and the apartment belong to the second victim, al-Zubaidy.”

“Al-Zubaidy was at Cumberland Plaza,” Cris said.

“Or,” Burris offered, “he touched Hamid’s car during the exchange of information following the wreck at Mustafa’s.”

“Or,” Mike said, “al-Zubaidy wasn’t butchered by the same killer as Hamid. He was Hamid’s killer. But, if that’s true, then who killed al- Zubaidy?”

“And why?” Burris added.

Hasan al-Fulan’s Basement

Donelson Area - Nashville, Tennessee

Wednesday Late Evening

The windowless basement apartment was no place for a martyr to spend his last days, but Karim was undaunted. His focus was on memories of his father, Allah’s will and what he was about to do to honor both.

“How do you feel?” Sajid asked his friend, praying the young man remained committed.

Karim knew what Sajid was actually asking. “I am ready. Allah’s will be done.”

“Your treasures await you,” Sajid said, nodding his head.

As Abdul watched the conversation between the two young men, he could see that Karim’s face showed less commitment than his words, but Abdul had seen this look before on the faces of young soon-to-be martyrs.

Karim stood and placed his hand across his forehead. “I would like to be alone for a while. I need to take my medicine and lie down. This is not a good time for a headache.”

“As you wish,” Abdul said. “I have one request.”

“Yes.”

“I would like to see you wearing the device, so I can make adjustments and be sure it is going to be hidden beneath your clothing.”

Karim looked at his watch. “I will come to you in one hour. I hope I am feeling better by then,” Karim said. He walked slowly to the small bedroom and closed the door.

Abdul looked at Sajid who appeared worried about his friend. “Do you feel there is cause for concern?”

“I do not think so,” Sajid said. “I believe I would feel as nervous as Karim under the same conditions.”

Abdul merely stared at Sajid.

“Any intelligent man about to surrender his life,” Sajid said, “would be just as withdrawn and in search of his God.”

Once the hour had passed, Karim came to Abdul. Sajid held the straps as Karim carefully slipped his arms through and wrapped the device around his body. Abdul made the needed adjustments and secured the straps. Sajid helped Karim pull on his tuxedo shirt and waiter’s white jacket. Abdul checked to make sure the device was not visible.

Satisfied the device would be hidden beneath Karim’s clothes; Abdul checked his watch, then nodded at Karim and told him he could remove it for the wait.

Sajid helped Karim remove the device and the young martyr-to-be returned to the privacy of the dark bedroom and his prayers.

Abdul wanted his last words to Karim to be worthy of the young man’s impending sacrifice, so he planned them carefully.

When it was time, Sajid and Abdul again helped Karim with the device, and his clothes. He looked good and the device was well-hidden, much better than his nerves.

When they were ready to leave, Abdul spoke to him and said, “Karim—may Allah grant you resolve and victory today and may you find abundant riches in Paradise. For whoever obeys Him alone will enter the Garden. May the peace and blessings of Allah be upon you today as you carry out His will.”

“All praise be to Allah,” Sajid said.

“Allahu Akbar,” Abdul said.

“Allahu Akbar,” the young men repeated together.

White Tail Lodge

Hubbard County, Tennessee

Thursday Morning

“The schedule has the rag-heads and the politicos drinking and chewing the fat in the Coliseum Room on the first floor until twelve-thirty,” Vernon McBride said. “They’re to begin serving lunch in the ballroom at one-fifteen and the head table introductions begin at two o’clock, minutes before the keynote address starts.”

“Do you think the timing will be that precise?” Garrison asked.

“We’re assured by our contacts inside the hotel that everything is highly structured at The Centurion. Their events manager is exceptionally meticulous, and the staff has learned not to disappoint her.”

“Nice of them to help us.” Garrison smiled.

“Senator Raymond Westbrook is to be the last one introduced by the master of ceremonies,” McBride said. “He’s scheduled to begin his final tolerant immigration policy address ten minutes before he gets screwed. We’re all set to go at two-fifteen, about the time Westbrook is hitting his bleeding-heart liberal stride.”

“Screwed?” Garrison laughed.

“The package is wrapped in five pounds of wood screws.” McBride smiled. “Ouch.”

“Excellent. Who’s taking care of getting the package into the hotel?”

“Hightower and Dixon.”

“When is it going in?”

“It’s there now.”

“Already?” Garrison asked, surprised.

“It’s on the top floor, outside the ballroom. Our men were there this morning and took it in behind the florist when they made their delivery of all the fresh flowers this morning. They blended in nicely.” McBride said, with a proud smile.

“Good job,” Garrison said.

“Hightower and Dixon will finish the placement,” McBride looked at his wristwatch, “about an hour from now. I should get a confirmation call once it’s in place.”