“It sure is.”
Chapter 2
Don, Charlie, and Judy drove the twenty miles between the Mack Agency’s downtown offices and the home of the late Hassan Pashia. Oakland County was Michigan’s second-largest district, composed of communities northwest of Detroit where the socioeconomic status was generally higher, and the population whiter. Most of the families in this Farmington Hills neighborhood chose to live here because the schools were better and the streets safer.
The Pashias’ large brick home was set well back from the street by an expansive manicured lawn and wide sidewalk. Don parked in the driveway. The young man who answered the door finally triggered Charlie’s recognition.
Kamal was five inches taller and more filled in across the chest than when she’d last seen him in her self-defense classes, but he still had the same shy smile. Charlie hugged the boy before making introductions to Don and Judy.
Seventeen-year-old Kamal led them through a rarely used living room into a comfortably furnished family room with overstuffed couches, a mounted 90-inch TV, and tall windows that allowed sunlight to penetrate every corner. There were no visible indications that the home’s occupants were of the Islamic faith.
Charlie, Don, and Judy sat on a couch across from the family as Kamal introduced the Mack team to his mother and two sisters. Kamal and his younger sister, Farah, wore Western garb. Married sister, Amina, and their mother, Jawaria, wore hijabs—the traditional head scarf. Amina spoke for the family.
“Thank you and your partners for coming, Ms. Mack,” she said.
“We’re all very sorry for your loss,” Charlie offered. “We’ve all familiarized ourselves with the news reports of the police investigation, but we’d like to know more about your father and the unfortunate circumstances of his death.”
Amina provided an account of her father’s work at the mosque as a lay teacher. He was also an instructor at the local community college—a position he’d held for twelve years. Hassan was often the last person at the mosque because his computer programming classes were held on weeknights. He was usually home by ten o’clock, but twice this month a security alarm had sent him back to the building. The night of his death he’d called his wife to tell her he’d be late because he was returning to the mosque to reset the alarm.
During Amina’s account, Charlie twice caught the eye of Mrs. Pashia. She was clearly in mourning, dressed in a high-necked top and a skirt falling to her feet. Her humble, somber presence was dignified and peaceful.
Charlie felt Don begin to fidget. He tired quickly of one-way information, and Charlie knew he was ready to ask questions. She indicated with a subtle nudge of her arm to hold off. On Charlie’s other side, Judy listened attentively, jotting notes.
Amina spoke of her father’s compassion, saying he was a teacher who took interest in his students’ well-being and always offered extra help for someone struggling.
“Some semesters he convened a Saturday tutoring group right here in this room.” Amina reached her hand out to her mother who had begun quietly sobbing.
Don cleared his throat and began talking before Charlie could stop him.
“Why have you decided to go around the police in the investigation of your father’s murder?”
The abrupt question caught the family off guard. Kamal’s countenance changed. He shifted forward on the sofa and stared at Don with dark, penetrating eyes. He was about to protest when Amina held up her hand to silence him. Kamal slumped back on the sofa, crossing his arms.
“Mr. Rutkowski, is it?” Amina asked.
“That’s right. Formerly Detective Rutkowski with the Detroit Metropolitan Police.”
“I see. Well, it’s not our intent to embarrass the police. The Dearborn detectives have met with us several times, and are coordinating with the FBI. They have, rightly, categorized my father’s murder a hate crime. Initially they were very interested and communicative, but for two weeks our contact in the hate crimes unit has not returned our repeated calls.”
Amina’s response seemed to take the wind out of Don’s sails. He clenched his jaw and Charlie picked up the conversation.
“We do know the crime against your mosque is one of several cases in the metropolitan area in the last few months. There’s a multi-jurisdictional task force looking into the patterns of these crimes.”
“We already read about that in the papers,” Kamal blurted.
Amina put her hand on her brother’s arm to settle him. The younger sister, maybe twelve years old, sat next to her mother. Farah had been looking up shyly and was now visibly upset. She leaned against her mother’s arm and occasionally peeked at her brother.
“Are there some areas of the investigation where you believe the police could do better?” Charlie asked.
“We believe so.”
“What in particular?”
“There are videotapes. Security tapes taken from the mosque and nearby street cameras. The police haven’t told us what’s on those tapes. They also haven’t returned my father’s laptop.”
Judy was already taking that note.
“Anything else?” Don asked with irritation.
“There were things police found at the mosque the night of the break-in. A paint can top, bits of wiring, and a cigarette found in the hedges at the side of the building.”
“Okay,” Charlie said. “We can probably get your laptop back, and you want to hire us to supplement the work of the police. Is that right?”
“Yes, but . . .”
Before Amina could finish, her mother interrupted. “Amina, I would like to speak with her alone, please. I think it is important.”
“Of course, Um.”
Jawaria Pashia rose to her feet. “Ms. Mack, please follow me.”
Charlie stood and, with a look, told Don and Judy to stay seated. She followed the mother into the pristine living room. Jawaria sat on an upholstered bench and pointed to the seat next to her. Now in closer proximity, Charlie could see Mrs. Pashia’s natural beauty, which had been cloaked in her heavy, dark clothing. Charlie guessed the woman was probably in her mid-fifties.
“My son likes you very much. He always said you were a kind and competent teacher.”
“Thank you.”
Jawaria shook her head. “It is a compliment, yes, but you don’t understand my full meaning. Many parents at the center felt betrayed when we learned you worked for Homeland Security. Some even called you khayin—a traitor. We later learned the reason you left the agency was in protest of the way our community was treated.”
Charlie nodded. She didn’t want any credit for her decision to leave DHS. The racial profiling of the Muslim community, especially in southeastern Michigan, went way beyond the agency’s standard practices, and she had begun to lose sleep over it. She often thought she had stayed longer than she should have but once the decision was made, Charlie convinced her agent/friend Gil Acosta to depart with her. A month later, Don—who had been a DHS trainer—joined her and Gil to form Mack Private Investigations.
“Even when the others derided you, Kamal was always your defender. He wasn’t a popular kid. He was teased at school because he was small and because he was Muslim. He said you made him feel important in class, and encouraged him to be confident. He said you would not have been kind to him if you were a bad person.”
Charlie felt embarrassed by the praise. “I know a little bit about what it’s like to be treated like an outsider,” she responded.
“Let me be frank with you, Ms. Mack. I don’t trust the police to find my husband’s killer. There have been many incidents at our mosques. The police rarely make any arrests.”
Charlie began to argue against Jawaria’s concerns, but the woman stopped her.
“The police do not see my husband as someone important enough to spend much time and effort on. We both know the truth of my statement.”
# # #
As soon as they got to the car Don began to complain. He didn’t want to take the case. He
also resented being left alone with the children while Charlie met with the mother. Judy had kids of her own and handled the situation well, directing questions to Kamal and Farah about school, sports, and the latest Marvel movie. Don, Judy reported, had sulked on the couch.
“I think we should help this family,” Charlie said.
“Why, Mack? The money isn’t all that great since you gave them a discount,” he said sarcastically. “The police are doing everything we could do.”
“You don’t know that,” Charlie countered.
Judy spoke up only to agree that the case fee was below their standard.
The ride continued with a minute’s worth of silence while Charlie thought through her arguments for taking the case. The traffic was light heading back into town, and Don’s irritation increased the pressure of his already lead foot.
“You’re going to get another camera ticket,” Charlie warned, and Don eased off the accelerator. “I promised Jawaria that we’d look into a few things.”
“Like what?” Don challenged.
“The husband received a couple of death threats at the community college where he teaches. Anonymous notes. Someone angry about bad grades.”
“That doesn’t merit an investigation,” Don quipped.
“Maybe not. But in the mosque breach, and another incident Jawaria knows about, files were stolen. Student records, and things like that.”
“What else was stolen?” Judy asked from the back seat.
“Nothing else. Laptops, valuable artifacts, TVs. All left behind.”
“That’s odd,” Judy said.
“This is about race, isn’t it?” Don asked accusingly. “They don’t think they’ll get a fair shake because they’re Muslim.”
“They could be right,” Judy said.
“That’s bullshit. You both know how I feel about bypassing the police.”
“We’re not going to bypass law enforcement,” Charlie said. “You can contact the police and the joint task force and see what they have on the Pashia case. There are a lot more of these incidents than the public knows about. Mandy mentioned investigations her department has had recently.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“Not to me. You’ve never been on the hurting side of this kind of racism, Don. Sometimes it’s covert, but other times it’s right in your face. My mother and father faced it in their day, and their parents before them. I’m sick and tired of it. It’s 2009. When is it going to end?”
Don and Judy didn’t know what to say. Charlie felt Judy’s empathy from the backseat, and she knew Don’s silence was his way of giving support. Charlie didn’t like displaying her emotions, but the Pashia family’s pain had gotten to her.
“Look, you know members of that task force,” Charlie said to Don. “They’ll trust you.”
“Isn’t James Saleh part of the task force?” Judy asked.
“He is,” Charlie said. “He called a couple of months ago, when they were forming the team, to get my advice on who to include from DHS.”
“I didn’t know that,” Judy said. “I haven’t spoken to him for five or six months.”
Judy’s crush on Saleh had begun four years ago when the Mack Agency had collaborated with the FBI on a case that started as a missing person investigation and turned out to involve interstate human trafficking.
“It would be good to be back in touch with Agent Saleh,” Judy said quietly.
“You’re a married woman with teenage kids,” Don shouted to the backseat.
“That’s right,” Judy responded. “And I still know a good-looking man when I see one.”
Chapter 3
Charlie stopped at the front desk of the independent-living facility. The first thing she noticed was the worry on Gloria’s face.
“I’m glad you came by Miss Charlene. Your mother was scheduled to go out with her walking group, but she called down to say she was too tired to walk today. Something’s going on with Miss Ernestine. I know she resents me keeping an eye on her, but I know that’s what you want me to do.”
“That’s right, and I really do appreciate it, Gloria.”
Charlie hadn’t called ahead to tell Ernestine she was coming, so she felt like a snoop as she stepped to her mother’s door on the fourth floor. Normally she’d just use her key, but today she knocked. Her mother opened the door looking fresh, well-groomed, and happy.
“Oh. Charlene. Uh, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know, Mom. I should have called, but I was in the neighborhood,” Charlie lied. “Besides, it’s been a couple of weeks since I saw you.”
“Is everything all right?” Ernestine asked, waving her inside.
Charlie quickly scanned the apartment. Things were neat. There were no signs of disorder except for the usual collection of newspapers, magazines and books on the dining-room table. Those were the tools of her mother’s vigilant watch on the work of local government, and her frequently published newspaper op-eds.
“Everything’s fine. Mandy’s good and sends her hello.”
“I thought you said you just happened to drop by.”
“Well, I did,” Charlie said. “I was out of the office for a meeting.”
She’d continued her assessment of the apartment, peering into the open bathroom door and walking into the kitchen and returning. She and her mother stopped face-to-face in the dining room.
“Gloria called you, didn’t she?”
Charlie’s face gave her away.
“I knew it,” Ernestine said taking a seat in front of her laptop. “Charlie, if you want to know how I’m doing with the Alzheimer’s, why don’t you just ask me? I’ll always tell you the truth. I don’t want that woman being your spy.”
“She’s not, Mom. She cares about you, and I’ve only asked her to check in on you because I can’t always be around.”
Ernestine didn’t look up from her typing. Charlie sat across the table from her.
“How are you doing?”
“There’s been some deterioration of my short-term memory. It comes in and out. Some days I’m still very sharp, but other days I can’t remember where to find things.”
“Will you promise to tell me when you think you need extra help?”
Ernestine looked up at her daughter. Tears sprang to her eyes. She never wanted to be a burden to anyone, but especially not Charlie.
“I’ll let you know if I think I can’t do this alone. But, meanwhile, I have friends here who help me. We help each other.”
“That’s good to hear. Are they the people in your walking group?”
“Some of them,” Ernestine said in a way that made Charlie know she had more to say.
“What aren’t you telling me, Mom?”
“I, uh,” Ernestine stopped talking for a moment, then continued. “I have a gentleman friend. My new neighbor who moved into apartment 410 a few weeks ago.”
“Well, that’s, uh, good news, I guess,” Charlie said. “What’s this gentleman’s name? When can I meet him?”
“His name is Mr. Constantine. He’s coming by this afternoon to show me pictures of his family. Most of them live in California now. I’ve told him all about you.”
Charlie was completely taken aback by the news of a man in Ernestine’s life. Especially since after her father’s death, her mother had rebuffed the attention of a half-dozen men, choosing instead to put her daughter and her career above male companionship. So it was stunning now, so many years later, that her mother would have a suitor.
“I’m really happy you’ve found somebody.”
“After all these years?” Ernestine offered.
“Well, yes, but it’s never too late. I look forward to meeting Mr. Constantine. Does he have a first name?”
Ernestine smiled. “Yes, of course he does. It’s just that we’re still kind of formal with each other. His name is Gabriel.”
Charlie nodded, making a mental note.
“So what investigations are you working on?”
“We got a new client just this morning involving an incident I’m sure you’ve read about. A man was killed in a recent attack on a mosque, and the man’s family has asked us to help the police find whoever’s responsible.”
Ernestine nodded. “Of course. I’ve read the accounts.”
Civil rights, human rights, and class disparities were Ernestine’s chosen areas of advocacy. During college she’d registered voters in the South, and in the last thirty years she’d been a vocal proponent of equal opportunities in education.
“These hate crimes have been popping up all over. Mr. Constantine and I have discussed them. Are you familiar with the Southern Poverty Law Center?”
“I’ve heard the name. They’re a sixties racial justice organization, aren’t they?”
“They’re still doing that work. SPLC keeps tabs on these groups committing crimes like vandalizing churches and attacking mosques, and such. Come sit next to me, and I’ll show you.”
Ernestine opened her search engine and punched in a few keys, and news of a violent right-wing group popped onto the screen. Spun off from the ideologies of the Klan, these members were more sophisticated and tech savvy than the night riders of the fifties and sixties, but just as hateful and deadly. Ernestine had witnessed the proliferation of these groups during her voter registration work in the South, and since her retirement from the Detroit Public Schools, had written two newspaper opinion pieces about the dangers of these so-called alt-righters.
Together, Charlie and her mom perused a series of intelligence reports and white papers detailing the increase in effigy burnings, racist graffiti, beatings, and threats in the past eight years. One article pointed specifically to the anti-immigration sentiments of these groups—especially toward Latinos. Barack Obama’s presidency was also listed as a factor in these hate campaigns.
“We can’t ignore these groups. They’re not going away,” Ernestine said.
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