Love Thy Neighbor

by Mark Gilleo

  Clark added the obvious. “And they have a shit-load of ricin.”

  “And we were just told by the FBI, and the CIA indirectly, to butt out,” Wallace added.

  “I’m not saying that we do anything. Just poke around for some information.”

  Wallace felt the pinch of his career and the pain of doing the right thing closing in on his heart from both sides. He tried to take a deep breath and failed. “Get my cigarettes and lighter out of the glove box, would you?”

  “You a smoker?” the sheriff asked, fumbling with the latch.

  “Only when absolutely necessary.”

  Wallace lit his cigarette and cracked the window on his side. The nicotine rushed his system and he felt relief as he exhaled. He looked in the rear-view mirror at Clark, who was perched forward in the back seat. “What do you know about this neighbor?”

  “Nothing that has proven to be true. She was married to a man named Nazim Shinwari. They have a daughter named Liana. That is what I know for certain. The husband is purported to be dead. Everything else is either a lie, or so close to bullshit that I can’t tell the difference. But hell, I’m not sure what to think. A month ago I was a student trying to take care of my mother. In the last few weeks I have met the IRS, the FBI, the D.C. Police and a sheriff from Nelson County. I have had a neighbor die, though I am not sure about the connection there, my missing neighbor’s house exploded and almost got me in the process, and I have stumbled upon ricin. That’s too many strange occurrences for me for one month.”

  “All right. All right,” Wallace said. “Take it easy. Take it one step at a time. Breathe.”

  Clark tried to collect himself by looking out the window at the snow which had just started to fall. His eyes moved from the snow outside to the inside of the unmarked police cruiser. The computer attached to the dash caught his eye.

  “What does that computer on the dash access?” Clark asked.

  Wallace’s eyes met Clarks in the rear-view mirror. “Does your neighbor drive?”

  “Sure.”

  Detective Wallace pulled over into the International House of Pancakes parking lot in Ballston, next to the Metro Station. “Let’s run her through the system. Just an ordinary traffic stop violation.” The detective punched in the address and name into the Virginia DMV system. A few seconds later the image of a driver’s license flashed onto the screen. The information on the license was replicated in fields on the screen below the image of the photograph.

  “That’s the information, but that’s not her,” Clark said leaning forward.

  “Right address?”

  “That’s the right address. Right name. The picture is different.”

  “She’s wearing one of those veils,” Laskey added.

  “It’s a hijab. And my neighbor always wore one. Never seen her without it. But the face is different. Similar, but different.”

  “With that hibachi it’s no wonder.”

  “Hijab. Hibachi is a Japanese grill.”

  Wallace interrupted. “I’m not surprised. After 9/11 and the investigations that followed, the Feds busted three DMVs for gross violations of procedures in issuing licenses to undocumented individuals. Two of those three DMVs are within four miles of where we sit. One of them was in Georgetown, the other in the Tysons Corner, Virginia. If she wanted a license, she came to the right place to get an illegal one. Heck, the DMV will still allow people to get a driver’s license based on the name and address on a phone bill.”

  “No offense to you two guys, but the government is fucked up. How hard is it to hire people who speak English and have common sense?”

  Wallace shook his head. “You have no idea. You want to talk scary, listen to this. For years the INS issued citizenship papers on naturalization certificates with photographs that were attached with glue. No security features. Which means that Joe Alvarez could go through the process of getting citizenship, get sworn in by the government, and walk out onto the street with a certificate granting citizenship to anyone who wanted to put their photo on it. That person could take that certificate and get a passport, a driver’s license, whatever. Keys to the kingdom.”

  “I’m sure they’ve fixed that process.”

  “A little too late. It’s not like these certificates were recalled … And in case you didn’t know, you can get your passport through the Postal Service. A Postal Service employee swears the customer to honesty, and then ships the paperwork to the Department of State. Now, how secure do you think that process is?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “What I’m saying is that if your neighbor wanted to live her life under an assumed name, she only needed a reasonable I.Q. and some perseverance.”

  “Well, I’m damn sure she wasn’t an average housewife.”

  Wallace took another drag from his cigarette. “I’ll tell you what. You dig around a little and see what you can find out. See if you can locate your neighbor. But if you see anything out of the ordinary, see anyone following you, you mind your business. The sheriff and I will try to solve our murders, which we are obligated to do. Maybe something will come from connecting those dots. In the meantime, if you need help, or hit on anything certain, you let me know.”

  The interior of the car grew quiet, before Wallace added, “But do me a favor, call me from a pay phone to the main work number at the precinct, and then get transferred to me. Don’t be leaving any long messages about terrorists or Dorchester Lane. If anyone asks, I want to be able to say I don’t know what the hell you are doing.”

  Clark smirked. “Of course.”

  Chapter 42

  After memories of the first dates have faded, after the flowers have drooped and the chocolate has settled into cellulite, the first fight in a relationship is when fluid-exchanging partners really get to know each other. The good façade can only be maintained for so long.

  When it comes to the female half of the equation, no man really knows what he has until that façade is temporarily tossed aside. Unfortunately, peeking at the undercurrent of true emotions is much like testing a bulletproof vest with a real person and live ammunition. Some women cry, some women hit, some women sulk, some women brood, some women scream. Clark was about to find out which camp Lisa fell into. He was hoping that Lisa didn’t come from the Lorena Bobbit school of anger management.

  “How the fuck could you do that? I could lose my job.”

  “I know, I know. It was stupid. It was irresponsible.”

  Lisa interrupted his self-reprimand. “It was dishonest.”

  “I know. But…”

  “There is no ‘but,’ Clark. I should turn you in. You deceiving shit.”

  Not bad for a geeky looking C.P.A., Clark thought. “You don’t want to turn me in. You could get in trouble. Doesn’t the Treasury Department teach you to keep your computer secure? Not keep your password written down where just anyone could find it?”

  “Fuck you, Clark. It was in my apartment. The doors were locked. It wasn’t stolen by some unknown entity. How about some respect for other’s property?”

  Clark got down from his verbal podium. “It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  Lisa flopped onto the sofa and stared at the laptop on the small coffee table. “What exactly did you do?”

  “I poked around a little.”

  “Exactly what did you poke around and see?”

  “I went into the IRS database.”

  “The MFDA?”

  “It’s pretty impressive really.”

  “Clark. You’re an asshole.”

  “I put in my mother’s address just to see what would come up.”

  “I thought you were checking out your neighbors…”

  “I was, but not at first … or I guess I was, but I wanted to see some information that I thought I knew was correct before I started poking around.”

  Lisa shook her head. “And…”

  “Well I saw the information for my parents, their address, names, tax history. Place and dates
of birth. Real estate transactions. Pensions. Their account was flagged with a message indicating that they were being audited.”

  “Did you share this information with your mother?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Did you print anything out?”

  “No, I didn’t have time.”

  Clark winced at his poor choice of words and then shoved his foot deeper into his mouth.

  “And you came out of the bedroom and dragged me back to bed.”

  “You betrayed me and then minutes later had sex with me?”

  Clark knew better than to answer that question. He dropped his head in mock shame.

  “Go on,” Lisa prodded.

  “Well, I changed the address to Ariana and Nazim’s across the street. It was the same type of information. Did you know that Muslim women typically keep their maiden names?”

  “Probably because the men are allowed to keep four wives and it gets confusing if all of them are called Mrs. So-and-so,” Lisa retorted, still angry with Clark, and by virtue of that, still angry with all men.

  “Yeah, maybe. Hadn’t thought of that. Anyway, as I said, Ariana called me from Pakistan and asked me to keep an eye on her house.”

  “You mentioned that.”

  “Well, she said that her father was ill and that she was in the hospital. But her files listed her parents as deceased.”

  “Maybe it was Nazim’s father she was referring to. A lot of people refer to their fathers-in-law as ‘fathers.’”

  “Could have been, but Nazim’s father, said father-in-law, was also listed in the no-longer-living section. And then I called Nazim’s employer.”

  “And…”

  “The guy said he also received a call from Ariana in Pakistan. He said that Ariana said Nazim had been killed in a car accident after they arrived.”

  Lisa looked uncomfortable. “Did you tell the FBI guy all of this.”

  “What do you think? I told everybody but the trashman what is going on.”

  “And the FBI told you, and the two cops, that the CIA was on the case?”

  “Yes. But there are still a lot of answered questions.”

  “Clark, have you thought for a moment that the FBI and CIA can handle it? That you are getting in over your head?”

  “I hope they’re right. I hope they do have it covered.”

  “Then why are we having this conversation?”

  Clark stumbled a little. “I just need to check on something. Something the detective said to me. And I could use your help.”

  “With what? Your idea that your neighbor is suspicious and has been lying to you? No, that’s not in my jurisdiction.”

  “Don’t have to be so testy.”

  “I’m still working through the feeling of betrayal. I can be testy if I want.”

  “I just thought maybe an IRS criminal investigator might have some criminal investigative powers.”

  “I do. And we do have some jurisdiction with terrorism. For one, we were trained to identify potential parties in the Hawala system. And of course, we have the ability to search bank records and look for potential money-laundering and terrorist support channels. But for the most part, the execution of that arm is done by FinCen, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. It’s a group based out of the Tysons area, under the Department of Treasury.”

  “What is the Hawala system?

  “It’s an informal system of money transfers used in the Middle East, and other places.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Let’s say that you are in New York and you want to transfer money to Saudi Arabia without going through normal channels. The Hawala system allows you to make the transfer through informal channels. All you need is to know a Hawala broker. You bring your money to a Hawala broker in, let’s say, Brooklyn, and they will arrange to have the money transferred to a Hawala broker in Saudi Arabia. But the key is that the money is never actually transferred. The whole system works on honesty. One broker agrees to pay the other at a later date, usually through a transfer of funds going in the opposite direction. Both sides keep a running total of what is owed to whom and eventually, with the participation of other brokers, the debts get settled. Imagine a big system of I.O.U.s. The Hawala brokers make money off of small commissions and generally avoid foreign exchanges, thus offering their services at a lower price than above-the-board remittance alternatives. Obviously, the system also lends itself to tax evasion. One could work in the U.S. for cash, send that money overseas without a transaction trail, and the taxman would be cut out of the equation.”

  “A system like that would never work in the U.S. There just isn’t that much honesty.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. The mafia has had similar systems. At any rate, the Department of Treasury received training on the financial systems of various regions in the world, all under the auspices of identifying unfriendly foreign elements and catching tax avoiders. The Hawala system was just one of these.”

  “You ever caught a Hawala broker?”

  “I was an auditor until last month and have only been a criminal investigator for a few weeks, so the answer is ‘no.’”

  “Thank you for the explanation of terrorist financing.”

  “Why are you such a jerk? You were the one asking.”

  “You’re right. I am just a little wound up, I guess. But there is something else that has been bothering me.”

  “Do tell.”

  “We had another neighbor die over the weekend. A new guy in the neighborhood. He died of reported organ failure.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “A few houses up. Away from Ariana and Nazim’s. The guy was only forty-three. A carpenter. No history of illnesses.”

  “Who told you about this?”

  “Where do I get all of my information?”

  “Mr. Stanley.”

  “Bingo. But with two neighbors passing away recently, well, it got me thinking about my father. He died from a never completely diagnosed illness that set-in rapidly.”

  “What a minute. Now, you think Ariana killed your father?”

  Clark saw a chink in Lisa’s armor. “All I’m saying is that my father has some longevity in his genes. He doesn’t have siblings, but most of his relatives make it to their nineties.”

  “I just don’t know, Clark. I just don’t know.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told the cops. We don’t have to actually do anything. I just want to poke around a little.”

  Lisa looked straight ahead in a near trance.

  “Let me ask you one question, Lisa. Wouldn’t you hate to be wrong on this one?”

  After a minute of silence, Lisa rolled her eyes and sighed. “Ok, Clark. Let’s assume that everything you have found out, and a few things that you are speculating on, are true. Then what do you do?”

  “Find out who she is.”

  “That simple? Find her and then what?”

  “I’ll know when I find her.”

  “And how do you propose to do this?”

  “I have an idea. But you’re not going to like it.”

  “If it involves me, you’re probably right.”

  Chapter 43

  Paul Cannon was on his sixth cup of coffee, three doses over his usual daily allowance. The stubble on his cleft chin was thick, his breath terrible, his hemorrhoids screaming. And he had never been happier, with the exception of the Red Sox ending their eighty-six year World Series drought. He had certainly never been more satisfied. Only a handful of people in the world had the experience he now had. He had just placed a working man-made craft on another planet in the solar system. The moon was for underachievers, he thought, as he walked out of work and drove past the huge gates with armed guards.

  NASA didn’t hire losers, and Paul Cannon was the upper echelon of an elite core. He had aced every standardized test he had taken since the sixth grade and his I.Q. was at a level where the best estimate was a mere guess. Only poor vision had kept him from his ch
ildhood dream of going into space. When he learned his degenerative eye disorder wasn’t repairable, he did the next best thing to becoming an astronaut. He set his sights on becoming a NASA scientist. Even though thick glasses meant he would be collecting accolades for deeds done on Earth, his mind was rarely on the planet he called home.

  Without sleep for three days, he hadn’t seen his wife and son in a week. None of which prevented him from spending most of the past weekend with the true love of his life. The focus of his adoration stood two feet high, five feet long, nose to tail, and was currently scurrying around the surface of the fourth rock from the sun. The largest Mars exploration robot ever built by man was powered by an engine designed by Paul Cannon. He nurtured it to existence and made it work in reality. Nothing a genius I.Q. and a lifetime obsession bordering on a compulsive disorder couldn’t do.

  Long since trading in his tinker toy set and science project kits, his new BMW 5-series was Paul Cannon’s lone adult toy. And the toy was pissing him off. The stuttering had started a week ago and had gradually progressed into a form of automotive break-dancing. As Paul turned onto the highway near Greenbelt, Maryland, the car beeped yet again and he glanced down at the dashboard. Next to the red check engine light, the yellow oil pressure light illuminated the back of the steering wheel.

  “Fabulous,” Paul said aloud over the NPR commentator speaking from the radio. He looked at the red digital clock in the dash and wondered if he would make it to his son’s eighth birthday party, scheduled to begin in ninety minutes with the grand entrance of a two-hundred-dollar-an-hour clown. A quick stop to grab a birthday present, and hopefully outdo the clown, was the only thing on his mind. Other than why he hadn’t listened to his wife and bought the Lexus.

  Big Al’s Hobby Shop, on the border of D.C. and the Maryland state line near Takoma Park, was three blocks west of the metro station, nuzzled into a strip of otherwise sketchy establishments that included a martial arts dojo that taught a Brazilian form of self-defense known as capoeira. The shady neighborhood did little to deter customers from Big Al’s, which had the largest selection and cheapest prices of anyone on the East Coast. The store had once been the corner drug store, replete with a real soda fountain, before it became the prime location of failed drug store chains from Dart Drug to Drug Fair to Peoples.