The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3)

by Phelps, T Patrick

  “What do you have?”

  “Pictures and names. Actually, after I filtered through, I came up with only one person I think you should check out. Young kid from Queens, named Kevin Washington. I’ll send over his picture in a minute. There’s not much on him in the bulletins except that he changed his name to Aahill a few months ago and is very tightly connected with Badr Irani. What’s interesting about Kevin or Aahill, or whatever the hell he calls himself, is that he grew up a Christian, was recruited by Badr’s mosque, dropped out of high school and has gone off the radar for the last couple of weeks. May be a long shot but all the other suspects seem too usual.”

  “Got any contact info on him?”

  “No. I thought it would be more fun just to send over his picture and name and let you figure it out for yourself. Of course I have info; parents' address, high school transcripts, last known address he was living. What the hell do you think?”

  “Your sarcasm is seldom refreshing.”

  “Call it a gift.”

  “Call me a cab that can take me into Queens. Send me that info now, and I’ll contact you after I speak with Mr. and Mrs. Washington from Queens.”

  “Got it. Before I let you go, Nikkie is on her way down there.”

  “Down where? And who the hell is Nikkie again?”

  “Down to meet you in Manhattan. And, dumb ass, Nikkie is your new partner you hired. Well, you didn’t actually hire her, but you would have if your head wasn’t filled with shit.”

  “I don’t want her down here. Nothing personal. Just too much going on to involve anyone else.”

  “She’s already on a plane. Probably landed by now. And she’s not there to assist you, but to get your name cleared from the FBI and the NYPD and any other agency that wants you eating lead. She just got this job and can’t afford to lose the salary you’re paying her. You end up being arrested, and she and I are both out of well-paying jobs.”

  “Again,” Derek said, “your compassion for my life and well-being are overwhelming.”

  “And again,” Crown said, “you don’t pay me to be sparkly and pleasant. Nikkie will make contact when she needs to. You find out what you can from Kevin’s parents, then go stop a bombing. Deal?”

  Derek was too tired and confused to argue. “Fine. Send over the info.”

  “Already did. Have a wonderful day, Mr. Cole.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The information that Crown sent to Derek was limited, disjointed and disappointing. Derek expected (hoped for) something, some irrefutable bit of proof that this 19- year-old kid from Queens was planning to detonate a bomb somewhere in Manhattan. Instead, he received a blurry photograph of a young man, so average looking that picking him out from a crowd would be nearly impossible. The text file attached to the photograph only listed his name, Kevin Washington, the address in Queens where his parents raised him, and a synopsis (most likely written by a junior investigator) explaining why Kevin Washington should be considered a person of interest.

  “Possible suspect dropped out of school after his junior year of HS. Finished education through IUIEEO-sponsored mosque school. Changed name to Aahill. Moved out of parents' home in Queens to studio apartment above Manhattan mosque run by Badr Irani.”

  There was nothing else about him. No explanation of why he had an FBI file created nor any mention of interview notes, field agent’s findings or past criminal incidents.

  Nothing.

  For her own reason, Crown had picked this person out of countless others who also had an FBI file. Along with the Kevin Washington, a/k/a Aahill, information, she attached a personal note to Derek.

  “Remember back in kindergarten when the teacher made you play 'which one doesn’t belong?' You probably failed in that game but I, of course, excelled at it. Something about this kid doesn’t fit in with the others in the FBI case file. He stands out like a shit-covered daisy in a bride’s wedding bouquet. I know it may be a stretch but I have a strange feeling about this Kevin Washington.”

  It was close to noon when the taxi driver pulled to the curb in front of a modest, single-story ranch home. The house was in need of new gutters, some shingle repairs and a fresh coat of paint, but, all in all, the house blended in perfectly with the rows of similarly sized and conditioned homes. After he tossed the cab driver a $100 bill, accompanied by an absently mentioned “keep the tip,” Derek strolled towards the front door of the house that matched the address Crown had given him. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be home in the middle of a Thursday workday, but the 2001 Toyota Camry in the driveway suggested that Derek’s trip was not a wasted one. He was still fishing his Private Investigator badge out from his wallet when the front door opened.

  “Saw you walking up the walkway. You looking for something or are you lost?” The man stood five ten, his dark hair showing deep veins of gray coursing their way toward the backyard of his head.

  “My name is Derek Cole, Private Investigator. I was hoping to speak to the parents of Kevin Washington?”

  “I’m Kevin’s father,” the man said. “What the hell is this about? He get himself into trouble?”

  “No sir,” Derek said. “Just some questions if you don’t mind?”

  “He isn’t in any trouble, right?”

  “Not at all. Not yet, anyway.”

  “I guess a few questions won’t hurt nothing. The name's Daniel. Call me Dan. Come around out back with me, and we can talk outside. Supposed to get cool tomorrow, and I want to enjoy what’s left of this summer’s heat.”

  The two walked in silence around the side of the house. When they reached the small backyard, Dan motioned towards a fold up lawn chair, inviting Derek to sit. “I’m off from work for a few days. Twisted my back slipping on a greasy floor at work. Bastards were so afraid I’d sue for pain and suffering that they gave me five days off with pay so I can rest. Poor sons of bitches get sued a thousand times a year from lazy stupid fucks. I told them a hundred times after they promoted me to manager that we need to raise salaries or we’ll keep getting lazy stupid fucks applying for jobs. But do they listen? Fuck no. They got their diplomas saying they’re smarter than me. So, I put in my 40 per week, keep my mouth shut and laugh my ass off when I hire someone who checks all their boxes.”

  “So what kind of work are you in, Dan?” Derek asked.

  “I manage three fast food restaurants in Queens. Actually, two in Queens, one in Brooklyn. Owned by a family from India or Pakistan. Been there nearly 15 years. Pay's okay. Kept us in this house and off the streets.” He paused, considering Derek closely. “Like I said, I’m off today and it is after noon. Mind if I grab myself a brew?”

  “Not at all,” Derek said.

  “I got Bud Light and Sam Adams. You care for one?”

  “You know what,” Derek said, “I’ve had a pretty shitty day so far. I’ll take a Sam if you don’t mind.”

  “Good call,” Dan said through a broad smile. Against Dan’s olive colored skin, his teeth seemed artificially white.

  Dan returned with an opened bottle and a can of Sam Adams Pale Ale in his hands. “Hope you didn’t want a glass,” he said as he handed the cold bottle to Derek.

  “Not needed, and thanks. Like I said, tough day for me.”

  “So,” Dan said as he sat in a lawn chair across the concrete patio from Derek, “you wanted to ask me about Kevin.”

  “Yes. I should tell you that I was hired to investigate a possible terrorist attack that is rumored to be in the final planning stages.”

  “And you think Kevin is involved somehow, right?”

  “Not sure, exactly.”

  “I saw the news about the guy blowing himself up in Times Square and the hotel bombing. Figured something bad was going on. Even tried to contact Kevin, but I have no way to get in touch with him.”

  “My sources tell me that he dropped out of school, joined an Islamic mosque and will be finishing his education at the mosque.”

  “Your sources are correct,” Dan sa
id. “Changed his name, too. His mother and I don’t see him much anymore. Haven’t seen much of him for the past 8 or 9 months. He’s a good kid but, his mom and I knew all along that he wouldn’t do much. Hate to say it, but he’d probably end up being one of the lazy stupid fucks that work in my restaurants. He seemed pretty happy about joining that mosque and converting to Islam. I got no problem with the religion myself. Mom and Dad were both Muslim, but when we moved to the US, the whole religion thing just lost its appeal to me.”

  “Where are you from?” Derek asked.

  “Lebanon. Nice place, actually. Fucking radicals messed up a good thing, though. Had to leave when my dad’s life was threatened. Too bad, really. Would have been a nice place to settle down, raise a family and have a real career.” Dan drew deeply from his Bud Light. “But instead, my parents up and moved to the US when I was 15. And here I am, 21 years later, sitting on the back porch of my house that will be paid off in two more years, drinking an American beer and living the American dream.”

  “Glad things worked out for you,” Derek said. “Back to your son, can you tell me why you think he dropped out of school and got so involved with the mosque?”

  “It wasn’t to blow up some building, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I didn’t say anything about your son being involved in any plot.”

  “Yet, you started this whole conversation by telling me that you were hired to investigate a terrorist plan to blow something up in Manhattan. Then, you ask about my son and his conversion to Islam.” Dan lifted his beer to his lips and, keeping his eyes fixed on Derek, held the beer in a slowly rising position until the can's contents were drained into his gut. “I wasn’t a genius in math, but I can put one and one together. You think Kevin is involved in some bullshit, don’t you?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Derek said. “What I do know is that your son’s picture and information was included in a file concerning my case.”

  “This case file of yours, was Kevin’s name the only one in it?”

  “The only one that wasn’t already suspected of being a possible terrorist.”

  Dan stood, shook his empty beer can a few times. “I’m off today, like I told you. Gonna grab another. You ready?”

  “I’m good. Go ahead. I’ll wait for you.”

  “I wasn’t looking for your permission,” Dan said. “Not sure what more I can tell you about my son. His mom and I did the best we could, raising him. Kevin just wasn’t gifted with much. He got my looks and my wife’s brains; not an award winning combination. He never got into any trouble with his friends, because he never had too many friends. Did I make some mistakes? Hell yes. Tell me one father in this world that hasn’t. But Kevin isn’t a terrorist; he doesn’t have the balls to pull it off.”

  “To pull what off, Daniel?” Derek asked.

  “Whatever the fuck you think he’s planning. He’s a pussy, always has been. I never met with his people over at that mosque, but I can tell you that they hired Kevin to clean up the place. Sweeping, mopping and vacuuming is about what Kevin is good for. If they hired him to blow something up, they’re going to be highly disappointed. Like I said, he got my wife’s brains. He ain’t simple-minded, but he is far away from being smart enough to pull off a bombing.”

  Dan turned away and walked up the one concrete step that brought him to a sliding door. He slid the door open and stepped into his home, holding his right hand with an extended index finger up to his head. “Give me one minute,” he said as he walked deeper into his home. Derek could hear the sounds of ice being removed from a freezer and dropped noisily into a small container. Seconds later, he heard the clanging of bottles and the sounds full cans of beer make when shoved deep into an ice-filled cooler.

  Dan emerged from his home, carrying a small, white and green cooler in his right hand. “Not sure how long you plan to stay and drill me with questions. Since I’m off today, I thought I’d get my provisions prepared. Threw in a couple Sam’s for you, just in case you realize you’ve hit a dead end with your investigation and decide to blow off work and join me. Supposed to turn cool tomorrow. Might as well enjoy what’s left of summer.”

  Derek raised his beer, shook it lightly. “Still have more than half left.”

  Dan sat back into the green and white folding chair, popping the top of another beer. He raised his beer towards Derek, “To your health.” As he began to drain his beer, his left hand dropped to the cooler he had set beside him. Blindly, he opened the cooler, dug through the ice and pulled out another can of Bud Light. “Fucking bosses never listen to me,” he said as he finished his right hand beer. “Keep hiring stupid fucks and getting their asses sued. We had a kid so fucking stupid that he dropped his hat into the fryer and reached his hand into the boiling hot oil to get his hat out. Third degree halfway up his arm. Stupid fuck got $250,000 for that dumb ass move.” He prepared his left hand beer.

  “Getting back to Kevin, can you tell me more about him joining the mosque?”

  “What’s to tell? He said there was some guy standing outside of his school handing out pamphlets about the mosque. He took one and must have gone to check it out one day. How the hell should I know? All I know is that a father’s work is to provide for his family and help their kids start their own life. Kevin seemed happy about the mosque thing so, who am I to interfere?”

  “But you don’t know what they were teaching him at the mosque? I mean, when he dropped out of school, what kind of education was he getting?”

  “An education about earning money. He was getting paid to clean that place and a free education to boot. I still had to pay school taxes even though my kid wasn’t going to public schools but, what the hell. For the betterment of society,” Dan said, raising his beer can in toast to no one.

  Derek sat as his host began the exercise of pouring another beer down his throat while his well-trained left hand retrieved another beer from the cooler. He had no way of estimating Dan’s tolerance, but assumed that another beer might lower whatever defenses Dan had raised. Derek sat in quiet patience, waiting for Dan to reveal more.

  “You ready yet?” Dan asked.

  “Sure. Why not?” Derek said, hoping that him playing the willing afternoon drunk partner would gain him more information.

  “Kevin is happy,” Dan said, his face flat, his eyes showing hints of a coming cloudiness. “My old lady started in on me a while back about how she’s nervous that Kevin dropped out of school, changed his name and started acting differently. But I told her that as long as he’s happy, we got no business prying. But, like I said, he’s a pussy. Never had the balls to stand up to anyone. Kids would knock him around and he’d just take it. He was nothing like me at that age, I’ll tell you that much. When I got to America, I had kids trying to pound on me, too. But if someone hit me once, I’d hit them back twice. Taught them a lesson not to fuck with me.

  “I told Kevin a thousand times to hit back twice as hard and twice as often, but he’d just show up home after school with a new bruise, clothes all torn up and that look of a coward in his eyes. He’s a pussy, Derek. I hate to say it, I really do. But my son's got no balls to stand up for himself. You think he’s a terrorist? Hell man, you’d have to drug him, strap a bomb to his chest, drop him off in the middle of some place and detonate the bomb yourself. He ain’t got the balls for work like that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  After Daniel Washington moved on to his ninth beer, and started telling Derek how angry he was that his father changed their last name to “Washington” to better fit into the American society, Derek finished his second beer, thanked Dan for his hospitality and waited at the nearest street corner for the taxi he had called to arrive.

  “If you see Kevin, tell him his mom misses him and that he should stop by to see her sometime,” Dan slurred as he shook Derek’s hand. “He’s a good kid, that Kevin. Just wish he would grow a set.”

  Derek learned very little about Kevin Washington. He confirmed th
at Kevin had surrendered his life in Queens, moved into an apartment above the mosque run by the IUIEEO and Badr Irani. He learned that Kevin was a meek and mild young man who never stood up for himself. He was someone that others overlooked, never considered as being important or as someone having value. Kevin’s opinion was one that few sought out. He never had a girlfriend and probably spent more nights lost in numbing sadness than wrapped up in excitement for the next day.

  Kevin was taught his place in this world by his father, who was content in a life of ignorance and intentional haziness. Though Derek had no experience profiling a suicide bomber, he imagined that Kevin Washington was exactly the type of person that terrorists would seek out. Someone they feel they could manipulate. The type of person that ill-intentioned groups could heap praises upon, knowing that he had never known what being recognized felt like. Once the deceitful were set in place, the process of securing their prey would come in progressive stages. Step by step, task by task, Kevin (and the thousands of other lost souls recruited for acts the recruiters would never do themselves) would lose hold of who he was and morph into someone convinced that their sole purpose in life was to complete a hideous, murderous act.

  Those that carried out the evil plans were so often praised by other followers who hear only of the intended and well-planned story while the rest of the world sees them as evil, twisted and foolish killers. The truth is between the narratives. A suicide bomber, before their vest is strapped to their bodies and the detonating trigger is released, lived a life of untold griefs, joys, defeats and victories. Whether by a life event or by manipulations, the actual trigger that sets death racing out from twisted and torn-apart bodies, happened well before their destined-for event. For Kevin Washington, Derek sensed the vest of death was designed and assembled, piece by piece, in a small, one story ranch in Queens. The trigger, which Derek was driven to prevent from ever being used, was proffered under a progressive series of lies disguised as praises.