I LOOKED UP AT MARILYN MONROE. I couldn’t read anything in those lonely, yearning eyes. I was guessing the feeling was mutual.
“Me?”
“They probably think you know too much anyway,” Theresa said. “What better trade for Angela than someone who might screw up whatever it is they’re up to?”
“I’m not sure. Is it realistic? Would they buy it?”
“I would betray you in a second,” Barbara said quietly. “I would do anything to help Angela. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
“Let’s be clear on one thing first,” I said. “You don’t think Abdi Mohamed is a terrorist?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You heard about the firebombing at Mount Shiloh?” I told her what Freddy Cohen had confided in me, that the feds had video of Abdi throwing the Molotov cocktail at the front of the church. About the message board threat.
“I can’t explain that,” Barbara said. “All I’m telling you is what I know from before he disappeared. And none of that is consistent with what they’re saying now.”
“Even with what his brother did?”
“Even more so. Abdi was devastated by Hassan’s actions. I got several e-mails from him, about how upset he was. But he was also furious. He saw it as a complete waste, not to mention a betrayal of America.”
I relayed the cryptic comments Henry Fielding had made about Abdi having gang ties. I told her what Mike Parsell, Abdi’s soccer teammate, told me about Abdi joshing around with a supposed Agler Road Crip. DaQuan someone.
The counselor nodded. “JaQuan Williams. Talk about a complete waste. But in his case there’s no doubt. We had many problems with him before he dropped out.”
“Any chance what the Columbus detective is saying is true?”
“No. You have to believe me. Abdi never met a stranger. But he didn’t have anything to do with JaQuan outside of school.”
“Any idea where JaQuan is?”
“None. I told the police as much, when they came looking for him. Not long after Abdi disappeared.”
I leaned back in the booth and drank some coffee. “And you don’t know who would want you to perpetuate this lie about Abdi to the authorities?”
She shook her head. Her eyes brimmed with tears again.
“Get with the program, QB,” Theresa chastised. “That kid Abdi don’t matter right now. Neither does some gangbanger. What matters is Angela.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“So what are you going to do?” Barbara said.
“We’re going to need a plan,” I said. “And we’re going to need some help.”
“Help?” she said nervously.
“Some more muscle. If I’m the target, we need someone who’s got my back.”
“What about me?” Theresa said indignantly.
“I’ve got another idea for you.”
I looked at my watch. It was past 2:30. We had a little time, but not much. I excused myself, went outside, and fished around in my wallet. I found the card I was looking for and called Otto Mulligan.
“That’s some serious shit, Woody,” he said when I finished explaining what I had in mind. “And it sounds like it could go wrong in about seven different directions.”
“Just like the job you dragged me along on the other day.”
“No hard feelings, I hope. How’s the eye, by the way?”
“It’s been upgraded to medium rare. What do you say?”
“I say I guess I owe you one.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
I went back inside the diner.
“All right,” I said, sliding back into the booth. “I’ve got an extra set of hands on board. And I think I’ve got a plan.”
“What is it?” Theresa said.
“Here’s what we’re going to do.”