She'd already heard the rumors. Spread fast in a small town on a small campus. Nothing he could do about that. He'd been pointed towards Gromen by the school's Security Officer, who said she'd spent a lot of time with these guys even if they weren't from overseas because they were friends with the internationals, came to their campus club's events-International Film Fest, Food Fest, Crafts Fair. A pretty tight group. The local white kids, maybe a few tried to broaden their horizons and get involved, but no more than that. The Nepalese and the Africans, they needed each other.
Bleeker had already spoken to Adem's roommate, a couple of classmates, and knew at some point today he'd have to deal with some ass from the Cities in order to talk with the kid's parents. Maybe even the FBI. In that case, he might as well sign off the whole thing and take the rest of the week off. But…to do what?
Eileen Gromen was riffing on how fucked the university's international recruiting was, getting farther off-track from the questions, but that was okay. She was easy on the eyes and kind of fun to watch get all wound up about stuff. Bleeker's phone rang. It was the office. He excused himself and stepped out into the cinderblock hallway, beige.
A sergeant with whom he'd sometimes shared a beer and a couple hours on the firing range. "You're not going to believe this."
Cindy's parents? Their lawyer? Cop shop head shrinker? "Kind of busy."
"No, listen. This one's, uh, yeah."
"Can't you just tell me?"
"I want to see the look on your face."
"Jesus, Lev."
Guy was laughing. "Okay, okay. I'll give you a hint. You ever heard of the Somali Hardcore Killahs?"
Fuckers had been all over Twin Cities news a few years before. Trouble for the sake of trouble. He'd talked to a few ex-members after some barfights in downtown New Pheasant.
"And?"
"Ray, please. Humor me."
*
Bleeker didn't need this shit. The sergeant told him a couple of officers had been keeping an eye on the missing kid's apartment, all police-taped, when this giant black guy goes right up, rips the tape off, and goes in like he owns the place. The cops ran their asses over and arrested him.
Turned out he was the missing student's father. "And, wouldn't you know, the former leader of the Killahs. Called himself Bahdoon. Never pinned anything on him. Guy was smart, like Capone. We can't even pin tax evasion on this one."
Bleeker said he wanted to meet this Bahdoon guy. The detective questioning him said that if he knew where his kid was, he sure wasn't saying.
"Take a break, get a coffee. Give me a half-hour."
He stepped into the meeting room, mostly a file closet but with a card table and some folding chairs crowding the far side of the room. A Somali man, still wearing his black North Face parka, hood up, melted snow on the ground all around him. He was slumped in the chair, fingers clasped together, resting on his stomach. He didn't stand, didn't reach out to shake Bleeker's hand, but maybe that was because Bleeker had a legal pad in one hand and a can of Mr. Pibb in the other.
Bleeker said, "I can hang that coat up for you, you know."
He shrugged and made a noise in his throat like a dog. Cleared it. "It's aw-ight."
Definitely some leftover Somali accent, but it was ninety percent gangsta.
"We know who you are, Mister, uh, Bahdon. Bah-Doon?"
"Yeah, uh, I don't go by that. I'm Mustafa."
"What, you changed it?"
"Bahdoon is my grandfather's name. I'm Mustafa Abdi Bahdoon. I don't mind telling you. Ain't nothing on me."
"Well, you broke into a crime scene."
"My son's apartment is a crime scene?" A weak laugh. "Shit, that's good. His momma called me at work, told me to drive over, see if I could figure out where he went. This is not like him at all."
Bleeker nodded slowly, didn't realize he was doing it until he blinked and imagined the gun in Bahdoon's hand, shooting Cindy in the face. Might as well have been. He took a seat caddy-corner to the Somali gangster. Now he could see the guy was older than he acted, probably in his early forties, still sticking to the street thug routine. But Bleeker saw he was wearing a Target pullover polo under the coat. Worked at Target. Okay. "So you don't know?"
Another shrug. "Man, is this all necessary? Can I pay the fine and keep looking?"
Bleeker set his pad and drink down, slumped onto his elbows and ran his hand through his hair. Greasy. He hadn't showered since the morning before he set off for the lake. He'd need to do that soon. "There's no need, really. We'll do the best we can to find him. If you answered some questions for us…um…how did you hear so quickly? I hadn't even had time to give you a call."
"My wife, she called him. No answer. Like I said, this is not like Adem." Then a pause, a look down at the knuckles he was kneading. "Look, okay, I think I know where he is."
Bleeker sat straight. "Right now?"
"For real."
Round up a squad. Go in guns blazing. Shoot first, ask questions later. Or were they in the Cities? Why would this punk be here if so? Protecting him? Or maybe they were already across state lines.
What the fuck, right?
Mustafa made the dog noise again.
Bleeker said, "Are you alright?"
Mustafa waved him off, cleared his throat.
"Can you tell me where your son is? Because he's in big trouble."
The Somali man looked puzzled-vulnerable, even. Almost no doubt he was responsible for plenty of murders over in the metro. Bleeker was supposed to offer him the same respect he would anyone else with a missing kid?
Mustafa said, "How is he in trouble? He disappeared. That's not a crime."
Bleeker stood. "I don't think I should tell you anything about the charges until you tell me where he is. Fair trade, right?"
"In trouble with you?"
Killer. Killer. Killer. A killer with a killer for a father. A family of killers.
"Let's say…let's…" Sigh. "I need to talk to him. Him and his friend. We need to go find him. So if you go ahead and tell me-"
"I can't." Mustafa stood, too. About five inches taller than Bleeker.
"You just said, though. Don't get in our way, here. It's bad enough already. I don't need a, a, a fucking incident here, arresting you for whatever the word is…impeding?"
"I know. That's not what I meant. But tell me about this trouble first."
Bleeker didn't think he could take the guy without cheating. Right in the balls. Or right in the throat. That would come after he doubled over. "Non-negotiable."
Those eyes. Getting serious. Was Bleeker staring at the killer or the dad?
Finally Mustafa closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head. "It's okay. It's not like you could…it's okay."
"Tell me where I can find him."
"You can't find him."
"Why? You hide him somewhere? This is only getting worse for you, man."
Mustafa squeezed his fingers into a fist. Unfolded them. Angry dents where the edges had nearly broken the skin. Tough hands. Mustafa sat down again.
"He's in Somalia. Fighting in a war."
Bleeker felt empty. His whole reason for going on the last twenty-four hours, sure to find these dumbass Sammies with their gangsta gat, bang bang, killing cops like it was some music video. And now the gangsta daddy, Jesus. Fuck.
He reached for his Mr. Pibb, took a sip. Hand shook. Spilled some on his beard. Mustafa was up again, helping Bleeker find his seat. Bleeker slapped him away.
"I'm fine. I'm fine, goddamn it."
Splats of Mr. Pibb on the legal pad. He set it dead center.
Mustafa said, "I'm sorry. I hate what he has done."
Bleeker closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Then said, "Your boy killed my girlfriend, my baby, and one of my friends."
Mustafa winced. He knelt beside Bleeker, inches apart. Both in their own worlds. Until the goddamned gangsta killah raised his head and said, "No, man, not Adem. He didn't do it."