The Third Brother Read online

  “Back to Abdi, then,” Bonnie interrupted.

  “What about him?” I said.

  “Maybe he’s the one who got hacked after all.”

  “But how?”

  “I’ve got some theories. The problem is, teens are extremely vulnerable, despite how tech-savvy they seem. They take everything digital and Internet-related for granted, like it’s just there—like air or something, and nothing could possibly go wrong.”

  “But why would someone hack Abdi?” Barbara said.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But other than the feds, whose job it is to doubt everyone, I haven’t run across a single person who thinks what he was posting was in character. Maybe someone hacked his account and put that stuff up in his name.”

  “But why?” Barbara repeated.

  “To get him in trouble?” Bonnie said, spooning up some egg and sausage that had slipped free of the burrito. “Because they hate Muslims or something?”

  “But if that’s true, why would he disappear?” the counselor said. “Wouldn’t it be easier for someone to post those false things and wait for him to be arrested?”

  “That’s what makes this case so perplexing,” I said. “A kid with no animosity toward anyone and no reason to go anywhere does the two things most contrary to his personality. And nobody can explain why.”

  Bonnie interrupted. “Did you get e-mails from Abdi after that day?”

  Barbara thought about it. “Probably. Yes, I’m sure of it. He had a lot of questions about Ohio State and his classes. And later, telling me how upset he was about Hassan.”

  “That could be it,” Bonnie said. “If someone had control of Abdi’s computer, it would have been much easier to hack into yours. And it wouldn’t have had to be a link. They could have booby-trapped a document. Anything.”

  Barbara nodded. “He sent me documents, yes.”

  Bonnie looked at me. “I’ll have to take her laptop, check it out to be sure. But we may have our answer.”

  I suddenly thought of Ronald McQuillen, attacking his keyboard in the darkness of the Garden. The way he’d reached out to me unsolicited after the attack. The document he’d sent me about the ’76 Sentries. Calling him a quirky fellow was like observing giraffes had long necks and spots. But was there more to his interest in me than met the eye? Was it possible—

  The doorbell rang. Barbara started. “More friends of yours?” she said.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Otto?” Theresa said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, pulling out my phone. Additional texts from Kym and Crystal and now Anne, wondering about Red, White & Boom. But no one else. “He had a full morning. That’s why I let him go home last night. Are you expecting anyone?”

  “No,” Barbara said, color leaving her face.

  “Stay here. Call 9-1-1 if anything sounds off.”

  The comment went to Theresa, Bonnie, and Troy. Barbara was already out of the kitchen and bounding up the stairs.

  I walked into the living room, Theresa and Bonnie close behind, phones at the ready. Behind them Troy, standing beside Goldie, fingers brushing her collar. I reached down and retrieved my bat from the couch. I approached the door. “Stand a little ways back in case I need some swinging room,” I said without turning around.

  “Has that thing ever helped you?” Theresa said.

  “Let’s try to keep this positive, shall we?”

  I unbolted the lock, turned the knob, and pulled the door open quickly.

  Helene Paulus stood on the doorstep, shock filling her eyes.

  “You!” she said.

  34

  “THERE’S ANOTHER POSSIBILITY,” BONNIE SAID.

  “Like what? Me getting sued by the Columbus school board?”

  “OK. Maybe two possibilities.”

  A couple hours had passed. We were sitting at Scarlet & Gray Grounds, the coffee shop favored by Maple Ridge High students. The Ninth Period.

  “Something more sophisticated,” Bonnie said. “Something I didn’t want to mention back there. At the counselor’s house.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s scary, is what it is.”

  Explaining our presence at Barbara’s to Helene Paulus after the principal’s unexpected arrival without giving up the counselor’s secret had nearly rivaled our derring-do outside the warehouse the night before. Helene had been about as pleased with our stony silences and monosyllabic responses as an actor discovering on opening night her role has been axed. Somehow I talked our way out of it, apologizing and prevaricating and suggesting we talk again in a day or five. Eventually, Helene acquiesced in my request to leave, though not without pointedly asking Barbara more than once—all the time glaring at me—if she was really all right. Theresa, Bonnie, and I left soon after, taking Theresa to the airport to retrieve her car before we headed to the coffee shop. Troy and Goldie were still at Barbara’s house, taking the first shift of guard duty. I wasn’t convinced we had anything to worry about for now, but it made me feel better knowing they were there.

  Scarlet & Gray Grounds was tucked between an AT&T store and a bargain basement haircut place in a newish strip mall off Stelzer Road. While Bonnie got her laptop up and running I went to the counter and ordered us coffees from a young barista dressed in jeans, suspenders, and a white T-shirt, sporting a full beard and with his hair knotted into a tight bun on top of his head. He looked like someone from Planet Lumberjack in a Buck Rogers movie. When I sat down beside Bonnie with our drinks she was typing with a fury that would have done Ronald J. McQuillen proud.

  “Scary how?” I said.

  “What happens is that people set traps in places with public wireless. Coffee shops are ground zero for this kind of thing.”

  “How’s it work?”

  “They start by creating a wireless network with a similar name and a fake SSID number and trick you into logging onto that instead. Once you do, they’re in your system and you’re hosed. It’s called an Evil Twin attack.”

  “Sounds like a blind date I was on once,” I said. “But not sure I follow.”

  “Well, take this place. Their wireless connection is ‘SGGroundsNetwork.’ I’m not seeing anything out of the ordinary now. But if someone was serious about it, they might create something like ‘SGGroundsNetwork1.’ Something like that.”

  “But you’re not detecting anything today?”

  “Just a bunch of people using their iPhones as hot spots. Which also is kind of risky.”

  I took in our fellow patrons. The place was filled with twenty-somethings feverishly engaging with the virtual world in one form or another. I thought of a probably apocryphal story I’d read of a man in line at the grocery store trying to catch the eye of the woman ahead of him, only to give up after realizing she was too engrossed in writing a Facebook post on her phone lamenting how hard it was to meet guys. None of the people in the coffee shop looked like hackers to me; except that all of them did, if I was being honest about it.

  “OK. Wait here,” I said.

  I stood up and went back to the counter. I gestured at Lumberjack Man.

  “’Sup?”

  I handed him my card. “Hoping you can help me. I’m trying to find a guy.” Or gal? Who knew? “He’s been messing with wireless connections around town.”

  He examined the card with interest. “Messing how?”

  “Trying to hack people.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Not sure.” I described Mike and Todd Bowden to him. He shook his head. I thought about JaQuan Williams, then realized I had no idea what the gangbanger looked like. For the heck of it, I described McQuillen.

  “Like, older guy?” he said. “Like you?”

  “Something like that. Forties maybe. A bit, ah, disheveled. Drinks a lot of Mountain Dew, which I take it you don’t serve here?”

  He made a face. “Not that stuff. We have some artisanal sodas if you want.”

  “I’m a grape pop man myself.”
/>   He made another face. “It does kind of ring a bell, this guy. Most of the people in here are a lot younger than that. Maybe if I saw a picture. You think I should let my manager know? Like, is there a problem?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it was a one-time thing. Any idea when he was here?”

  “I’m not really sure. Maybe a couple months ago?”

  The timing was right for Barbara getting hacked. But the vague nature of the barista’s response wasn’t sounding like something that would stand up in court anytime soon.

  “If you see him again by any chance, or anybody similar, could you give me a call?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  I returned to the table and reported the conversation to Bonnie.

  “You think it could be this guy McQuillen?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the only person with a connection to any of this that seemed to jog his memory.”

  “But why would he be involved with Abdi?”

  “No idea. I think this is pointless. It could be anyone.”

  Pulling out of the parking lot a few minutes later, I pondered the notion that Abdi was innocent of the dark postings he’d placed on Facebook and tweeted after his brother’s death. If someone had used this fake SSID number to take over his computer, as Bonnie explained, it would back up what everyone was saying about him; the surprise they were expressing. The problem was, it was hardly the whole story, given the firebombing at Mount Shiloh Baptist. That one was a lot harder to explain away.

  35

  ABUKAR ABDULKADIR INTERRUPTED, SHAKING his head over what I’d just told him.

  “Abdi. Dating the minister’s daughter? You cannot be serious, Andy Hayes.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “And you think that had something to do with his disappearance?”

  “I don’t know. The family’s not talking—the mom and the daughter, anyway. The father knows how bad it looks, but I’m not sure what he’s going to do about it.”

  We were sitting over plates of goat stew and flatbread inside Hoyo’s Kitchen off Cleveland Avenue a few hours later. Abdulkadir had called me shortly after I left the coffee shop, explaining that Abshiro Ali, the school friend of Abdi’s, had agreed to speak with me. We settled on the Somali restaurant as a meeting place. Before I entered I sat in the parking lot and listened to a long voicemail from Helene Paulus, asking again if there wasn’t any way I’d reconsider and tell her what was going on. I thought about it. I decided there wasn’t.

  “I will tell you this,” Abdulkadir said. “That minister is not friendly to Muslims. It’s boys from his church who threw rocks at the mosque. He did little to stop it.”

  “Could that have motivated Abdi to attack Mount Shiloh?”

  “I would hope not. That’s nothing like who the family says he was. Who he is.”

  “I think we’ve established that. You know the community well, though. That must be going through people’s minds. Not to mention the minds of the feds.”

  “It is likely,” Abdulkadir said sadly.

  “One other thing.” I told him about my conversation with Patty Bowden, and how it appeared her brother and nephew were the men who attacked Kaltun Hirsi. He nodded, but not with the enthusiasm I’d expected.

  “And now the police will be able to find them?” he said.

  “Maybe. Except the only reason I know who they are is because they’re missing.”

  “It will be good to locate them.” He took a sip of his Somali tea. “To ensure that justice is done.”

  “Indeed,” I said, waiting for him to continue. But he stared moodily out the window, unresponsive.

  A minute later Abdi’s friend came through the door. Abdulkadir introduced us. I started explaining what I wanted to know.

  “You’re wasting your time,” the teen interrupted. “I don’t know anything.”

  “I take it you were surprised when he disappeared.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t like him.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s a goofball, you know? Not like his brother.” He was thin, dressed in jeans and a Cavaliers shirt.

  “Which brother?”

  “Hassan, of course. Who else?”

  “He has another brother.”

  He waved dismissively. “Aden isn’t part of this. He’s too serious. And dutiful. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  Aden and Hassan, making Abdi the third brother. Idly, I recalled Ronald McQuillen’s tale of David Derwent and the rightwing theology of “Seth,” the brother of Cain and Abel. I shook my head. I was starting to see highly unusual coincidences everywhere.

  I explained what I’d learned about Abdi’s girlfriend. “Did his family know?”

  “No,” Ali said, sullenly. “They wouldn’t have approved.”

  “So how did Abdi and Faith manage it?”

  “They saw each other in school. Or at his games. That was easy, since Faith’s brother played on the team.”

  “Could Abdi have gotten mad at the family? Mad enough to do something to her father’s church?”

  “Abdi? No way.”

  I thought of the ominous posting on a message board after the church fire. This is only the beginning. I said, “Ever heard of a guy named JaQuan Williams?”

  He frowned. “I know who he is.”

  “Ever see him and Abdi together?”

  “A couple times, in the halls or something. But they didn’t hang out. JaQuan was a bad dude. He and Hassan were buddies for a while. Until Hassan, you know . . .”

  “Have you seen this guy around?”

  “Not since school’s been out.”

  “I heard the police were looking for him.”

  “Good for them. He’s gonna be hard to find.”

  We chatted for a few minutes longer, and then he excused himself abruptly and left. I was no expert on teenagers, but Abshiro was either the world’s greatest liar or was in the same boat as everyone else—clueless about his buddy’s disappearance. I told Abdulkadir what I was thinking.

  “I do not believe Abdi is a terrorist,” Abdulkadir said. “And I do not believe that this relationship is connected to what happened.”

  “Odd coincidence, though.”

  “Yes,” he said reluctantly.

  “And it gives him a motive, for the church fire, anyway.”

  He conceded it.

  “Have you known the family long?”

  “Yes. That’s why I was happy to help with everything.”

  “You’ve been here a while?”

  “More than twenty years.”

  “Before that?”

  He bowed his head, focusing on his food. “Kenya. A refugee camp. Very difficult. Harsh conditions. This is home now.”

  “Is all your family here?”

  “Many.”

  “Any in Minneapolis? Isn’t that the biggest population in the country?”

  “I have a brother there, yes.”

  “Do you ever see him?”

  A pause. “Once a year, perhaps. On one of my trips, if it’s on the route.”

  “Route?”

  “My work. I drive a truck most days, during the week.”

  “A truck?”

  “A shipping truck, yes. It’s my business.”

  “Where do you drive?”

  He still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “All over the Midwest. Detroit, Chicago, Indianapolis. Kentucky, West Virginia. And of course Ohio.”

  “What’s in your truck?”

  “Everything, Andy Hayes,” he said, looking up, the slightest hint of annoyance on his face at all the questions. “Furniture, appliances, shipments of clothes. Whatever they need transported.”

  “Is that something you did before?”

  “Before?”

  “In Somalia.”

  “The roads in Somalia are not like here. There would not be room for such big trucks.”

  “So what did you do? Before the civil war?”

  “Many things. Many things.
You did what you could to survive in those days. Even before the war, jobs were becoming scarce.”

  “Would you ever go back?”

  “To Somalia?” He took a bite of goat and added a large spoonful of rice. He chewed for a minute. “I have been back, a couple of times, to see family. But permanently? I don’t think so. It’s very dangerous still. There are some very bad people there. Al-Shabaab—you’ve heard of them?”

  I nodded. Given the size of Columbus’s Somali community, I’d read enough stories over the years about the efforts, largely successful, to keep youth here from joining the terrorist group back home.

  “I appreciate all your help,” I said. “But we may be near the end of the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once the feds find out about Abdi and Faith, it could change everything. Probably make things worse for him. The only good news is, I’m guessing he’ll turn up sooner rather than later, now. That the farthest he got was a couple blocks from his girlfriend’s house, and he’s just living under the radar here. Who knows? Maybe he’s hanging with this JaQuan kid.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” Abdulkadir protested.

  “We’ve got to look at the facts. And they aren’t good right now.”

  36

  ON MY WAY BACK HOME I STARTED HAVING doubts again about Abdi and Faith Monroe. Their relationship and the hostility he likely faced from her parents gave him motivation, however irrational, to attack the church. Yet I still felt as if I were missing something. As though—there was no other way to put this—the solution was too easy. Boy meets girl. Girl’s parents object. Grieving boy-turned-extremist lashes out. Voila.

  What wasn’t I seeing?

  I took Hopalong for a long walk when I got home, feeling guilty at ignoring him so much in recent days. The air was muggy and still. At Schiller Park I passed a few other dog walkers. Over on the tennis courts somebody was having a good match despite the heat of the day. The repetitive thwock of the ball hit back and forth across the net continued for several volleys at a time. I tugged Hopalong in that direction to take a look. A man and a woman were battling it out, nearly evenly matched. A couple of guys watched, intent on the game.

  Back home, I was hanging up the leash on its brass hook in the kitchen when my phone rang.