drunk first,” Virgil said.
—
T HE APARTMENT BUILDINGS each had an interior porch, with unlocked doors to the outside, but a second set of locked doors going in. Awad was in Building B, “The Sunflower.” Virgil leaned on the buzzer for the manager’s office, but no one answered.
They’d waited three or four minutes when a young woman popped out of an elevator inside and walked out through the interior doors. Virgil caught it when it opened, and held it for her, but she stopped and said, uncertainly, “You’re not supposed to do that—go in.”
Virgil fished his ID out of his pocket and said, “I’m with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. We’ve been buzzing the manager, but nobody answers.”
“That’s no big surprise,” the woman said. “She considers all calls to be a pain in the butt, so she mostly doesn’t answer anything.”
“I’ll talk to her about that,” Virgil said. He ushered Yael inside, and the woman went on her way.
Just inside the door were a series of mailboxes, and 220 said: “Awad.”
“We should talk to the manager?” Yael asked.
“Why? She doesn’t want to talk to
us
,” Virgil said. “Let’s go upstairs and knock on his door.”
—
T HE INTERIOR of the apartment building resembled a lower-end travel motel, with a central atrium going up three floors to a skylight, and two sets of red-carpeted stairs winding up on either side of the atrium’s core. There were also elevators, but Virgil took the stairs, with Yael at his elbow.
There appeared to be about a hundred doorways down the corridors stretching north and south from the central atrium, the doors painted in varying shades of red, blue, and yellow in a failed effort to make them look stylish. Awad’s was blue-green. Virgil knocked on the door, and a second later, heard a thump from inside.
“Somebody’s home,” he said. He stepped a bit sideways from the door, gestured to Yael to get behind him, knocked again, and put a hand on his pistol. A moment later, the door opened two inches, and a man peered out through the crack behind a chain: Virgil could see a single dark brown eye. “What?”
Virgil held up his ID. “We need to chat with you, about Reverend Jones.”
The man’s eye narrowed, and Virgil thought he’d slam the door, but then he said, “Ahhhh . . . I will take the chain.”
The door closed an inch, and the chain rattled and the man said, “Come in,” to Virgil, and then, “Why are you bringing an Israeli?”
Virgil was inside, with Yael a step behind him. “How’d you know she was an Israeli?”
The man shrugged: “She looks like one.”
Virgil: “You’re Faraj Awad?”
“Yes, but everybody calls me Raj,” the man said. “And you’re . . . Virgil?”
“Virgil Flowers. Yes.”
Virgil looked around. Awad’s apartment was small, with a kitchenette, a fourteen-by-twelve living room, and a tiny balcony overlooking the parking lot. A bedroom was off to the right, and through an open door Virgil could see that it was barely big enough to contain a queen-sized bed. The bathroom was apparently out of sight off the bedroom.
The living room was furnished with a couch, two chairs, a coffee table, and a worktable with a laptop and a printer in the middle, and a small flat-panel TV sitting on one end of it, facing the couch. A soccer ball was half hidden under the coffee table, along with stacks of books, American magazines and newspapers, and two twenty-five-pound dumbbells.
Awad was an inch or two shorter than Virgil, slender and square-jawed, with a short, carefully cut beard, longish black hair, and large dark eyes. He had a gold earring in one ear. He would, Virgil thought, do well with the Mankato State coeds, if he was inclined to. He said, “Come in and sit down. Even the Israeli, as long as she builds no settlements behind my couch.”
Virgil asked, “Why’d you break into Jones’s house this morning?”
Awad dropped on the couch and shook his head,
—
T HE APARTMENT BUILDINGS each had an interior porch, with unlocked doors to the outside, but a second set of locked doors going in. Awad was in Building B, “The Sunflower.” Virgil leaned on the buzzer for the manager’s office, but no one answered.
They’d waited three or four minutes when a young woman popped out of an elevator inside and walked out through the interior doors. Virgil caught it when it opened, and held it for her, but she stopped and said, uncertainly, “You’re not supposed to do that—go in.”
Virgil fished his ID out of his pocket and said, “I’m with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. We’ve been buzzing the manager, but nobody answers.”
“That’s no big surprise,” the woman said. “She considers all calls to be a pain in the butt, so she mostly doesn’t answer anything.”
“I’ll talk to her about that,” Virgil said. He ushered Yael inside, and the woman went on her way.
Just inside the door were a series of mailboxes, and 220 said: “Awad.”
“We should talk to the manager?” Yael asked.
“Why? She doesn’t want to talk to
us
,” Virgil said. “Let’s go upstairs and knock on his door.”
—
T HE INTERIOR of the apartment building resembled a lower-end travel motel, with a central atrium going up three floors to a skylight, and two sets of red-carpeted stairs winding up on either side of the atrium’s core. There were also elevators, but Virgil took the stairs, with Yael at his elbow.
There appeared to be about a hundred doorways down the corridors stretching north and south from the central atrium, the doors painted in varying shades of red, blue, and yellow in a failed effort to make them look stylish. Awad’s was blue-green. Virgil knocked on the door, and a second later, heard a thump from inside.
“Somebody’s home,” he said. He stepped a bit sideways from the door, gestured to Yael to get behind him, knocked again, and put a hand on his pistol. A moment later, the door opened two inches, and a man peered out through the crack behind a chain: Virgil could see a single dark brown eye. “What?”
Virgil held up his ID. “We need to chat with you, about Reverend Jones.”
The man’s eye narrowed, and Virgil thought he’d slam the door, but then he said, “Ahhhh . . . I will take the chain.”
The door closed an inch, and the chain rattled and the man said, “Come in,” to Virgil, and then, “Why are you bringing an Israeli?”
Virgil was inside, with Yael a step behind him. “How’d you know she was an Israeli?”
The man shrugged: “She looks like one.”
Virgil: “You’re Faraj Awad?”
“Yes, but everybody calls me Raj,” the man said. “And you’re . . . Virgil?”
“Virgil Flowers. Yes.”
Virgil looked around. Awad’s apartment was small, with a kitchenette, a fourteen-by-twelve living room, and a tiny balcony overlooking the parking lot. A bedroom was off to the right, and through an open door Virgil could see that it was barely big enough to contain a queen-sized bed. The bathroom was apparently out of sight off the bedroom.
The living room was furnished with a couch, two chairs, a coffee table, and a worktable with a laptop and a printer in the middle, and a small flat-panel TV sitting on one end of it, facing the couch. A soccer ball was half hidden under the coffee table, along with stacks of books, American magazines and newspapers, and two twenty-five-pound dumbbells.
Awad was an inch or two shorter than Virgil, slender and square-jawed, with a short, carefully cut beard, longish black hair, and large dark eyes. He had a gold earring in one ear. He would, Virgil thought, do well with the Mankato State coeds, if he was inclined to. He said, “Come in and sit down. Even the Israeli, as long as she builds no settlements behind my couch.”
Virgil asked, “Why’d you break into Jones’s house this morning?”
Awad dropped on the couch and shook his head,
Similar Books
