Killerwatt, Page 2

  Woody faced Al-Serafi, blinking rapidly, as though trying to determine where to look. He inhaled, and let out a deep breath before speaking. “May I please see your wife’s driver’s license? I need a photo ID.” He extended his hand but didn’t look at Mahata, keeping his eyes instead, on Al-Serafi.

  Al-Serafi glared at Woody. “Mahata does not drive. I will provide you with her green card. It has her picture. Will that not do?”

  “Yes, of course. That’ll be fine.” Woody continued holding out his hand, waiting for the doctor to produce the card.

  Al-Serafi turned and offered his open palm to his wife. Mahata reached into a small dark cloth bag trimmed with colorful beads. After a moment of searching, she withdrew a laminated card and dropped it into her husband’s hand. Al-Serafi glanced at it before presenting it along with his own ID.

  Woody’s chair scraped noisily as he pushed it away from the table and stood. “I’ll be right back. I, uh, just need to copy them.” He disappeared around the corner, paperwork in one hand while his free hand rubbed his head.

  It was time to step in. Rhetta sauntered over to the conference table and thrust her right hand at Al-Serafi. “How do you do? My name is Rhetta McCarter. I’m the manager here. Is everything all right?”

  Al-Serafi stared at her proffered hand then slowly shifted his gaze to her face. Rhetta felt self-conscious about wearing her two expensive rings. The facets on the princess cut diamond cluster ring that Randolph had given her as a first year anniversary gift sparkled in the bright lighting. The glittering ruby she wore on her middle finger had been a fortieth birthday present to herself. Moreover, she wondered if the man had an aversion to shaking her hand, a mere woman in his eyes, since he took so long to respond. She presumed from his hard stare that began at her head and ended at her hand, that he wasn’t impressed with her spiky, blond-streaked hair either.

  Eventually, Al-Serafi offered his hand and brushed hers in the briefest of handshakes. Then he snaked his right hand across the table and snatched a pen. He began rolling it between his right thumb and forefinger, avoiding any further physical contact. He stared straight ahead. Al-Serafi wore no rings. Rhetta wondered if that was a Muslim tradition.

  Rhetta smiled. For all his western talk, Al-Serafi’s manners wouldn’t qualify under her definition of good manners. She offered her hand to Mahata. The woman’s eyes darted to her husband, who nodded his assent. Mahata slowly held out her hand. Rhetta grasped it, feeling the woman’s reluctance through her limp response. Then Mahata quickly withdrew her hand, folded it into her other hand on top of the bag in her lap, and resumed studying the tabletop.

  Rhetta pulled out a chair for herself and joined them. Woody returned copies in one hand, their ID in the other. Handing the doctor the cards, Woody assembled the documents for the closing.

  When Woody began explaining the first of the many pages, Al-Serafi waved him on. “We are in a hurry. I must return to the hospital. Just show me where I must sign.” They completed the rest of the transaction in silence. Al-Serafi didn’t ask any questions. Mahata never uttered another word while she signed.

  Wasting no time after they finished, Al-Serafi immediately stood to leave. His wife followed his lead. Rhetta also stood, turned to the doctor, and smiled broadly. Again, she brazenly extended her sinful hand. “Thank you, sir. We appreciate the confidence you’ve placed in Missouri Community Bank Mortgage and Insurance.”

  Al-Serafi repeated his earlier reaction and stared at her hand. He tilted his head sideways and afforded her the briefest of smiles. He returned her handshake, then abruptly turned toward the door. Mahata trailed him, silent, head still bent. Woody hurried to reach the door first, where he held it open. Al-Serafi tugged his wife past Woody.

  After they’d left, Woody closed the door and leaned back against it.

  “That sure was different.”

  “He brags about being so westernized,” Rhetta said, scoffing, pushing her chair back to the table. “Yet he subscribes to the subservient wife channel. How western is that? Poor woman. I’d hate living with a man like him. He stared at my hand like he was going to catch cancer.” She eased behind her desk to the window and peered through the steel blinds to observe the strange couple making their way to their car. The woman lagged several steps behind her husband. They didn’t speak to each other. Al-Serafi didn’t open the car door for his wife.

  “What a jerk,” Rhetta commented, turning away, letting the metal slats of the blinds snap back together.

  “Whew, I’m glad that’s over.” Woody exhaled loudly.

  Rhetta removed her glasses and chewed on the tip of one of the arms. “What was it about him that rattled your cage?”

  “I’m not rattled.” His hand shot to his head.

  On the contrary, you’re rattled worse than a timber rattler coiled to strike.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tuesday Morning Following Memorial Day, May 26

  Returning to work after the long weekend, Rhetta cruised through McDonald’s, seeking a large coffee for a badly needed caffeine jolt. She and Randolph had spent Memorial Day weekend at their cabin at Land Between the Lakes, Kentucky, fishing and relaxing. Exhausted from all the relaxing, she’d overslept and hadn’t had time to make coffee at home.

  The ride in had been spectacular. Well, to her it was. The first working day after Memorial weekend was always the day she brought out Cami, her beloved two-toned blue ’79 Camaro Rally Sport she drove only in summer. She parked the Chevy Trailblazer she drove in winter, its summer duties relegated to grocery shopping. Feeling the power of the restored muscle car always made her happy. Cruising along with the sunroof open and the oldies blasting was as near to heaven as Rhetta could imagine getting.

  She arrived at her office before Woody and stole his favorite parking spot—the one closest to the building.

  After setting her briefcase by the door, Rhetta transferred the coffee to her left hand and inserted the key into the lock. The door, however, was already unlocked. Through the window, she noticed the lights were on. She hesitated, glancing around. Cami was the sole car in the parking lot. That reinforced her first impression that Woody wasn’t here. Who was inside? Her heart felt like a bird’s wing caught in the bars of a cage. Just as she put her hand on the doorknob, someone yanked open the door, causing her to spill coffee all over her linen pants suit.

  “Damn, Woody, you scared the living snot out of me,” Rhetta grumbled while she edged past him, balancing the dripping cup out ahead of her. “I’m sending you the cleaning bill.”

  Woody ignored her comment. “Jenn dropped me off this morning on her way to work.” He closed the door and followed Rhetta.

  “Why did she have to get to work so early?” Jenn managed the jewelry department at Macy’s, which didn’t open until ten.

  “They’re doing inventory this morning. Besides, we took the Jeep in to the repair shop. The tranny’s making a weird noise again.”

  In spite of the air conditioning blasting from the vents, Woody was dabbing sweat off his slick head. His complexion paled.

  Still clutching the cup, Rhetta plopped her briefcase on the floor, and bent over, allowing her purse to slide off her shoulder. It landed upside down on her chair. She glared at it, cussed to herself, then went to the kitchenette in search of paper towels.

  Woody followed her into the small area. He pulled a bottle of water from the compact refrigerator and gulped most of it in a single swallow.

  “Are you all right?” Rhetta asked, as she ripped a handful of paper towels from a nearby roll, and began working at the splotches of coffee on her pants. She wrapped her cup in another paper towel, muttering the whole time. Woody tossed the empty water bottle into the trash and shook his head. He followed Rhetta back to her desk.

  “What’s wrong with you?” She slid her cup to rest on a calendar blotter and wiped the coffee ring from her desk. “Are you sick?”

  “I’m not sick. You need to look at this.” He thrust
out his iPhone.

  She stared at it blankly. “What am I looking at?” She glanced from the phone up to his face as she reached down with one hand to adjust the height of her chair, which, due to a weak hydraulic, gradually sank. She yanked the handle upward. With the other hand, she clutched her coffee.

  “It’s a voice mail from Al-Serafi.”

  “Did he rescind? Damn!” She blew across what was left of the steaming liquid and sipped carefully.

  If the strange Muslim doctor had cancelled his loan during the three-day rescission period, she’d be thoroughly ticked off.

  “No, no, that’s not it.” Woody shook his head and waved his phone, as though chasing flies away. He scrolled through his screen until he found the speaker icon. “Listen to this.” He held the phone up.

  She sat forward and listened to a familiar voice. “Lawrence, this is Hakim. I was there yesterday for the flying lesson, and I waited for over an hour. You know we are on a tight schedule.” He pronounced it shed-yule, like the British did. After he said, “Please call me right away,” the message ended abruptly without him leaving a call back number.

  Who’s Lawrence? Whoever he is, he must know how to reach Al-Serafi.

  They both stared at the phone in Woody’s large hand.

  “What was—” Rhetta began.

  Before she could finish, Woody blurted, “I got the call yesterday but when I saw Al-Serafi’s number, I didn’t feel like answering. I figured it could wait ’til I got back to work. The call went to voicemail.” Woody began pacing. “I guess he didn’t realize he’d called me instead of whoever this Lawrence guy is.” He waved his phone around as he paced.

  “Flying lesson? Why is Al-Serafi taking flying lessons?”

  “Good question.” Woody returned the cell phone to his belt holster. “I got a weird feeling and figured I was overreacting. Then, I played the message for Jenn. She said to call the cops, since we had just watched a television news story on Muslim cells in the US, which said that one of the things to watch for, along with the cell members usually being here on German visas, is when they take flying lessons. I reminded her that the report said to call the FBI. Local cops wouldn’t care who’s taking flying lessons.” He grabbed for a tissue. His head glistened.

  “What did they say?”

  “I didn’t call them. I wanted to let you hear the message first. Besides, it was a Sunday.”

  “What does Sunday have to do with it?”

  “They’re closed on Sunday, aren’t they?”

  “No, they’re not. Do you think bad guys don’t commit crimes on Sundays?”

  Woody, she felt, believed the misdialed message meant that Al-Serafi was participating in something suspicious. Now he wanted her to believe it, too.

  She eyed Woody. Although he was impeccably turned out in tan slacks and white shirt, his head was wet with perspiration. He once told her he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Was it kicking up? Woody had related how sometimes stress caused an onset. He’d suffered shrapnel wounds in his legs when an IED exploded in front of his Humvee in Afghanistan. She’d never seen him in a full-blown episode of PTSD, but from the way he was acting, she wondered if she was about to.

  “Maybe you should’ve called the FBI,” Rhetta said. “Who gives flying lessons on a Sunday? Besides, didn’t Al-Serafi know this was a holiday weekend?” She could hear her own voice rising as she fired off the rhetorical questions.

  Woody didn’t answer. She went on. “I saw that news report too. They said that those terrorists who bombed the Twin Towers took flying lessons, and many of them were here on German visas. The talking heads all say that’s a red flag.” The moment she said the words, she realized how paranoid she sounded, but she felt herself on a roll. She wondered if paranoia was contagious.

  “Could there be a terrorist cell operating here? I know Al-Serafi is Muslim, has a German visa, and is definitely strange, but….” She stared at Woody, letting her voice trail off.

  Neither of them spoke. The air conditioner rumbled on. In spite of the frigid air blasting out of the vents, the office felt warm and stuffy.

  Almost to herself, Rhetta said, “Could Al-Serafi really be a terrorist?” She could barely say the word terrorist aloud.

  Woody paled. “Here? In Cape? Terrorist? What’s to terrorize? That only happens on TV or in New York, right?” His voice cracked.

  Rhetta marched to her desk, opened a drawer, and rummaged through the contents. Snatching a phone book, she flipped a few pages, then scribbled a number on a sticky note.

  “Here’s the number for the local FBI office.” She thrust the note at him. “Call them. The news report said to call the FBI.”

  Woody wavered. “How dumb are we going to look if we report this, and it turns out to be nothing?” He tugged his chin whiskers.

  Rhetta narrowed her eyes and pointed to the phone. “How are we going to feel if he turns out to be a real terrorist? Call them.” She felt her stomach quiver. Could Doctor Al-Serafi really be part of a terrorist cell? True, she didn’t like the man, but a terrorist?

  Still. . . .

  Woody tapped the keyboard on his cell phone.

  Rhetta pointed to the desk phone. “Use the office phone. I’m sure the agent will want you to play the recorded message.”

  “Right.” He set his phone down and snatched the phone.

  Once connected, he waited for over five minutes for someone to pick up. Woody drummed his fingers, and twirled the phone cord. Once whoever finally answered, he repeated the story. Then he shook his head. When he finally had a chance to speak, his voice was clipped. “Don’t you even want to hear it?” A moment passed while whoever answered. Then, he said, “What was your name, Agent, in case we need to refer to this incident later?”

  Woody slammed the phone down, a little firmer than was necessary. The receiver bounced to the desktop. He retrieved it and set it down again. “I guess that’s our stupid maneuver for the day.” Then he mumbled something Rhetta didn’t quite catch, but she thought it sounded suspiciously like, “Freakin’ G-man.”

  He pulled the curly phone cord taut several times before Rhetta finally objected. “For goodness sake, stop doing that, Woody. You know that cord isn’t rubber. When it breaks, you’ll be without a phone until I can buy a new cord.”

  Woody let the cord spring out of his hands. “The agent told me I was an idiot. He acted like the FBI gets phone calls about terrorists every day.”

  “An idiot? He used the word idiot?”

  “Not exactly. The guy yawned. A yawning FBI agent tells me he must get calls about terrorists every day and that I must be an idiot for bothering him.”

  Rhetta steamed. “Did you get his name?” She stomped through the office toward the kitchen.

  “Cooper. He said he didn’t need to hear the recording,” Woody called after her. “I can’t believe we’re the only ones who think this is suspicious. After his attitude, now I’m not so sure, either.”

  “What did you say?” Rhetta said, reappearing with a bottle of water. “You’re giving up that easily?” Twisting off the cap, she tilted the bottle and drained half of it. She tossed the half-full bottle to the wastebasket. She missed. It landed a foot away and rolled into the corner. Snatching her shoulder bag and car keys, Rhetta strode to the door.

  Changing her mind, Rhetta stopped, whirled around, and returned to her chair with keys in one hand and purse in the other. “I’ve got it. Maybe the FBI is already on to him.” Rhetta nodded, “Sure, that’s it. They don’t want us to get too excited and maybe say or do something we shouldn’t.” She sighed, retrieved the water bottle from the floor, and dropped it in the trash.

  She’d intended driving straight to the agent’s office in Westerfield Center to confront Agent Cooper in person. She changed her mind, reasoning that the authorities probably had everything under control. What “everything” consisted of, she wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, there was nothing more she and Woody could do.
They’d done their duty. They’d reported a suspicious call.

  Woody shook his head. “If that’s the case, why didn’t Cooper say he already knew about it?”

  Rhetta pondered that. “You know, this is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situation.”

  Woody furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “That agent can’t confirm or deny anything. By brushing us off, I’m sure he hopes to discourage us from getting panicky.”

  “Us? Panicky? What do you mean?”

  Rhetta yanked open a bottom desk drawer and stuffed her purse into it. “You know how closemouthed the FBI is. They don’t want us civilians knowing anything. Especially, they don’t want us knowing anything important. I bet they’re all over this. We did our civic duty. Let them take care of finding out about this.” Rhetta almost had herself convinced.

  “Yeah, we don’t need to get involved in—”

  The phone rang, interrupting Woody. He answered and kicked into full professional mode. “MCB Mortgage and Insurance. Yes, ma’am, let me just get some information from you.” He opened a drawer and withdrew an application form.

  Rhetta was relieved that the call was from a customer and not Wilfred Graham, III, who hated it when Woody abbreviated his family-owned bank’s sacred name.

  The phone rang again, and the business day shifted into gear. Neither of them mentioned the unusual voice message the rest of the day.

  Rhetta had all the confidence in the world in the FBI.

  Sure, she did.

  CHAPTER 4

  Thursday, June 25, late morning

  It was time for action. “Come on,” she said, heading to the door. Woody remained at his desk.

  “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “Where are you going? What do you want to look at?” Woody hesitated. “What’re you thinking?”

  She faced him. “There’s something too peculiar about Al-Serafi’s accident. I can’t imagine where the heck he was going on I-55 south, obviously alone, so early in the morning. He didn’t live anywhere near the Diversion Channel.” She snorted. “Al-Serafi lived on the west side of Cape. I’m sure he wasn’t making a house call.” Another safari through her bag produced the door key. “He doesn’t have any other family around here, and I remember him saying how he doesn’t like to drive too much because we drive on the wrong side of the road. Or at least compared to how he drove in England.”