She stood on the flight deck and thought for about two seconds. The air-conditioned log room, instead of the roasting engine room. Key-boarding instead of fixing shit. Not busting her nails and getting oil all over her hair. Helping the chief and the L-T, going to planning meetings and making up watch bills and helping with the department budget. It didn’t take her long to decide which sounded better.
“Ma’am, I think I better finish my monitor quals. And I need to learn a lot more about the engines and switchboards an’ shit. Is it okay if I just stay in the hole? I really think I’d rather work with the machinery than that other side of things.”
Porter nodded a couple of times. She didn’t seem pissed off, Cobie thought. She might even have looked pleased. “Sure. Sure. Up to you. Just thought I’d ask, Fireman Kasson. Just thought I’d ask.”
Take a seat,” Aisha told Childers. “You can smoke if you want.” “I don’t smoke.” The storekeeper glanced at the brown paper bag she’d brought in with her, but didn’t ask about it. He had a black toothbrush mustache and dimples in his cheeks. He wore the working uniform with the sleeves rolled, exposing forearms like slabs of baker’s chocolate. A cough outside; Diehl was guarding the door. She’d persuaded him to let her try this one on her own. He hadn’t wanted her to, but she’d pointed out the senior agent hadn’t gotten anywhere with the suspect.
Aisha hoped she wouldn’t end up looking foolish, and tried to keep her voice offhand. “Pepsi?”
He didn’t want that, either. He sat in the folding chair in the break room of the armory, hands on his knees. She flashed on her classes in interrogation and interviewing. A classic posture of resistance. Often, of hiding something. Whatever it was, Diehl hadn’t been able to get it out of him. The senior agent had had him back three times, along with the others with access to the explosives storage. Nothing. As far as these men knew, a Marvel Comics superhero might have walked through the concrete walls of the secure area, loaded up with weapons and explosives, and walked back out again.
She didn’t think that’s what had happened to it.
She arranged herself opposite him, pulling down the hem of her abaya. Normally at this point she’d read him his Article 31 rights. The military version of the Miranda warning: the right to remain silent, that anything he said could be used against him, the right to a lawyer, and so forth. But if she could pull this off, no lawyers would be necessary. So she told him in a friendly voice, “We need to talk about this shortage, Petty Officer Childers. It’s really important we find out what happened to this missing stuff.”
He just sat there. “I done told you and Diehl both already, I don’t know anything about it.”
She gave that a beat, pretending to consult her notes.
“Why do they call you Jaleel?”
“Childers was my slave name. I got papers in to change it, but they ain’t gone through yet.”
“Nation of Islam?”
“We don’t make that distinction no more. They did once, but we been led back to the True Faith. Everyone who turns to Islam is the same. White, black, yellow, brown. There is no distinction in Islam.”
“That’s true. The whole earth is the
Childers looked at her. “You putting me on?”
“I was raised Muslim.”
“Where? Over here?”
“No. In Harlem.”
Childers, or Jaleel, relaxed as she chatted about the trials of maintaining faith amid a community of unbelievers. His Arabic was out of a phrase book, but he tried to impress her with it. When she thought they had trust established, she said, “About these stolen pistols. Who would want guns like that, Brother Jaleel? If you had one to sell, who would you get in touch with?”
“Can’t help you, Sister. Would if I could, I knew anything. But I don’t.” He turned stony again.
She opened the paper bag. Inside was a large plastic Ziploc, labeled with the date and place of discovery and an evidence log number, and an evidence tape with Peter Garfield’s name over the seal. Clearly visible inside was a black Beretta. She left the custody document in the bag and laid the handgun on the table between them. His eyes narrowed.
She slid a sheet of paper toward him, forcing him to pick it up, to participate. “The serial number inventory of the weapons stored in this building. The missing serials are highlighted in yellow.”
“What about it?”
She held it out, but didn’t let him touch it. “Read the serial on the gun. Then compare it to the list.”
He did, unwillingly. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“It looks to be one of the ones was missing.”
She sat back. His eyes flicked to her chest before he disciplined his gaze back to the tabletop.
“Know where I found this pistol?”
“No.”
