As I approached the Holland Tunnel, I glanced at where the Towers once stood across the Hudson River. The geniuses involved with the World Trade Center reconstruction were still arguing about what to build there, and at the rate they were going, it would be two or three more years before the first I-beam was put in place. Meanwhile, the hole in the ground was a top tourist attraction, and a constant reminder of a very bad day.
As I waited in line at the toll booths, a young uniformed Port Authority cop stopped me and said, "Just a security check, sir. Can I see your driver's license?"
Why me? Do I look suspicious? It must be my big blue eyes. Meanwhile, Abdul in front of me is driving an eighteen-wheeler through the frickin' tunnel, filled with God-knows-what, and all he gets is a wave.
"Sir?"
I showed him my NYPD shield and my Federal ID, and he said to me, "Have a nice day, Detective."
"Why me?"
"It's just random. Every sixth vehicle."
"Would you play the horses that way?"
"I just do what I'm told. Have a nice day."
I raised my window and moved into the tunnel. Well, I thought, don't just do what you're told. I don't. Show some initiative and common sense or you're going to lose that tunnel.
I exited the tunnel and made my way through the busy streets of Lower Manhattan. There were parking spaces reserved for official government business along Broadway, though no parking was allowed in front of 26 Fed since 9/11. But for some inexplicable reason, there was parking allowed in front of 290 Broadway, the government building next door-Official Government Business, No Terrorists, No Car Bombs. I found a nice space in front of 290 and parked.
While I was looking to see where Kate hid the parking permit-glove compartment? Under the driver's seat? Behind the sun visor? — a uniformed cop sauntered over and knocked on my window.
I rolled down my window, and he said to me, "Official business only."
"Right. I'm looking for my permit." I handed him my Fed creds and flashed my NYPD detective shield while I rummaged under the passenger seat. Why the hell does she pick a different place every time?
The cop, whose name plate said "Timmons," handed me my creds and said, "Thank you, Detective."
He was about to move off, but I took a shot and asked him, "Hey, do you know anything about the murder of a cab driver? Arab-American guy. Libyan. Happened… maybe yesterday."
"Where?"
"I don't know. How many Arab cab drivers have been murdered recently?"
"One. Happened yesterday afternoon on Murray Street." He let me know, "We got a BOLO on the suspect."
"You got a suspect?"
"Yeah. I got a photo in the car."
"Good. Hey, if you were a woman, where would you put the parking permit?"
I thought he was going to say to me, "You're the detective," but he said, wisely, "I don't even want to go there."
"Right. How'd this guy get clipped?"
"Something like an ice pick in his head."
"Ouch." I asked, "What was the victim's name?"
He was wondering, I'm sure, why I didn't ask my boss these questions, and I thought he was going to ask to see my creds again, but he replied, "His name was Amir… some Arab name."
"Maybe it's in her purse. Would she put it in her purse?"
"I don't know. But you need it to park here or you're gonna get towed." He reminded me, "High-security zone."
"Right. I work here." Car bomb towing zone. I asked Officer Timmons, "What was the name of the suspect?"
"We don't have a name."
"But you have a photo."
"Right. But no name."
Interesting. I asked him, "Where did the photo come from?"
"I don't know." He said, "But we're looking for another Arab guy." He added, "Last seen wearing a dark blue sports jacket, tan pants, and a light blue shirt."
The last time I saw Khalil, he was wearing a black jumpsuit with a matching helmet. I assumed this description was from the pilots, who were probably the only living people who could ID Khalil's clothing.
I asked Officer Timmons, "Any particulars on the incident?"
He replied, "Homicide Squad says it wasn't a robbery, so it looks like Abdul A knew Abdul B and maybe they had some sort of disagreement."
"Right." I asked him, "If you don't have a name, how can you be sure the suspect was an Arab?"
"That's what I was told." He added, "The guy in the photo is not Irish."
Recalling the wanted poster, I asked, "Dark complexion, slicked-back hair, hooked nose, and crazy eyes?"
"Yeah. I got it in the car. You want to see it?"
"No."
"It's on the floor," Timmons said.
"You should have it on the dashboard."
"No, your parking permit. It's on the floor behind you."
"Really?" I twisted around and sure enough, there it was. Did I put it there?
Anyway, the cop moved off. I retrieved the permit and put it in the windshield, locked the car, and began walking toward 26 Federal Plaza.
It was a really nice day and everyone on the street seemed happy to be alive. Me too. I'll bet even Asad Khalil was happy to be alive. He had a good Sunday. Five dead. Almost six. And maybe a few more we didn't know about yet. Amazing.
Well, assuming Amir the taxi driver was murdered by Khalil the asshole, then that put Khalil in Manhattan yesterday, a few blocks from here. So, first Sullivan County, then Republic Airport, then Douglaston, Queens, and then Manhattan. Like last time, he moved fast.
Three years ago, Asad Khalil had come to America to murder the surviving United States Air Force pilots who had bombed his Tripoli neighborhood in 1986. The names of those pilots were supposed to be highly classified information, and no one in Washington wanted the American public, the American military, or the world to know that American security had been breached, and that American servicemen had been assassinated at home for doing their job overseas. Not good for troop morale or what it said about what we now called homeland security, and certainly not good for the image of American power.
Therefore, Washington had kept a tight lid on those murders three years ago, and they had managed to keep the press from connecting them. The same thing was happening this time.
This time, however, I understood what was happening. So the outcome would be different. Not necessarily better than last time, but different.