A Prayer for the Devil (7 page)

Extending her hand, she said in perfect English, but with a Middle Eastern accent, “I am Jamilah. Ablaa was my sister.”

Shaking her hand, Luke replied with the trite response he had heard every day for the past few weeks. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Sensing that there was no immediate danger, the detective excused himself and returned to his lookout post. Luke walked to the front of the building with Jamilah. She explained, “The police have had Ablaa’s apartment under surveillance since her death. They worry about retaliation because many Americans think that she had something to do with the bombing.” Before Luke could speak, she continued, “My sister was only interested in peace. She would never condone violence of any kind.”

Luke saw her eyes squint as if she was smiling. “My outfit frightened you?” she asked.

He laughed. “Frightened me? It scared the heck out of me!” He could tell she was laughing. “I was nervous to be looking in the window to start with. When I saw your covered face, my heart just about stopped!”

“I apologize. Today is the holy day of Eid al-Adha, the festival of sacrifice. For Muslims, it signifies the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son Ishmael as an act of obedience to God.”

Understanding that people of the Islamic faith believe in specific sections of the Old Testament and revere Jesus as a great prophet, he smiled. “Yes, the book of Genesis; Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah.”

Luke saw her looking at the street, where many Muslims, dressed in traditional clothing, were making their way toward the Islamic center for the midday prayer. Seeing that some were staring at her, she whispered, “Perhaps we can talk tomorrow? I really have to get to the center.”

Luke replied, “What time is best for you?”

“How about ten in the morning?”

Feeling embarrassed about getting into the Mercedes, Luke said
good-bye and walked down the street in the other direction until she was out of sight, then he backtracked and hurried to the car.

Before turning the key in the ignition, he clenched the steering wheel with exasperation and moaned, “What the hell am I doing?” Luke reluctantly conceded that it was probably a longshot that his meeting with Jamilah the next morning would provide any clues, but he decided that a longshot was better than no shot at all.

LUKE WAS ANXIOUS TO
investigate another number on the phone list, one that Aaron had called many times over his last several weeks. Knowing that Mark Aldridge was still alive, because his name wasn’t on the bombing death list, he took out his cell phone and dialed.

“Aldridge residence; how can I help you?” a female voice answered.

“Can I please speak to Mr. Mark Aldridge?”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“This is Luke Miller.”

Luke heard muffled voices but couldn’t decipher what was being said. What felt like minutes passed before an elderly, deep voice responded, “This is Mark Aldridge.”

“Mr. Aldridge, this is Luke Miller, Aaron’s brother.”

The elderly man hesitated, then spoke softly, obviously overcome with emotion. “You sound just like him. I miss hearing his voice.”

“Me too, Mr. Aldridge.” Getting to the point, Luke continued, “I’ve been trying to investigate my brother’s death and am attempting to piece together the last few weeks of his life. I would really like to talk to you; do you have a few minutes?”

Aldridge replied abruptly, with a sharp voice, “Not on the phone. You’re welcome to come to my house to talk, but not on the phone.”

They agreed to meet in forty-five minutes at Aldridge’s house. Realizing that he had time to kill because he was only a few minutes away, Luke decided that he was finally brave enough to drive past Boston Common to get his first look at the bomb site where his brother was murdered. Yellow police tape surrounded the entire area. Luke noticed that the homeless people had moved back into the park and were preparing for the winter months; park benches were popular locations during the harsh weather. Luke made a mental note to return with warm clothing to help them cope with the upcoming frigid temperatures.

He cruised along the quaint streets of Beacon Hill, where Luke’s Mercedes fit right in. The exclusive residential neighborhood was known for its distinctive architecture: nineteenth-century brick buildings and sidewalks, decorative ironwork, and perpetually burning gaslights lining the narrow streets. These sought-after town homes were exquisite, but many lacked one important characteristic—a garage, making parking extremely challenging. Driving slowly, Luke continued to circle the block, praying that someone would pull out of a spot. It reminded him of an old priest joke:
“
A
man circles the crowded parking lot looking for a place to park during the Christmas rush. After making several passes and not finding a spot, he starts to pray. Seconds later, a car pulls out of one of the best spots in the lot. Looking up to God, he says, ‘Never mind, I found it myself.’”

Luke smiled to himself when, sure enough, a car began to pull out of a spot. While parallel parking, he felt his cell phone begin to vibrate in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was Robert Romo. Luke answered quickly. “Good morning, Detective.”

“Good morning, Father. I just heard that you were confronted by one of my colleagues at the home of Ablaa Raboud this morning.”

“Yes, that was me. I never had a gun pointed at me before.”

“I’m sorry; you should have let me know that you were going there.”

“I didn’t realize that she had a sister. I just wanted to see where she lived. My brother had spoken to her several times in the days before his death.”

After a few seconds of silence, the officer asked, “How exactly do you know that?”

Luke answered awkwardly, “I was able to get my brother’s cell phone records from his last few weeks, and I’ve been reviewing who he called.”

“Why?”

“Detective, put yourself in my position and please tell me what you would be doing.”

Chastised, he reluctantly replied, “I guess I’d be doing the same thing.”

“Have you heard anything on the case? Any suspects yet?”

“The feds have completely shut us out of the investigation. They’re considering the incident a threat to national security, so they revoked all our jurisdiction and authority.”

Hoping the detective’s annoyance at being excluded would make him more cooperative, Luke asked the question he’d been waiting to ask since his phone rang: “Do you have a way to get information on unlisted phone numbers?”

There was a hesitation on the line, then a simple answer. “Yes.”

Acting nonchalantly, Luke continued, “So, if I give you a few numbers, you could tell me who they belonged to?”

He wasn’t fooling the detective. “I could, but that doesn’t mean I will.” Luke held his breath as Romo continued, “Why don’t we meet? How about this afternoon?”

Thrilled to have his help, Luke quickly agreed. “No problem. Where?”

The detective immediately responded, “It has to be someplace where we won’t be recognized.”

“OK, four o’clock at the old cemetery on Tremont Street. I’ll see you there.”

LUKE WALKED TO THE
door of the impressive row house and lifted the massive knocker. When he released it, the sound echoed throughout the three-story mansion, and he heard footsteps approach. He looked up and noticed a security camera as the heavy door swung open. A petite young girl smiled and invited him inside, obviously expecting him. She locked the door behind him and motioned for Luke to follow her into an elegant wood-paneled library. She offered him something to drink and, when he declined, she excused herself to get Mr. Aldridge.

Luke stood as the young girl pushed Mark Aldridge’s wheelchair through the open door. Mark extended his hand and Luke gently shook it. Although they had never met, there was no need for introductions. “Please, sit down. I was very close friends with your brother. I know that this is awkward because we’ve never met, but I know a lot about you. Aaron was very proud of his younger brother.”

Luke smiled. Aldridge’s comment confirmed that he really must have been close to Aaron, since not many people knew that Aaron was born a few minutes before Luke.

“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Aldridge.”

“Please, call me Mark.”

Not wanting to waste any time, Luke took a deep breath and began. “I’ve been going through my brother’s phone records, and I’m trying to retrace the last few days of his life. I noticed that he talked to you many times in the days before the bombing.”

“Do you know anything about me?”

Luke grinned. “Only your name, phone number, and address.”

The old man smiled back and then quickly became serious. “I’m a political consultant who has worked for five presidents and dozens of congressmen and senators. I first met your brother a few years ago at a fund-raiser for Brad Thompson. His good looks and impressive background made him the perfect candidate.”

Bewildered, Luke interrupted, “Candidate?”

Squinting, Mark looked directly at Luke and asked, “When was the last time you talked to Aaron?”

“Over a year ago.”

“Yes, I remember now. He often talked about the need to patch things up with you. Luke, he loved you very much, and we talked about you so often that I’d forgotten that you two hadn’t spoken in a long time.”

Tears filled Luke’s eyes, but he didn’t reply.

“Most political insiders knew that once Brad Thompson became president, Aaron would run for senator in the next election two years from now. Being a longtime Boston resident, a graduate of Boston College and Harvard, and a well-respected lawyer, he was someone we felt couldn’t lose. He even had a Catholic priest as a brother! He was the perfect candidate. Did you know that Massachusetts has the second-highest percentage of Catholics in the country?”

Luke shook his head no.

“Well, then, I bet you didn’t know that Massachusetts has the fourth-highest percentage of Jews.”

“How do you know all these statistics?”

Mark smiled. “Luke, it’s my job to know these things. No candidate that I’ve represented as a client has ever lost a race.” He hesitated as tears filled his tired eyes. “Except for Brad Thompson.”