Free The Terrorist Next Door by Sheldon Siegel Page A

student at the U. of C. Saudi national.”
    Gold recognized the name. “I talked to him when we arrested Al-Shahid. He went to MIT with Al-Shahid’s brother. Excellent student. No criminal record.”
    “How well did he know Hassan Al-Shahid?”
    “Not well.”
    Maloney’s sarcastic laugh turned into a hacking smoker’s cough. “You think he was going to admit he was pals with the guy who killed your partner?”
    “You think he blew up his own Mercedes?”
    “Get the hell over there and ask him.”
     
     

 
    Chapter 12
    “MY BROTHER IS NOT A MURDERER”
     
    The undercover cop lowered the driver-side window as Gold and Battle approached his battered gray Suburban parked across the street from Al-Shahid’s condo in a brownstone at 53rd and Hyde Park Boulevard. Mature maple trees formed a leafy canopy over the elegant residential street two blocks from the lake. The intersection was usually busy, but police cars and undercover FBI agents outnumbered the residents. DeShawn Robinson sported knock-off Ray-Bans and a soiled baseball cap with a House of Blues logo. His unshaven face and faded Kanye West T-shirt contrasted with the button-down look of the baby-faced FBI agent sitting beside him in the passenger seat. “What the fuck’s going on at the museum?” Robinson asked.
    Gold liked his directness. Robinson was the son of a heroin-addict mother and a father he’d never met. He’d been one of Bowen High’s most accomplished gang bangers until Gold had persuaded him to join his midnight basketball league ten years earlier. Gold cajoled him into staying in school long enough to collect his diploma. After a few stumbles, Robinson ended up at the police academy. He became a valuable undercover operative in South Chicago.
    “Three dead,” Gold said, “eight injured. Seen anything out of the ordinary here?”
    “No. Everybody’s holed up at home—and staying put.”
    “Any sign of Nasser Salaam?”
    “I just talked to him. He’s been in London for three weeks. Got a summer job with some fancy-ass law firm. Makes more in a month than we make in a year.”
    “Nice work if you can get it. I take it that means he didn’t drive his Mercedes to the museum today?”
    “No shit, Sherlock. It also explains why he didn’t file a police report about a missing car. He didn’t know it was gone. And before you ask, we didn’t see Al-Shahid’s brother or anybody else steal the Mercedes. Neither did any of the neighbors.”
    “Is Al-Shahid’s brother upstairs?”
    “Yep. He got into town on Thursday night. We’ve been watching him ever since.”
    “Any chance he drove the Mercedes to the museum at twelve-twenty-seven?”
    “Nope.” Robinson glanced at his notes. “He took the eight a.m. Metra train from 53rd Street downtown to see his lawyer. He was there until noon. He took the twelve-twenty back here. He got home a few minutes to one. We had eyes on him the entire time.”
    “Where was he when the bomb went off at Millennium Park?”
    “At his attorney’s office.”
    “Any chance he initiated the call to the detonator?”
    “I doubt it, but I can’t tell you for sure. We didn’t go inside the lawyer’s office.”
    “Where was he at twelve-thirty-five?”
    “On the train. I was sitting across the aisle from him. I didn’t see him place a call to the museum.”
    “The call was initiated from a throwaway cell. It pinged a tower on the Southeast Side. Is it possible that you couldn’t see the throwaway?”
    “I suppose it’s possible.”
    Gold looked up at the brownstone where Hassan Al-Shahid had lived for two years. “Did you pull a warrant and check inside Salaam’s condo?”
    “Yes. No dead bodies. No signs of forced entry. The keys to the Mercedes were in a drawer in the kitchen. Looked like nothing was missing, but we won’t know until Salaam gets back. We’re checking his computer.” Robinson handed Gold a card with an eleven-digit international number. “We got logs on Salaam’s