The Terrorist Next Door Read Online Free PDF Page A

Addison Street station was encircled by police units and fire engines, and helicopters hovered overhead. The ever-present aroma of hot dogs, peanuts, and beer was overpowered by the stench of smoke. Ballpark employees and local residents mingled uneasily between the news vans on Sheffield Avenue where tour buses usually parked.
    Gold pointed at the Blazer. “What do you know?”
    Wronski scowled. “FBI said it was just like the Art Institute. Gasoline bomb in the trunk ignited the fuel tank. Detonator was a throwaway cell. Asshole named Fong had his people take it to their lab.”
    Gold glanced up at the rooftop bleachers on the buildings down the block from Murphy’s. In the nineties, the neighborhood had turned into a yuppie hot spot when developers and dot-commers had rechristened it as “Wrigleyville.” They’d converted the six-flats across the street from the park into private “clubs” with overpriced hot dogs, designer microbrews, and expensive rooftop seats. No self-respecting Sox fan would pay good money to sit six hundred feet from home plate. “Anybody see anything?”
    “No witnesses. We’re goin’ door to door. Surveillance cameras inside Murphy’s and at the ballpark aren’t pointed this way. I talked to the ticket taker, the security guard, and the guy who runs the newsstand at the station. Nobody saw nothin’.”
    “Noticed anything suspicious around here lately?
    “Nah. Neighborhood’s been pretty quiet since the yuppies moved in. We get drunks after night games, but our alderman likes us to keep the punks away from the ballpark. Scares the tourists. The news guy at the station takes bets on the Cubs and the ponies. The Outfit hits him up for street taxes, but that’s about it.”
    The rackets had been extorting protection money—dubbed “street taxes”—from local bookies since the beginning of time. “How does your alderman feel about car bombs?”
    “He’s against them.”
    So am I . “ID on the car?”
    “Reported stolen Thursday night. Registered in the name of the Shrine of Heaven Mosque on Polish Broadway.”
    Gold nodded. Milwaukee Avenue—known as Polish Broadway—was the main thoroughfare through the world’s largest Polish community outside of Warsaw. Though many of the descendants of the original immigrant families had moved to the suburbs, you could still hear Polish spoken in the shops and restaurants. Gold looked at Wronski. “You live over in St. Hyacinth’s Parish?”
    “Wellington and Pulaski.”
    “Gordon Tech?”
    “Of course.”
    “You know anything about this mosque?”
    “Opened about five years ago. Guy who runs it is named Ahmed Jafar. American as we are—born here on the North Side. Cubs fan. Father was an Iraqi doctor who came here when Saddam Hussein took over. Ended up driving a taxi. Now he owns the cab company. Ahmed graduated from Lane Tech. Played baseball at Circle Campus. Got a degree in social work. Drove a cab for his father for a few years.”
    “He went from driving a cab to running a mosque?”
    “It’s more of a community center. Most of the Muslims in the neighborhood aren’t rolling in dough, so Ahmed tries to help them out. Seems like a decent guy. The mosque sponsors a Little League team. We keep an eye on him—for his own protection.”
    “And yours.”
    “You said that. I didn’t.”
    “Anybody over there ever been suspected of terrorist ties?”
    “I wouldn’t know. Check with the feds. They keep an eye on the mosque.”
    I’m not surprised . Gold saw Fong emerge from Murphy’s. He did his best to invoke a reasonably friendly tone. “Hey George, you got anything on the detonator?”
    Fong came closer so he wouldn’t be overheard by the reporters standing outside the yellow tape. “Another Motorola throwaway. Purchased for cash at a Best Buy in Glenview. Initiating phone was a throwaway bought at a K-Mart in Schaumberg. No security videos for the purchase of either phone. The carrier was Verizon.”
    “We