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next door. He held up his badge. “I’m Detective Gold. This is Detective Battle. Do you work here?”
    “Nope. Just the painter.”
    “What’s your name?”
    They were interrupted by the sound of a blaring horn as a postal truck screeched to a halt inches from a Milwaukee Avenue bus. The postal worker flipped off the driver as he drove around the bus.
    “Michael Janikowski,” the young man said.
    “Mind showing us an ID?”
    “Sure.” He flashed his driver’s license. “Mind if I get back to work?”
    “In a minute. We’re looking for Ahmed Jafar.”
    “Lemme see if he’s here.” He shut the door.
    When it re-opened a moment later, they were met by a gangly young man with pointed features and olive skin. He was wearing a painter’s cap with a Cubs’ logo. His beard was flecked with white droplets. He spoke in unaccented English. “I’m Ahmed Jafar. Peace be upon you.”
    “And upon you,” Gold said. “We have news about your Blazer.”
    “I already talked to the FBI. I don’t know anything about the bombing at the El. We don’t condone violence. I’m not a terrorist.”
    He was more defensive than Gold had anticipated. “We’re just trying to figure out who stole your car. Let us come inside and ask you a few questions. Then you can get back to painting, and we can get back to chasing bad guys.”
    “This is racial profiling.”
    “That’s illegal.”
    Battle stepped forward and invoked a fatherly tone. “Ahmed, word is out on the street that your Blazer blew up at the El. If you work with us, we’ll run some interference for you. If not, you know the drill—subpoenas, lawyers, the media—stuff that a law-abiding citizen like you would rather avoid. We’d appreciate a moment of your time, and we’d really like to get out of the rain.”
    Jafar opened the door.
    * * *
    Gold expected to find a painting crew inside, but he quickly surmised that Jafar was handling the job himself, with a little help from Janikowski. He felt the soft rugs beneath the drop cloths as he and Battle followed the young imam through the narrow room that served as the area for prayers, the daycare center, the senior meeting place, the performing arts room, and the dining hall. The freshly painted walls were pure white. Gold tried to break the ice as they walked. “You been here all morning?”
    Jafar nodded. “Since eight o’clock. We couldn’t do prayers because we’re painting.”
    “Did anybody else come in this morning?”
    “Mike got here about twenty minutes ago.”
    “Has he worked for you before?”
    “No. This is the first time.”
    “You’re the imam?”
    “Yeah. I’m also the CEO, secretary, cook, driver, janitor, and, at the moment, painter. I’m the only paid employee. We have a lot of volunteers.”
    Gold glanced at the painter, who was listening to music on his iPod. “Is he a volunteer?”
    “Mike’s a handyman. He recently got back from his second tour in Afghanistan. Father Sobczyk over at St. Hyacinth’s asked the religious institutions in the neighborhood to help him find work. I can’t pay him much.”
    Gold would check him out. “How long has this mosque been here?” He already knew the answer.
    “Almost five years.” Jafar’s story jibed with the information provided by Fong.
    “What was here before you moved in?”
    “The Logan Square Tap.”
    That explained the whitewashed bar running the length of the room. The shelves that once held bottles were now filled with books. “I hear you’re looking at a bigger space.”
    “We’re trying to buy a building around the corner from St. Hyacinth’s.”
    “How do your neighbors feel about it?”
    “Let’s say the reaction has been mixed.”
    “Have you raised the money?”
    “We’ve asked for a grant from the Chicago Islamic Council.” Jafar stopped in front of a teapot on the bar. “Thirsty?”
    “Thank you,” Gold said, hoping to buy some additional time with Jafar. Battle also nodded.
    Jafar poured a cup of