A Shoulder to Cry On

"Tea," I say, but only because Chase has.

The tea was already set, and he pours it himself into small, clear glasses. He hands one to me, and then Chase, before pouring his own and situating himself for the conversation.

"William, usually in these kinds of meetings, we would discuss everything but the topic at hand. We talk politics, we talk family, we talk the weather, then speak about the true point of the discussion. However, today the conversation is far too important. A member of the Ummah is dead, so I will not, what is the expression? 'Beat around the bush'?" Hamza asks.

"Thank you for being accommodating," I say, and Chase nods to agree. "What was Omar Asfour's relationship with the Mosque?"

"Believing, but practical. He was here for Jumu'ah and was active in community outreach," Hamza says, and my face must have asked the question. "Jumu'ah is Friday prayer. You likely know this as Sunday prayer or the sabbath. Islam's sabbath is Friday."

"Was Omar at prayer this last Friday?" I ask.

"He was," Hamza says, and I look at Chase. I just remembered he was going to direct questions, but he hasn't said anything to me about it yet. I think he's trusting me to do this, until he doesn't.

"Did Laurel ever attend prayer?" I ask, and Hamza shakes his head.

"No. She's been to the mosque, many times, and is very welcome. But she quietly observes prayer," Hamza says, and I write that down on my notebook.

"Is there anyone in the mosque you can think of who had a grudge with Omar?" I ask, and Hamza takes a sip of his tea.

"No. Omar was near universally liked. He led our fundraiser for the community's pilgrimage to Mecca last year. He attended it himself. It's not to say this mosque doesn't received threats, because we certainly do. Those are more directed to me however."

"What kind of threats? Anti-Islamic groups?" I ask.

"We get our fair share of those, but we get more threats from other Muslims. You need to understand, we are a relatively moderate congregation. Extremists don't like us any more than they'd like you. I had to a warn the authorities of a man showing signs of radicalization to the FBI last year. He planned to shoot a Synagogue," Hamza explains.

"Was he a lone wolf or acting with a group?" I ask.

"He acted alone, as far as I know," Hamza says, and I write that down. "His name was Ishmail Ali, he's still in custody."

"How was he radicalized?"

"Internet chat forums."

"Is there any chance the people he met are working to harm the people in your mosque?" I ask.

"I suppose that's possible, but it's unlikely. The forum itself is scattershot. It wasn't directing actions toward specific groups, as much as hoping to inspire actions against a few broad targets."

"I understand. In the morning on Friday during prayer, is their food or drink served?" I ask.

"After prayer, some people stay for breakfast and tea. Omar was not one of them, he had already eaten and said he wasn't feeling well," Hamza replies.

Omar was already not feeling well early in the morning. When was he poisoned? Was it even earlier than we assume? He could have been poisoned on Thursday, but that would mean it took over two full days to kill him. I don't know much about poison, but I kind of doubt it.

"Omar already wasn't feeling well on Friday morning?" I ask, and he nods.

"That is correct. How did he die, if I may ask?" Hamza asks, and I look at Chase who shakes his head.

"This is still an ongoing investigation I'm afraid," I say, and Hamza leans forward a little.

"I see," Hamza says, thinking for a moment. "No one else in the mosque has been sick to my knowledge." The mosque isn't the source of the poison it appears. I will still check with clinics and hospitals for any symptoms similar to Omar's. Besides that, I really want to see Laurel's finances. I hope that warrant is back by the time I am.

"Is there anything else you think may be important? Any recent visitors to the mosque?" I ask, and Hamza hesitates his response a few seconds longer than he has been answering. It could be because he's trying to think, but his face shows reluctance, not like he is trying to recall information.

"Not that I can think of," Hamza says, and I think about repeating the question, but decided against it. We finish our tea before he begins talking with words to end a conversation. The Imam is gracious as he sees us out after we put our shoes back on.

We walk to the car together, Chase taking his seat after I unlock it. I sit a moment later and start the car. I then replace my sidearm I placed in the center console to my holster.

"Thanks for letting me run that conversation," I say, and Chase holstering his own gun from the glove compartment.

"I figured I wait until you said something completely wrong. You did fine. Hamza is very practical, he wouldn't take anything that was a mistake as an insult," Chase explains. "Besides, this is your case, not mine. I'm just here to back you up."

"Thanks," I say, and put the car in gear and drive back to the precinct.

–

Midge is already back from talking with the club owner Andre Reed and is already going over Laurel's finances when I arrive with Chase in tow. Midge opens her mouth to talk before she sees Chase and looks to me to see if we can talk about this in front of him.

"It's fine, he's been put on as a cultural advisor," I say, sitting at my desk while Chase sits in a free chair. "Time to compare notes. Club owner give you anything good?"

"Two leads worth looking into. Joey Kristof, a rival comedian who was Laurel's ex," Midge says, and I look at Chase who nods and says he's familiar with him. "And a guy Laurel had a protective order against named Ian Tyler."

"She had a restraining order on someone?" I ask.

"Restraining order or order of protection? There is a difference," Chase asks, since in the last five seconds we've used both terms interchangeably.

"Restraining order," Midge says after reading the document on her desk again. "It's already expired, about two months ago and it looks like Laurel hasn't petitioned for an extension. It was for stalking her. The guy wrote a letter to the judge in apology, explaining it was a misunderstanding. Fully cooperated with the order, even turning in his legal firearm which was returned to him once the order expired. Electrical engineer for the city's department of energy, fixes utility poles. No priors."

"Anything with Laurel's finances?" I ask and look for Chase's reaction. He's confident there is nothing there.

"Her and Omar joined accounts when they got married four months ago. He paid off some debt she had, nothing major, just student loans. Omar inherited some serious money from his father's estate a few years ago," Midge says, and Chase is curious.

"Serious how?" Chase asks.

"Omar was worth upwards to twenty million," Midge says, and Chase walks across the room to look at her files. "I was shocked as well, especially for someone who lived so frugally."

"What the hell?" Chase asks, looking at the records.

"You didn't know that, did you?" I ask, and Chase shakes his head. "When they got married, was Laurel put as the sole inheritor of his estate?" I ask, and Midge nods.

"Doesn't mean anything," Chase says and looks at me. "That's the legal default regardless. I doubt she even knew he was worth that much before they got married."

"It's not nothing Chase," I say, and he wants to say something, but doesn't.

"What about Joey Kristof?" Chase asks.

"Out of town, and has been for several weeks," Midge confirms.

"What did his father do to leave him that kind of money?" I ask, trying to get back to the finances.

"It's in a bunch of accounts, but it looks like oil money from Saudi Arabia," Midge says, and pulls up a few more items. "Omar immigrated to the United States with his parents in two thousand three when he was just three years old. Both his parents and he became naturalized by twenty ten. They came here through asylum is all I've managed to find. I've sent some requests to the State Department, but I got a feeling FISA is going to be a real pain in the ass here."

"Probably right," Chase says and walks back to his chair. "Have you guys confirmed the poison yet?"

"Waiting for the ME. He's got good theory, but he needs to confirm it still," I reply.

"Next step?" Midge asks.

"You got an address for Ian Tyler?" I ask, and Midge confirms that we do. "Let's pay him a visit. You coming?" I ask Chase who shakes his head.

"Islamic cultural advisor is my left right boundary," Chase says, and I can tell he is restraining himself from getting more involved.

"Midge, let's go," I say, Midge following me to the elevator while Chase took the stairs to the next floor.

–

Monday – March 9, 2026

-Midge Appletree-

Ian Tyler lives toward the center of the city, and we typically do not like ambushing people when they are at work if they're not a suspect yet. It tends to create needless work conflicts with coworkers wondering why police are talking to you. We called his last phone of record and left a voice mail which said his name, so we knew it was likely still a good number. We stop by the city's Department of Energy who tells us he is currently fixing a tower that was hit by a car earlier in the day. We reroute to the crash site which takes us nearly an additional thirty minutes to drive to. When we finally arrive, we're toward the edge of the city right near an overpass without much traffic, but cones are set up to close the lane one hundred meters in advance.

Will pulls up to a utility van pulled over on the side of the road. A few feet in front of the van in a powerline pole, on top of which a man is conducting maintenance. There is shattered glass still on the road from the crash earlier, and some discarded plastic pieces from bumpers brushed to the curb. There is orange paint on the pole, likely from the car that had collided into it, which was reported as a single vehicle accident.

"You Mr. Tyler!" Will shouts up to the man on the tower. He looks down, lifting the rim of the helmet a little.

"Who's asking?!" He shouts down. Will pulls out his shield and holds it up.

"Come on down, we need to talk to you!" Will shouts, and the man starts scaling down the pole, and reaches the bottom over a minute later. He has spiked boots to climb, a one-piece uniform like a mechanic, and puts his helmet under his arm.

Ian Tyler appears late twenties with his hair styled in a high fade on the sides and cut short. Most of his body is obscured by his uniform, but he is tall and stocky, nearly six feet with a large neck and broad shoulders. He's an inch over Will, so he's nearly half a foot over me.

"Can I help you officers?" Ian asks, almost annoyed we're bothering him.

"Perhaps. What do you know about a guy named Omar Asfour?" Will asks, and I watch Ian's face. He knows the name at least. His eyebrows raised a little.

"I think he's a comedian," Ian replies.

"You think?" Will asks, setting up a trap. "His wife put a restraining order on you last year."

"Laurel Smith?" Ian asks, and Will nods. "Yeah, she did. Complete misunderstanding and I abided by all court instructions. I didn't know she was in a relationship let alone is married to that Omar guy."

"How do you know Omar?" I ask. We're keeping the questions present tense to hide the fact he's deceased to see if he slips.

"I never said I know him," Ian says. Present tense. "Laurel does comedy at a club downtown, and I went with a few friends from work a few times. Omar typically closes."

"Until you got banned?" I ask.

"Because of Laurel. I had no issue with the club, so agreed to stop. Like I said, that whole thing is a misunderstanding."

"How?" Will asks.

"Laurel and I talked for moment at the club the first night. I thought she was hot, took my shot, got shot down. Fine, happens all the time. A few months later, I run into her at the grocery store. Next day, the DMV. Soon after that her block loses power and I have to fix the pole, which was parallel with her bedroom window," Ian explains. "A series of coincidences."

Something about this guy is just, off. Something smug about the way he talks in general. It's a real shame too, because even as a lesbian I can admit he's a handsome guy. I don't feel comfortable being this close to this man. It's the aura of entitlement he exudes that makes me the most nervous. Like he just takes what he wants.

"That's a lot of coincidences," Will says.

"What do you want from me? I stayed away, I turned in my gun, and the order has expired," Ian says, and he's right. He did everything he was supposed to do. "Why are you even talking to me?"

"Because Omar Asfour was murdered," I say, and Ian doesn't even flinch. No shock, surprise, or even 'oh shit'. Nothing.

"Sorry to hear that," Ian says with no emotion. "Nothing to do with me."

"Where were you Thursday night and Friday morning?" Will asks.

"Thursday night I was updating a utility pole route for seven hours. Friday I was off, so spent it sleeping," he says.

"You got something or someone to confirm that?" I ask.

"Work logs from last night, from four to eleven. I live alone, but I slept in until noon before going to the gym," Ian says, and we write those down. I don't get a good vibe from this guy, but I got nothing to assume anything besides my own instincts.

"Thank you for your time," Will says and hands him a card. "Remember anything, let us know."

"Sure," Ian says, and immediately starts getting back to work without even saying 'goodbye' or 'have a nice day'.

Will and I return to the car and will now have to fight traffic to get back to the precinct. On the way we discuss where we are with the case right now.

"Suspects?" Will asks.

"I'm leading with Laurel right now from lack of anything concrete. Going with the statistics," I say, as I'm sure he has that same opinion right now.

"Agreed. Feelings on Tyler?" Will asks.

"Call it women's intuition. That guy was giving me a bad vibe," I say, and I see Will is trying to think about where I was getting that from.

"He just seemed frustrated he had to hear about something that's already resolved," Will says.

"He had no reaction at all to hearing Omar was dead," I point out.

"He didn't know him. What reaction are you looking for exactly?" He asks. Will seems ready to rule him out entirely, but I cannot shake off that vibe. He just radiated negativity to me.

"I don't know, something more than nothing I guess," I say, not sure how to explain what I expected or how I felt.

"Laurel and he are married for a heartbeat, and he drops dead, leaving her as the sole inheritor of that kind of money," Will says.

"Spouses tend to inherit money. If my wife died, you'd see me receive an insurance policy even the next day because that's the first thing we did after getting married. That's what married people tend to do," I say, trying to explain having an insurance policy is ubiquitous.

"Who's a more credible suspect right now?" Will asks, and I have no good alternative. At least not one that isn't instinct.

"Just saying, that guy gives me the heebie-jeebies," I say one last time before we talk about something that isn't work.

–

Overall, this has been a very stressful day. I puke on my first real case in Homicide, insult my boss' old partner who is a condescending douche, and accidently ask a spouse if her murdered husband went to a terrorist mosque. Not a great day. After a day like this, I need a drink.

I do not like drinking alone, so I send two texts after I leave work; one to Gianna, and the other to my friend Shane.

Shane and I met eight years ago at a softball game between the police and fire departments. The firemen crushed us, but I got a friend out of the experience. We had a great relationship from the start. I didn't want anything from him, and he was married and deeply in love, so he didn't want anything from me. I loved his wife Sierra, who sadly died in a car crash roughly a year after we met. Shane was an emotional wreck afterwards, but he got through the worst of it, and years later the pain is still there, but he's trying to move on.

The first time I met him, I was playing catcher for the police when he came up to bat. My first impression of him was that I could identify him as a fireman even if he wasn't wearing a shirt saying so. Towering over me at six foot three, massive shoulders, thick biceps and chest protruding from his shirt more than mine. He wore shorts to play softball, shorts that cut off halfway down his sculpted thighs. His clean-shaven face shows off his perfectly cleft chin, and immaculately carved nose.

I motioned the pitcher to walk him, because I have a feeling that ball is gone if he pitches something in the strike zone. The first two pitches are intentional balls to walk him. Shane chuckles and asked, "Scared?"

"I got a feeling I don't want you hitting," I said, and he chuckled again.

"I'm actually not that good," he said.

"I don't believe you," I said, and the third pitch is outside again, and I threw it back. The fourth pitch for the walk comes in, and he swung to force the strike. "What the hell."

"Gimme something I can hit," he said, and the pitch was outside again, and he swung, again.

I motion for a real pitch this time to see what happens. It was straight and Shane hits the ball so hard we all heard a car alarm going off in the parking lot.

"Thanks," he said and starts rounding the bases.

I found out a few minutes later he hit my car. He promised to pay for it, and everyone went out for goodwill drinks after the game.

You'd think being short haired, flat chested, and clearly a lesbian would stop men from hitting on me. You would be very wrong. Sometimes it's even worse. Men who want to win a bet or make a decent woman out of me. Fuck me straight or some shit.

One of the firemen starts hitting on me at the bar, and I have my usual panic of wanting to get away as fast as possible. He asked again, and I had to hold back my freak out. Just before it's about to spill over into me straight up losing it, Shane wedged his way between the two of us, and the guy backed off. For a second, I got more nervous because Shane is such a big man, but he alleviates my anxiety immediately.

"If he gives trouble again, just let me know. He's a good guy, but he's not good at reading social cues," Shane said and left me alone.

"What?" I asked, and Shane turned around.

"You don't like men hitting on you," Shane said, and I looked at him, utterly stunned he saw that from across the room. "Your shoulders and arms flex inward, your entire body shifts toward the nearest exit, and you start reaching for the weapon you usually have on you, and panic when you realize you're not armed." I didn't even realize I was doing that, but I knew he was right.

"You can see that from across the room?" I asked, and he nodded before slowly walking back and leaning on the bar.

"I can," he claimed.

"What can you see up close?" I asked. I'm curious.

"You try to make your hair look like indifference, but it's salon quality. You have a military background. You've never worn a bra. You wear girl briefs because you like the way they hug your butt..." he said after roughly ten seconds of observation.

"...Stop," I interrupted while laughing. "Is that your superpower?"

"What did I get right?" He asked, and I cringe a little. "I was a batting a hundred, wasn't I?"

"Kind of creepy," I said, but I wasn't creeped out. I didn't get any of those vibes from him. He was funny and interesting. And married. Very married.

"You killed that game," I heard a voice say and turned to see a woman. She was eyeing me the way a girl does when she catches her man talking to another woman. She did the math, concluded lesbian, and ceased being concerned. "Hi, I'm Sierra."