I was a detective long enough to know this is a phony operation.

“We … we have no money here,” he stammers. “Please. We are a humble charity. We simply help our Muslim brothers and sisters who are new to this country—”

“I think you launder money, Saleel,” I say. “You help terrorists.”

His nervousness ebbs into quiet anger.

“I should have known,” he says, his voice growing louder with anger. “Stupid American. How dare you accuse us of—”

Thinking of the thousands of innocents I was with just hours ago, my own impatient rage gets the better of me. I push him against the thin plaster wall, knocking the bulletin board to the ground.

“An unhinged multimillionaire is funneling thousands of dollars through you!” I demand. “Why? What the hell is going to happen on Mardi Gras?”

“Nothing that I know of,” he shoots back. “As Allah is my witness.” Then he adds, spitting on the floor in disgust, “Except a full day of obscenity and blasphemy that is a complete disgrace to Islam.”

“What about Ibrahim Farzat?” I demand. “He was a Muslim refugee who struggled to adjust to his new life. The exact kind of person your group ‘helps.’ Or should I say, ‘recruits’?”

“I know of no man by that name,” he says with contempt. “And the only cause I have ever ‘recruited’ for is peace.”

I’m getting to the end of my rope with this guy.

“Who did Farzat associate with? What are you planning?”

He hesitates—so I release my grip on him … and draw my weapon.

“Please, I swear to you,” his voice softens. “I am not a violent man. I am not a terrorist. Whatever you are trying to find out, I do not know. Perhaps others here do but—”

“Exactly,” I say, holding my weapon so he can easily see it. “Which is why I’m going to need documents. The name of everybody who’s ever walked through these doors. Their numbers, addresses, e-mails. Your group’s tax and financial records, too. Paper, digital, everything you’ve got. Now!”

He swallows. Then nods, resigned.

“All of that is stored in the back office. You may wait here, or come with me.”

I scoff. “Let’s take a walk.”

Without lowering my weapon, we walk along together down a narrow corridor with some open doors on either side, revealing their interiors. One is a dim, barren conference room with a few copies of the Koran scattered around the table. Another looks like a prayer room, with colorful woven rugs rolled up and stacked in the corner. A third is some sort of daycare room, with Legos, dolls, and other toys strewn about the grubby carpet.

We arrive at the last door at the far end of the hall.