Page 11 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

A RE WE CLOSE TO THIS address?” I ask Daryl as I climb into the back of the sedan. He’s covered the black leather seat with a checkered red wool blanket. Smartass. Then I look down at my T-shirt, which is now covered in flecks of grime and white splotches of bleach. Maybe he has a point.

Daryl takes my phone and studies the information Aliah has supplied on Sabera and her husband’s apartment. He grunts, which I take to mean yes, hands back my mobile.

It’s after five P.M. , but still hot enough you’d never know.

The family, I notice, has disappeared from underneath the tree abutting the parking lot.

A young white male, however, now stands in front of the murder unit, peering intently at the door.

He’s tall, thin, and wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt in the searing heat.

I’m already guessing it’s to cover the track marks on his arms.

Daryl doesn’t give the man a second glance, just peers over his shoulder and expertly reverses the sedan out of the parking lot.

He has the car’s radio tuned to the news, which is listing a drug-related shooting, a near-fatal stabbing, and just to round out the trifecta of violence, two men attacked and killed with a hammer. I’m grateful when he shuts it off.

“I’m still alive,” I speak up cheerfully after a bit. Maybe to break the silence. Maybe to irritate my driver. Even I can never tell.

Daryl merely shakes his head, keeps his gaze fixed on the road.

We make it a few more blocks and then he takes a right, followed by a left, followed by another right.

I know we’ve arrived at the target location when we hit a run-down apartment building that’s missing entire chunks of stucco and has red roof tiles dangling down like bloody teeth.

To add insult to injury, a razor wire–topped fence separates the mud-brown complex from a clearly brand-new, shiny, white storage facility next door.

Last time I encountered such a formidable chain-link wall, I was visiting a female penitentiary in Texas that housed death row inmates.

Versus, say, the two children I now see attempting to roller skate around the cracked and cratered pavement, while a tired woman in a voluminous white blouse and simple gray head covering watches from the door of one of the units.

She glances up at the sound of the car engine, a flash of alarm crossing her face.

She claps her hands, saying something to the boy and girl that I can’t hear.

Both kids, clad in jeans and T-shirts, scramble toward her, the younger girl, maybe sixish, trying to change direction too quickly and promptly wiping out.

The woman yells something else, but the older boy is already turning back for his sister, while Daryl hits the brakes, slowing the vehicle to a gentle stop. He looks at me via the rearview mirror.

“If I get out, it will scare them further,” he states.

I see his point. A dark sedan driven by a hulking male? I scrabble with the door handle, grateful for my small size and disheveled appearance. How threatening can a scrawny female in a grungy T-shirt appear?

The little girl is crying as I exit the vehicle, her brother kneeling beside her and working the straps of the ancient metal skates buckled around her sneakers. He has thick black hair and carefully guarded eyes as he watches me approach.

“Excuse me,” I say brightly. “I’m a friend of Aliah’s. She sent me here to meet with someone.”

At the mention of Aliah’s name, the tense line of the woman’s shoulders relents slightly. Ashley had said Aliah was one of their go-to volunteers. I’m banking on these residents having met her as well, and that the reference to a mutual friend will help ease their fears.

The boy glances from me to his mom, back to me again. His sister’s sobs have slowed to a wet hiccupping sound. She doesn’t appear seriously hurt, just the minor scrapes and scratches that define most childhoods.

“My name is Frankie Elkin,” I volunteer in the same super cheerful tone. I’m friend, not foe. Talk to me!

I’m not convinced the woman is buying it, but she hasn’t grabbed both her children and bolted. I’ll take the win.

“I’m looking for the Ahmadis. Isaad and Sabera. Can you point me to their apartment?”

Now the woman does move. She walks directly toward me, her left hand shifting by her side.

I catch the gesture. She’s waving her children inside.

The boy helps his little sister to her feet, her skates held in his hand.

He’s still wearing his, but has no problem navigating both himself and his sister to the open doorway.

He lingers just outside, still staring at me.

Eight years old but ready to come to his mother’s defense. I wonder what he’s seen to have instilled such a level of hypervigilance at such a young age. I’m not like Ashley. My imagination is horrific enough.

“Who are you?” The woman’s accent sounds Middle Eastern, but I don’t have enough experience to be certain.

“Frankie Elkin—”

“Who are you?”

I pause, getting her point. She doesn’t care about my name. She wants to know my business here. Which is a good question. What is my business here?

Most people have been lied to enough in their lives. It’s my general policy not to add to the carnage.

I go with: “Aliah is worried about Sabera. She asked me to check on her.”

The woman’s expression doesn’t ease, her attention flicking from the luxury vehicle back to me. I may need to ask Daryl to find something less conspicuous.

A man has appeared in the doorway, his white collared shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, as if he just woke up. Or had possibly been dragged out of bed by his two frightened children. He steps outside, taking up position next to his wife.

“Isaad is not here,” he states. His English is clearer, but his regard no less suspicious.

“He’s out? At work?”

“He’s not here.”

There’s a definitiveness to those words that is starting to worry me.

“The Ahmadis live here, right? This is where Aliah told me to find them.”

“He is gone.”

“Maybe I should come back tomorrow?” I’m trying to understand the nature of Isaad’s, and presumably his daughter Zahra’s, absence. As in ran out to grab dinner, or packed up and departed for good?

The neighbor merely shrugs. Clearly, he has no intention of giving anything away. Though his gaze has now darted to the same door twice, which is useful enough.

I make a show of nodding in acknowledgment and turning back toward Daryl’s idling vehicle.

From this angle I can see the front window of the unit in question.

It’s covered in cheap plastic blinds. I pause for a moment, my hand on the car door, waiting to catch some sign of life, say two slats being pushed apart so Isaad can peer out.

Nothing. I sigh and declare defeat just in time to hear from behind me, “Excuse me.”

I twist around to discover the original family has gone inside, but now a young woman has materialized in the doorway of another apartment, holding a drooling toddler on her hip.

She has high cheekbones set in a stunning face, with the kind of thick lashes women spend a fortune on mascara to achieve.

She appears to be mid-twenties, and given the hard line of her compressed lips, a woman who means business.

“You are looking for Isaad and Sabera?”

I nod.

“You are not government. You are not military. You are not police. Not with that vehicle.” She cocks her head to study me further. “Who sent you?”

“Aliah,” I answer honestly. “She’s worried about her friend.” In a fit of inspiration, I remember the photo of Aliah and Sabera I have on my phone. I cross to the young woman, holding out the image as proof of my good intentions.

The woman studies it. She’s about the same age as Sabera, I realize. And also has a small child. Maybe they’re friends?

I stay silent, will the woman to come to me. Finally, she pulls her gaze from the photo and studies me instead.

“Isaad received a package yesterday morning. He asked me to watch Zahra for a bit, possibly overnight. Then he left.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“But he hasn’t returned yet?”

“I expect he will show up sometime this evening. Isaad is Isaad. He is brilliant with all numbers, except those on a clock.”

This is interesting. “Have you watched Zahra before?”

The woman shrugs, shifting the drooling toddler on her hip. “Childcare is expensive and Zahra is close in age to my oldest. So yes, we help each other when we can.”

“I’m Frankie Elkin,” I volunteer. “Your name?”

“Nageenah.” She tilts her head toward her hip ornament. “Hasan.” Who looks to be a little over a year, as he gnaws furiously on his knuckles.

“According to Aliah,” I venture, “Sabera has been missing for around three weeks. Have you heard from her at all?”

Nageenah shakes her head.

“She hasn’t dropped in even briefly to grab clothing, personal possessions?”

Another shake of her head.

“Don’t you find that odd?” I press. “That she would suddenly take off and leave her daughter behind?”

“She is a good mother. She would do what is best for her child.”

Interesting answer. What had Ashley the housing coordinator said about depression, PTSD leading some parents to think their children would be better off without them?

“How did she seem the last time you saw her?” I try.

A delicate shrug. “She was tired. Zahra had had a cold, keeping them up all night.”

“Is Isaad an attentive father?”

“Isaad is Isaad.”

I really gotta meet this man. For now, I switch gears. “You’re from Afghanistan? Your English is excellent.”

“My father is Tajik; they have more liberal views on education and women’s roles in society. He ensured all four of his daughters attended university, even if many thought it foolish.”

I regard her curiously. “What did you do in Afghanistan?”

“I worked in the government, for the Ministry of Women’s Affairs. We focused on legislation to improve women’s rights. We created the first anti-harassment laws. I was very proud of that.”

Her tone is matter-of-fact, her expression unchanging.

But I can feel the hard edge of her grief.

All that work, dedication, hope. All that love for a country that disappeared nearly overnight.

I’m impressed she remains standing on her own two feet.

I would be curled in a ball, still screaming at the injustice of it all.

“Did you know Sabera when you lived in Kabul?” I ask now. “I understand she attended college there as well.”

“No, but Kabul is a major city. It would be like asking you if you saw my cousin that one time you went to New York. I met Sabera when her family arrived here two months ago. It’s nice to have another young family as neighbors.

I helped connect her to the Afghan society, recommended the best local restaurants, things such as this.

The mountains here are good; they make Tucson feel more like home.

But it’s very hot here and… Kabul is Kabul, a city that has existed for over three thousand years… ”

She regards me with her piercing gaze, the toddler on her hip still chewing on his fist. “It is my experience that most Americans think of Afghanistan as a backward country with backward people. You don’t want to hear about corner coffee houses, or that most of us talked on cell phones and worked in cubicles that look exactly like the ones you have here.

You don’t want to know that I went to my office at eight A.M. one Sunday morning to catch up on paperwork, and by eight P.M. the Taliban entered the city, and my country as I knew it was gone. ”

Her voice cracks slightly at the end. She glares at me, as if daring me to acknowledge her pain. I’m starting to understand the housing coordinator’s point more and more. I may know death. I may know grief. But I’ve never known the kind of anguish that comes from losing everything.

“Do you still have family there?” I ask at last.

“My sisters made it to Islamabad. My parents remain in Kabul. We can WhatsApp for now. My family are Tajik, though, and the Talibans are Pashtuns; they don’t care for Tajiks.

They are starting to seize property, possessions.

Each time we talk, my parents’ faces are thinner, their clothing shabbier. ”

“There’s no one to help you? What about the resettlement agencies?”

“There are forms for reunification, but there are rarely results.”

I don’t know what to say. Eventually, Nageenah fills the silence.

“Isaad got a package,” she repeats. “But not from UPS or FedEx—there was no delivery truck. Just a man in a black shirt, black pants. He handed Isaad a box. Isaad opened it, inspected the contents, then signed on the delivery man’s tablet.

Ten minutes later, Isaad knocked on my door with Zahra in hand and asked me to watch her for the night. ”

I frown, consider what she’s saying. “Sounds like a private courier. Delivering something Isaad expected. Needed? What size was the package? Envelope, container, chest?”

“Say, a box no larger than a shoebox.”

I frown, still contemplating. Sabera has been gone for three weeks, though her husband doesn’t seem worried. Yesterday he received a package from a private courier and then took off without his daughter. I run the information through my head several times, still have no idea what it means.

“Do you think Sabera was doing okay?” I ask at last. “With marriage, motherhood? I don’t know. Any of it. All of it.”

Nageenah regards me with her level brown stare. So does baby Hasan, who’s finally pulled his fist out of his mouth.

“Speaking for most of us,” she says at last, “this is a lonely life. We’re used to being surrounded by our grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Everyone, everywhere, all the time. Here, what you Americans consider family… It is not enough. We don’t just miss our home. We miss home. ”

A noise comes from behind Nageenah, the clatter of toys, a childish squeal of indignation. It’s her cue to return to her other childcare duties, which apparently now include Zahra.

I give Nageenah my number, asking her to call if she thinks of or sees anything else.

Then she slips away while I return to my chauffeured sedan.

Daryl glances up as I clamber into the back seat. His gaze is questioning, but he doesn’t speak. I recognize the strategy, utilizing the silence to trigger a confession.

I sigh, look out the window where the sun is finally starting to descend. On cue, my stomach growls.

“Does Petunia have a set dinner time?” I ask.

“Seven. Genni serves dinner. Bart gives Petunia her salad.”

“How cozy. Well then, guess I gotta pay for these wheels with some quality pet care. All right. Home, James.”

Daryl doesn’t seem amused by the reference. But then, as he puts the car in reverse, I meet his gaze in the mirror. “So, Daryl, would you like to know what I’m up to? Because, boy, do I have a story for you.”