Page 16 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

A NOTHER VEHICLE PULLS UP OUTSIDE the apartment complex. At this point, every tenant has dispersed save the father, Pazir, who remains standing before Roberta and the uniformed officer with his hand on his son’s shoulder.

The boy’s expression remains wary. He lets his father do the talking, maybe out of respect, maybe out of fear.

When a male detective materializes at the scene, I can practically hear Pazir’s sigh of relief, not to mention Roberta’s huff of agitation. The curt greeting the man gives Daryl confirms my suspicions. Apparently, we are now worthy of Roberta’s cop brother’s personal attention.

Aliah hands back the baby and strides forcefully toward the action. Whether to protect her countrymen, assist with translation, berate an official member of law enforcement who three weeks later has finally bothered to show up, is anyone’s guess.

“I have nothing more to say,” Pazir is rattling off to the detective. “My son kept his sister safe.” The “which is more than you people did” is fully implied.

“I understand that, Mr.…?”

“Noori.”

“Mr. Noori. Clearly your son is a brave young man. Now I just need one more small act of courage. You and your son come with me to headquarters, where we can take an official statement and set you up with a specialist who will turn your verbal description of the subject into a picture we can circulate among law enforcement. Sooner we catch this guy, sooner both of you can feel safe.”

“They already provided a description.” Aliah nods her head in the direction of the uniformed officer. “Ask her.”

“With no disrespect, Officer Kade is not an expert in this area. Now—”

“Brown hair,” the boy speaks up abruptly. “Light eyes. He reminded me of the guards.” He glances up at his father.

“At the camp?”

“Yes.”

Pazir presses his lips into a thin line. “Then the man is military or maybe special police.”

I perk up at this piece of information, while Aliah looks like she wants to hurt someone.

The detective—Marc?—leans down to be closer to the boy.

“How tall?”

Shrug. “Same as most.”

I take that to mean average height. Given Detective Marc’s nod, I’m assuming he agrees.

“What was he wearing?”

“Gray pants with many pockets. White shirt with a collar and many buttons.”

“How was he built?” The detective points to himself. “Like me, or maybe like him?” He points to Daryl’s bulked-up form.

The boy hesitates, murmurs something to his father.

Aliah does the honors: “Thin, but strong thin. Wiry, I believe is the word?”

Detective Marc nods. “His hair, short or long?”

“Short, very short.” The boy slides his hand along the top of his head. Buzz cut, consistent with the military appearance.

“His eyes. Close or far apart?”

The boy shrugs.

“Could you see any special markings, tattoos, freckles, maybe a scar?”

Another shrug.

“He is… just a man,” the boy says finally. “He used nice words, but his eyes didn’t match. I have seen such things before.”

Pazir’s hand tightens on his son’s shoulder.

Marc nods, straightens. “You’re a brave boy. Your sister, your family, are very lucky to have you. Last couple of questions, okay? His vehicle. Do you know what kind of car?”

“White. Big, like a truck, but fully enclosed. An SUV?”

Detective Marc glances at the father. “Any chance you caught the license plate?”

Pazir shakes his head. “I ran out when I heard my son call. But the man was already jumping into his vehicle. He wanted to cause trouble, I am certain. But he did not want to be caught.”

The detective nods, glancing around the parking lot. Looking for cameras, I’m willing to guess, but no such luck at this address.

“You said he spoke,” he asks the boy now. “What did he say?”

“He called my sister Zahra. He said he was a friend of her mother’s. That he would take her to her. But my sister is not Zahra. The man should know that.”

“Do you know who Zahra is?” Detective Marc asks. “Does she live here, too?”

“I will assist with that,” Aliah interrupts curtly. “You must finish. Pazir is an Uber driver. It’s important he get to work.”

The detective gives her a look but seems to decide not to press it. “Final question: Would you know the voice if you heard it again?”

The boy immediately nods. “Yes.”

“Because it’s distinct?” I interject, as this is what I want to know. Sabera and her family have just arrived from Afghanistan, the two murdered men are also from there, meaning… “Did he sound like he’s from your home or neighboring country?”

“Oh, no, he is not one of us.” Again, a look at his father, followed by a quick exchange of whispered words.

His father frowns, then focuses on Detective Marc. “The man spoke English the way our neighbor, Sabera, speaks English.”

“The missing woman?” Detective Marc glances at Aliah. She glares back.

“Yes, but not quite. Same but different.”

“And how does Sabera speak?”

“British,” Aliah supplies. “Her mother grew up in London. Sabera learned English from her, including the accent.”

“Except not,” I muse. “Same but different. Australian?” It’s all I can think of off the top of my head.

The boy shrugs; this is clearly beyond his pay grade.

“We will go now,” Pazir states.

Detective Marc nods, hands over a business card, then does a neat little pivot to regard me more fully.

“And who are you again?”

“I’m the woman already looking for Sabera. Feel free to catch up.”

“ Excuse me? ”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whine to someone who cares. At the moment, you need to come meet Zahra. Because both of her parents have now vanished, and there’s no way this is over yet.”