Page 17 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

N AGEENAH APPEARS WARY WHEN WE all reappear on her doorstep.

Aliah speaks to her rapidly in their shared tongue; then, with a slight nod, Nageenah allows us to enter.

I notice the detective nods at her respectfully but doesn’t try to shake her hand.

Daryl, however, reaches out reflexively, only to have Roberta quickly yank down his arm.

He grimaces at his cultural faux pas, then tucks his hand behind his back as if to keep from repeating the mistake.

Nageenah leads us past the kitchen to the living area at the rear of the apartment.

The baby is now sitting on the floor, chewing on a wooden block, while his older brother zooms a toy car across the sofa.

I don’t immediately spy Zahra; then her head pops up from behind the sofa.

She takes in the gaggle of grown-ups, then slips back down into her hiding place.

I don’t blame her. At least the patrol officer has moved on, but six adults is about five too many for a space this small.

I also have no idea how we’re going to talk about anything meaningful with three children present, including one who apparently remembers everything.

Aliah exchanges low words with Nageenah, then heads into the kitchen to put on a kettle of water.

The three-year-old is eyeing Detective Marc with a look of wonder, his gaze fixed on the gold shield dangling from the man’s neck. The baby is less subtle. He drops his block, waddles over to the detective, and grabs his pant leg.

Nageenah utters a word of reprimand, but the detective merely smiles, unloops the chain from around his neck, and hands over the desired item, only for the three-year-old to jump up, grab the new toy from his younger brother, and bolt out of the room.

Immediate wailing, flailing of tiny fists. Before Nageenah can respond, however, Daryl hefts up the toddler into his arms. In some act of dance partner telepathy, he and Roberta appear to arrive at a mutual conclusion.

“Hey, little man, wanna tango?” A quick two-step and the baby’s drooling mouth is converted into a silent O, as Daryl cha-cha-chas both of them out of the room. Not to be outdone, Roberta peeks behind the sofa.

“Zahra, I presume? Would you like to learn how to dance? We don’t want the boys to have all the fun.”

Zahra’s head reappears. She regards the curly-haired brunette solemnly, then slides her hand into Roberta’s. With a wink, Roberta plucks her charge from behind the sofa, then twirls her down the hall, leaving the adults to speak in private. Well played.

Detective Marc takes a seat on the sofa while Aliah returns bearing a tray filled with fragrant cups of green tea.

“All right,” the detective acknowledges. “You have my apology and now my attention. So, the missing woman, Sabera Ahmadi? And that’s her daughter, Zahra? Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

ALIAH CATCHES HIM up on Sabera’s disappearance three weeks ago, vanishing after work, and not seen again until this morning’s news broadcast showing video clips of a mystery woman walking away from the scene of a double murder.

Aliah is convinced the woman is Sabera based on her headscarf, while Detective Marc, like his sister, appears skeptical to accept any ID based solely on textiles.

For her part, Nageenah describes the courier who visited Isaad yesterday, after which Isaad handed over his daughter to Nageenah and is now also MIA.

“But you’re saying Isaad isn’t always reliable? He’s often late?” Detective Marc asks.

Nageenah shrugs. “He is a brilliant man, but like many who see what no one else can see—”

“He’s arrogant and selfish,” Aliah provides more bluntly.

“You don’t like him,” I speak up, not really a question as the answer is written all over Aliah’s face. “Why? You said he and Sabera were not a love match. What are they, then?” Then in the next second: “Wait, you also commented Isaad was a friend of her father’s. How old is this man?”

“Fifties? Sixty?” Aliah gives a harrumph of disapproval. “Certainly, closer to my age than hers.”

If memory serves, Sabera is twenty-three. So, yep, that’s definitely an age gap.

“It is not that uncommon,” Nageenah counters. “A good husband is expected to be a provider, which requires a certain level of age and experience. At least it wasn’t a forced marriage like so many others.”

“So you like him?” I ask Nageenah.

She hesitates. Finally: “Isaad fills a room. Sabera withdraws accordingly. He is older, dominating. She is one person when she is alone. A different woman when she’s with him.”

There are some things that require no cultural explanation. I follow up with the next logical question: “You ever witness Sabera appearing bruised, injured, perhaps suffering from a rash of accidents?”

Nageenah shakes her head. “In my position in the ministry, I spent much time learning exactly how defenseless a wife, daughter, sister can be. Isaad… he’s not an easy man, but I don’t believe he hurts his family.”

I purposefully avert my gaze from Aliah before launching my next question. “Have you ever observed Sabera acting like… not quite herself. Maybe stumbling a little, slurring her words. Incapacitated?”

“Wait, what are you implying?” Aliah is already sounding outraged. “Are you asking if Sabera was drinking?”

I keep my attention fixed on Nageenah, whose eyes have widened slightly.

“Sabera is Muslim. She would never—” Aliah’s voice cuts off, Detective Marc raising a silencing hand. I can already tell he’s as interested in this answer as I am.

Nageenah doesn’t say anything.

“Couple of times?” I supply softly. “Or at least one episode, where you had to wonder?”

Nageenah bows her head. Then, a single faint nod.

“No!” Aliah protests.

I finally shoot her a glance. “Remember our deal. I will ask any question. I will consider all answers—even the ones you don’t like. ”

Aliah has the good grace to flush. She slumps back on the sofa, appearing less angry, more distressed. Then her own mind connects the dots: “You’ve heard of this behavior before. That’s why you made the inquiry. Someone else thinks Sabera is drinking. I didn’t… I never saw anything myself.”

“Sounds like there’s a lot of strain on the home front,” Detective Marc murmurs, focusing our attention. “Domineering older husband, stressed out young wife. Is it possible Sabera was planning on leaving him?”

“Leave Isaad, maybe. But leave Zahra? Never.” Aliah’s conviction is absolute. “Nor would she have to give up her child to end her marriage. She could have talked to me about how to go about such a thing. I promise you, she’s never said a word.”

Detective Marc turns his attention to Nageenah. “What do you think?”

Nageenah is more circumspect. “Right now, divorce would not be practical. For most families, both the husband and wife must work outside the home in order to pay bills, and still, each month is a struggle. On her own, where would Sabera go? How would she take care of her child? These are questions she would ask herself. And without the answers…”

“Could she have met someone?” Detective Marc pushes. “Another man who could put a roof over her head?”

Nageenah shrugs as if to say she has no idea. Aliah once more cuts to the chase. “When? She worked, and when not working, she watched her daughter. When would she have the time to meet this fictional someone?”

“That’s not true.”

Aliah turns to Nageenah with a frown. “Now what?” Because apparently all bad news is Nageenah’s fault. The younger woman eyes the older one coolly, before stating:

“A couple of afternoons a week, I watched Zahra for her. Few hours here, a few hours there. Sabera said it was so she could buy food, take care of household chores, but I never saw her return with any groceries or store items. She left on the bus and would return three hours later, always empty-handed.”

“That doesn’t mean she had a lover!”

“It doesn’t. But there was more to Sabera’s life than work and home. What that was, I don’t know.”

“You saw her returning,” I ask abruptly.

“Could you gauge her mood? Did she seem perkier, more carefree, hell, relaxed?” Because having just spent time enjoying the company of a very sexy man, the relaxed part stands out to me.

Until, of course, the weeks became months and my natural-born terror reared its ugly head.

You’re afraid of being happy, he told me. And I totally agreed with him.

“I don’t know.” Nageenah furrows her brow. “She seemed… like herself. Serious. Tired. Worried. But who isn’t?”

“What would her husband do if he found out she had a lover?” Detective Marc again. “Does he strike you as the jealous type? A man capable of violence?”

Nageenah lowers her gaze to the floor, while Aliah does the honors.

“In Kabul, Isaad was a man of great respect. But living here… He’s just another refugee. He’s not used to such things. And he is a man with a temper. I once saw him throw a pomegranate against the wall with such force it splattered.”

I can’t help myself. “Why throw a pomegranate?”

“Because there’s nothing in this world as good as a Kandahar pomegranate,” Nageenah states seriously.

“And sometimes, it’s not the big differences between Kabul and here that are too hard to take—you expect them.

But little things, say, a piece of fruit that looks and smells like home, but tastes wrong…

Some days, that feels like enough to break you. ”

“Or causes a grown man to have a temper tantrum,” I mutter. “Do you think Isaad still wants to be married? Like you said, his life has also undergone a great change.”

“He is respectful,” Nageenah begins, while Aliah snorts.

“He is controlling. The fruit may be different here, but getting to feel powerful by bossing around a vulnerable young woman… I am sure that never gets old. And certainly isn’t something he’d want to give up anytime soon.”

“I have seen him look at her with genuine warmth,” Nageenah counters. “Isaad is moody to be sure, but I think he has affection for his wife. It’s just… When he grows frustrated, he can be quite intimidating. I don’t blame her for finding that difficult.”

“How is Isaad as a father?” Detective Marc switches gears. “Does he seem interested in his daughter?”

“He dotes on Zahra,” Nageenah answers immediately, voice firm.

“He takes care of her at night while Sabera works, has even learned how to cook, clean. These are big steps for a man of his years. And I’ve watched him play with Zahra.

He creates little games, puzzles for her to solve.

She is very clever, and he delights in that. ”

“She is his favorite student?” I fill in dryly.

Nageenah gives me a look. “Maybe. But most likely, none of her schoolteachers will ever be able to keep up with her, so it’s good she has such a parent at home.”

“How smart is she?” Detective Marc wants to know.

“She’s been reading since she was two. Can already do all sorts of math in her head. And she has a very good memory. Extraordinarily so.”

“Did she see the man who tried to abduct the other child?” Detective Marc perks up. “Because if her memory is that good…”

“None of us saw anything. There’s no view of the parking lot from this room.”

“White male,” Detective Marc rattles off. “Wiry build. Speaks with a British-like accent. Sound like anyone you’ve seen around here before?”

Nageenah shakes her head. “What if he comes back, tries again?”

“I can ask for more patrol cars in the area.”

“I have two other children. I love Zahra, but I can’t put their lives in danger. What if… what if?” Her gaze goes to Aliah, who sighs heavily.

“I will take Zahra. She knows me, and even if that man has Sabera and Isaad’s address, there’s no reason for him have to mine. Once Isaad returns, he can find us.”

“You’re still certain Isaad’s coming back?” I ask.

Even Aliah seems startled by my doubt. “Of course. Family is everything.”

I wish I shared her optimism. And I really wished I knew what was in that box, that made him hand over his daughter and vanish in the wind. “The private courier.” I turn to Nageenah. “Can you remember anything about him? Logo on a shirt, identifying ball cap, color of car?”

Nageenah shakes her head. “He drove a black vehicle. Something rugged. That’s all I remember.”

“A lock to a key for a key that has no lock,” I ponder out loud. “Does that sound familiar to anyone?”

I receive three blank stares.

“Where did you hear that?” Detective Marc.

“Zahra said it to me. According to her, I must find it.”

“A four-year-old recited that?”

“With an exceptional memory.” I nod toward Nageenah. “Meaning Zahra has read or heard that before. A book? A poem? A note?”

Still three blank stares.

“Well.” I rise to standing. “I know what I’m doing next. When you finally identify the two victims in the warehouse, you’ll let me know?”

“I sure as hell will not,” Detective Marc assures me.

“Come on now, there’s no use fighting my charms. You’ll need to run the names by Aliah and Nageenah to see if they recognize them from the Afghan community. Once you do that, they’ll share the information with me. Might as well start by dialing direct and save us all a bunch of time.”

He scowls. “Who are you again?”

I consider the matter seriously. “I’m a person who’s terrified of snakes yet due to feed a bunch of pythons dinner later tonight.

I’m a woman waiting for a call from a man I instructed not to call me.

But mostly… mostly right now, I’m a recovering alcoholic who desperately wants to crack open an ice-cold beer.

Because I’m tired and frustrated. And it’s too damn hot outside.

And oh, yeah, it’s a day that ends in Y.

“In other words, I’m someone who needs to get back to work in ways I don’t expect the rest of you to understand.”

I pause, study the good detective. “How much trouble do you think Sabera Ahmadi is in?”

Detective Marc hesitates.

Death by hammer times two, never a good thing. Attempted child abduction, also quite terrible.

“Don’t be a stranger, Detective,” I murmur. Then I head out of the room to find Daryl.