Page 24 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

T HE V ENTANA C ANYON L UXURY R ESORT and Spa definitely takes the “luxury” part of its name seriously.

Daryl and I depart Bart’s already impressive estate to wind higher and deeper into the mountains.

Basically, we exit his over-the-top wrought-iron gate to drive by even larger, more impressive entrances to private abodes, each doing their best to out-money their neighbors with their increasingly elaborately executed demands for others to keep out.

Based on real estate alone, money flows up in Tucson, and at a staggering rate.

Daryl and I are suitably awestruck as we finally roll between two towering, hand-carved granite formations that appear to both melt into the landscape and command high dollar at the next auction for modern art.

I wonder what this is like for the resort’s refugee employees.

Some of whom came from such rough circumstances that this must seem incredibly wasteful, while others, such as Sabera, who probably vacationed at the Afghan version of hot spots, must experience it as salt in the wound—oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Good news, Bart’s crazy expensive black sedan blends right in as we cruise through the entrance gate/artistic statement.

Immediately we behold a sprawling three-story complex, constructed of pink adobe cubes that make it appear to be at one with its mountainous backdrop.

Based on the fact no one would ever choose this layout for their actual home, I’m willing to believe some top-notch architectural firm was paid an obscene amount of money for a Lego-like design Nageenah’s toddler son could’ve managed.

Daryl doesn’t speak so much as cluck his tongue. I get it.

The wide main road curves up to the front gates of the largest building—the main hotel/spa/resort structure.

Four other vehicles are already queued up for pickup/drop-off under the misted portico manned by three red-jacketed valets wielding bottles of water.

All the easier for us to bypass and continue deeper into the property as if we have every right to be there.

We pass a pro shop bordering the first eighteen-hole golf course, then an impressive but not massive building that strikes me as maybe a separate event space.

We roll by more ridiculously green fairways. The sheer amount of irrigation required to maintain so much lawn… Daryl is already shaking his head.

We curve around to the rear of the property.

Here we discover a long expanse of townhouse buildings, constructed in batches of five, that appear to be carved out of the hillside itself.

Then, finally, a squat mound of a building with multiple doorways, protruding decks, and a designated swimming pool.

I’m guessing the longer-stay apartment option.

Daryl coasts our way to the end, then pulls into the last parking spot.

“Townhouses or apartment building,” he states.

“Surprise me.”

We both peer outside, where the thermostat has already topped ninety and we can watch the heat rise off the dark asphalt in iridescent waves.

“Ready or not,” Daryl begins, as I declare, “Fuck me.”

We both push open the doors and leave our lovely air-conditioning behind.

It takes a bit to clear the apartment/long-term rental building.

First we can’t access the locked gate, but instead must fuss around the beautiful manicured grounds with their mix of babbling water features, hard-core ancient saguaros (complete with personalized bios), and spicy mesquite trees while waiting for some golf-clad male or bouncy Lululemon female to return.

Daryl’s intimidating bulk and swarthy appearance actually work to our advantage. People take in his sharply tailored black suit, then my grungy attire, and immediately assume he’s a bodyguard and I’m eccentric new money. Given that makes me the power player in the couple, I’m all in.

Finally, we gain entrance. We roam a private pool complete with a waterfall and half a dozen cabana boys serving a parade of bored parents and hyper children. All the better for us to drift on past, slipping inside the building, down the lower-level hallway, then the second floor.

Unfortunately, nothing appears wrong with any of the units. Each door has its own light. Nor do any locks appear to be forced, though I’m guessing Sabera has the ability to digitize a key card for her personal use.

We exit the apartments, head for the larger townhouses. I’ve already sweated through my fancy microfiber hiking pants while Daryl appears completely cool in his buttoned-up black suit. If I ever needed proof he wasn’t human…

The townhouses all have a few steps leading up to a front stoop. Some are kitted out with colorful planters and bright furnishings. Others are completely barren. The rentals. We hit them first.

Not the first building, but end unit second complex. Barren porch. A certain feel of benign neglect. And, ding, ding, ding, a porch light missing its bulb.

Daryl and I exchange a look. We have a winner. Now what?

I’m contemplating throwing ourselves at Detective Marc’s feet, when Daryl pulls out his cell phone. He attaches some electronic gizmo to his mobile, then holds up the other end to the key reader.

Red blinking lights flash to green blinking lights. Faint click.

We’re in.

I stare at him.

“Bart’s also lived a life,” he states. Then he reaches out a hand, pushes open the door.

After that, I don’t need him to explain the rest.

THE TOWNHOUSE IS three stories. Basic layout. Kitchen, living room, half bath on the lower level. Two bedrooms with private baths on the second floor. Crazy luxurious master suite top floor, complete with balcony and a view of the pink-washed canyon designed to make mere mortals weep.

There are closets and a pantry and a stacked washer and dryer. Nook to hide A. Cranny to disappear B.

We don’t need to search any of that to know Sabera isn’t currently present. The space is too gray, feels too empty.

Not to mention, we take our first step inside the shadowed unit and…

“Holy shit,” Daryl says.

“Holy shit,” I agree

And we know we’ve discovered Sabera’s hidey-hole, even if she is long gone.

IN SOME WAYS, nothing is disturbed. The beds are meticulously made, the bathrooms shipshape, the furniture precisely placed.

But the walls, leading from the foyer into the dining room, wrapping around the primary seating area into the kitchen…

Sabera has covered the walls in script. Starting from the doorjamb and continuing in a near vomit of communication. Numbers. Letters. Equations. Words.

I was never a math kid. I’d like to blame the booze as I spent most of my high school years in no condition to learn.

But those two things went hand in hand. I didn’t just drink because I felt intimidated by general academics, my fellow peers, and high school culture.

I genuinely struggled with general academics, my fellow peers, and high school culture, ergo it seemed a great idea to drink.

Now, confronted by this sheer mass of data, scrawled with a thick black Sharpie and covering nearly every visible vertical surface…

I have to suppress the urge to close my eyes and cover my head. It’s overwhelming, bordering on horrifying.

Daryl is already shrinking to the side, as if the madness might be contagious. He heads to the relative safety of the kitchen, which is encircled in cabinets and thus saved from the worst of the hysteria.

I take a deep breath, blink several times as if to clear my sight, then do my best to follow the notations.

If it’s code, it’s a lot of it, and I suck at cracking that sort of stuff.

What speaks to me, however, is the feel of it.

The forward slant of the hastily scrawled figures.

The relentless top-to-bottom coverage, filling every available inch of space and then continuing on and on, up, down, around, and now as I follow it, beginning to progress up the stairs…

There’s a feverishness to it all.

A desperation.

As if the person who did this was either manic or terrified. The question is, which?

The largest volume is in the dining room, where the expanse seems to be mostly filled with numbers, with random punctuations of symbols I don’t recognize but am guessing are mathematical.

Slowly but surely, I start to make out phrases: Two halves of one whole. A key that has no lock.

And repeated the most, almost obsessively: Chin up, chin up, chin up.

In the heaviest section, there are more numbers than letters. But the sheer infrequency of the characters helps them pop out. It comes to me slowly but surely, as I pick out each consonant and vowel, then string them together.

Tell Zahra I love her.

I’m just lifting my arm to point when Daryl speaks up behind me.

“You need to see this.”

I twist around enough to spy Daryl in the kitchen. He jerks his chin toward a wad of fabric discarded in the stainless-steel sink.

Worse than the furiously covered walls, the fanatically mad scribbling…

The discarded white towels are covered in streaks of red. The one colorful item—a deep turquoise floral printed scarf, stiffened with gore—commands most of our attention, however. The infamous hijab Aliah gifted to her friend, now clearly soaked in blood. Maybe someone else’s. Maybe Sabera’s own.

Whatever happened to Sabera. Whatever is continuing to happen here…

My arm falls to my side. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he agrees.

He picks up his phone and gives Roberta a call.