Page 26 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

Sabera is married/not married. A great mother/a distant mother. A devout Muslim/a closet drinker.

We have theories and more theories. What we need are answers.

“According to my conversation with Aliah this morning,” I ponder out loud, “Isaad still hasn’t reappeared.

Is it possible he was the one staying here?

He’s a mathematician, right? Maybe all these notations…

” But the moment I say it, I waver. The handwriting doesn’t feel right.

I’m no expert in these things, but there’s a kind of looping flair to the script that seems distinctly feminine.

I can tell from the others’ expressions they think the same.

“Okay, so he’s not the one who wrote the message, but what if he’s the intended recipient?

I mean, everything going on in there”—I wave my hand in the general direction of the townhouse—“certainly looks like some kind of riddle, and math geeks are good with codes. What if something terrible did happen to Sabera, something involving a hammer…”

Detective Marc rolls his eyes at my broad conjecture. I refuse to back down.

“She makes her way here, where she can tend her wounds, then leaves a message for her husband, telling him what happened in a way only he’d understand.”

“Why all the secrecy?” Detective Marc asks bluntly. “If she already contacted him to pick her up, then he knows at least some of what happened. And if she’s that grievously injured, he should be taking her to the hospital, not a stolen townhouse.”

I scowl. Solid questions once again.

Daryl and Roberta give me disappointed expressions, as if I’ve somehow let them down.

My last-minute salvo: “Okay, try this on. Sabera was targeted, for some reason we have yet to determine. She gets away. Arrives here, by some means we have yet to determine—”

I can already feel Detective Marc’s eye roll.

“Where she leaves a coded message for Isaad, warning him of the danger. Because she’s not the only one at risk. Whatever happened involves him as well. Which would explain”—my voice picks up—“why he’s now disappeared.”

I feel pretty good about myself, right up until Detective Marc goes with the sarcastic hand clap. “Brilliant story. Except, oh yes, where the fuck is your evidence?”

I glare at him, then it occurs to me. “Cameras! Place this swanky must have one helluva security system. Access the tapes, fill in the timeline.”

“Great idea. Why didn’t I think of it first? Oh, wait, I did. Another pesky detail, the security system hasn’t been working for the past few weeks. Some kind of electrical fritz, or so they believe.”

My eyes widen. “Do you think she did that, too?” I begin.

“Sir.” A uniformed officer with short cropped black hair materializes in the doorway. His light blue shirt includes a patch identifying him as Crime Scene Unit. “We’ve found something you should see.”

The young Asian male focuses solely on Detective Marc. Of course the rest of us automatically take a step forward as well.

“Stay!” Detective Marc attempts, but is quickly overwhelmed when we all pointedly ignore his command and traipse into the house behind him.

The first blast of air-conditioning makes me giddy. The second gives me goose bumps as the frigid breeze hits my sweat-slick skin.

“I noticed another pattern in the script, west side wall, leading into the kitchen.” The crime scene specialist points toward a sea of black notations. “This one is a bit harder to spot immediately, but if you extract each letter from the rows of numbers, then focus on just the lowercase entries—”

Which I now realize vary across the rows. Uppercase, uppercase, lowercase. Uppercase, lowercase, upper, upper, upper, lower, etc.

“It spells out another message. This one states…” The crime scene tech holds up a piece of paper where he’d been scratching notes.

beauty is power i am her sword

He gazes at Detective Marc expectantly.

Daryl recites, “‘If Beauty is power, then a smile is its sword.’ By John Ray, a seventeenth-century naturalist.” In response to our shocked expressions, he self-consciously shrugs. “What? A lot of time to read in prison.”

Beside him, Roberta has also perked up. “It’s Zahra! Gotta be. Her name means beauty. I was talking to Aliah about it last night. So Zahra is power. And Sabera is her sword?”

“More like Sabera is Zahra’s hammer,” Detective Marc mutters darkly.

“Honestly, can’t anything about this case be normal?

” He rubs his forehead. “Look, excusing the obvious… drama, homicide happens because of three things: money, power, love. Anyone want to translate that to what the hell is happening here in Club Hypergraphia?”

“Hypergraphia means—” Daryl begins.

Roberta smacks him on the arm. “Hey, just because we didn’t go to prison doesn’t mean we’re stupid.”

I focus on the detective’s question. He’s right—every case I’ve ever worked has boiled down to one of those three driving forces.

Money, power, lust… er, love.

Involving a refugee who fled her home country with nothing but the clothes on her back, which suggests this can’t be about money.

Involving a female Afghan trying to survive in a male-dominated world, which would argue she’d never be perceived as a source of power.

Leaving us with lust/love.

Involving a woman who told at least one person her husband isn’t really her husband.

Now, that’s an interesting thought. If only Sabera or her husband were available to pursue it.

I turn to the crime scene specialist. “Your name?”

“Chen. Jay Chen.”

“Are you good at riddles, Jay Chen?”

He doesn’t say yes, but neither does he demur. In other words, absolutely.

“A lock to a key for a key that has no lock,” I recite. “That mean anything to you?”

He contemplates it for a moment. Shakes his head. “Should it?”

“We encountered it earlier. Any ideas on the subject would be appreciated. At least the second half, a key that has no lock , is repeated here. If you discover the first half, or what the hell any of it means, that would be helpful.”

Chen has the good sense to glance in Detective Marc’s direction. “Sure, why not?” the detective allows.

That much resolved:

“Are there any personal items left in this townhouse?” I speak up, because the good detective never answered that question.

“No.”

“So most likely, Sabera is no longer staying here. Nor is she at the warehouse where two people were beaten to death with a hammer, nor is she at home. So what’s next?

Because hiding out here made sense, especially to lick her wounds.

But now… Where would a strange woman in an even stranger land go next? ”

Detective Marc is unconcerned. “One way or another, I think that’ll become clear.”

“How so?”

“Because in her own words, she’s the sword. Sounds to me like I just need to follow the trail of dead bodies. Whatever’s going on here”—he skewers me with a look—“clearly it’s not over yet.”