Page 28 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)
D ARYL ANNOUNCES WE NEED TO make a stop as we depart from the luxury resort, which has now been taken over by a sea of law enforcement vehicles and gawking bystanders.
No doubt management is ripping out their hair at this turn of events.
On the other hand, here’s one family vacation people will be talking about for years.
I’m still lost in my own thoughts: Whose blood on the towels in the sink? Sabera’s, the two dead men, Isaad’s?
Too many possibilities. Too large a cast of characters. Not nearly enough information.
I’m distracted enough that it takes me a moment to realize Daryl has pulled into the dilapidated apartment complex from the first day, where in front of us looms a giant furniture-store delivery truck.
Two guys with a dolly appear at the back of the vehicle, maneuvering a low-slung wooden dresser down the ramp.
They roll it across the cracked asphalt, through the door of the unit I helped clean just the other day.
Ashley is hovering outside, her blond hair once again gathered in a messy topknot, as she shifts from foot to foot, looking torn between clapping wildly and bursting into tears. I know how she feels.
“You did all this?” I ask Daryl, taking in the new mattresses leaning against the side of the unit, as well as nightstands, sofa, coffee table, and standing lamps.
In response, a card materializes between his fingers in the front seat. He hands it over.
One side bears a brightly colored cartoon—Marge Simpson with her signature pile of blue hair and string of red pearls. On the back, a single sentence.
Marge says she’s sorry.
The front illustration bears a hastily scrawled autograph across the bottom: Matt Groening.
I look up to meet Daryl’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Seriously?”
Daryl shrugs. “Bart is… Bart. And he really did feel bad about Marge escaping.”
“Bad enough to furnish an entire apartment for a resettlement agency?”
“Gamers. Go big or go home.”
We get out to inspect the move in progress.
Upon our approach, Ashley, the housing coordinator, throws her arms around my neck. “Oh my goodness, you did exactly as you promised.”
I self-consciously wave my hand at Daryl. “It’s really more his—”
Ashley flings herself at Daryl, who does his best not to stagger beneath a hundred pounds of pretty young thing.
“We got this employer, Boy Wonder, er Bart, er…”
Ashley gives him a giant squeeze. “God loves both of you!”
Daryl appears slightly terrified. “Just go with it,” I direct him. He nods weakly.
Turns out, Bart had graciously provided furniture for not just the original apartment where I’d scrubbed at blood spatter, but for the infamous murder unit Ashley had already snagged for an incoming family.
I’m not sure who picked the pieces, but someone did a great job.
Nice-looking to be sure, but also sturdy and durable.
Solid building blocks from which to create a new life.
There’s still some setup at the crime scene unit to be done. Daryl sheds his jacket and we get to work, unrolling rugs, assembling beds, unloading kitchen supplies, with Ashley keeping up a steady chatter. I drift in and out of attention; busy work makes for the best thinking.
Sabera, Isaad, and their daughter, Zahra. Who what when why and how. An entire family, uprooted from their homeland, bounced around other countries and then sling-shotted here. We all believe we know their hopes and dreams. But do we? Can we?
Safety and security are basic needs. Once you move beyond that… Could Sabera really be doing all this because she desires freedom that badly? Did Isaad disappear because his need to control his wife ran that high? And what about little Zahra with her solemn face and crazy, eerie riddles?
A lock to a key for a key that has no lock. I can’t wrap my head around it. Mostly, I’m haunted by the intent sound of Zahra’s voice as she delivered that line. Memorized it? But from where?
Ashley, appearing at my shoulder.
“Umm… Frankie.”
“No worries. Almost done.” I billow out a thin blanket, tuck it around the twin-sized mattress.
“Frankie—”
Her insistent tone gets to me. I regard her directly, not bothering to keep the impatience from my face. She shifts uncomfortably.
“Nageenah just called. Two men are at the apartment asking questions about Sabera. Close-cropped hair, military posture. Nageenah is concerned. She said you’d know why.”
My thoughts go immediately to the incident that happened yesterday, how the young boy had described the man looking for Zahra as similar to the guards from a refugee camp.
“Daryl,” I call out.
“Already heard.”
We don’t bother with an explanation. Daryl grabs his jacket and we race for the car.
THE COMPLEX NAGEENAH shares with Sabera and her husband is only five minutes away.
Three, when you have Daryl at the wheel.
He careens to a halt in the parking lot with the sedan positioned to block the entrance/exit.
In front of us is some kind of heavy-duty white SUV that appears outfitted for either a moon landing or deployment behind enemy lines. Military-grade indeed.
Just beyond the vehicle: two men in khaki cargo pants and polo shirts. One man is older, red-cheeked face, pale blue eyes. The other is younger with dark hair and an intense, burning gaze. Both sport standard buzz cuts and stand at rigid attention as they talk to Nageenah.
I notice another door cracked open down the way. The older brother and key witness, peering out at the scene. I try to judge from the boy’s expression if he recognizes the men. But he doesn’t appear frightened, just suspicious.
Daryl is already clambering out of the vehicle. I scramble to catch up.
“Try not to get blood on your shirt this time,” I mutter, and am rewarded by a slight hitch in Daryl’s step. So I wasn’t imagining things last night. If only that felt more reassuring.
The two men turn at our approach. They don’t seem particularly alarmed at seeing a hulking limo driver advance directly toward them, with a slightly built white woman scampering in his wake.
“You looking for the Ahmadis?” Daryl asks bluntly, posture definitely veering on the aggressive side.
“Sabera Ahmadi.” The older white guy, whose wavy brown hair is shaved to Brillo pad thickness, does the honors. “You a friend of hers?”
I notice his companion retreats back a few steps and to our right. Classic flanking maneuver. Clearly, they’re practicing some strategies of their own. Both take in Daryl’s parking job, exchange glances. They widen their stances, hands hanging loosely at their sides. Battle positions, everyone.
I don’t like what I’m seeing, but neither do I know what to do. There are too many players in this little drama, and I don’t understand the roles or motivations of any of them.
Once again, I peer down the row of apartments. Four doors down, the young boy meets my questioning gaze, then slowly shakes his head.
So these men are not from yesterday. But working with, operating on behalf of…?
“There’s been a recent incident,” Daryl is saying. “Folks are a little on edge. Might be best if you just state your business.”
“And you are?”
“Asked you first.”
“Actually, I believe I asked you first.”
The second man, starting to drift behind us. I plant myself squarely in front of him.
“Frankie Elkin,” I announce loudly. “Working with the Tucson PD.” I eye them up and down, then demand: “Rank and serial number.”
I’m not actually sure what that means outside of movie scenes, but the older one finally cracks a smile. I haven’t fooled him for a second, but amused is better than hostile, so at least we’re getting somewhere.
“Sanders Kurtz. Retired captain, Army. This is Tim Westwig, retired first sergeant, Army. We’re with No One Left Behind.”
A business card materializes in his hand. Daryl takes it. We both eye the logo blankly.
“We’re a private nonprofit dedicated to evacuating, resettling, and advocating on behalf of our Afghan and Iraqi interpreters,” Westwig rattles off. “We have not forgotten bonds forged nor promises made.”
I’m somewhat taken aback by the forcefulness of his tone. Behind him, Nageenah wears an expression that’s harder to interpret. It’s not distrust, per se. Maybe more like disillusionment. Then I clue in on the relevant piece of his statement.
“Wait a minute. Interpreters. You’re trying to bring the Afghans who worked with the US military to the States?
” I remember from news accounts how many people were dismayed by America’s abrupt withdrawal from Afghanistan and the ensuing collapse of Kabul, which left many of the locals who served vulnerable to retribution.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s been four years,” Daryl begins in confusion.
I whack him on the arm. Timeline is not the relevant information here. “Sabera was a translator with the US Army?” I ask excitedly. Because that would make sense, given her language skills, not to mention possibly be relevant to what’s happening now.
But the retired captain is shaking his head. “Not Mrs. Ahmadi.”
“But then…” I’m terribly confused.
“We’re here at Mrs. Ahmadi’s request; she reached out to us about a month ago. She was aware her family supplied some assistance to the military efforts in Afghanistan. In particular, she was looking for information regarding her mother.”