Page 35 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

F OR THE SECOND TIME IN one day, I’m standing at a crime scene. Detective Marc has forbidden us from entering it. Based on the whispered details I’ve heard from the various law enforcement officers milling about, I’m grateful this time to stay on the outside of the perimeter tape.

The police were able to track Isaad’s cell phone to an abandoned building near the double homicide from a few days ago.

The entire area is a run-down collection of decrepit warehouses and vacant businesses—peeling signs hang haphazardly over broken windowpanes offering everything from auto body work to industrial cleaning.

I’m not sure if this is where dreams go to die, or just never take off, but I understand better why Daryl refused to drive me here the first time I asked.

Having finally made it to the infamous death-by-hammer location, I’d mostly like to go home now. Even if home involves runaway snakes.

Detective Marc needs someone to identify the body.

The most logical person—Aliah. Of course, she has Zahra to consider and, given the recent spate of violent events, we all agreed leaving the youngster alone with the the deli cook wasn’t a great idea.

Daryl might not have served as a bodyguard for Wonder Boy Bart, but he’s in full protective mode now as he assists Aliah from the rear of the black sedan.

He’s been driving her and Zahra around, waiting for Detective Marc’s official summons.

This must be the moment. Daryl hands Aliah off to Roberta, then returns to the driver’s seat to continue with Project Distract the Four-Year-Old.

I catch a brief glimpse of Zahra’s curious little face; she seems more intrigued by her surroundings than alarmed.

Then she and Daryl are off again. From crime scene to playground? I have no idea.

Roberta waits with Aliah until Detective Marc appears in the doorway of the dilapidated building and waves the older woman in.

A brief whispered exchange between the two women.

Roberta warning her about what she’s about to see?

Aliah appears stoic, head up, mouth set.

I have a feeling this isn’t the first time she’s viewed a dead body.

She offers me a single nod of acknowledgment, then disappears into a house of unknown horrors.

So far, I’ve caught murmurs of maiming and burning.

Torture most definitely, with many different possible means of death.

I’m doing my best not to focus on the gruesome details, but given how much cops love to gossip, I’m having a harder and harder time.

My pulse is pounding, and my vision keeps graying in and out as I struggle to stay rooted in the here and now.

Roberta, waiting beside me, eyes me strangely as I alternate between deep breathing exercises and compulsively checking the call screen on my phone.

That last dark, terrible night. He held things together, through the bullets and the blood. Now, back in a similar situation, I feel myself reaching for him almost reflexively.

It’s merely association, I tell myself. Besides, I can’t very well call up the man I just left in Seattle to say, hey, I know I told you it was time for me to move on, but now that things have gotten a little dicey, want to travel a thousand miles for a booty call? Pretty please?

I’ve always found my freedom liberating. Now, for the first time, it feels lonely.

I honestly don’t know what to do with that.

Aliah is back. Roberta and I hover just beyond the yellow crime scene tape, doing a little dance till she spies us. We could be friends meeting up after the movie gets out. Except we’re not.

Aliah appears paler, but still in control. It’s only when she gets closer that I see that her hands are shaking.

Roberta and I don’t say anything. We wait for her to find her words at her own pace. She takes a deep breath, then another.

She blurts out unexpectedly. “They burned his work!”

“What?” Neither Roberta nor I follow this statement.

“His little red notebook. The only thing he was able to save during his escape from Kabul. He started with an entire box of workbooks. His life’s work, he said.

Except it’s not practical for any refugee to save personal possessions while walking and waiting for days on end at border crossings.

He was forced to make choices. First he discarded his collection of theorems, papers on supporting proofs.

Then he had to sort through each workbook, carefully tearing out the mathematical models he valued the most, then tucking them into a single volume—his little red notebook.

“He would bring it out from time to time, show it off. He would hold it, the way most might hold a baby. This is the mathematician he used to be. This is the man he once was. I have watched him shed genuine tears over that volume.

“And they burned it to ashes. On the floor right in front him. His hands…”

Aliah’s voice has gone hoarse. “His fingers were black. Seared down to the bone and curled into claws. From trying to save it, salvage a single page. After everything he’d been through, that last little bit of himself.

I never… I never thought Isaad was a nice man.

But he was a brilliant man. And they used that to hurt him.

What kind of people do that?” Her eyes grow darker, wilder. “What is going on here?”

But neither Roberta nor I have an answer.

“I NEED YOU to tell me exactly what he said when he called you,” Detective Marc is requesting an hour later.

Dusk has fallen, though not the temperatures.

We are huddled inside Aliah’s cheery little apartment.

Like a reflex, she has produced jewel-toned bowls of dried fruits and nuts, Turkish delight candy, and hot tea.

Zahra was given a little plate of delicacies, then set up in Aliah’s bedroom with an iPad blaring a kid’s show that would hopefully drown out the very adult conversation going on in the living room.

I can’t eat. Even Daryl is subdued, looking like the proverbial bull in a china shop with his enormous bulk and somber black suit.

Roberta, however, adorned in glossy curls and silver bangles, is a perfectly framed treasure as she sips from her delicate blue-patterned teacup.

Daryl’s gaze keeps returning to her, a moth drawn to the flame.

My impression is that she has no idea. Her brother, Detective Marc, however, appears more astute on the subject. He’s the only one who seems relaxed, cracking pistachios and tossing them back. Apparently, he’s not one to let a gruesome homicide get in the way of his appetite.

“There was no speaking,” Aliah reports now. “The call kept disconnecting. There, not there. There, not there. Then, finally… I could hear sounds, like moaning. But not words. I don’t know.” She raises her hands hopelessly. “I don’t know anything more than that.”

Detective Marc nods slowly. He doesn’t seem surprised by her statement. He cracks another pistachio.

“Had you heard from Isaad before this?”

“No. I’d left many messages, but not received a call back.”

“And in those messages, did you say you had Zahra? She was with you?”

“Of course. I told him she was safe but missed her father. He should come pick her up.”

That nod again. With a sense of foreboding, I start to understand where this is going. Given Roberta’s sudden sharp inhalation, she does, too.

Aliah’s gaze bounces to both of us. “What? What is it?”

“His fingers,” Roberta murmurs.

Her brother nods. “His fingers.”

Aliah still appears confused, then… “His phone. How would he have worked the screen?” Her eyes widened. “Oh no!”

“I don’t think Isaad was the one who called you,” Detective Marc confirms. “And not just because of how badly damaged his hands were, but did you happen to notice his face? It was barely touched. We see that more and more. Perpetrators will inflict damage to other parts of the body, but leave the head alone—in case they need facial recognition to unlock the subject’s phone. ”

Aliah’s eyes close. “Oh no.”

“What do you think they want?” Detective Marc asks her now.

“I have no idea. All of this…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

His gaze flickers to me.

I can only shrug. “Honestly, still totally and completely confused. Though I did learn Sabera’s mother was an MI6 spy back in the day, and she met with some former military officers to try to contact her mother’s original handler.”

“Huh?”

“Exactly. Sabera claims to have useful information to share, but given the Taliban takeover, what would be relevant, let alone valuable, now?”

Aliah seems equally bewildered on the subject, which I feel proves my point.

“I asked the officers from No One Left Behind to put me in touch with the MI6 handler if possible,” I offer.

“Sounds like a ‘she’ll find me when/if she wants to find me’ sort of thing.

I’ll keep you posted.” I mean this seriously.

Jurisdictional issues, turf wars, are a detective’s problem.

I genuinely just want Sabera located safe and sound. Now more than ever.

“They accessed Isaad’s phone,” Daryl states.

“Mostly likely.”

“Meaning they heard Aliah’s voice mails and have her contact information. They could be headed here, even now.”

“Why would they do that?” Detective Marc focuses his attention on Aliah.

She shakes her head again, clearly spooked.

“To get Zahra,” Daryl states bluntly. “Isaad didn’t give them what they wanted. They’ll use Zahra next.”

“But what do they want ?” Detective Marc presses.

“A lock that has no key for a key that has no lock,” I murmur.

“When you discovered Isaad’s body, was there anything on it?

A note, coded message, hell, old-fashioned brass key?

A private courier delivered something to him right before he took off.

I’ve been trying to figure out what would be significant enough for him to leave his daughter behind and disappear. ”