Page 43 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

R EALITY COMES AND GOES. P EOPLE screaming followed by uniform-clad professionals. Police, EMTs. I try to hold the moment. Things I need to say.

“Aliah,” I attempt to croak out, but no sound emerges from my throat.

Blinding lights. Speeding vehicles.

“Aliah,” I whisper.

Fade to black.

I wake to voices. Daryl’s, I think. He’s moaning that he should’ve been there, shouldn’t have left us alone. He’s demanding answers, action, something.

Another man’s placating tone. They were able to identify the license plate on the SUV, trace the vehicle to a vacant lot where it had been hastily abandoned. Crime scene techs working it already, certain to have answers soon.

There’s something important I need to say, but I don’t remember what or why. Throbbing in my head, chest, arms. I roll to the side, vomit. Clamber of movement. People appear, some I know, some I don’t. I stare at them all glassy-eyed.

Fade to black again.

Except it’s not so dark. I’m in a liquor store, brightly lit. Paul stands across from me, gut shot, blood soaking through his shirt. He’s smiling at me.

I throw my arms around him. He hugs me back.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, have been telling him, for years.

“Only the good die young,” he informs me cheerfully.

“Wait, does that mean—”

“You’re not dead yet, Frankie,” he whispers in my ear. “You are loved, are worth loving. Try to catch up.”

Then he’s gone. I’m… nowhere at all. White on white on white, broken by a single man, who stands as tall in death as he did in life.

“Really screwed up this time, didn’t you?” His tone is kind.

I reach out a hand, touch his shoulder. Warm and solid. I clutch his shoulder in wonder, with longing. Of all the mistakes I’ve made…

“How many bullets do you think you can outrace?” he asks me gently.

On cue, his chest starts to bleed. More blood pours out his back.

“Please,” I try.

“Happiness isn’t something you discover,” he tells me. “It’s something you make. Frankie, try to keep up.”

Then he’s gone, and an emaciated girl, arms lined with track marks, lounges on the floor.

The first missing person I ever found, the first dead body I’d ever seen.

Now she hums under her breath, while a young mother takes a seat beside her, skeletal legs still trailing lake grass.

In another corner, a Haitian teen admires his bloody chest as a little girl in bunny slippers offers him her teddy bear.

Young and old. Children and parents. Lost, then found. By me. Except it was too late for each and every one of them.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but no one pays me any attention.

They’re too busy being dead.

Only I’m overwhelmed with the business of living.

Then, a presence behind me. I hear a voice I don’t expect at all. His arms are strong and steady, as he pulls me back against his chest.

“It’s okay to mourn,” he murmurs. “It’s okay to want. It’s okay to be who you truly are.”

There are so many things I want to say, but in the end, it takes only two words to say it all.

“I hurt.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“We know,” the dead intone.

Then he’s gone. They’re all gone, everything is gone. An all too real person commands: “Frankie, wake up!”

I discover Detective Marc standing next to my hospital bed, hands on his hips, expression frustrated.

I realize two things at once:

I’m definitely still alive.

And I’ve seen one of the kidnappers before.

“IN ALIAH’S DELI. The day before?” I pause, trying to place my memories into some sort of timeline.

My head hurts. I can’t even figure out what today is.

Trying for anything more sounds impossibly painful.

Still: “He was browsing nuts and candy. Bought a few items. Firni pudding!” I pounce on the detail.

“Ask Daryl. It’s the afternoon we ate pudding. ”

“You’re sure it’s the same guy? A young Middle Eastern male. That’s not exactly a precise description.”

“Yes, but not just based on appearance. There’s something…

” God, my head hurts. I rub my temples while trying to sort through my chaotic impressions.

“Movement. The way he held himself. A little too tight, too stiff. Initially I pegged him for former military. But then when he stepped toward the register, he had a rolling gait, like someone recovering from a grievous injury or terrible accident.”

“And you saw him again yesterday?”

“The kidnapping happened yesterday?”

A nod.

“Aliah?” I can barely ask the question.

“No word.”

“They took her as leverage.”

Detective Marc doesn’t refute it.

“To force Sabera to come to them? Or to…” I struggle with the next thought. “Torture her for information like they did with Isaad?”

There are so many more ways to hurt a woman, and don’t we know it.

“The best way to help Aliah is to find her,” Detective Marc corrals my racing thoughts. “So you recognized one of the kidnappers. He’d been in Aliah’s store before. Scoping it out?”

I shrug. Wince at the stabbing pain. “Or following us.” I suffer through another hazy memory.

Thick black hair, light brown skin, twin dark eyes, fixed on me heatedly.

“The coffee shop. Where I met with Staci, the caseworker from the resettlement agency. He was standing in line a few spots behind me. I think.”

“Coffee shop, that’s good. More places, more cameras, more images. I’ll get some detectives right on it.”

“Fffuuu,” I whisper.

“What’s that?”

“The other guy. He yelled something. ‘Fffuu, grab her.’ Fuck! Grab her? Frank, Grab her? I can hear it, but I can’t understand it.”

“The young male with the rolling gait, he said this?”

“No, the other man, to him. Maybe just cursing at him to grab Aliah. But maybe… a name, title of address? Fff something. I don’t know.” I rub my temples. A final detail comes to me: “There were at least three of them. Two to grab Aliah, one to drive the vehicle.”

“That’s excellent, Frankie. More than I expected.”

“If those three belong with the two found hammered to death at the warehouse, that makes five. Five men, out to get Sabera for something she knows, has, is. Doesn’t that seem like a lot of people involved in a treasure hunt?”

“Depends on the size of the treasure.”

Even my semi-fried brain can grasp that.

“Zahra?” I ask.

“Still safe with Daryl and Roberta. I offered to contact child services. My sister… let’s just say she made a suggestion only a sibling can get away with.”

“Threatened to remove your manly bits?”

“With a rusty knife,” he assures me.

“I like your sister.”

Dramatic eye roll, but he isn’t fooling either of us. He and Roberta have a special relationship, the kind an only child like me can admire, but never truly understand.

“Dance studio meet-and-greet,” I mutter.

Fresh eye roll. “Yes, Daryl confessed your master plan for summoning Sabera Ahmadi. At which point Roberta threatened him with a rusty knife. But”—the detective shrugs—“we need Sabera. Trying to coerce her into locating us… not a terrible idea.”

“The bad guys are moving very fast,” I murmur. “We, on the other hand, are very slow. That’s not a great recipe for success.”

Detective Marc nods. I try to sip more water through my cup’s straw but get only air.

He takes the pink plastic recepticle from me and fills it up.

He volunteers: “Chen is working on the new math puzzles. His first thought was also magic squares, but there’s something about them being trivial…

He has a theory. Going to consult a friend who’s also a math nerd. ”

I know better than to nod by now. I’m very, very tired. I want to close my eyes and sleep forever. I want to dream of rainbows and unicorns, instead of a gathering of the dead.

“I also have IDs on the two murdered Afghan males. Rafiq Bahrami and Ahmad Bahrami. Cousins. Both fled Afghanistan after Kabul fell, being Hazaras, an ethnic group the Taliban has a tendency to cleanse.”

“Connection to Sabera and her husband?” I croak.

“Working on it. Records post-Taliban takeover not being so accessible. Especially, you know, for the Tucson PD.”

I get it, though it doesn’t diminish my disappointment.

“Also,” Marc continues, “have been spending quality time with cell phone records, his and hers. First time Sabera disappeared, Isaad made a dozen calls to a number in New York. Interestingly enough, soon after, Sabera started reaching out to that number as well. It’s the main number of a major hospital. ”

My eyes round. “The baby…”

“The baby?”

“I didn’t mention that Sabera’s pregnant?”

“What?”

“Just learned. Honestly. Right before returning to Aliah’s deli. Had received a manila envelope with Sabera’s medical records—”

“You have the missing woman’s actual medical records?” Detective Marc sounds irate. “In a clear violation of how many HIPAA laws?”

“I didn’t steal them. Someone else did that. I was just given them… from a friend.”

I glance painfully around the room, waving my hand in a gesture of searching. “My brown messenger bag. Must be somewhere. Has records. Was gonna share. Swear it.”

Detective Marc huffs, then crosses to a closet, where, sure enough, my leather bag is hanging from a hook.

He delivers it to me, but when I open the flap…

Nothing. The manila folder is gone. I poke and prod some more.

Basic items, including my emergency whistle, lip balm, discreet zippered pocket of cash…

I empty everything out, not that it’s much, then…

I gaze at the detective blankly. “I had it. I slipped the docs into my bag, after speaking with Sabera’s caseworker, returned to Aliah’s deli. I phoned you, then we closed up shop, stepped outside…”

Everything gets blurry after that.

“Would one of your officers have taken it?” I ask.

Marc bristles. “No. And not the EMTs, either. Some of the looky-loos had access to your purse while you were down, but if anything they would’ve gone for a wallet, not a plain envelope. Shit.”

I don’t know what to say. I still barely understand what happened.

“Okay,” Detective Marc regroups. “Sabera is pregnant?”

“With a history of postpartum depression. Also was being treated for severe PTSD. The first time she vanished, she’d had some kind of breakdown, was put on a psych hold. Didn’t I mention that?”

“That you bothered to share.”

“This hospital number both Sabera and Isaad were calling… Maybe it’s related to mental health services? Or the ob-gyn unit?”

Detective Marc sighs. “I’ll follow up with Dr. Porway again.

See if she was contacted by another doc, say one from New York, regarding Sabera’s care.

She didn’t volunteer such information, but that’s not a surprise.

She may be the type to champion the poor, but she still isn’t one to break doctor–client confidentiality. ”

“You talked to Dr. Porway?”

“Not all of us have been sleeping for the past twenty-four hours. Yes, I met with the good doc. Much like you suspected, when I mentioned the name Jamil, I got an immediate reaction. When I pushed, and identified him as Sabera’s husband slash Zahra’s father, I got an even stronger reaction.

I’m guessing from Dr. Porway’s expressions alone, we’re on the right track.

I have officers running down witnesses from Sabera’s bus episode.

With any luck, someone saw something—or someone—concrete, that’ll move us forward. ”

“X factor,” I croak.

“What’s that?”

“If only we knew.”

I expect another glare, but instead the detective regards me thoughtfully. “You know our other missing puzzle piece? Isaad Ahmadi’s vehicle. As in, where is it? We know he drove it away from their apartment and then…?”

I hadn’t considered the car at all, so, good question.

“Have had an APB out for it the past twenty-four hours. So far, I can only tell you where it’s not—the Ventana Canyon Resort, where Sabera was hiding out.”

Which would’ve made some sense.

“Or the warehouse district, where the murdered men, and later, Isaad, were found.”

My head is starting to pound harder. “Maybe Sabera is driving it around. Sleeping in it. That’s why we haven’t found her.”

“Ever notice the city’s nice wide boulevards and clear lines of sight? Not to mention the cameras at nearly every intersection, let alone banks, businesses, city buses? If the vehicle was in play, trust me, it would’ve been spotted by now.”

I don’t have an answer for that. Which is when my bruised brain finally gets his point. X factor. The good detective is agreeing with me. There’s some person, place, or thing we still don’t know.

Which at this stage of the game is irritating. And concerning. And dangerous.

God, I’m tired.

“All right. You’ve got a grade A concussion. Time for you to sleep, avoid bright lights, then sleep some more. And I mean it.”

Detective Marc heads for the door. I ease back into the dubious comfort of the hospital bed, but my thoughts are way too jumbled to settle. Where is Aliah? What are they doing to her?

How long can she hold out?

Isaad might have had reason to protect the woman he considered his wife, but Aliah? She’s only a friend, after all. A mentor of sorts, and now surrogate mother to Zahra, but still, what could she possibly know? Just because she called me in…

Showing a great deal of interest in a fellow countrywoman she’d known only a matter of weeks.

And now being held as bait, to draw out a woman who hadn’t even shown up for her husband.

I feel a little click in the back of my mind, accompanied by a jolt of pain through my poor concussed brain.

I really have been an idiot.

I search the bedside table till I discover my cell phone, which someone has thoughtfully plugged in to charge.

“Daryl,” I manage a moment later. “Come and get me. And bring that electronic key gizmo from the townhouse. We have work to do.”