Page 45 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

W E DON’T KNOW ANY NAMES of extended family members?” I confirm with Daryl.

“Got nothing.”

“Can you search email by date?”

“Yeah.” He positions his hands above the keyboard, eyeing me expectantly.

“Date Kabul fell. The second time.”

“August fifteenth, 2021,” he rattles off immediately.

“Are you a closet genius, Daryl?”

“Nah. I read. I remember things.”

“Bet you killed it in high school.”

“You’re assuming I was sober.”

“Hey, drunk as a skunk was my strategy!”

“And now,” he observes sagely, “here we are.”

“Here we are,” I agree, and that thought lightens my mood, because if anything, it proves two kids can do everything wrong, and yet by some miracle still end up okay in the end. Or at least good enough.

I rub my temples.

“Okay,” Daryl calls out. “Whole stream of messages from that time period. Lots of them.”

“We’re looking for something personal,” I advise. “Contact from a family member or friend still over in Kabul.”

“What is it you’re hoping to find?”

“A name. Aliah’s cousin’s son. Shot to death by the Taliban, body left in the street as a warning to others. I want to know his name.”

“Why?”

“So I can learn from my mistakes,” I inform him seriously.

“Because I knew from the beginning there was more to Aliah’s interest than met the eye, but I didn’t push hard enough.

I didn’t ask the right questions, mostly because I didn’t figure out what that line of interrogation should be until after she was taken.

Not gonna lie, Daryl. I hate it when I’m dumb. ”

Daryl grunts.

I’m concussed enough to ask yet another question I’ve been dying to know: “So how long have you been in love with Roberta?”

No longer a grunt but a growl.

“Have you met her husband? Is he a decent fellow?”

Heartfelt sigh.

“You’re never going to say anything, are you? They’re good together, you don’t want to rock the boat, even if you and Roberta could be great together?”

Deeper sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him honestly, then resume watching cloud patterns in the ceiling.

“Got something,” he says at last. “Email dated a week later. From maybe a family member? ‘Heart is very heavy. Sad, terrible, heartbreaking news: Kabul has fallen. Taliban has taken over. They are safe for now, but Jamil was shot and killed.’”

“Fuck me, I knew it!”

Daryl gazes down at me on the floor, arching a single brow in question.

“Would you like to know Zahra’s middle name? Jamila. As in daughter of Jamil. What are the odds?”

Daryl’s brow furrows. “I don’t…”

“From the very beginning, Aliah was too interested in Sabera. Come on, they’d only known each other for a matter of weeks.

For that matter, Sabera is merely one of how many female refugees Aliah’s helped over the years?

Why the passionate advocacy on Sabera’s behalf?

Why the immediate dislike of Isaad, whom even the neighbor, Nageenah, didn’t think was that bad?

When Sabera was hospitalized after her nervous breakdown, Jamil was the name she kept repeating. A great love that ended tragically.”

“Sabera had a nervous breakdown?”

“First few weeks she was here.”

“Seriously?”

“We’re getting somewhere, Daryl. These cases, they’re almost always about secrets, generally held by the people we thought we knew the best and could trust the most. Okay, so Aliah is related to Jamil.

Now we need to learn everything else she decided not to tell us.

Can you search her email for Jamil’s name? Were they in direct contact?”

Daryl goes to work. I resume admiring swirling patterns.

“Umm, got something. From a university address—”

“I knew it!”

Daryl doesn’t bother asking. “Messages go back a coupla years. Intermittent at first, then a whole bunch leading up to August 2021.”

I wait, while he skims through.

“Jamil is the son of her cousin?” he asks.

“I would assume so.”

“That would make him a second cousin. Huh. These read more like notes from a favorite nephew. Hmm… first emails are pretty routine. Lots of exchanging of well wishes and give regards to. But then, going into 2020—Jamil’s asking dating advice.

‘Met someone special, brilliant, amazing. A fellow student, you’d like her so much, Auntie…

’” Daryl skims again. “Now we’re January 2021, US is starting to draw down troops… He’s worried. Wait!”

Daryl stops short. “He’s heartbroken! Broke up with dream girl. He discovered something… She was using him? Nothing was as it seemed…”

“Dream girl got a name yet?”

“Nope. Very few names. Maybe worried about being monitored?”

I have no idea.

Daryl returns to clicking, reading, clicking. “Dream girl is back!”

“But of course,” I mutter.

“Realized she had her reasons, they’re on the same side after all—”

“What side?”

“Sounds like revolution. Existing government too corrupt, concerns about stability once US military presence is gone—”

“No shit.”

“Need more dramatic progress…” Daryl clicks away. Then: “Fuck me.”

“What?” I sit up too fast, head promptly spinning. But the darkness of his tone…

Another moment as Daryl peers at the screen, eyes scanning. “Sabera! Jamil identifies his sweetheart as Sabera, but with no last name. And he’s attached a photo!”

He turns the monitor. An image appears, a headshot of a shy young woman wearing a dark blue hijab.

Sabera Ahmadi smiling into her lover’s camera lens.

There’s something about her look that makes both Daryl and me catch our breath.

Is there anything more innocent than young love? Is there anything more haunting?

“Why include a photo now?” I ask, though I already fear the answer.

“He’s worried about a spy in their midst, danger mounts…” Daryl’s voice fades out as he glances over at me. “Essentially, Jamil is writing, should the worst happen to him…”

“Such as being killed?”

“He wants Aliah to find Sabera. Get her to the States. It’s of the utmost importance…” Daryl resumes reading. “The Taliban can’t get their hands on her. Her family is not to be trusted—”

“Wait, her family?”

“That’s what it says. ‘Please, Auntie, do whatever it takes to keep Sabera safe.’”

Daryl stops reading. He moves to the next email, except there isn’t one. That’s it. A last note from a young man who clearly hadn’t exaggerated the risk to himself and others. I glance at the date, do the math. Six days after writing this…

Jamil is dead. And his pregnant girlfriend—did Jamil know?

There’s no mention in his email to Aliah, but there are clearly plenty of details he’s omitting.

Maybe that’s why he wanted Sabera to be protected from the Taliban.

And yet I already think he’s referencing something more professional than personal.

Something relevant to them both being on the same side of the revolution.

Her encryption skills, gifts with codes? Or languages, or memory?

A key that has no lock.

And one—Jamil, Isaad, and now Aliah?—found worth dying for?

I have Sanders Kurtz’s email address. “Forward everything to him,” I instruct Daryl.

Then, as his fingers clack away on the keyboard:

“Daryl, what do you think they’re doing to her right now?”

He doesn’t have to ask to know I’m talking about Aliah. Gracious, determined, sparkly-eyed Aliah.

Daryl sighs heavily, forwards more of Aliah’s emails.

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” he begins.

“One thing? I got dozens.”

“Didn’t you say—and Aliah agree—that refugee placement is random? So what are the odds that Sabera and her family ended up here in Tucson, basically on Aliah’s doorstep? Sounds too good to be true.”

“Placement is supposed to be random,” I consider out loud. Then: “Didn’t Detective Marc mention Isaad’s call log included a bunch of DC numbers? And Aliah emphasized that while the Ahmadis were new to Tucson, in fact they’d already been in the US for nearly a year?”

Daryl peers down at me. “You think they have some sort of connection?”

“Honestly, I’m beginning to think they have all sorts of connections. Certainly plenty of people seem to know about Sabera and have a vested interest in her future.”

“Who would have that kind of clout?” Daryl presses.

“Excellent question.” Though I already have one, make that two, prospects in mind. My head is pounding harder, however, and there’s little to be done given the late hour in the eastern time zone. Here, on the other hand:

“It’s almost seven P.M., ” I state.

“Ballroom studio meet-and-greet,” Daryl agrees.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

I appreciate our optimism.

Just then the office door drifts open, and the barrel of a gun appears.