Page 50 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

D USK IS GATHERING AT THE edges of the city skyline by the time Daryl and I finally depart Aliah’s apartment.

Daryl had the forethought to text Roberta while we were talking to Lilla.

Roberta made a heroic attempt to make it to the dance studio in case Sabera magically showed.

Apparently, no such luck. Now Daryl is catching Roberta up on everything we learned from the British spy handler.

Which feels like both too much and not nearly enough information all at once.

Mostly, I have an itch between my shoulder blades. Lilla has been following us the past few days. Clearly Aliah’s abductors have been watching as well. At least three men, one of them possibly Sabera’s own brother.

What does that mean?

And where are they now?

I find myself staring compulsively at the view in the side mirror. Has that SUV been behind us the entire time? What about that nondescript white sedan or black pickup truck? I see danger everywhere, and the falling light and tinted windows aren’t helping.

What’s that saying? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

Daryl finally wraps up his call. He peers at me via the rearview mirror.

“Need anything?” he asks gruffly.

“New career.”

“Your head?”

“Hurts like hell, but that might be more from the conversation we just had than the concussion I suffered.”

“She talked a lot.”

“And yet very little of it was useful.”

“She talked a lot,” Daryl repeats.

It takes me another second—blame the concussion—then I get it. What kind of career spy volunteers so much information? From Sabera’s medical records to family legacy to this whole code within a code… In an intelligence officer’s world, information is power. Why volunteer so much up front?

“Fuck.”

Behind the steering wheel, Daryl nods in agreement.

“She’s playing us.”

Daryl nods. I swear again. Then: “But to what end? What do we know, what could we do, that would possibly have value to her?”

Except in this next instant, I get it. We might actually find Sabera Ahmadi. Personally, I feel Lilla’s odds are higher, but I appreciate her optimism. And if we do find Sabera…

“She discredited her,” I murmur. “The medical records. Sabera has a history of postpartum mental health episodes. And is now pregnant again, meaning God knows what. Maybe Lilla is trying to hedge her bets. If she can’t reach some sort of agreement with Sabera to learn the location of the REEs, she needs to at least sow enough seeds of doubt so no one else is interested in what Sabera has to say.

Though that doesn’t explain her brother’s possible return from the dead.

Also if he’s the one who kidnapped Aliah, what exactly are his intentions?

Dear Lord, my head hurts! No spook double-talk necessary. ”

“Two halves of one whole,” Daryl states.

“Yes, Sabera has alluded to that enough times, it must be real. The code, hidden gold, secret mines…” My voice lowers. “These are things worth killing for.”

“Aliah,” Daryl murmurs softly.

I sigh heavily in agreement, staring out the window at the darkening sky.

The white SUV behind us finally turns off. I breathe a little easier, till the truck behind it gains ground.

I don’t have to say a word to Daryl for him to take a sudden left, then right, then left again. All vehicles disappear from our mirrors.

A few more defensive maneuvers and we’re back on track. Unfollowed. Or so we hope.

I rub my temples. We can’t continue on like this. And neither can Aliah.

I check a few things on my phone, sigh again.

“Daryl,” I speak up at last. “I may have a plan, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“Try me.”

I walk him through it. I’m right, he doesn’t like it.

But he also agrees we don’t have any other choice.

THE COMPOUND IS ablaze with cheery lights when we finally pull through the gate. The outdoor torches light up the trunks of the soaring palms while bathing the barrel cacti and giant aloes in an amber glow.

I start taking inventory of everything I haven’t paid attention to before—the number of decorative walkways around the giant mansion, the chest-high wrought-iron fence that extends out from the main house and wraps around the three freestanding bungalows as well as the pool.

The sheer number of sliding glass doors and low-access windows…

A security fortress it is not, but maybe we can use that to our advantage.

We find Roberta, Genni, and Zahra gathered in the kitchen.

Zahra is helping Genni frost animal-shaped cookies, while Roberta sits at the kitchen table amid a sea of graph paper.

For a moment, she looks so reminiscent of the last time I saw Aliah, my heart catches in my chest. Please let us not be too late.

Roberta glances up excitedly at our entrance.

“I think I got it!” She holds up the grid sheet covered in scribbled numbers. “The moment Daryl mentioned Sabera’s claim to know the location of hidden treasure, it got me thinking in term of coordinates. Check it out!”

She taps her notes. “Zahra drew three magic squares.”

At the mention of her name, Zahra glances up. She flashes a shy smile at Daryl and me, then returns to studiously decorating the cookie in front of her. Which I now realize is shaped like an iguana. But of course.

Speaking of which, Petunia is staring at me pointedly from her perch in front of the glass sliders. I hastily cross to the refrigerator to grab her dinner.

“The top magic square,” Roberta is explaining, “has the largest numbers. I didn’t notice that before—the two bottom squares all involve numbers smaller than twenty, while the top one goes higher.

Made me wonder, why the difference? Factor in the repeated digits that make the square trivial, and those particular numbers written out in a row… ”

Roberta beams. “Latitude and longitude. I’m certain of it.

Afghanistan’s latitude falls between thirty and thirty-eight degrees.

Longitude sixty to nearly seventy-four. Separate the repeated digits in the top square and line them up in two rows of four units and ta-da—it’s a GPS coordinate just outside of Kabul. I’m a genius!”

Color me impressed. I set Petunia’s salad bowl down next to the sliders, as I don’t want to miss the rest of the conversation. Petunia seems a little confused by this change in routine, but with a swish of her tail decides she can adapt.

From the kitchen island, Zahra giggles. She’s clearly enraptured by the iguana, adding more blue and green candies to her heavily frosted cookie.

“Now, as for the lower two squares. Only four numbers repeat in each. I line them up and I get two thirty-something digits. Latitudes that fall within Afghan borders.”

“But only latitude?” Daryl asks with a frown. In the next instant, he answers his own question. “Two halves of one whole. Ahh, got it.”

Roberta nods emphatically. “I’m guessing the two bottom squares come from Sabera’s mother. She taught Sabera the grids that provide the latitude of the two mineral sites she discovered. She gave Sabera’s brother the grids—or some kind of other puzzle—that provides longtitude.”

“But the top magic square provides both…” Like Daryl, it comes to me.

“Because that’s the code Sabera herself created, with the location of where she hid the looted gold.

Okay, I get why Sabera would use a magic square as an encryption tool, but why would her mother, a fashion designer, utilize a math riddle? ”

“For her daughter.” Genni speaks up from the counter. “She needed her daughter to understand, and Sabera likes math, yes? She wanted to make sure Sabera got the message. Does the son like math, too?”

“No idea.” I glance at Daryl and Roberta, realizing for the first time how little we know about Farshid, Sabera’s brother and possibly Aliah’s abductor. Which is a glaring oversight, given we’re hoping to lure him through these front doors.

“Let’s talk decoys,” I begin.

Roberta’s hand immediately thrusts into the air. “Dibs.”

“Wait a minute,” Daryl blusters, but Roberta’s already dismissing his objection with a shake of her head.

“Gotta be me. One, Frankie is way too white to pass for…” Roberta cuts herself off, given Zahra’s listening ears.

“Whereas do you know how many times I’ve had people come up and chatter at me in some language I don’t know?

Just like I’m sure most Afghan refugees get addressed in Spanish. For some folks brown is brown.”

“Can’t be me,” Genni concedes. “I’m a bit too… tall. While you”—she eyes Daryl’s hulking form—“are entirely too male. Which leaves us with—”

“I am not too tall,” Zahra speaks up. She regards us with her solemn gray eyes.

“You, my lovely, are too perfect to be anyone other than Zahra. And I think you are tall. Ginormous, in fact. A giant towering beast of a child with the best taste in cookies.” Genni ends her spiel by popping a frosted bunny into Zahra’s hand.

Zahra obliging shoves it into her mouth, with a smear of hot pink icing across her lips.

“I’m not sure…” Daryl again.

“Yes you are. You just don’t like it, that’s different.” Roberta is eyeing him sternly.

Genni and I quickly busy ourselves with random tasks, Daryl’s discomfort too hard to take.

“Come on,” Roberta murmurs softly. “We both know I can be selfish. And sometimes… maybe even cruel.”

I grab the glass dish off the floor next to Petunia. Genni starts rinsing frosting bowls.

“But I never back down from a fight. You know that, Daryl. You know I got this.”

“We’re not even sure how many of them there are. Or how heavily armed, or well trained.”

“Then I’m glad you have my back.”

“I’ll tell your brother.”

“Then I’ll have this conversation with him, as well. Still won’t change anything.”

“We don’t even know if this will work. They might not be watching. They might not take the bait—” Daryl sounds increasingly desperate.

“They will. They have to. We’re running out of time. Daryl, we got this. It’s just a different kind of dance.”

Daryl’s shoulders come down. For a moment, he appears so crushed, so hopeless, I genuinely feel for the man. Despite Roberta’s big words, what we’re about to do is very dangerous.

Disguising Roberta as Sabera to lure known killers onto Bart’s estate.

Giving away our one safe location in order to ambush the abductors and demand they lead us to Aliah.

Can you negotiate with men who think nothing of torturing someone to death?

Can we possibly end up with Farshid himself and get him to tell us everything?

Can we save Sabera?

The last time I played for stakes this high, rain was coming down in sheets on a tropical island, gunfire had already erupted, and I’d just come face-to-face with a severed head. Before that night was through…

In the past, I’ve worried about my job’s toll on me.

I don’t know how to compartmentalize; I don’t have a trained detective’s battle-hardened worldview.

From the very beginning, I gravitated toward missing persons because I know I’m not cut out for murder and mayhem.

Yet lately, too many of my cases have turned bloody, and I have the nightmares to prove it.

Now I’m forced to wonder if my job is not only a threat to me but also a danger for others.

Who am I to decide who lives or dies in the hours to come?

Because in my bones, I already know this to be true.

We can plan, strategize, hope, dream, but given the body count thus far, this will end violently.

And here I am, pulling the strings.

A woman with no formal investigative training.

Who barely eked out a high school degree.

Who has spent most of her life drowning in a bottle.

Forget being self-destructive. Am I now actively damaging others, as any official law enforcement expert, including Detective Marc (let alone a certain sexy Boston investigator), would have claimed?

On the other hand, who else is there? A local Afghan woman has been missing for weeks.

Her husband has been tortured to death, her child nearly kidnapped, and her closest friend abducted.

The powers-that-be are already overworked and disengaged.

Which leaves me and the other misfit toys—a dream team comprised of a recovering alcoholic, ex-con limo driver, ballroom dancing parole officer, and transgender cook.

Maybe it’s a sad state of affairs that this is all who stands between Sabera and certain doom. Or maybe it speaks to the higher power of the universe that total strangers care that much.

I want to believe in the positive, but, mostly, as I look at the people around me, I wonder:

How many times can I cheat death?

And how many times can the people I befriend survive?

Because they haven’t always. I carry that weight as well.

Genni starts packing up the cookie supplies. We have other preparations we need to make in the kitchen now.

As well as to the hallway, pool area, and heavily landscaped grounds. Even Petunia has a crucial role to play. And no, iguanas aren’t bulletproof, adding to my sense of dread.

I have one last trick up my sleeve. Might be a long shot, but given the stakes, I’ll take it.

And now…

Roberta pushes away from the table while Genni leads Zahra out of the kitchen.

We each know our roles.

A final quiet nod of acknowledgment to one another.

Then we start prepping for the night ahead.

Which for me, means a hushed phone call where I won’t be overheard, and then a visit to the snake room.