Page 7 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

I FOLLOW D ARYL THROUGH THE COMPOUND, rolling my suitcase and too stupefied to speak.

The residence seems to go on forever, a giant U or square or what the hell, an infinity symbol for all I can figure out.

Lots of stone fireplaces, dark-stained beams, yawning ceilings, and pouring sunlight.

The air-conditioning costs alone must be astronomical.

“You a herper?” Daryl asks abruptly.

I focus my attention on the enormous driver, moving soundlessly ahead of me across the tiled floor.

Boxer, I’m guessing, given how light he is on his feet.

The rest of him is harder for me to compute.

His swarthy complexion could belong to any number of ethnicities, while his dark, silver-streaked hair places his age anywhere over forty.

His voice, on the other hand, deep and whiskey-soaked, sounds straight out of a jazz club.

Which would match the stubby ponytail at the nape of his neck and diamond stud in one ear.

“What’s a herper?” I manage.

“Someone who loves snakes.”

“Then definitely not. Are you sure your employer is sane?”

“Kid’s crazy,” Daryl concedes, “but decent. I’ve worked for worse.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“Answered an ad.”

“And how long have you been with him?”

“Five years.”

“Seriously? He’s owned this place since he was like, twenty-one?”

“Exactly.”

Daryl exits through French doors to the outside courtyard, where there’s a massive, kidney-shaped pool, featuring a slide and volleyball net. Also, an inflatable unicorn. I have no idea.

The impressive landscaping offers several large palo verde trees for shade and a striking collection of barrel cacti, saguaros, and aloe plants set among red rocks and gray stone.

I can just make out a screened-in area to my right with a shimmer of water.

Petunia’s private patio with designated swimming hole. But of course.

Daryl leads me to an adobe structure featuring more French doors. The pool house, I’m thinking. But instead:

“Here you go.” He ushers me into a cool interior featuring a dark wood ceiling fan whirring above a massive California king bed.

Spanish-style headboard and bedside tables.

An antique dresser across the way, topped by a giant flat-screen TV.

Stone fireplace to the right. Door leading to a master bath to the left.

If the snakes hadn’t already robbed me of words, this would’ve done it.

Daryl walks me through a brief tour, including the expansive walk-in closet, a minibar featuring a half-fridge and Italian coffee maker, and a master bath complete with a double sink and steam shower built for six. Thick towels and high-end toiletry products round out the extravagance.

Maybe this place really is a luxury resort. Except I’ve never stayed in any hotel this nice.

Daryl is already crossing to a panel set in the wall next to the French doors. It features a speaker and a column of buttons.

“Whole compound is connected,” he states, his deep baritone resonating across the room. “Button one, the kitchen. Jenny’s there most days, eight to six. Sundays off.”

“Jenny?”

“Cook, housekeeper. Genni, G-E-N-N-I.”

I nod my head to acknowledge the unique spelling.

“Buttons two through four are for the kid. Don’t worry about them.”

“Okay.”

“Button five, me. Need anything, anytime, you ring, I’ll answer.” There’s nothing lascivious in his tone, just basic reassurance. Which I truly appreciate at the moment.

“You live here, too?”

He nods.

“Another bungalow on the compound?”

“Mine’s a little bigger.” First crack of a smile across his broad face. “Seniority.”

“What do you do when Bart’s away?” I ask curiously. “Since, you know, you bailed on the care and feeding of snakes.”

Smile grows. “Anything I want.”

“Not a bad gig.”

“Kid’s generous. Take care of him—and his pets—he’ll take care of you.”

“You know anything about the gaming world?”

“Nope.”

“But you trust him.”

“Yep.”

“You also serve as hired muscle?” I ask.

“Never come up.”

“But you could if necessary. Boxer, I’m guessing?”

Daryl gives me an unexpected wink. “Ballroom dancer.”

Well, now my day of surprises is complete. What the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound. I unsling my messenger bag, let it rest on top of my luggage. “Guess I’ll give this a try.”

Daryl nods as if my decision was never in doubt. Maybe when it comes to the workings of Boy Wonder, Bart, it never is.

“But any snake that escapes is a you problem,” I warn him.

“Nope.” He pauses. “We’ll put Genni in charge.”

“Deal.” I stick out my hand. After a belated moment, he shakes it, his expression serious.

“Genni will provide meals,” he explains. “When you need to go somewhere, ring for me.”

“You’ll drive me anywhere at any time?”

He pauses long enough to give me a considering look. I don’t think there are very many things Daryl misses, and even fewer people he can’t assess. “What kind of places are you thinking?”

My turn to smile. “Well, now that you’ve brought it up…”

“THIS IS NOT a good idea.”

“You’ll learn soon enough, most of mine aren’t.”

“You know anything about Tucson?” Daryl asks from behind the steering wheel. After a quick shower, change of clothes, and apple snagged from the fridge, I’d met him out front, destination address in hand. I tried to ride shotgun. He’d pointedly opened the rear door for me.

“First time here,” I concede. I have my phone open and am studying the picture Aliah gave me of her and her missing friend, Sabera.

The two are positioned with their arms around each other’s shoulders, heads touching.

Aliah is recognizable with her short, tousled hair.

Sabera, on the other hand, sports more traditional long black locks.

The pose is intimate, speaking of a deep friendship between the older woman and her younger charge, but there’s something about Sabera that tugs at me.

She isn’t classically beautiful; her face is a bit wide, her brow heavy.

But her eyes—a deep gray—grab you. They speak of limitless secrets and sorrowful knowledge.

I can already tell she’s one of those people who will never truly be known, not even by those who love her.

I think, if someone took a picture of me, I would look much the same.

“Grant and Alvernon is what you’d call the not-so-good side of town,” Daryl is saying.

“That makes sense.” And matches the scenery. The clusters of bright, shiny strip malls and big box stores lining each side of the crumbly six-lane avenue are rapidly giving way to boarded-up buildings, vacant lots, and pawnshops. Always a sign in my business that I’m getting close.

Daryl slows, peers to the right where there’s a squat, bile-green apartment building with a cracked asphalt parking lot and sagging second-story deck.

One of the rain spouts has come loose and is falling away from the beat-up exterior, which fits with the eviction notice I already spy plastered against the lower corner unit windows. I’m guessing that’s our destination.

Daryl pulls into the parking lot. Beneath the shade of a broad tree dotting the front corner, six people turn to stare.

Two adults, two teens, two smaller children.

Maybe all one family, maybe two families hanging out together.

I peg them to be refugees. Syrian, Pakistani, Afghan.

The possibilities are endless. They’re currently eyeing the luxury sedan with the carefully guarded gazes of people who’ve come to expect the worst.

Up ahead to the left, I see another apartment with yellow crime scene tape strung out front. Hmm, now I have two possibilities to check out.

Daryl parks the car, engine still idling. He twists around and gives me a disappointed expression. “You quittin’? Just like that?”

“No, meeting someone. Though now that you mention it, never hurts to consider other options.”

“This is no place for a single female.”

And yet a family with small children, like the ones still regarding us with hunched shoulders, the woman clutching the youngest closer?

“What do you think rent goes for in a place like this?” I ask him.

“Five, six hundred a month.”

“Better than what I was seeing in the paper,” I murmur.

“No first and last month rent required. Just first month plus security deposit. Big difference.”

“You ever live in a place like this?” I ask curiously, given he seems so knowledgeable.

“Somewhere similar.”

“When?”

“Six years ago. When I first got out of prison.” He eyes me expectantly.

I merely shrug. “I’ve never been to prison, but I have been to jail. Little problem with alcohol.”

“Drugs.”

“Been sober eleven years.”

“Eight.”

“I gotta keep moving.”

“I gotta keep dancing.”

I nod again, his words making perfect sense. I also better understand his loyalty to Bart. Few would hire a convict recently released from prison. Fewer still would entrust him with their six-figure luxury sedan.

The door to the eviction-notice unit opens. A woman appears, young, white, and with a mess of curly blond hair gathered high in a ponytail. She’s dressed in jeans and a pink T-shirt, with a blue bandana tied around her neck and yellow dishwashing gloves on both hands.

She glances over at the idling car, does a double take at the obvious wealth. I pop open the door and step out.

“Ashley Cantrell?” I call out.

She raises a gloved hand in tentative acknowledgment. I smile broadly, then duck my head back in the sedan long enough to declare, “I’m gonna need an hour. Maybe two if there’s still a lot of cleaning to be done.”

“Not a good idea,” Daryl states.

“Most of mine aren’t,” I remind him.

“Get yourself killed,” he warns, “and Petunia will be pissed off.”

I shudder slightly at the reminder. “Don’t worry, I doubt the housing coordinator of a resettlement agency is much of a threat.”

“Sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Never.”

Then I shut the car door and prepare to meet the first of many people I hope can tell me all about Sabera Ahmadi. Mother, wife, refugee. Three weeks later, I wonder which of these roles cost her the most.

I can’t help myself; I check my cell. No texts, no voice mails, no contact.

I put my phone away and get back to work.