“I do have a bit of good news. I’m to represent Abigail in court this afternoon. I’ll ask for bail, and given her age and lack of a criminal record, the magistrate might grant it. If he does, she’ll probably be released with conditions, into your custody until her parents arrive. Did I tell you they’re on their way?”
“Released with conditions? What does that mean?”
“Since she’s not a British citizen, they’re likely to demand her passport to be sure she doesn’t leave the country while she’s under arrest. They may limit her movements as well.” Gemma paused. “Wait, I have another call coming in.”
While Nicole was waiting, she thought about the Fletchers’ pending arrival. Did that mean she’d be expected to go back to L.A.? She wasn’t sure she wanted to. Now that she’d gotten involved in this case, she felt invested in the outcome. She remembered the condition the girl had been in when she arrived at the Dorchester that night. She was injured and under the influence of some kind of drug. If she had been drugged and lay unconscious outside Sami’s room, this would have given the killer a chance to plant evidence incriminating her. He might have put the murder weapon in her hands so it bore her fingerprints.
Once Gemma was back on the line, Nicole said, “I’d like to remain in London and work on this case. Is that possible?”
“I understand from your employer that you’re an excellent investigator,” Gemma said. “But you don’t know London. You’re unfamiliar with our judicial process. I don’t think you have the background you’d—”
“Wait. I do know London. I’ve spent a lot of time here. Do you remember that case several years ago involving the drug lord Alexander Hayes? His men were unloading a huge shipment at his estate on the Isle of Benbarra, when his yacht exploded. It made headlines. The police were able to close the books on a long investigation of Hayes’s drug ring. I was involved in that case. I’m sure I could do a good job for you.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
Gemma was being cautious Of course she was going to check out Nicole’s background. Nicole would have done the same if she were in Gemma’s position.
“Our in-house investigator is occupied with several other cases,” Gemma said, “so we probably will need to bring someone in if Abigail were to be charged.”
“One problem, though,” Nicole said. “I’d need access to an investigative database for background checks. My firm has some, but they only include US residents.”
“My firm has several. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Abigail hasn’t been charged. At least, not yet. One thing would be helpful. You’ve struck up a bond with her. That means she might confide in you, so it would be good if you’d strengthen that relationship. Visit her while she’s in custody. Bring her something to read or a box of candy. By the way, she said she wants to stay with you if she gets bail.”
“Stay with me? Does she know her parents are on their way?”
“She does. They spoke by phone. She told them she didn’t want them to come and that she doesn’t want to see them.”
“She expresses a lot of anger and resentment when she talks about them. What do you make of that?”
“Most teenagers have a certain amount of resentment toward their parents.”
“But this seems like something more.”
“Did she tell you about her background?” Gemma said.
“A bit. They adopted her from a Ukrainian orphanage when she was six. But why wouldn’t she be grateful? They rescued her from an institution. In Ukraine, like other Eastern European countries, those places are miserable.”
“You have a good point. But sometimes parents and children just aren’t a good fit, even when there isn’t an adoption. Listen, I have a meeting in a few minutes. I’ll keep you posted if there are any new developments.”
After they hung up, Nicole thought about Abigail’s plight—what had happened in the past, and her current situation. That poor girl! Nicole wished she could go back to that first night and insist Abigail accompany her back to the Dorchester. But she knew it wouldn’t have made any difference. The girl certainly wasn’t open to her advice.
She looked at the names and addresses in her notebook and used her cell phone’s map function to figure out locations. One of the addresses was only a few blocks away. It turned out to be another brick apartment building, similar to Sami’s.
As she started up to the second floor, the stairs and hallway were littered with discarded flyers, takeaway food wraps, and cigarette butts.
She found the right apartment and rang the bell. A boy of sixteen or seventeen opened the door. Nicole said she was looking for Omar Shadid. He nodded to confirm that this was his name. He looked at her with an expectant smile, as if she might be there to let him know he’d won the Irish Sweepstakes. But when she asked about Sami, he started to close the door.
“Wait!” she said. “I heard you were a friend of his. I’m looking into his background. Won’t you just answer a few questions?”
He paused, looking at her through a crack in the door.
“I knew him when I was little”—he pronounced it lit-ull— “in primary school. That’s a long time back, innit? He was a year older.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I thought he was a good bloke ‘cause he stuck up for me when the bullies were beatin’ on me. But later…”
“Later? What happened then?”
The young man shrugged, closing the door more so he was peeking through a slit.
“Anybody who talks about it…” He shook his head and shut the door.
Nicole heard him slide a lock into place. Did he really think she was going to enter his flat and force the information out of him? She knocked again and called his name through the mail slot. She’d almost had him, but now his footsteps were moving away and the place fell silent.
Back on the street, she began to have an uneasy feeling, as if she was being watched. She looked around, but no one seemed to be taking any notice of her. She took in the people around her and tried to commit their appearance to memory so she’d recognize them if they turned up again.
She went to the next address, which belonged to a Mo Antebi. It was on a side street off the main boulevard. Though modest, this apartment house was new and better maintained than the first one. She could see the numbers on the apartments from the sidewalk. The one she wanted was on the ground level. At her knock a woman came to the door. She was wearing a loose-fitting black garment and a matching hijab.
“I’m looking for Mo Antebi,” Nicole said.
The woman turned away from the door and called, “Mohammed!” The rest of what she said was in Arabic, or perhaps Turkish, and she sounded angry. She left the door slightly ajar but didn’t invite Nicole in.
Mo, or Mohammed, was short and wiry. He was about twenty, with a thin face and a sour expression.
“Yeah?” he said.
Nicole explained that she understood he was a friend of Sami Malouf, and she wanted to ask him a few questions. Once again she was asked if she was with the police. She explained who she was and showed him her license, which he barely glanced at.
“Sami was a good guy,” he said. “I feel really bad, but I had nothing to do with what happened. I hadn’t seen him since he started that poncy university.”
“That was last September.”
“Right. I don’t know what he’s been up to.” He whispered, “You don’t belong here. It’s not safe.”
“Mohammed,” his mother called, from another room, then shouted what sounded like a command in her own language.
Nicole was pretty sure she was telling her son to come in and close the door.
Mo stepped toward Nicole, pulling the door almost shut behind him. He gestured, first pointing to the street, then to his eyes with two fingers before pointing at her eyes. From what Nicole could make of it, he was indicating that she was being watched by someone on the street. A shiver went down her spine as she turned to look. There was no one in sight, yet she stil
l had the feeling she was being observed. By the time she looked back, Mo had slipped inside and shut the door.
She thought about his warning as she walked away. Once again she glanced at the people nearby, behind her, and on the sidewalk across the street. No one displayed the least bit of interest in her. Besides it was broad daylight, and Yo had told her East London was safe. He did caution her to be discreet, and her interaction with Ahmed had been anything but discreet. On the other hand, police cars passed by regularly, and she’d just seen two foot-patrol officers less than a block away. How much danger could she be in?
Her next address was for Raji Kassis. It was a small wood-slat house, a remnant of an earlier time, sandwiched between two apartment buildings. A woman answered the door. She was attractive, wearing a cotton-print dress revealing a bit of cleavage. Two toddlers—twins, it appeared—were hanging onto her legs.
When Nicole asked about Raji, the woman said, “He’s at work.”
“Can you give me the address? I’m not with the police, but I want to ask him a few questions about Sami Malouf. He and Raji were friends, right?”
“Right,” the woman said. “They were mates since they started school together. My brother is really torn up about Sami’s death. You’ll find him at S & F Motor Repairs. It’s just down the road on Plumbago Street.”
She gave Nicole directions. But instead of the usual go five blocks and make a right, she used imprecise terms, like head of the street, and go for a bit, and pass a Ladbrokes—or some other landmark unfamiliar to Nicole—then make a turn and walk five minutes on.
When Nicole was back on the sidewalk, she checked once again to be sure no one was following her. When she was satisfied, she used her cell phone to look up the repair shop’s address. This wasn’t much help either. For some unknown reason, the directions were substituting the usual turn right or left, with east and west. Unfortunately, on this side of the Atlantic, her sense of direction had all but disappeared. She had to retrace her steps several times before she found the huge barn-like structure that housed S & F Motor Repairs.
Inside, the place appeared empty. Finally she spotted a pair of legs sticking out from under a car.
Nicole called out, “hello,” a couple times, before going over to the car, leaning down, and shouting, ”Pardon me! Can I speak to you?”
A man slid out from under the vehicle and stood. He was tall and muscular and appeared to be of English or Irish descent, unlike the others she’d spoken to that day.
“What do you want?” His tone wasn’t friendly.
Nicole explained that she needed to speak to Raji Kassis, careful to put in the disclaimer that she wasn’t with the police.
“You can talk to ‘im all you want,” he said. But you’ll have to find ‘im first. He didn’t show up today. He done this before, and I tells him—I says, you skive on me again, and you’re out the door.” He paused and seemed to be considering this. “But I’ll probably have to keep ‘im. It’s too bloody ‘ard finding a good mechanic. But ‘e’d better show up tomorrow. You tell ‘im.” He waved his hand around the garage in a broad gesture. “Me shop’s full of broken motors, innit? I’m ‘ere alone, and they’re not fixin’ themselves.” He turned, lowered himself to the ground, and slid back under the car.
Nicole’s list included several addresses nearby, and she decided to press on. She rang perhaps a dozen more doorbells, but not one of the occupants opened the door. Some apartments were silent enough for her to conclude that no one was home. A number of times, she heard movement inside—the sound of people retreating into a back room.
She was almost at the end of her list. She stopped on the sidewalk to consult her map, and once again had the feeling of being watched. Looking around, she spotted a man she’d seen before. He was half a block behind her, short and muscular, wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt, but no jacket despite the cold. He’d altered his appearance slightly with a soft tweed visor cap he hadn’t been wearing before.
She turned abruptly into the next restaurant, which featured Middle-Eastern fare, with bright-colored photos of shawarma and kabob dishes in the window. She sat, and when the waiter approached, she ordered tea. Through the window, she watched the man cross the street pretend to be window shopping, although the store was empty with a big FOR LEASE sign across the facade. While he had his back to her, she put three one-pound coins on the table to pay for the tea she wasn’t going to drink, and went to the women’s room. She took off her coat and turned it inside out so the iconic Burberry plaid lining showed. It looked odd, but from a distance might lend a measure of disguise.
When she came out of the women’s room, she left the door ajar so she couldn’t be observed darting into the kitchen, where the staff greeted her with mystified looks. She hurried through before anyone could object, and exited through the backdoor into an alley.
She followed the alley for less than a block before turning onto Brick Lane, and half-ran to the tube stop. Whoever this man was, she didn’t want him to know where she was staying. On the train back, she considered what had come of her day’s efforts. In terms of learning more about Sami, it had been a waste of time. What did stand out was people’s general unwillingness to talk to her. And there was the hostility of the convenience store owner, who’d known Sami and might have been able to provide useful information.
That she didn’t fit into the neighborhood was part of the problem. But that someone was following her convinced her something else was going on.
Six
Nicole’s ride back to the hotel was interrupted by an unexplained delay on the tube. In all likelihood it was a mechanical failure of a train or the system. But Nicole, tired and defeated, couldn’t help picturing a fatality—someone who’d jumped or was pushed onto the tracks in front of a speeding train.
The wait went on for a good half-hour, while the cars’ doors remained open. Passengers continued to climb aboard, and the temperature rose as more and more packed themselves in. Crushed against the back of the car, Nicole felt as if she were in a steam bath. Her hair grew damp and drops of sweat ran down her face. The straps and bars for passengers to hang onto were well out of her reach, and she wondered what would happen once the train was moving again.
The doors were just closing as if the train was about to start when a shout came from the next car. Someone had fainted. There was another long wait before the paramedics arrived to carry an elderly woman, protesting vociferously, away on a stretcher.
As the paramedics left, a crew of five transit workers showed up wearing bright orange safety vests. The vests bore the insignia of Transport for London, the operator of the underground system. They determined that the train was overcrowded and thereby unsafe. A good third of the passengers were forced to get off. Nicole, pressed against the back wall of the car, was spared.
At last she reached her stop and made her way up to the street. The chill breeze was a welcomed relief after the musky heat from all those bodies. She was halfway to the hotel when her phone rang. It was Sacha from Abigail’s dorm.
“I just thought of something I forgot to tell you,” the young woman said. ”It might be important.”
“What is it?” Nicole said.
“I can’t talk about it on the phone. No telling who might be listening. Let’s meet somewhere tomorrow.”
“Sure. How about 10:00 a.m.?”
“I have an appointment in the morning. Why don’t we make it 2:30? Would you mind if we meet in my room at the dorm?”
“Not at all. Tomorrow at 2:30, at Wolfson Hall. See you then.”
Nicole had stopped in the entrance to an art gallery to take the call. Once they’d hung up, she rejoined the bustling crowd on the sidewalk. By the time she reached the Dorchester, it was 3:15 p.m., a full two hours after she’d left the station near Brick Lane.
She hadn’t yet eaten and was hungry. But after the steamy wait on the crowded tube, she decided to go back to the suite for a shower before finding somewhere to eat. Th
e hotel had several casual eateries that were open all day.
Nicole had her keycard out when she noticed the door to her suite was ajar. She cautiously pushed the door open with her foot and went lightheaded, hardly able to make sense of the sight before her. The living room was a mess, cushions pulled off couches and chairs, drawers and cabinet doors open, with their contents spilling out. Abigail’s suitcases were lying on the floor, her clothes strewn about on the carpet.
Nicole thought about the computer she’d left on the desk. Any possibility it was still there? She took a few steps into the suite, aware that the intruder might still be in there, working through the bedrooms. The desk where she’d left her computer was empty. She stepped back into the hall, pulled out her phone and called the front desk.
“My suite has been burglarized. Will you please send up someone from security?”
“Of course! Right away!” The clerk sounded rattled.
Nicole was about to hang up when he said, “Madam! Are you in your rooms now?”
“I’m in the hall.”
“Please wait there. Do not attempt to enter until security arrives.”
It was only a few minutes before the elevator at the end of the hall opened, disgorging three men in suits and ties who hurried toward her.
“Follow us,” one of them said, as he dashed into the suite. “Let us know if you notice anything missing.”
As Nicole passed the empty desk, she told the man ahead of her that her computer was gone. After hurrying into the bedroom, she checked the small safe provided for guests. The door was standing open, its contents—her passport, iPad, and about £500 in cash—had vanished. After reporting this to security, she got busy on her phone, signing into the cloud to find the location of her laptop and iPad. Not surprisingly both were at Gatwick Airport, probably about to be flown to a third-world country where someone would buy them cheap, no questions asked. There was no hope of getting them back. But the cloud did give her the ability to lock and disable them permanently, turning them into pieces of junk that could only be used for spare parts.
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