Eight
When Nicole arrived at the detention center to visit Abigail, she had to stop in front of the building to figure out how to get in. The center was housed in a gray cinderblock structure. The only bit of color was provided by a large royal crest with a unicorn and crowned lion, which was so incongruous it looked as if it had been put there by mistake.
There was no front entry, only a car-sized arch, which appeared to be locked up tight with a pleated metal gate. Approaching it, Nicole noticed a small intercom box on the gate, with a button marked press to speak. She pushed it a number of times, but it was five minutes before she got a response. The gate slid open a few feet to admit her into a courtyard. Here she was subject to a gauntlet of security measures. Presenting her ID, surrendering her purse and phone. She tried to talk the guard into allowing her to bring in the things she’d picked up for Abigail—chocolate truffles and a copy of The Hunger Games—but this, she was told, was against the rules. The gifts were put in a locker with her other things. Next she had to walk through a metal detector and submit to a pat-down.
At last she was permitted inside. A woman wearing an olive green sweatsuit led her into a dim hallway with worn linoleum flooring. The place reeked of pine-scented disinfectant mixed with something sharper and more organic. The smell intensified the building’s atmosphere of depression and hopelessness.
Up a flight of stairs, Nicole was shown into a small room where Abigail was already waiting. The girl was perched on the arm of a sagging couch of indeterminate color. The only other piece of furniture was a worn straight-back chair.
After sizing up the couch, which looked none too clean, Nicole sat on the straight-backed chair. Only now did she take in Abigail’s appearance. The swelling around her injured eye had gone down, leaving the area puffy and deep purple, verging on black. Her other eye and nose were red, probably from crying. The blouse, skirt, and Nicole’s blue sweater—which the girl was wearing when the bailiffs took her away—had been replaced by a baggy, snap-front cotton dress in an unflattering shade of beige.
“How’s it going?” Nicole said.
“This place is so horrible!” The girl put her hands over her face and started to cry. “I wish I was dead! Why didn’t I fly home with you that first day? My parents may not be very nice, but they aren’t cruel. They don’t lock me in my room all day.”
“You’re locked in your room?” Nicole was stunned.
In preparation for her visit, she’d read about the UK’s youth detention centers and had the impression that this kind of thing wasn’t allowed. These places were described as more relaxed than adult jails. Kids attended classes and had free time to mingle with fellow detainees. Then it dawned on her. Something must have happened, an incident that led to the girl’s lockup.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Abigail related the incident in the cafeteria the previous day and confessed that she’d rather be locked in her room even though it was lonely.
“At least the gang who beat me up can’t get at me.”
When she was done talking, Abigail lifted the hem of her dress, displaying black and blue marks on her legs. She gestured up her sides, indicating the bruises were there as well.
“The guards ask what happened, but everyone pretends they didn’t see anything. They’re all afraid of this girl Niamh. She’s the head of the gang that runs the place. The guards know about it, but they don’t care.”
“This isn’t right. I’m going to call your solicitor. I’m sure she can do something. Have your parents been to visit?”
“Yes. I talked to them for a little while, but I cut it short and had the guard take me back to my room. I couldn’t stand the way they looked at me—like they think I’m guilty.” She started crying again. “Can you believe it? They think I’m capable of murder. I know I’ve been a huge disappointment to them. They put me in a boarding school when I was thirteen because of my behavior issues. I liked that school a whole lot better than home. The teachers were nice. They worked with me, and I started getting good grades. That gave my parents bragging rights, so they were happy. They didn’t have to put up with me except during school break. Now it’s like they hate me. I’ve disgraced their precious family name. I told them I was innocent, but they didn’t believe me. Nobody believes me.”
“I believe you, Abigail,” Nicole said.
A guard appeared and put a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“It’s time,” she said, kindly. “You have to return to your room.”
Abigail hugged Nicole and clung to her, crying.
“You have to come with me now, or there will be consequences,” the guard said.
Abigail turned, and with her head drooping, headed for the door. She didn’t look back.
When Nicole left the building, she felt like crying herself. On the ride back to the hotel, she couldn’t stop thinking about Abigail and the injustice of her arrest. Who would want to frame her? Why?
As Nicole exited the tube station, she spotted a newsstand across the street. She hadn’t yet seen a story that mentioned Sami’s murder, although Sacha had known about it that morning when Nicole visited. Maybe it would be in the afternoon papers.
She walked half a block to the signal and waited for the light to change. She’d been nearly run down several times when she attempted to jaywalk, and she didn’t want to take the risk. As she approached the newsstand, she saw the huge banner headline on the London Evening Standard: SECOND MURDER IN EAST LONDON. The paper was free, stacked in its own rack next to the news kiosk. Nicole took one and read it as she walked toward the hotel. The story wasn’t long. The Evening Standard was a tabloid, and its articles never went into deep background or analysis. Nicole’s scalp tingled with shock as she read.
Police released a statement that they were investigating a new death in East London. Mohammed Antebi, age 19, was found floating in the Thames near London Bridge, five miles from his home in East London.
Police say a witness saw a white van stop on the bridge. Two men got out, opened the back door, and took out a large object wrapped in a blanket, which they tossed in the river. CCTV footage shows a van with no license plates stopping on the bridge at 1:42 a.m. this morning.
No further information has been released at this time. Earlier yesterday, another 19-year-old East London resident, Sami Malouf, was found dead. The two men were former school mates. Police said they were holding a possible suspect in the Malouf murder. They refused to speculate whether the two deaths were related.
Mohammed was the young man Nicole had called on the day before. He’d refused to give her any information, but had warned her she was being watched. When she was done reading the article, she tried to make sense of it. Was Mohammed killed because he’d spent a few minutes talking to her after she’d rung his bell? More likely it was linked to whatever was behind Sami’s murder. Nicole felt shaken as she hurried the last few blocks to the hotel.
Back in her suite, she stood gazing out the window at Hyde Park. From the sixteenth floor, all she could see was a solid canopy of treetops. The view would have been calming if her thoughts hadn’t been in such turmoil. What to do? She’d promised Jerry that if any new threat presented itself, she’d return to L.A. immediately. News of Mohammed’s death was proof of the danger surrounding this case. But Nicole badly wanted to remain in London so she could continue looking for a way to prove Abigail’s innocence.
Before she did anything, she reminded herself that she had to call Abigail’s solicitor and let her know the girl had been assaulted the day before and that the detention center’s only solution had been to lock her in her room.
Just as she started to put in Gemma’s number, a text message popped up on her phone. She was thrilled to see it was from Reinhardt.
Call me, it said. I’ll be waiting.
He answered after a single ring. “So what are you doing in London?”
Nicole explained.
“Maybe I can help you sort this o
ut. How about dinner?”
“Sounds good!” She was smiling.
The prospect of seeing him again lifted her spirits, all but dispelling the gloom she’d brought back from the detention center.
“You’re at the Dorchester, right?”
“How do you know where I am?”
“I have my sources. Alain Ducasse has a restaurant in the hotel. We can eat there.”
“I asked about a reservation yesterday, but the concierge said they’re fully booked months ahead.”
“Don’t worry. I know someone. I’ll stop by your suite at 7:00.”
When they hung up, Nicole felt giddy. She tried to rein in her excitement. She had no idea of Reinhardt’s current status. For all she knew, he might be married or in a serious relationship. But something in his voice—his obvious pleasure in hearing from her—made her doubt it.
She pulled herself back to the business at hand and put in a call to Gemma to fill her in on Abigail’s situation.
“That’s horrible,” Gemma said. “These centers are so overcrowded that administrators have lost track of the concept that youth detention is supposed to rehabilitate, not punish. The system does have a few experimental facilities that are smaller and more home-like. I think they’re being tested with a few of the more vulnerable detainees. I’ll see if I can have her transferred. This incident gives us an excellent argument for bail. She’s not only a foreigner, but from a different socio-economic class than the most of the center’s population. Of course they’re going to bully her, and the administration has no way to protect her except to isolate her. But solitary confinement is not supposed to be an option in these facilities.”
After their conversation, Nicole glanced at the clock. It wasn’t yet 5:00 p.m. She had another two hours before Reinhardt would drop by to take her to dinner. She still felt the effects of jetlag and wondered why it had never affected her this way in the past.
She lay on the bed, propping herself up on pillows so she could read. When she startled awake, it was dark outside and someone was pounding on the door. The clock on her bedside table said 7:05 p.m.
She dashed to the door and opened it. They stared at each other a long moment before she was in his arms.
He’d hardly changed since the last time she saw him two years before. His dark hair was beginning to gray at the temples, but he’d never looked handsomer. Still holding her, he rocked her back and forth, as if they were about to dance.
“God, how I’ve missed you,” he said.
He released her and picked up her left hand to inspect her bare ring finger, and gave her a questioning look.
“I didn’t marry him, after all,” she said. “We broke up.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“Too many basic differences. Especially on the question of what kind of life we were going to live. I’m not cut out to be a suburban housewife.”
“I never thought so.” He took a seat on one of the couches. “Get dressed. They’re holding a table for us.”
She went into her room and took her favorite dress from the closet. It was a form-fitting knit of seafoam green. She’d put it in her suitcase at the last minute, just in case. She picked up a pair of strappy high heels and took the clothes into the bathroom to change, brush her hair, and touch up her makeup.
Reinhardt didn’t have to identify himself at the restaurant. The maître d’ welcomed him by name and led the pair to the rear of the dining room. Here he approached what looked like a shimmering floor-to-ceiling curtain of light that parted as they walked through it. The maître d’ explained that the curtain was made of strands of fiber optics. The table, which had room for six, was set for two. It was private, closed off from the rest of the room by the curtain of light. Nicole was impressed, as she always was with Reinhardt’s romantic—and expensive—gestures.
After their drinks were served, he’d insisted on ordering the tasting menu, which consisted of eight courses.
Nicole glanced at the list of dishes and laughed. “No way. That’s too much food. I’ll be full before the main course.”
“Don’t worry.” This phrase was a favorite of his. “Each course is no more than a mouthful. Meanwhile tell me more about the case you’re working. Step by step. I want to hear the assignment as it was first described to you, and everything that’s unfolded since.”
She obliged. He interrupted a few times to ask what she knew about several individuals she’d spoken to. He was especially interested in the convenience store owner, Rakib Ahmed, and the latest murder victim, Mohammed Antebi.
Finally he said, “Have you done any background searches on these people?”
“Not yet. The solicitor arranged for me to use her firm’s databases, but I haven’t been able to. Whoever broke into our suite took my computer. I have to buy a new one tomorrow so I can get started on my research.”
“I have a new computer at home—state of the art. You’re welcome to use it. It has a number of databases, including those used by law enforcement. And this gets to something I wanted to ask. Why not stay at my place while you’re here? It will solve your problems. You’ll be safe, and my computer can provide research on a level you can’t imagine.”
She stared at him, thinking about the government clearance he must have.
“Is that even allowed?”
“Well, you won’t be able to see to everything. Law enforcement can get court orders to look at sealed files and certain other sensitive information. Obviously that won’t be available to you. But there’s plenty you’ll have access to. Even more important, my flat is a virtual safe house, and the security in my building is unsurpassed. I have a private back entrance that no one knows about. You’ll be safe from anyone who might pose a threat to you. Of course, you’ll want to be careful no one follows you there. I’ll explain the best strategy for that.”
She laughed. “You’ve certainly thought of everything. But the solicitor thinks Abigail might make bail. I don’t know how you feel about having the two of us.”
“Why not? I have plenty of room. The girl is welcome to stay. I may be taking off in a couple of days anyway. I’m between assignments. You know how it is.”
She nodded and looked away. She knew too well.
He picked up her hand and kissed it. “But we do have tonight,” he said, as if that were consolation enough.
And for the moment, it was.
When they were done with dinner, Reinhardt waited in her suite’s living room, watching TV, while Nicole packed for herself and pulled out Abigail’s suitcases. As he’d suggested, she turned off her iPhone so no one could track her location. She also left a few items of clothing in each closet so it would look as if they were still in residence. For the same reason, she didn’t check out. As far as the Dorchester knew, she was still occupying the suite on the 16th floor.
§
Nicole woke up in Reinhardt’s bed the next morning and stretched, smiling at the memory of their night together. But when she reached for him, she found the other side of the bed empty, the covers thrown back. She padded through the apartment, calling his name, but there was no response. Her first thought was that he’d been sent on a new assignment and would be gone for the foreseeable future. To her relief she found a note on the refrigerator. Help yourself to coffee. I’m out picking up breakfast. Back by 9:00.
Reinhardt wouldn’t dream of making toast or pouring them each a bowl of cereal. His habit was to go out for meals. The rare times they’d eaten here, he’d had food delivered from a local restaurant.
She opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a six-pack of Guinness stout. The freezer held a couple of packs of Harrod’s Italian blend coffee. The cupboards intended for food were bare.
She wandered around, refamiliarizing herself with the place. She’d stayed here quite a few times during their year together. The large flat was just as masculine and impersonal as she remembered. He’d had it professionally decorated when he moved in, and everything was l
ike new and in impeccable taste. The basic materials—black marble, stainless steel, gray upholstery, and slate flooring—were brightened with colorful cushions, abstract paintings, and area rugs.
Always curious, she poked around in closets and cupboards. Everything was organized and in place. The drawers of his bureau held folded underwear, socks, and T-shirts. The bottom drawer was reserved for cold weather gear—leather gloves, a heavy winter scarf, and thermal underwear. She picked up each item, surprised to discover a handgun folded up in the scarf. Carefully, she picked up the weapon.
As much as she hated guns, she’d been forced to carry one back home after several encounters with violence. She recognized the model. It was a Glock 26, a small handgun she’d considered when she selected her own. She pulled out the magazine. It was fully loaded with ten bullets, plus an eleventh in the gun’s chamber. She snapped the magazine shut and returned the weapon to the drawer. She moved on to his walk-in closet. As in the rest of the flat, the light went on as soon as she stepped inside.
Here the organization was over the top. She couldn’t imagine a casual guy like Reinhardt spending all this time on his clothes. The suits were arranged by color, as were sportscoats and shirts. His shoes and boots were lined up on racks, each with a shoe tree. She checked her watch. It was 8:50, and he was due back at 9:00. She left the bedroom, making sure his drawers were closed and everything was the way she’d found it.
Walking back through the flat, she thought about what it said about Reinhardt. The place looked as if no one lived here. It would have made the perfect set for a drama about a spy who was almost never home.
In the front hall closet, a suitcase was stowed. Nicole didn’t open it. Out of curiosity, she lifted it. The bag’s weight told her it was packed. Maybe he always kept a bag ready in case he was suddenly called away. The other possibility was that he’d already received a new assignment and was about to leave.
She hated the idea that he’d go away soon and she might not see him again for a long time. That was the big drawback in spending this time with him. He’d leave and she wouldn’t know where he was going or when he’d be back. At least he was honest about it. He’d told her from the beginning that he wasn’t good marriage material. And as she’d learned, he wasn’t good relationship material either. She told herself that being with him again was so enjoyable that it didn’t matter. Why ruin the present by worrying about the future? She could blight her whole life thinking like that.
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