The Entitled

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Shirley let out a shush of disgust. “That’s ridiculous. He was on his school’s wrestling team, and she was a matchstick. You know, I met Abigail. He brought her up here—beautiful girl. But she could see that Sami felt close to me and she didn’t like it, even though I’m an old lady and hardly anyone to be jealous of.” Shirley chuckled. “Abigail sulked the whole time and barely said a word. I could tell from the way she acted and the kind of clothes she was wearing that she came from privilege. She was completely wrong for Sami.”

  “What you say is true,” Nicole said. “She was brought up with a sense of entitlement. But now that she’s the police’s prime suspect, it’s brought her down a few pegs.”

  Shirley shook her head. “I wish I’d let him bunk here for a bit.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “No, I couldn’t. After all those years coaching him, cheering him on…he was like a son to me. I loved that boy. Such a waste.” Shirley glanced at her watch and got up. “Ah, what a garrulous old thing I am. The time has gotten away from me. I have an appointment in a few minutes, and I need to change. Here, I’ll see you out.”

  After putting her boots on, Nicole left the apartment and took the elevator down. Once on the street, she looked both ways before heading toward the Muslim center to meet with the imam. The market crowd was starting to thin, but she didn’t see any sign of the man who’d followed her. She was sure his stinging eyes would neutralize him for a couple hours.

  The respite in Shirley’s apartment had done her good. Her boots no longer hurt as she hurried toward her destination.

  The building that housed the Muslim center had seen better days. It was an unadorned, three-story stucco structure with no distinguishing features. According to the directory in the entry hall, the center had five imams, and Abdullah Hakim must have been their last hire. His office was tiny, hardly big enough for a desk, a bookcase, and two chairs. The window faced a brick wall a few feet away.

  Abdullah was a surprise. He was much younger than she’d imagined, probably in his mid-twenties. He was bearded, dressed in the traditional white taquiyah cap and matching robe. He had a round, jolly face and seemed warm and friendly. As she walked into his office, he got up to welcome her, giving a slight bow instead of offering to shake hands.

  When they were both seated, Abdullah said, “You came to talk about Sami Malouf.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Nicole said. “I’d like to hear about any recent visits you had with him—what he said and his state of mind.”

  “He came in several times since he left university. Sami wasn’t religious like his parents. He never came to prayer. But I’ve known him since he was a boy, and he would come to me for advice. Over the past few months, his mood changed dramatically. When he first left King’s, he was pretty cocky. He told me he was about to come into some money and was planning to set up his own business. I asked him where the money was coming from. All he would say was that he had a benefactor.”

  Nicole thought about it. “His girlfriend’s family is rich. Do you suppose he thought he could get money out of them?”

  “Certainly not. That girl told him her parents were bigots who hated all minorities. She said they’d be horrified if they found out she was going with the son of Syrian immigrants. He sometimes worried that was the only reason she went with him—in order to upset her parents. They’d never have given him money, and the girl didn’t have any of her own. He knew that. The last time I saw him, all the arrogance had gone out of him. He seemed frightened, even desperate. He wanted to know if someone could seek sanctuary here if they were in trouble. I explained that we couldn’t allow anyone to take up residence at the Muslim center. We offer advice and counseling. Sometimes we distribute food if it’s needed. But that’s all. After he was killed, I realized he knew someone was after him, and he needed a place to hide. I wish he’d told me. I could have helped.”

  “Helped how?”

  “I’d have urged him to go the police. What else? When he was killed a few days later, it became clear to me he’d gotten into trouble with some bad people. We have our share of shady businesses around here.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Of course. I called them and asked them to come talk to me.”

  “Did they?”

  “They did, but they didn’t really listen. They sent a detective…” He reached into a desk drawer, pulled out some business cards, and sorted through them until he located the one he wanted. “Detective Constable Rick Kirby dropped by and asked a few questions—purely pro forma. He listened to what I had to say, but he didn’t take notes, which told me he wasn’t interested in my theory about what had happened to Sami. He said they already had a suspect who was strongly implicated. He asked me to call him if anything else turned up.”

  “Can you explain more about why someone might have wanted Sami and his friend Mohammed dead?”

  “Suppose they knew about ongoing criminal activity and who was behind it—a major drugs dealer, illegal weapons smuggler, something like that. They could go to the police. Or they could tell that person they’d go to the police if they weren’t paid to keep quiet. I have a hunch that they threatened the wrong person—perhaps Sami’s so-called benefactor—and that individual had those young men killed.”

  “Any idea who it might be?”

  “Not for sure. But take a look at that store where Sami worked.”

  “I did. When I asked the owner about Sami, he threw me out.”

  Abdullah nodded. “I’ve heard rumors that he’s running something crooked out of that store. He certainly isn’t making a living on cigarettes and bags of crisps. Maybe he’s smuggling people’s wealth to them from their home countries. They’re limited in what they can bring out of the Middle East, but there are ways. Or it’s drugs or something else illegal. It’s a wonder the police haven’t raided his place. Year after year I hear this, but he keeps on with his business, whatever that is.”

  “You think Rakib Ahmed killed Sami?”

  The imam shrugged. “Maybe not Ahmed himself, but someone did. Sami knew it was coming. I could see how frightened he was.”

  Nicole was about to leave when she remembered something else she’d meant to ask.

  “Do you know Yaman Hajjeer?”

  The imam shook his head and looked puzzled. “Who?”

  “He runs a mobile phone repair shop a few blocks from Ahmed’s shop. People call him Yo.”

  “Oh, the black man with the dark glasses and leather jacket. I know who he is, but that’s all.”

  “Is he mixed up with Ahmed’s criminal enterprise?”

  Once more, Abdullah shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “One more question. What about Nannies International, the nanny recruitment agency with posters all over this part of town? Do you know anything about it? I mean, is it legitimate?”

  His raised an eyebrow. “Interesting you should mention it. I had a woman in here just yesterday whose daughter took a job with them in Dubai. Her year was up a month ago. Instead of returning, she sent a letter saying she’s so happy there that she’s signed up for another year. The mother admits the letter is in her daughter’s hand, but she believes someone else must have dictated it. It doesn’t sound like her daughter, and it isn’t responsive to questions the mother asked in a previous letter. She believes her daughter is being held prisoner, serving as a domestic slave—or even worse. I was going to see if there’s some way we can look into it.”

  Nicole nodded, thinking of Sacha. “I’ll let you get back to your work. Thanks so much for taking the time to talk to me.”

  When she reached the building’s lobby and looked outside, she realized it was starting to get dark. She opened the front door and looked both ways before venturing onto the sidewalk. A few people carrying shopping bags were walking in both directions, but there was no sign of the man who’d been following her. Figuring there would be safety in numbers, she attached herself to a group of young peo
ple headed for the underground and followed them to the station.

  Twelve

  Nicole was thinking about Abigail’s predicament when she stepped onto the long, steep escalator in the tube station. When she reached her platform, it was crowded. She looked up at the electronic display board. It said the next train was due in one minute. She stepped to the edge of the platform and looked into the tunnel where it would emerge.

  She glanced at the digital display again. Now it said, Train Approaching.

  Nicole heard the sound of feet running up behind her. The hair on the back of her neck rose, and instinct took over. She started to step aside. The man reached her while she was in motion, her right foot lifted but still in his path. He tripped over it and staggered forward and managed to stop at the edge of the platform. There, he wobbled before tumbling into the pit just as the train roared in.

  Nicole watched in shock as his body collided with the front car, bounced off it, and disappeared beneath the train before it stopped. Nicole’s stomach lurched and she clamped a hand over her mouth.

  In the glimpse she’d had as the man fell, she realized it was the same one she’d doused with pepper spray a few hours earlier—the one who’d been following her. She was certain he’d intended to push her in front of the train, but had ended up on the tracks himself. Several people standing nearby emitted gasps of horror. Others moved back to avoid looking at what they must have imagined was a bloody mess on the tracks. But there was nothing to see. The man was under the train, not visible from the platform. By now underground personnel in orange vests were rushing from all directions, jumping into the trench, and bending down to look under the train.

  “Hey!” A man standing nearby pointed at Nicole. “It was you! You tripped him.”

  Confused, she tried to think back. It had all happened so quickly. Then she remembered the way it had felt when the would-be assailant stumbled over her foot before he fell. The man pointing at her had been right. Consciously or not, she’d tripped him and sent him to his death.

  In a panic, she turned, dashed up the steps leading to the escalator, and ran up the escalator to the street. She stood on the sidewalk, leaning against a shop window, breathing in quick gasps. If she hung around, the authorities would find her and ask questions. She didn’t want to have to explain that the man had tried to push her off the platform and why.

  She waved at the cabs going by, but none of them stopped. As she started to walk, she went over the questions nagging at her. Who was this man, and who had sent him? It must be the person who’d killed Sami and Mohammed. She’d been stupid and reckless to come back to Brick Lane after Yo’s warning that she’d attracted the attention of the wrong people. Once again she’d pushed too far.

  She couldn’t stop thinking of the broken body under the train, a body that might have been hers. Still unable to flag down a cab, she walked for almost an hour before she stopped at a small café for a cup of tea. She used the women’s room and returned to the sidewalk. Here at last she was able to summon a cab. It was only a few minutes before they reached her destination.

  Once in the flat, she couldn’t stop shaking. Out of habit, she’d taken off her coat and hung it in the closet. She got it out and put it on again, rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them. She went over to Reinhardt’s wet bar and looked through the cupboard. It contained a huge assortment of liquor, along with a single can of mixed nuts. She opened the nuts, then pulled out a bottle of brandy. Reinhardt had told her that brandy was what Brits relied on in a time of crisis. She poured herself a good amount and ate a handful of nuts before taking a sip of brandy.

  It occurred to her that an incident like this would probably make the news. She went into the study and turned on Reinhardt’s computer to check the online edition of the Daily Mail, the first news outlet that came to mind. It was a tabloid, and she had to sort through stories the editors deemed worthy of top headlines—the royals and their latest trouble, a boy smuggled into the UK in a suitcase, and a scandal involving several members of parliament.

  She had to scroll a good way down before she found news of a death on the London tube.

  Death on the Piccadilly Line

  A man fell in front of an underground train today, disrupting the busy Piccadilly line. Police were unable to determine whether he lost his balance, was pushed, tripped, or jumped with the intent of suicide.

  The identity of the deceased is not known. He was carrying no wallet or I.D. He appeared to be in his 30s and was wearing a T-shirt, a black hooded jacket, jeans, and trainers. A green visor cap was found on the tracks, which may also have belonged to the victim.

  Several witnesses said there had been a scuffle between the deceased and a woman next to him on the platform. The woman left the station before police could question her.

  A man standing nearby was able to give a description of the woman. He said she had blond hair and was wearing a tan trench coat. She appeared to be 25 to 30 years of age.

  The incident marks the twelfth person to die so far this year in London after being struck by a train. An average of 40 people die each year after being hit by trains on the London Underground, most of them suicides.

  Nicole turned off the computer. The police would be looking for her. She’d have to let them know what had happened. The prospect made her ill. She’d done nothing wrong and wasn’t afraid of the police. But talking to them might draw the attention of the media. In L.A., two years before, the tabloids had targeted her after a colleague was murdered. The story went viral, and paparazzi followed her everywhere, making it impossible for her to work. She’d had to hide out until they grew tired of the story and moved on.

  If she came forward, would the police release her identity? Would the tabloids look her up, see the headlines from her past, and use them to hype up their stories? It didn’t matter. It was her duty to call the police and explain what had happened. She couldn’t have them wasting time looking for her when they had more serious matters on their hands.

  She figured she’d better call the DCI who’d arrested Abigail, since he was familiar with that part of the story. But she couldn’t summon up his name. She got her purse and pulled out the little gold case where she kept business cards, her own, and those of people she was currently dealing with. DCI Alex Norton’s card was on top. She put in a call and he picked up immediately, stating his name instead of a greeting.

  Nicole gave her name. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The American private investigator.”

  “Right. I’m calling to tell you that I was on the platform when the man fell in front of the train today. I want to give a statement. Should we meet at a police station, or somewhere else?”

  “If you saw him fall, madam, it’s not necessary for you to come in. We have other witnesses. Just tell me what you saw, and I’ll make note of it.”

  “You don’t understand. He tried to push me in front of the train, but I sensed someone approaching from behind and tried to step aside. I wasn’t quick enough. He tripped over my foot and fell in front of the train. I was so upset that I ran. I should have waited for the authorities to arrive, but I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Good grief. Why would he want—”

  “We’d better discuss this in detail, and I’ll certainly need to record your statement. You’d better come down to the station. Where are you now?”

  “Knightsbridge.”

  “It’s 5:30. We’re in the middle of evening rush, and I’m out in Islington. Let’s meet at 7:30 at the Belgravia Police Station on Buckingham Palace Road. I’d advise you not to take the tube. Call a cab.”

  After they hung up, Nicole took her drink and the can of nuts into the bedroom and went through the clothes she’d brought with her. Despite all her efforts, someone was following her. If she had to leave the apartment, she needed to alter her appearance so she wouldn’t be easily spotted.

  She changed into the outfit she’d worn on the plane—tan slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. She reached into a
drawer and pulled out one of Reinhardt’s baseball caps to hide her blond hair. Her only warm coat was the tan trench coat, which she’d been wearing since she arrived in London. She couldn’t go out in that. She’d be too recognizable.

  She went into Reinhardt’s walk-in closet. His coats and jackets were at the back. She tried on a heavy black overcoat that felt like cashmere. It was warm and cozy but so big that the shoulder seams were around her biceps and the hem dragged on the floor. Her reflection in the mirror made her laugh.

  Finally she located a navy blue jacket that seemed much too small for Reinhardt. With a pang of jealousy, she wondered whose it was. She took off the black overcoat, hung it up, and tried on the jacket. It was large but felt good. It had a warm quilted lining that would protect her from the cold. Checking it out in the mirror, she noticed a crest on one side. Four lilies on a dark background occupied the bottom half of the crest. The top was divided into two parts. On the left was a gold fleur-de-lis on a blue background. The right side was red and featured a ferocious-looking cat-like creature. Beneath the crest were the words Floreat Etona.

  She went back to Reinhardt’s computer to see what she could find out about the crest.

  Floreat Etona, she read, was the motto of Eton College. It meant, May Eton flourish. That meant he’d gone to Eton, which didn’t surprise her. She’d guessed there was family money from the discrepancy between his lifestyle and what he must earn as a cop or spy or whatever he was. She took the jacket off and looked inside the collar. Instead of a manufacturer’s label, it bore the nametag Ron Reinhardt. He’d worn it before he grew into his six-foot-two self. The thought of this pleased her.

  As she retrieved her brandy and the can of nuts from his closet, her stomach growled and she realized how hungry she was. Checking the refrigerator, she realized she’d already eaten the one prepared meal she’d bought at the market. After the incident in the tube station, she lacked the courage to go out to a restaurant. She’d have to order in. She wondered if it was safe to use her credit card. People could be tracked through credit card activity.