The Entitled

by Nancy Boyarsky

  The website was anything but forthcoming in the About Us section. It featured a photo of a handsome white Edwardian building with a bright blue door. But the site gave no address or phone number. The only way to get in touch with the organization was to send an email using the link on the website.

  Nicole noted the LLP after Nannies International and figured Britain probably required corporations to register with the government, which was the practice in the US. After a little research, she found the Companies House website, which was maintained by the British government. It provided a database of all corporations operating in the UK. Anyone forming a corporation was required to provide names and addresses of the owner, director, and board members. These were also listed on the website.

  It took only a moment for Nicole to locate Nannies International on the list, and what she found jolted her. Listed as the person with significant control was none other than Sami Malouf. The company’s officers were Sami and his friends Bandar Salib, Raji Kassis, and Mohammed Antebi. The address given for them wasn’t in London, but in Hatfield, Hertfordshire, the same as the listing for Nannies International itself.

  Nicole rolled the chair back from the computer and stared at the screen. How could this be? Sami didn’t have any money. He was at the lowest rung of the economic ladder, living in a fifth-floor walkup. The other two were living with their parents. One worked as a mechanic. The other wasn’t working at all. She couldn’t get her head around it.

  On a hunch, she pulled out her notebook and located where she’d written the name that appeared on the sign of the convenience store in Sami’s building—R.A., LLC. On the Companies House site, the owner was listed as Mossula Atnebi, which looked like a variation of Mohammed Antebi. Sure enough, this person, as well as the corporation, were at the same address as the one given for Nannies International. The board members were Sami and the others, also with spelling variations of their names. Once again, they all shared the Hatfield address.

  Nicole looked up Hatfield. It turned out to be a town of forty thousand, about an hour outside of London. Its one claim to fame seemed to be that the town center had been voted one of the ten ugliest in the UK.

  Next she tried Yo’s business, Lightning Mobile Repair, but it wasn’t listed. That probably meant he was the sole proprietor and had never formed a corporation. But if he knew every dirty deal going on in his part of London, might he be mixed up in one of them? Reinhardt had said Yo was a con man, and he did have the sealed police record she’d found on an earlier search.

  The Companies House website left her with even more questions than before. Did Sami and his friends know their names were being used like this? Maybe not. Someone else could have put them down and falsified their signatures on corporate documents. The reason for using fake names on such a listing might be to protect the true owner from criminal culpability.

  She had a hunch it might be Rakid Ahmed. His convenience store was the perfect setup for money laundering. On her browser, she searched the phrase money laundering in the UK. To her surprise, recent articles on this topic said there was no need for British businesses to go offshore to hide money in shell corporations. The UK was so lax in maintaining corporate records that it was easy to launder money and commit fraud and other financial crimes right here in Britain.

  In the Guardian, she read that the Companies House website was never checked for accuracy, offering law breakers the perfect opportunity to use fraudulent names and addresses for their businesses’ directors and board members.

  Next she looked up Rakib Ahmed. His businesses were filed under R.A., LLC., the name that had appeared in small letters on the sign of the convenience store where she’d run into him. Here were several more convenience stores he owned in East London. They had the same director and board members as Nannies International, as well as the same address. There it was—the link between these businesses. This still didn’t prove they were doing anything illegal. They might be legitimate, but she didn’t believe that. She had to look further.

  Nicole glanced at the clock. She’d been waiting until 8:00 a.m., opening time for the garage where Raji Kassis, Sami’s friend, worked. He hadn’t showed up the day she’d dropped by to talk to him. She wondered if he might be missing, too—another victim.

  She got out her notebook and checked the name of the place where he worked—S & F Motor Repairs. She found the phone number online, and as Reinhardt suggested, used his untraceable landline to call.

  A man answered with an impatient, “Yes?”

  It was unmistakably the owner of the garage, whom she’d met when she stopped by.

  She reminded him who she was. “Is Raji in today? I’d like to speak to him.”

  “’e’s workin’, in’t ’e?” the man said. “Gimme your mobile. ’E can call you on ’is own time.”

  “I need to talk to him now. It’s very important.”

  “Oh, all right.” Then obviously without putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he shouted, “Raj, you lazy wanker! There’s a very important call for you.” He lengthened the vowels and said, veddy im-powart-ant, mocking her American accent.

  Soon Raji was on the line. “What!” He sounded even more irritable than his boss.

  Nicole explained who she was and told him she wanted to ask him some questions about Sami.

  “We can meet somewhere or arrange to talk by phone when you’re not at work.”

  “Look, lady,” Raji said, in a low voice. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know what went down with Sami. But him and another of me mates was killed this week. Whatever that’s about, I’d have to be balmy to tell you anything.” He hung up.

  Their brief conversation all but confirmed her theory. There was a secret that Sami and Mohammed had been killed for. What Raji had told her—his tone of voice more than his words—suggested he knew it, too, and he sounded scared. If only she could get him to talk.

  She was wondering what to do next when she heard her burner phone ringing in the bedroom. She’d only given the number to Reinhardt, Abigail’s solicitor, the group home director, and the police detective.

  She raced to get it. It was Gemma, the solicitor.

  “Nicole, I have some very bad news. Abigail is missing. She appears to have slipped out of the group home during the night. The director has already notified the police. She’s required to make a report as soon as it’s established that a girl has left the premises. Abigail isn’t with you, is she?”

  Nicole’s legs could barely hold her up. This scenario was all too familiar.

  “I haven’t heard from her,” she managed to say.

  “Any idea where she might be?”

  “No.”

  Nicole was quiet, trying to come up with something, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Mary Ellen Barnes.

  “Nicole? Are you there?”

  Nicole swallowed hard. “Did you check her dorm?”

  “I did. She hasn’t been there.”

  “What about Sami’s apartment? She might have a key or know where to find one.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Gemma said. “I’ll send someone to look. Do you have his address?”

  “It’s in the other room. I’ll get it.” She’d just arrived in the study when she heard the front doorknob rattling.

  By now her nerves were shattered. Her only thought was that someone was breaking in. She dropped the phone, sending it clattering to the floor. She retrieved it and whispered, “Hold on,” and left it on the desk. She rushed back to the bedroom to get the gun she’d found in Reinhardt’s bureau. In his absence, she’d taken to keeping it under her pillow.

  The front door opened and closed again. With shaking hands, she pointed the gun at the bedroom doorway.

  Instead of an intruder, it was Reinhardt, who held his hands up in surrender.

  “I guess you really weren’t expecting me,” he said.

  She tossed the weapon on the bed and rushed into his arms.

  “Not expecting you? You
scared me to death. Oh, Reinhardt, the most dreadful thing has happened. Abigail left the group home last night. We don’t know where she is.”

  Before he could respond, she remembered she’d left Gemma hanging on the phone. She disentangled herself from his embrace and hurried back to get it.

  “Gemma, I’m so sorry. Someone arrived and I forgot—”

  “That’s all right. But I have to ring off. Call me if you hear from her or have any more ideas.”

  “Wait! She couldn’t have gotten very far. She doesn’t have any money, does she?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But she might try hitchhiking.”

  “Oh, my God. Is it safe to hitchhike in London?”

  “No, it’s not. Let’s hope she has some common sense. But she showed very poor judgment in the way she left the group home. She tried to climb down a lattice from a second-floor window, and it collapsed. It looks like she fell at least part way and may have injured herself. One more thing. There will be a warrant out for her arrest for leaving the facility. Once she’s found, she’ll probably have to return to the juvenile center I had her transferred from. The court might go easier if we could find her before the police do and persuade her to turn herself in.”

  After they hung up, Nicole joined Reinhardt in the living room. She sat and explained the new crisis while he pulled out the bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet. He poured two glasses and handed one to her.

  “You’re upset because you’re afraid she’ll come to harm. But—”

  “I’m upset because something like this happened two years ago. My babysitting client left our room in the middle of the night, and she was murdered.” Nicole was barely holding back tears. “I can’t let that happen again.”

  He sat next to her and put his arm around her. “You were right when you said she can’t get far without money.”

  “You only heard my side of the conversation.” Nicole sniffled and blew her nose on a tissue. “Her solicitor said she might try to hitchhike—a pretty girl like that.”

  “Do you really think she’d do that? Because I don’t. She’s probably been warned over and over not to hitch a ride, like every other child in the world we live in. I’ll bet she’s somewhere in the area and spent the night in a park or public building. I’ll drive you out there, and we’ll have a look ‘round.”

  “Don’t you think the group home would have looked?

  “I doubt it. That’s not their job. We don’t have bounty hunters like you do in the States. It’s up to Abigail to turn herself in. If she doesn’t, the police will find her and arrest her.”

  Leaving her brandy untouched, Nicole went into the bedroom to change. When she looked in the mirror, she saw that her eyes and nose were red from crying. She splashed cold water on her face. Then she put on her jeans, T-shirt, and Reinhardt’s jacket, and stuffed her baseball cap into one of the pockets.

  When she reappeared in the living room, Reinhardt said, “That’s my old school jacket. I haven’t seen it in years. Where did you find it?”

  “In your closet, silly. I couldn’t keep wearing that trench coat you gave me. I’ve been wearing it since I got here, so it would make me easy to identify. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed this.”

  “Not at all. You look adorable in it.”

  Nicole thought a moment. “How could you not know your old Eton jacket was in your closet? Who organizes your clothes?”

  “I have a team of cleaners in every few weeks. They keep my things sorted out.”

  “Like the way your suits, shirts, and jackets are organized by color?”

  He laughed. “You don’t imagine that was my idea, do you?” He put his arms around her and rested his head on hers. “Don’t worry. We’ll find Abigail. If we don’t, I’m certain she’ll return to the group home on her own, cold and hungry. She may already be there.”

  They took the elevator down to the garage, got in Reinhardt’s car, and made the trip out to Bexley. They checked in with Sarah at the group home. She told them Abigail was still missing.

  They returned to the car. After checking the map, Nicole directed Reinhardt to the park closest to the group home. It had started to rain. While it was dry in Knightsbridge, it appeared to have been raining off and on all night in this part of London.

  As they pulled up to the park, Reinhardt’s phone rang. His conversation was brief, just a series of uh-huhs on his side.

  When he hung up, he said, “I have to go into the office. But I won’t be long. I’m really sorry to leave when you’re so upset. Have a look ‘round, but don’t stay out in this weather. She’ll turn up on her own, I’m sure. I shouldn’t be more than a few hours. I’ll meet you back at the apartment.”

  “Please don’t disappear on another assignment.”

  “Absolutely not. I have two days off, and I’m spending them with you. That’s a promise. All I have to do is file a report. It won’t take long, but they need it right away. When you’re done here, call a cab to take you back to the flat. Promise me. No public transit.”

  She knew better than to ask what the report was about or why it was so urgent.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take a cab.”

  He got out of the car with her, popped the trunk, and pulled out an umbrella. After he pushed a button on the handle, it opened, and he handed it to her. The sight of him holding that big, black umbrella made her laugh.

  Reinhardt glanced at the umbrella, then back at Nicole

  “What’s so funny?”

  “This is exactly the kind of umbrella that spies carry in the movies.”

  While Reinhardt had consistently denied being a spy, he’d also admitted that if he were one, he wouldn’t tell her.

  He ducked under the umbrella and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “See you back at the flat,” he said.

  After he drove off, she headed into the park, stepping carefully to avoid the puddles and patches of mud.

  She looked around. Surely Abigail wouldn’t be sitting out in the rain. The only structure in the park was a small cabin-like building that housed the public toilets. She went into the women’s side. Unlike public bathrooms back home, the English toilets—as they were un-euphemistically called—were invariably clean and well-stocked with toilet paper and soap. Their one failing were the hand-dryers, which blew cold air that chapped hands but failed to dry them.

  She walked along the row of stalls and opened the door to each one to look inside. The last one was locked. She bent down and looked under the door. It, too, was empty.

  Next she inspected the men’s toilets, bypassing the row of urinals to check out the two stalls, which were empty as well. Outside again, she pulled out her purse-sized London street map to look for the next nearest park. There was a public library a little farther on. She’d check that out, too.

  The second park was empty of people, but once more she checked out the public toilets, which were empty. When she reached the library, she went inside to survey the population. Many had their faces hidden behind the newspapers they were holding. Most appeared to be homeless men and women sheltering from the rain. At least half of them were sleeping. Finally she checked the bathrooms, but there was no Abigail.

  She exited the library and looked at her map again. There were a number of parks dotting the area, as well as a post office and several public buildings. The rain had eased up, and she kept walking, determined to check out as many of these places as possible. She took a circular route that kept her no more than a mile from the group home, figuring Abigail would have sought shelter from the rain before walking far.

  Nicole’s route took her through half a dozen parks, some of them tiny playgrounds with no bathroom facilities. She checked out both men’s and women’s bathrooms in the post office and other public buildings. The facilities were vacant, except in one building where she startled a man standing at a urinal.

  By the time she’d completed a broad circle around the group home, Reinhardt’s coat was soake
d. Her sneakers squished as she walked, and she was numb with cold. She looked around for a cab. Once again, there were none in sight. She pulled out her phone to call one, then realized that the burner phone wouldn’t have such information. She couldn’t call for a ride because she didn’t have any cab company’s number.

  Finally she reached the library she’d passed earlier. She went in and headed for the reference desk. The librarian had gray hair pulled back from her face, into a low ponytail. She wore a gray sweater set, glasses on a gold chain around her neck, and a stern look at the trail of puddles Nicole had trekked in. When asked for a cab company’s number, the woman turned to her computer, pulled up the glasses, and typed something in. She jotted the number on a slip of paper and handed it to Nicole.

  “Use of a mobile isn’t allowed in the library, madam. You’ll have to go outside to make your call.” She took in Nicole’s wet, bedraggled appearance. “I know it’s nasty out there. But you can come back inside to wait.”

  Nicole turned and went back outside. The wind had picked up, and she was shivering. The cab dispatcher’s line was busy, and she had to try several times before getting through.

  “Sorry, luv,” the dispatcher said. “We can’t have anyone out there for at least an hour and a half, maybe two. Besides the rain, there’s been a smash-up on one of our major roads. London is gridlocked. Take the tube. That’s my advice.”

  She thought of the promise she’d made to avoid public transit. Reinhardt had given her his new cell number, and she tried to call him to see if he was done with his report and could pick her up. But his cell went straight to voicemail. He’d probably turned it off, wherever he’d gone. She hung up without leaving a message. She didn’t want to have to wait until he called back. There was no telling how long that would take. For all she knew, he might be on his way to the airport, heading for another of his mysterious absences.

  She located the nearest tube stop on her map and began the long walk. On the way, she watched for cabs, but the few that passed already had passengers. She thought about the possibility that someone might be following her. After looking around, she ruled it out. She’d come in Reinhardt’s car. Anyone who’d been following her the last few days would have no way of connecting it with her. Besides, she was well-disguised, dressed like a boy, with her hair covered by a baseball cap. No one was going to recognize her.