"Coos okt al laglesh!"
"What was that, Mr. Nasser?"
Ari barely missed rear-ending the van as he cut off several drivers in the right lane, who made their objections known. At the same instant, he found himself confronting a traffic light that had just turned red. Plenty of time, he thought, and sailed through the intersection.
"Mr. Cosmos?" he shouted into the phone.
"I'm still here. Are those horns? Are you all right? You aren't insured with Allstate, are you?"
"Was the Sentra repaired?"
"No, the name and contact information that the other party gave Mr. Zewail wasn't valid."
"Contact information?"
"Yes, when Mr. Zewail was rear-ended, he exchanged addresses and phone numbers with someone named Frank Drebin. But when we tried to contact him..."
Ari listened hard for a moment before realizing the signal had dropped out again. He was swearing at the phone when a sluggish pickup truck belonging to a plumbing company casually pulled onto Semmes, the driver assuming the Scion was far enough down the road to give him plenty of leeway. There was another car on Ari's left, leaving him no room to swerve. He hit his brakes.
"Mr. Nasser? Are those squealing brakes that I hear? I'm going to hang up—"
"No!" Ari yelled, flinging up his right palm at the people honking at him. They thought he was waving. Maybe he was mentally challenged. Anyone could get a license these days. The pickup moved slowly forward, with Ari stuck behind him. To his intense irritation, the truck stopped at a yellow light on Route 1 a full ten seconds sooner than necessary.
"Do you have a pressing engagement?" Benjy Cosmos asked.
"Very pressing," Ari said. He was not strictly lying. He always felt pressed for time whenever he was driving.
"Don't you think this conversation can wait?" the agent asked.
"I am trapped at an infernal traffic light." Ari paused. "And my signal seems better. Did you say the driver who hit Mustafa gave an erroneous address?"
"Could be," said Cosmos. "More likely it was bogus. It happens all the time. I told Mr. Zewail he can still go through with his claim, but he'll have to pay the $1,000 deductible."
Already paid, Ari thought, figuring in the two cars missing from Mustafa's garage. The killers had brushed off the $10,000 cash, but vehicles apparently belonged in a different category: the legitimate booty of war.
"He did not agree to the terms?" Ari asked.
"He hasn't taken his car to the body shop we recommended," Cosmos answered.
"Did he give you details about the accident?" Ari asked. "Were the police called?"
"There was no need. Mr. Zewail was coming back from a visit to the state prison on Route 6 when he was hit. Mr. Drebin was very polite...as most con men are. He gave his address and Mr. Zewail gave him his. That's not exactly SOP. Usually they just exchange insurance information."
"'SOP', I understand," said Ari as he fantasized shooting out the tardy traffic light. "Where was the damage to the Sentra?"
"Right rear taillight and bumper. Not much, but these days ‘not much’ translates into a big deal."
"Indeed," said Ari.
"Now I'm wondering if that was such a good idea, Mr. Zewail giving this Frank character his address. You might tell him he should consider changing the locks on his house."
"I will certainly pass that suggestion on to him," Ari said. "Thank you, Mr. Cosmos. You have been very helpful."
Now he knew how the killers had gotten Mustafa’s address.
"You're welcome. Who did you say you had your insurance coverage with?"
"Alas, I am driving a government vehicle."
"I understand," said Benjy Cosmos, not entirely displeased.
The light turned green and Ari closed his phone.
Beyond the fact that he had been bored, there was no reason for Ari to have investigated the murder of the Riggins family when he first arrived in Richmond. That two little boys had been snuffed out by the arbitrary forces of darkness should not have unsettled him. He had spent all of his life in a land where the moral scale was permanently rigged. In the end, though, their deaths, and an overdose of curiosity, had pushed him into action.
There were no children involved in the Zewail murders, but even so he did not think Karen’s reference to the Lone Ranger was relevant. It was Ari’s instinct for self-preservation that was at work here, activated the moment Samir Salman recognized him.
He had seen nothing of the hate letters Mustafa allegedly received. The fact that Mustafa mentioned them to Samir Salman should have been evidence enough that they existed. Yet it made no sense for the Egyptian to tell this to an Arab he was supposed to get information from. Wouldn’t he be scaring Samir away from revealing anything at all? The threats had come after the first interview, which suggested to Ari that Samir’s contact did not know about Mustafa before then. Samir Salman had told Ari that the threats came from one of Mustafa’s neighbors, yet the theoretical xenophobic redneck would have known about Mustafa’s presence the same day the movers showed up on Gayton Road. Mustafa must have guessed that the letters came as a result of the prison interviews. On the other hand, he and Samir Salman might have concocted the story between them, as a way of explaining away the abrupt lack of progress. A fictional redneck was easier to manipulate than an exotic car dealer—or the man who had hired the dealer to steal the Lamborghini.
Five minutes later, Ari found the office of Brown and Stern.
The architect's office presented a bright yellow brick exterior that ran between a long alley and Granby Street. The windows were set low, so that pedestrians could look straight down into the cubicles and see the employees busy at their desks. Or perhaps not so busy. Ari saw a paper airplane fly over one of the partitions. Going down a short flight of steps, he entered.
The reception desk looked permanently abandoned, with no phones or calendars to greet visitors with a commercial veneer. The steady murmur of voices was interrupted by laughter. On top of the partitions were odd little gadgets, posted next to which were intricate diagrams of the original inspirations. They were everywhere, making the place glitter with what he presumed was imitation gold and silver. Suddenly, a half dozen young men and women bearing large cups rose and converged at a crouch on the cubicle in the center of the long room. A shout erupted as they dumped what appeared to be confetti on the occupant. The assailants vanished, giggling, into their respective workspaces. The victim jumped up and shook his fist.
"I'll get you!" he yelled, laughing. It was Ramesh, from the picture in Mustafa’s office. He was turning in every direction, making sure to encompass every coworker in his cry of vengeance. When he rotated Ari's way, his fist was still lifted. He lowered his hand and stooped his head slightly with a cough of embarrassment. "Oh, sir. Is there anything we can do for you?"
"Actually, it was you I came to see," said Ari. "You're Ramesh Balasubramium?"
"Yes?" he said, his smile shading into the tentative.
From their cheerful behavior, Ari did not think anyone here had gotten the news about Mustafa. He had checked on the internet before leaving his house this morning, and the only news was of a pair of suspicious deaths in the far West End. Ari found the understatement amusing, but understood that more details would be released and the city would shudder under a barrage of lurid headlines. Richmond had become blasé about its high homicide rate (for a Western city), but a beheading would unquestionably catch everyone's attention. The police would have seen the same picture Ari had and would soon be showing up to question Ramesh and his peers. Ari saw nothing wrong with a slightly premature release of the news, but he did not want a crowd of appalled architects closing in on him as he talked to Ramesh. None of the others Ari had seen before they disappeared into their cubicles was Indian. Ari decided to take a gamble.
"Namaste," he said, touching his fingers together in the traditional añjali mudrā.
Ramesh returned the gesture, but followed it with an apologetic shrug. "I
'm not..."
"Ah," Ari said. "Naan ungalukku solla sila vishayangal ulladhu."
Ramesh made an eccentric backward cocking motion with his head while releasing a staccato laugh of surprise. "You speak Tamil?"
"Konjam," was Ari's ingratiating response.
To Ari's mild dismay, he was attracting more attention than he had intended to. Curious eyes were propped on the partitions.
"Ooh, Ramey, what have you done!" a girl intoned in an ominous voice. This was followed by chuckles from the other spaces.
"Nothing!" Ramesh exclaimed...but he maintained his smile.
Ari nodded agreeably at the intelligent faces poking out of the warren. He had experienced a similar awkward moment at the oriental food market on Broad Street—just minutes before putting town three hapless gunmen who didn't have a clue, and now never would. He gave Ramesh's face a quick study. He had read somewhere that Indians were among the happiest people on earth. Why this was so mystified the reporter, since India suffered as much or more as any other country from poverty, class divisions, terrorism, natural and man-made disasters, religious strife and a host of other ills. Had a survey been done of typical Indians in the street, the reaction would have probably resulted in a universal "Happy? Are you out of your mind?"—the same result one would have gotten in almost every other country. And yet, whatever the cause, Ari tended to agree, and Ramesh ran true to form. He was open and pleasant with Ari who, by virtue of having dealt with so many corpses, was about as untouchable as anyone could get. But of course, Ramesh did not know anything about Ari's past. Mesmerized by this apparent Arab who could speak the language of southern India, the engine of his smile revved smoothly.
"Naam iruvarum thaniyaaga peasa oru arai ulladha? Bayapada ondrum illai. Sila sinna vishayangalai unnudan vivadhikka virumbugiren."
While asking Ramesh if there was a room where they could talk in private, Ari's expression was superbly innocuous, like whipped cream on cyanide.
"Nichchayamaga, pinnadi oru sandhippu arai ulladhu. But please…allow me one moment..." Ramesh sat at his computer to brush off confetti from his head and shirt. Ari perused a brochure lying on the reception desk.
"Can I keep this?" Ari asked as Ramesh approached.
"We have hundreds of them," Ramesh said, which Ari took as a 'yes'. Ramesh directed him down a hall that ran behind the vacated desk. Inside a large room, the cherrywood veneer of a conference table was so reflective that speakers could at least watch themselves talk if no one else was paying attention. Ramesh insisted that Ari be seated first. Ari obliged.
"You're all architects here?" Ari asked once his host sat. Having pretty much exhausted his supply of Tamil, he switched back to English.
Before Ramesh could answer, a tiny ringing came from his shirt pocket. "Oh please, one moment…" He took out a smart phone. "Param? What was that? Tendlya scored another century? Is anyone surprised? Listen, I have a potential customer. Yes, they have us working on a Saturday. I have to go." He turned off the phone and returned it to his shirt pocket, grinning in embarrassment. "Sorry…"
"Not at all."
"We only have two architects. We are really all-purpose designers. Mr. Brown and Ms. Stern started out twenty years ago making jewelry, very nice pieces of silver and real gold. The business took off like blazes and they expanded into different fields, designing sculptures, specialty lighting, furniture. It’s in the brochure there." Ramesh nodded at the glossy prospectus Ari had taken from the front desk and which was now lying under his hand.
"And what do you design?" Ari asked, showing keen interest.
"Computer graphics based on Brown and Stern designs. It’s a little job, not like my brother’s, but I’m pleased until…"
"You can go on to bigger and better," Ari nodded understandingly.
"Oooo! don’t say it!" Ramesh laughed. "But this is America!"
"What does your brother do…if you don’t mind my asking."
"Deloitte and Touche," Ramesh sighed. "Very, very big. They hire out to different companies and government entities for various projects. Right now he’s in Harrisburg working on IT security for the state of Pennsylvania. They know how to treat employees there! Big screens so they can watch the complete Ranji season and I-League games. And they have one of the best restaurants, with everything! Bengali, Goan, Punjabi, Rajasthani..." Ramesh kissed his fingers.
"A lot of Indians work there?" Ari asked.
"It's all Indian!" Ramesh giggled. "Well, almost all. But don't tell the…oh, excuse me once more." He took out a different phone from a different pocket. "Oh? Sunitha? No, no, we only need the mild mango achar tonight. You know how these Americans choke on the real thing!" He closed the phone and grinned sheepishly. "That was my wife. We’re having guests for dinner."
Ramesh’s expression suggested there was more to it than a simple meal.
"Are you ‘networking’?"
"Oooo! don’t say it!"
"I wish you success," said Ari.
"I had an excellent offer last week, from PETA. Do you know them? They have a big office in Norfolk. I went down there for an interview, but..." He pulled a face.
"They wouldn't pay you enough?" Ari inquired.
"The money was excellent. Big health benefits, too, which is important, by the way. It’s not like in Chennai, where you pay a few rupees and the doctor says, 'get well!' Here, if you don't have plenty of dough, the doctor says, 'get lost!' PETA had big benefits, but...you know who they are?"
Ari shook his head.
"They represent animals. No kidding! They’re vegetarian, which is good. But if someone is abusing an animal, you can call PETA and they'll investigate. Isn't that funny?"
Ari nodded thoughtfully. "But if someone was abusing a cow, wouldn't you be pleased if someone investigated?"
"At home, of course. Here, they eat cows...every day!" He gave Ari a look of wary friendliness. "Do you have a pet, Mr..."
"I'm sorry," said Ari. Both men stood and stretched across the conference table to shake hands. "Bernie Bannout. I have a cat, but only occasionally."
"Oh." Ramesh looked disappointed and glanced at his hand. "I might have taken the job, but everyone brings their pets to work. Dogs, cats…I even saw a ferret!" He sighed over the absurdity of it all. "But I've been talking so much...what is it I can do for you? You said you had some news for me?"
"I'm here about Mustafa Zewail. I understand he's been missing—"
"Yes!" Ramesh said, all excited. "Have you heard from him? Are you a relative? I’ve called and called and knocked on his door. I even spoke to his Christian guru."
"I'm just trying to find out a few things. Mustafa is an architect, is that right?"
"Oh, yes. You'll see two architects listed in our brochure..." He nodded at Ari's magazine. "...but I've never seen the other man. Why are you asking? You should already know this." Ramesh's eyes widened with alarm. "You're not here to verify his employment, are you? You can't send him away. He's a citizen! And it can't be money." He lowered his voice. "He had a very big inheritance from his uncle, Sam. He told me about it. I'm sure he can't owe—"
"I'm not a bill collector and I'm not from Homeland Security," Ari reassured him. "How long has he worked here?"
For a moment, Ramesh was less than reassured. "Longer than me." Then he brightened. "They were already calling him the 'old man' by the time I got here. In this place, anyone over thirty is old!" His grin returned. "I hear that when he first got here, they asked him if he wanted an enclosed office, so he could perform Salat without disturbing the other workers. They were very reassured when he said he was a Christian and didn't need to pray at all! That's why his uncle is named Sam...he's a Christian, too."
Ari doubted this, as he was beginning to doubt a lot of other things.
"So…Mustafa is an architect?" Ari asked for the third time.
"Brown and Stern are going into a new line that features architectural themes. It requires someone with the proper background and knowledge of
AUTOCAD. Mustafa has a degree in Architectural Engineering from Ain Shams University in Cairo. It’s a horrible shame that someone with that much education has to work here…" And then caution stepped in. "Why do you ask?" Ramesh asked, very politely.
Ari was wondering if the degree was bogus and if Mustafa had not been such a hot architect. But apparently he knew enough to satisfy Brown and Stern.
"You’re good friends with him, then?"
"Very good! He called me ‘Buddha’, which is wrong, of course, but it was very funny the way he said it. We—" He was interrupted by another tinny ring. He removed yet a different phone from a different pocket. "Muttiah?" he said after a glance at Caller ID. "You got the pictures? I took them last August at a place called Carter Mountain. Those are Pink Lady apples. They aren’t as sweet as ours, but they’re very good. Listen…Muttiah…I’ll call you back. OK? I have a visitor at work here." He slipped the phone back into his pocket and shrugged another apology.
"How many phones do you have?" Ari asked.
"Oh, these are just what I carry with me. I have five or six more at home. Or maybe eight."
"Why…"
"They go out of date so quickly. My oldest is almost two years old. I gave one that was actually two years old to Mustafa. I was ashamed to give it to him, but he insisted that he would rather take it than have me throw it out. I set him up to make free overseas calls."
"You can do that?"
"All of us do it."
"All of…"
"All of the Indians in North America do it. We don’t pay a nickel. Why should we?"
Ari grinned. The phone companies must not be happy about that. "I might get back to you some time about setting up an account."
"With pleasure! It only takes a few seconds."
"Oh, then…" Ari took out his cell phone. "Could you…?"
Ramesh looked shocked. "Oh no no no, that must be four years old!"
"But I only bought it yesterday."
"It’s a very ancient design. It will never do!"
"Well, later then, after I’ve modernized." Ari put his miserable cell phone back into his pocket and returned to the main topic. "When was the last time you saw Mustafa?"
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