“And you consider that to be a motive for killing him?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Zahad didn’t bother to point out that what he had inherited was the lifetime burden of rescuing a province from the neglect incurred during his father’s exile and subsequent long illness. Nor that, although he’d inherited substantial personal wealth, he intended to spend most of it on his compatriots. “Many people have motives.”
“Did your brother have other enemies?” Finley asked.
“I was not his enemy. As to anyone else, there are people in my country who would prefer me as their sheikh in place of my brother. Others might wish to frame me and get rid of us both. But for any of them to have learned about Fario’s infatuation with Mrs. Sanger and to take advantage of it in such a roundabout way stretches credibility.”
The detective regarded him coolly. “Fortunately for you, even your stepmother admits you were in your country on Monday. That doesn’t preclude the possibility of an accomplice.”
“The same is true for Mrs. Sanger’s ex-husband. I assume you have verified his whereabouts on the day of my brother’s death,” he said.
“We have.”
“And where were you?” Zahad asked, in the slight hope that surprise would make the detective reveal something unintended.
Cold fury replaced the man’s wariness. “This meeting is at an end.” Finley got to his feet. “I don’t want to see you around here again, Mr. Adran, and I don’t want to hear about you bothering Jenny, either.”
Zahad also stood. “When the coroner releases my brother’s body, I will leave town. Until then, I reserve the right to make my own inquiries. Particularly seeing that your department is not as thorough as it might be.”
Before the choleric redness could finish infusing the detective’s face, the sheikh strode out of the office and past Mrs. Altoona’s desk. Engrossed in reading a paperback with a knight and a large-bosomed maiden on the cover, she barely glanced at him.
He could almost hear his cousin Sharif chiding him for making an unnecessary enemy. You shouldn’t keep pointing out other people’s incompetence. You make your life harder than it needs to be.
It was true, Zahad reflected. When it came to diplomacy, he had a lot to learn.
But he didn’t regret one word of what he’d said.
Chapter Three
By the time Jenny left her office on Friday, the secretary and the teachers had already departed. She checked the exits from the school’s classroom wings and went out, locking the main door behind her.
In the field behind the school, a group of students was playing a pickup game of baseball despite fading light and a soft swirl of falling snow. Standing by her sport-utility vehicle in the adjacent parking lot, Jenny watched them for a few minutes. Although the forecast called for a storm and she wanted to put in another hour cleaning her house before heading off to the cabin, she enjoyed the chance to observe the students.
The boys, along with a couple of girls, appeared comfortable with themselves except for one undersize fifth-grader, a new transfer with the unfortunate name Elmer. When an opposing player struck out, he cheered so enthusiastically he tripped and fell, drawing catcalls from the rivals and smirks from his teammates.
“Some kids have a hard time fitting in, don’t they?” Lew Blackwell, a fourth-grade teacher, said from a nearby space where he’d just unlocked his pickup truck. Reed-thin and balding on top, Lew was one of only two men on the teaching staff.
“He doesn’t trust himself.” Jenny’s heart went out to the boy. “He’s trying too hard.”
“He’ll learn,” the teacher said.
“I suppose so.” Jenny knew the boy had to find his own way of fitting in with his peers. Yet it went against the grain to leave him struggling.
“How’s the cabin?” Lew asked.
“It’s great. I really appreciate it.” Lew, who lived in town, had loaned Jenny the cabin, which he’d bought as an investment and rented out to skiers and summer tourists. It had been a kind gesture, particularly considering that, as a longtime teacher who’d applied for the job of principal himself, he might have resented her winning the post.
Their relationship had been strained at first, after Jenny’s promotion the previous year. It hadn’t helped that Lew had asked her on a date while she was still assistant principal at the junior high. She’d declined, citing her recent divorce and the fact that she was in no emotional shape to start dating.
At forty-two, he seemed a bit old for her, and their personalities simply didn’t click in romantic terms. Jenny felt glad she’d had an excuse not to go out with him. Nevertheless, he was a good teacher and had been courteous to her.
On the field, Elmer came to bat. He shivered as a cold wind hit him.
“Maybe we should go home,” somebody said. “My butt’s freezing.”
“Let me strike him out first,” called the pitcher.
“Don’t count on it!” Elmer posed awkwardly with the bat.
“You couldn’t hit a piece of cake.” To demonstrate, the pitcher threw the ball right over the plate.
Elmer swung late and missed. The pitcher grinned. “See?”
The batter’s team members grumbled among themselves. “He’s going to blow it again,” one of them complained.
Elmer’s face crumpled. When the next pitch came in, he didn’t even try to swing. Fortunately for him, it was high.
“If I were his coach, I’d tell him to let the ball hit him so he can walk,” Lew said.
“Well, I wouldn’t.” Rummaging in the back of the SUV, Jenny found a pair of canvas slip-ons and exchanged them for her pumps. After tossing in her purse, she hurried to the field, heedless of the strange picture she must make in her tailored coat, suit skirt, stockings and incongruous shoes.
Elmer was grimly facing the batter as she trotted up. “Hold on!” she called.
“It’s okay for us to play here, Mrs. Sanger,” one of the boys said. “We do it all the time.”
“I know.” She smiled. “I’m an old baseball player from way back. Just thought I’d pass on a few tips.” Her father had insisted his daughter spend her free time on the ball field, although she’d much rather have hung out at the mall with friends. Some of her most painful memories of her father involved their baseball games.
The children regarded her skeptically. It was too bad she hadn’t had time to work with them during P.E., Jenny thought, because, willingly or not, she’d acquired a certain expertise.
“Elmer, pull the bat back like you’re going to swing,” she instructed.
Dubiously, the boy obeyed.
She could see him making the same mistake he’d made before. “You’re locking your arm. That’s going to slow you down and make your wrist roll.” She sensed the others coming to attention as they realized she knew what she was talking about. “Keep your front elbow bent.” She tugged on Elmer’s arm until he achieved a more effective position. “That’s it. Hands together, close to your body. No, not so far back. You’ll lose the flexibility in your front arm.” She stepped aside and nodded to the pitcher.
He threw another easy one over the plate. Elmer tensed as if about to swing, then got cold feet.
“Strike two!” shouted the umpire. One of the opposing players made a snorting noise.
“Here’s another pointer,” Jenny told Elmer. “Think yes! Every time, every pitch. Get ready to hit it. Don’t second-guess yourself. It’s yes, yes, yes. Track the ball with your eyes. Get ready to hit it right until the moment when you see that it’s too far from the plate. Okay?”
“Okay!” He shifted as if getting a grip on himself.
The pitcher winked at the catcher. “He’s going to throw it way off,” one of Elmer’s teammates said.
“Think yes!” Jenny hoped she wasn’t going to screw this one up for the kid.
The pitcher sneered, wound up—and threw the ball straight over the plate. Teeth gritted, Elmer swung hard. With a crack! the ball went fl
ying over the outfield. Two boys gave chase.
“Run, you idiot!” screamed a teammate. Recovering from his shock, Elmer raced around the bases and made it to third.
“Wow.” His teammates shook their heads and grinned. “Way to go, Mrs. Sanger,” one of them said.
“Way to go, Elmer,” she corrected. “Okay, guys, don’t play too long. If your fingers get numb, go home. I don’t want to come back on Monday and have to dig your frozen bodies out of the snow.”
A scattering of laughter followed her back to the parking lot. Her breath caught when she saw a man in a black leather jacket standing near Lew, his broad shoulders and masculine stance instantly recognizable. The sheikh’s overgrown mane gave him a fierce air compared with the teacher’s sparse thatch.
An unwanted shimmer of pleasure ran through Jenny. Zahad was the first man she’d met in Mountain Lake who made her think of tumbled bedsheets and late-night laughter. It was just her luck that a guy who probably thought women belonged in a harem made her knees wobbly and gave her the urge to check her lipstick.
“Hello, Mr. Adran,” she said.
“You know this guy?” Lew asked.
She made introductions. “The sheikh’s brother was the man killed at my house,” she explained.
Lew blinked at the word sheikh, then caught up with the rest of the sentence. “I’m sorry for what happened. So you’re only in town for a few days?”
“Correct,” Zahad replied. Lew looked relieved.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Jenny asked the sheikh.
“I did not realize you would still be on the grounds. I wanted to familiarize myself with the town, and this place was on the list.” To Lew, he explained, “As Fario’s brother, I have a responsibility to make inquiries.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “Jenny has enough to deal with. She doesn’t need anyone hassling her.”
“Your protectiveness is commendable,” said Zahad. “Although unusual for a member of her staff. She is your boss, is she not?”
Tact really wasn’t his strong point, Jenny thought. “Lew’s also a friend. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to do some more cleaning at home before the snow hits in earnest. So if you gentlemen will excuse me?”
They nodded stiffly. In her vehicle, when she glanced in the rearview mirror, she half expected to see them hissing and circling each other like tomcats. What was it about men that made them behave so possessively around a woman who was perfectly capable of taking care of herself?
Lew stood his ground. Zahad began strolling across the grounds, studying the one-story stucco building as if he might actually learn something from it. Most likely, he just wanted to provoke Lew.
With a sigh, Jenny headed home.
ZAHAD WASN’T CERTAIN what he’d expected to learn by visiting the elementary school. Despite what he’d said, he’d hoped to see Jenny, and in that he’d succeeded. The fact that she would sacrifice her dignity in order to coach her students in athletics impressed him. It showed real dedication.
He’d expected a very different sort of woman when he first saw her photograph. In person, too, Jenny gave an impression of soft femininity that went oddly with baseballs and canvas shoes, but she was also a serious professional. Her contrasts intrigued him.
Apparently they intrigued several other men, as well. The detective, for one. And now that teacher, the one glowering at Zahad as he pulled out of the lot—yet another potential jealous stalker.
This town was full of them. So was the Internet.
Last night, Zahad had e-mailed Viktor, a Russian programmer who worked under contract for the provincial government of Yazir, from his home base in central Russia. Viktor had promised to check chat rooms and see what he could come up with.
This morning, he’d forwarded some disturbing information. In the wee hours, California time, he’d found someone prowling the chat rooms pretending to be Jenny Sanger. The impostor had attached the same photo and urged the programmer to come visit her if he ever traveled to the United States.
Viktor hadn’t succeeded in tracking down the sender’s identity, but he had sent Zahad a copy of their conversation. The chat dialogue itself proved salacious but not very informative. A couple of misspellings might rule out a teacher as the perpetrator. On the other hand, one never knew.
At midmorning, Zahad had driven five miles to Crystal Point to look at the bank, which turned out to be a small, free-standing building with drive-up windows, ATM machines and a glass front. He’d ventured inside and spotted a desk whose placard bore the name Ray Rivas.
Jenny’s neighbor was a stocky Hispanic man who’d been discussing loan terms with a young couple. When the man’s gaze flicked upward, he’d fixed on Zahad with a glint of curiosity.
Withdrawing, Zahad had cursed under his breath. He should never have risked attracting attention.
So far today, he was batting zero, to use terminology those baseball players would understand. This made him wonder whether most American women were as knowledgeable about sports as Jenny. It seemed unlikely.
He found himself seeking an excuse to swing by her house. A poor idea, since she would no doubt insist that he work while they talked. Zahad could still smell the lemon scent of the furniture spray on his hands, despite repeated washings. Give him blood and guts over lemony freshness any day.
His cell phone rang. Since only key people had this number, he pulled into a petrol station—gas station, he corrected himself—and responded.
It was his cousin Amy Haroun. Although she had a knack for irritating Zahad, he’d hired her six months ago, with Fario’s consent, as Yazir’s director of economic development.
Together, she and Zahad had drawn up a master plan for revitalizing the economy of the province and bringing the infrastructure into the twenty-first century. Not only did she boast a business degree and an international background, she also understood the politics and the needs of their people. She worked hard, too, as evinced by the fact that she was telephoning in what was the middle of the night back home.
Amy went right to the point. “Numa’s asked President Dourad to appoint her nephew governor of Yazir until you’re cleared of suspicion in Fario’s death.”
Zahad uttered a few colorful phrases. Although the president couldn’t take away the title of sheikh, he could reassign power. The tangle that would result from conflicting loyalties and arguments over who controlled what aspects of the provincial government would only harm its much-needed reforms.
“This must be stopped, but I cannot come back yet to defend myself. Which nephew does Numa want appointed?”
“Hashim Bin Salem.”
At twenty-four, Hashim was a playboy who’d been a close friend of Fario’s. “Someone she can control,” Zahad noted. “Or perhaps he has ambitions of his own.”
“Could be.”
It didn’t surprise Zahad that his stepmother wanted to solidify her position as well as get revenge against him. He was sure she blamed him for Fario’s death not only because she thought he’d arranged it, but because he’d encouraged Fario to attend graduate school in America. In addition, she must fear that once Zahad solidified his position, he would take revenge against her for persuading his father to disenfranchise him.
He had no such intention. To him, Numa was simply a nuisance that he wished to move aside.
“I require an advocate,” he said. Since Amy worked for him, she was already compromised in the eyes of their countrymen. “Perhaps Sharif would be willing.” Their cousin was a powerful sheikh who headed a larger province.
“He already called and offered to speak out on your behalf,” she explained. “He wishes he could go to the capital in person, but Holly is expecting a baby any day.”
Sharif had lost his first wife in childbirth while he was away fighting in the revolution. He would never leave his second wife at such a time.
However, President Dourad held Sharif in such high regard that his help would be valuable even at a distanc
e. “I know he will do his utmost,” Zahad replied. “Please ask him to point out that I am awaiting the release of my brother’s body so I may escort it home. Surely there is no reason for hasty action during this time of mourning.”
“I’ll do what I can, but Numa’s being a real pain in the butt,” Amy said. “She has friends at court, so to speak.” His stepmother was known for cultivating political friendships.
“I hope she is not treating you disrespectfully.” The two women lived in the same palace complex.
“She doesn’t dare. I’ve hinted that Harry’s stockpiling bombs in his lab.”
Amy’s husband, Harry Haroun, a chemist, had moved to Yazir with her and their two children when she accepted the post from Zahad. In the laboratory furnished for him on the palace grounds, he was developing an improved fertilizer suited to the desert climate. Although bombs could be made from fertilizer, Harry had the heart of a kitten. But Numa didn’t know that.
“Good thinking,” he said.
“You know, I’m on your side in this one,” Amy reminded him.
Although it pained Zahad to make a concession, he could see that he must. “I rely on you utterly.”
“That must have hurt.”
“More than you can imagine.”
After he rang off, he sat in his car, seething at his stepmother. He hated it when people acted for petty personal gain, particularly when they got in his way. Why must he fight Numa and that callow nephew of hers simply for the right to improve his province’s living conditions?
Perhaps it was a good thing that circumstances prevented him from flying back to Alqedar and giving the president a piece of his mind. Although he respected Abdul Dourad, he knew the country’s leader must juggle competing interests. Zahad’s take-no-prisoners approach to negotiating was unlikely to win him allies.
He wanted to get on with this investigation, and he wasn’t making any progress sitting here watching people pump petrol into their tanks. Dropping by the elementary school and indulging himself in making conversation with Jenny hadn’t helped his case, either.
Sheikh Surrender Page 4