"Do we know what the problem was?" Finn asked.
Cori put her back up against the wall and ran a hand through her hair. It had been a long day and she was tired but she didn't miss a beat.
"Whatever Stover and Takrit were working on was going to take direct aim at Abu. That much the old lady knows."
"When was the last time the grandmother saw her?"
"About three on the day she died. Takrit came home, spent some time in her room, more time in the garage fighting with Aman. The grandmother didn't see either of them after that. All she knows is that she left food in the evening like she usually did, it was gone in the morning and she never saw her granddaughter again. She can't swear that Aman didn't go with Takrit and come back. Seriously, the grandmother is a dead end."
"How did Takrit leave?"
"In her car," Cori said. "Before you ask, she didn't know what the make or model was. It's small, red, old."
"If Aman was with her on that bridge, why didn't he drive the car back?"
"Because he's smart?" Cori suggested. "Maybe he dumped it somewhere near the bridge. He could have driven it back to the grandmother's neighborhood and left it somewhere. I'll put it out for patrol look-see after I check with the DMV on her registration."
"If she wasn't legal – which we don't know at the moment – then I doubt she took the time to register her car," Finn said.
Finn looked at Aman through the window, imagining him with Takrit. One blow and he could easily have snapped her neck but Paul had been so sure she had not been hit with a hand or fist. Finn could not think of anything he had seen in that garage that matched Paul's description of a weapon. What if Takrit had left that house and met up with Emanuel, the man who hated her enough to order the deaths of her parents and Takrit's torture? The little man's rings were like brass knuckles. Or maybe it would have been the Australian who did the dirty work. And Rada? Would Rada hurt Takrit if ordered to do so? And the big question: why would any of these people who didn't know the city take Takrit to that bridge? Finn had no answers. All he knew was that the can was too full of worms now for Bob Fowler not to give his blessing to this investigation.
Cori pushed off the wall.
"What do you want to do now? Grandma's getting a tad weary."
"Get her something to eat. I want another crack at Aman."
"You got it," Cori said. "Oh, just in case you're dying of curiosity, all the wailing that's been going on is definitely a cultural thing, along with shaving her head and putting on her weeds. She's supposed to carry on like that for three days.
"But here's the funny thing. She told the grocery lady about Takrit dying. That was supposed to start the grapevine going so the community would send over people to help with housework and the funeral and such. But nobody came."
"That's a whole lot of terror Abu has put into them, 'tisn't it?"
"Truer than true," Cori said.
"Cori," Finn asked, his hand on the handle of the door. "You said two women fought with the grandmother. One was the Stover woman. Does she know who the other one was?"
"Hali. The waitress. It looks like all roads lead back to The Mercato. " Cori flipped her hair, muttering as she walked away. "It would have saved us a bucketful of time if they'd just said the word last night."
Finn watched her leave and then went back to talk the man who had receded into himself, emptied his mind and shut off his soul while the detective had been away. They were back to square one. Finn ran a hand over his shaved head as if that might help massage his thoughts into an order that would appeal to Aman. Threats would not sway him, Finn was sure. Polite discourse had gotten him nowhere. There was only one thing left to try. He walked over to the table and put one fist upon it, gently knocking against the metal twice before giving it his best shot.
"So, Aman, this is not looking good for you."
The man did not twitch, so Finn put both his fists on the table and faced him squarely.
"Look, my friend, I do not want to see you suffer needlessly, but you have dug your own grave. We know you were angry with Takrit. We know you fought with her the day she died. Admit it now and it will go better. Tell me what you used to hit Takrit. " Finn paused to give Aman time to answer. When he didn't, Finn said, "If you will not speak I will say that it was you who hit her, who drove her to the bridge and you are the man who threw her to her death."
Aman stared through him so Finn leaned into the space between them and lowered his voice.
"It was a horrible death, Aman. It was a fiery death that tore her beautiful body apart and you sit there as if she were nothing. What you have done is a burden you will carry all your life, Aman, but I am giving you a chance to lift it."
Finn let the seconds pass. He was tired and he was frustrated. Finally, he stood upright, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans.
"Since you won't speak, I will tell you what I believe," Finn said. "I know that Takrit was a beautiful woman and you, my friend, are not a beautiful man. I believe that you wanted her, but she wouldn't have you. Not only wouldn't Takrit not have you, Aman, she was repulsed by you. Isn't that so? I believe you lay on that mat night after night thinking about her."
Finn came back to the table and this time he put his hands flat on it and got close to the man's hideous face.
"I believe Takrit couldn't bear the sight of you much less the idea of you touching her. I believe that you were shunned, Aman."
The man's jaw twitched and Finn almost smiled. He had found the nerve and now he would pluck at it until it was aflame. He tilted his head so that he could look into Aman's one good eye; he would look from every angle until Aman looked back.
"We men are animals are we not, Aman?" Finn whispered. "When we see a beautiful woman there is no helping our desire. Did it torture you that she was so close? Did you go to her room and take her there, in her bed, or did you lie in wait and drag her into that garage and beat her so that she would submit?
"Even then did she say no? The poor, sweet thing with her neck broken and you forcing yourself on her. Is that what you did, Aman? Did you take her like an animal and then, knowing what you had done was wrong, did you take her from her home to that bridge to kill her? "
Aman's jaw was clenched and his neck corded. That dark eye went bright with his fury. The scars radiating from his mouth were translucent against his dark skin. Finn gave him no quarter. The detective got closer, lowering his voice, his inflection harsh and lascivious.
"Was it you who drove off in her car with her dying in the seat next to you? Is that what you did? Strike that beautiful woman hard enough to break her neck, you ugly bastard?"
In the next moment Finn O'Brien knew the power of words. Aman shot to his feet with a roar that was inhuman. Hands still cuffed, he used his great chest to catch the edge of the table and throw it against Finn.
Caught off guard, the detective stumbled back against the wall, his spine hitting hard against the plaster as the heavy table crashed to the floor. Aman's shoulders hunched and his knees bent and in the next instant Aman Jember Mambo snapped the flex cuffs. He held his fists high and his head low as he stood his ground and grunted and cried.
Finn righted himself, sliding up the wall slowly. He heard the pounding of feet as fellow officers came to his aid. Cori was first in, but Finn knew there was no need of help.
Aman's arms had fallen to his side and his fists were unclenched. His chest heaved and his breath came ragged but it was with sobs not howls. When he raised his mutilated face it was to Finn. It was the detective who saw the tears wetting the man's cheek and the pain deep in his one eye.
"She was my wife," Aman whispered.
In the shocked silence that followed, Aman's gaze traveled over the officers in the room until it lingered on Cori.
"Do you know what they did to my wife? Do you know what Emanuel did to her?"
CHAPTER 20
Sharon Stover had done everything she could think to do.
She called every
impound lot in the city, giving them a description of the car Takrit drove and the license plate number. She promised a reward if they came through for her. It would be tough to put her hands on that kind of cash, but she would make it happen if she had to. If that thumb drive was in the car then it would be worth every cent.
To hedge her bet, Sharon tore apart the bedroom in her house where Takrit had stayed for the last few months. There wasn't much there. Her clothes, some books and one of those crosses the woman had been so fond of. How that intelligent woman could still believe in God after everything that happened to her was unfathomable. Sharon smashed the wooden cross just in case that was where Takrit had hidden the drive. It wasn't.
Exhausted by the search, Sharon tried to channel Takrit. Maybe she had been subtler than Sharon gave her credit for. Maybe Takrit had transferred the video content to another format or simply hidden it in plain site among all the other thumb drives they had at the office. If that was the case, she was smarter than Sharon by half. The only thing Sharon could think to do was to have her assistant start looking at every thumb drive and DVD in the place. It would take hours and it was a long shot, but Sharon didn't have time to do it herself. She would leave that to the little people.
In a moment of madness, Sharon picked up the phone to call the cops only to come to her senses before she dialed. If she got the wrong person, if someone started asking questions, it could ruin everything. Two more days and they would have the eyes of the world on them and she had to make this spectacular with or without Takrit's footage.
Now she sat in the screening room of her Hollywood Hills home running the video for the third time. She listened to the narration, watched the footage and tried to ignore the emotional roil that came with each viewing. She paused the movie and made a note to have the editor take a second and a half out of the montage. Before Sharon could hit play again, a wedge of light cut through the dark room and Cordelia slipped in, balancing a dinner tray as she did.
It was easier for the maid now since Missus Sharon's friend, Miss Diane, was not there for dinner. That was sad. Cordelia thought Miss Diane was very lovely and Missus Sharon was nicer when she was around. Still, Cordelia didn't ask where the lady had gone. People came and went in this house and all seemed easily forgotten, so it did no good for Cordelia to care about them. The maid took the newspaper out of her apron pocket and lay it on the table next to Sharon's big chair and then put the small dinner tray on top of that. Cordelia snapped the cloth napkin open and handed it to her employer.
"I need to get the plumber, Missus Sharon. The kitchen sink isn't draining still," Cordelia said.
"Do what you have to," Sharon said absently, her eyes still on the screen, her finger hovering over the computer key that would start the film again.
"But he say he won't come until the last bill is paid," Cordelia answered.
"That sucks," Sharon muttered. "Okay. Tell him to come out, look at the kitchen sink and put it on the same bill. I'll give you a check and you can fill it in, but you tell him I know what it costs to snake a drain. You tell him he better not screw with me."
"Yes, Missus Sharon."
Cordelia sighed and wondered what Ms. Sharon did with all the money Mr. Frederick had left. Not that it was any of the maid's business unless, of course, it was her paycheck that couldn't be paid. She turned to leave, thinking maybe it was time to look for other work, when Sharon stopped her.
"Cordelia, have you seen Matt?"
"No, missus."
"Do you know where he is?" Sharon asked.
"No, Missus Sharon, " Cordelia answered. "I don't live here, so I don't see him so much."
Sharon bridled at the note of reproach in the maid's voice only to realize her reaction was ridiculous. The maid was a pro who kept her distance from the 'new wife' as Sharon was thought of. If Cordelia had any opinions at all they would be about Matt. She had a soft spot for the kid, which was understandable since she had pretty much raised him after his mother checked out.
The first Mrs. Stover was a stunning girl; a starlet who had talent but no luck and that included marrying Frederick. An A-list producer, he had given his waif-like bride a shot at the big time. True to form he had sabotaged the project from the start – bad script, bad director, bad everything – just to torture her. She was broken half way through filming and strung out long before Matt was born. At first Sharon thought the woman had been an idiot, but when she learned that wife number one had drown herself in Frederick's beloved pool she changed her mind. Hers had been a brilliant curtain call. Still, Sharon had little sympathy. There was always someone more beat up than you. Better to stand and fight because the alternative sucked.
"Is there anything else, Missus Sharon?"
Startled, Sharon started to say no but changed her mind.
"How did Matt seem the last time you saw him?" she asked.
"Missus Sharon?"
"I mean, he's been acting out some. Have you noticed anything in his room that I should worry about?" Sharon led her on but the maid clammed up.
"I don't know, Missus. I don't see nothing much."
"Just watch him, okay? He's been kind of pissy lately."
Sharon's foul mood got fouler thinking about that kid. He'd been living in the lap of luxury since he was born and if he was acting out now she could only imagine what would happen if this movie didn't hit its mark. She shook that thought away. If she was going to stay out of trouble she needed to stay focused. Cordelia hanging around wasn't helping.
"What, Cordelia?"
Sharon gave the maid the look that usually sent her running but she stayed put. Sharon picked up her dinner plate: protein, veggies, carbs all in the right proportions. It had taken the maid forever to get it right.
"Missus Sharon, maybe you have something planned?" Cordelia asked.
"For what?"
"Matthew," she said. "It's his birthday soon."
"Time flies," Sharon drawled.
"He'll be eighteen, Missus Sharon. You know, eighteen? When he can—"
"I know," Sharon snapped.
She picked up a piece of chicken and then pressed a button on the computer. The film started again. She didn't need to be reminded about Matthew's birthday. That day on the calendar was like a damn neon sign.
"You let me know if you want I should make a cake, Missus Sharon." Sharon nodded and kept eating. "And there are messages. I left them on your desk. One lady wouldn't leave her name but said it was very important."
"Was it Hali?"
"I don't think so," Cordelia answered, not knowing who Hali was. There were so many women calling this house that she couldn't keep them straight.
"If it's someone calling about Diane's car, come and get me. I seriously do not want to talk to anyone else. Oh, and lock all the doors when you go including the one to the back."
Sharon dismissed the maid with a wave of her fork. Cordelia felt so sad for Matt, being locked out of his father's house. Maybe her employer was making herself loco sitting in this dark room all the time, watching that movie all the time and that was why she was so mean to the boy. Then again, maybe Missus Sharon had always been a little loco, so what was a little bit more?
The maid was thinking about this when she made the mistake of looking at the screen. She looked away just as quickly and crossed herself as she hurried out of the room. Missus Sharon had to be a crazy person if she watched that movie all the time.
When she heard the door close, Sharon raised her fork but now the food looked as unappetizing as Kibble. She put it down and was going to take a break, stretch a little, when the newspaper caught her eye. There it was, a picture of Emanuel Dega Abu. The man who had turned a whole country upside down was doing the same to California. Partying at The California Club, meeting with the mayor, all those shakers and movers turning a blind eye to what he really was. And what was she doing? Sitting alone in the dark, dead broke, planning and scheming to unmask him. For a second she thought of getting dressed and going dow
n to that little soiree to call him out. That would send all the snowflake politicians scurrying like cockroaches.
She made a sound that was half a laugh and half a snort of disgust. As delightful as that thought was, Sharon knew better. One crazy woman would mean nothing to those men and deviating from the plan now would ruin everything. After all, she didn't want to just call out Emanuel Dega Abu, she wanted to take him down. If she did that, the world would know how friggin' brilliant Sharon Stover really was.
CHAPTER 21
Before he came to Los Angeles, Emanuel Dega Abu had been in San Francisco where he checked out the Golden Gate Bridge, the city's impressive efforts to control their citizens' intake of fatty food, cigarettes and sugary drinks and, of course, their port facilities. From there he went to Sacramento where California's governor entertained him in the frugal manner for which the governor was personally known; a virtue that did not extend to his use of taxpayer's money. Emanuel was then sent on to Sanger, California where he toured one of the largest corporate farms in the world. But it was Los Angeles that pulled out all the stops for him, falling all over itself to show the man a good time.
A studio head gave him a personal tour of the lot, while they talked about the amazing cost savings that could be had by shooting movies in Eritrea.
Cha-ching.
Beverly Hills showed off the Beverly Wilshire and developers discussed opportunities for Eritrean investments in California real estate.
Cha-ching.
Now the mayor of Los Angeles was hosting an invitation-only-late-afternoon cocktail reception at The California Club to discuss God knew what. Still, no one in attendance had any doubt the pleasant afternoon would lead to awesome opportunities for everyone involved.
Cha-ching.
During all of this backslapping, boot licking and ass kissing no one was crass enough to mention the human rights atrocities being visited upon the people of Eritrea in Emanuel's name. That would be so inappropriate, so not good for business, so insensitive to their esteemed guest.
Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2) Page 15