A Wild and Lonely Place

by Marcia Muller

  “I assume she succeeded.”

  “Most assuredly. She was not a woman to be stopped. Azad owes its present-day progressive status to her. Our women haven’t worn the hijab for decades; they are educated in the same manner as our men, they drive automobiles, they hold responsible jobs. Sarah, much to her sorrow, never succeeded in making us Anglicans; we do follow the precepts of Islam. But, except for a few fundamentalist factions, we interpret our faith in ways that apply to the modern world. And we are a peaceable country. Of course”—he smiled—“it helps that we are also a prosperous country. Full bellies breed peace.”

  “And what about Malika Hamid? Does she take after her grandmother?”

  “Oh, definitely. She was educated in England, as is the tradition with our leading families, took her final degree at the London School of Economics. Very well traveled, very well read. Never went in for jet-setting and all that sort of frivolity. Afterwards she returned home and worked on various highly placed government commissions. She also found time to marry—a distant cousin on the Hamid side, who gave her one son. The husband is still alive, you know.”

  “In San Francisco?”

  Lateef shook his head, malice showing in his thin-lipped smile. “No, the south of France, I believe. There was a scandal some fifteen years ago involving Hamid and not one but two young boys. He went abroad, and his injured wife requested a permanent diplomatic posting to America. She preferred San Francisco, so the former consul general here was called home. Mrs. Hamid departed Djara, our capital, with her son, Dawud, and has never again set foot on Azadi soil.”

  “Dawud is Habiba’s father?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s still living at the consulate?”

  “No. Dawud—Dave, as he insisted on being called—disappeared a number of years ago. Five? Six? I am sorry, I don’t recall. He was in his late twenties at the time. Mrs. Hamid was heartbroken; she adored her son and would have done anything for him. To compound matters, it appeared that his disappearance had to do with his involvement in illegal gambling.”

  “He owed gambling debts?”

  “No, nothing like that. He was in charge of a high-stakes gambling operation of some sort. I must hasten to add that this is merely idle gossip. Mrs. Hamid works to keep family affairs within the family, as is the Azadi way. Most of her staff do not care for her, so they distort what little they do hear.”

  Including you. “Do you know whether Dawud’s disappearance was voluntary or involuntary?”

  Lateef shook his head and speared another piece of chicken.

  “Were the police called?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “What about his wife? Is she still living at the consulate?”

  He set down his fork and pushed the plate away, seeming to lose his appetite. “The younger Mrs. Hamid lives with her mother-in-law, yes.”

  Something wrong there. “Tell me about her.”

  “She is American. Dave met her at UCLA before he was asked to leave because of academic deficiency.”

  “Her first name is…?”

  “Mavis.”

  “What does she do for a living?”

  “Nothing, now. She was a poet, a very gifted one; she was awarded many prizes. And she is still a beautiful woman, only in her early thirties.”

  “Why did she give up her poetry?”

  He sighed. “She drinks.”

  Social drinking away from the consulate? She wouldn’t be able to indulge in an Azadi household where, according to Islamic law, alcohol was prohibited. “How much does she drink?”

  “Steadily and constantly.”

  “An alcoholic, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is her mother-in-law aware of the problem?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Has she tried to get Mavis into treatment?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged.

  “I don’t imagine liquor is kept in the consulate. Does Mavis bring it in over Mrs. Hamid’s objection?”

  “As I mentioned before, Mavis Hamid is a beautiful woman, a wounded and vulnerable woman. Her name means ‘song-thrush,’ you know, and it suits her. For such a person, others will do things—even things that go against their better judgment and the precepts of their religion.”

  Meaning the staff supplied the booze for her. Because she was a beautiful, wounded, vulnerable woman? I didn’t buy that. But I could imagine a desperate woman paying them, even trading sexual favors for a bottle. I was about to probe some more when I noticed the raw pain in Lateef’s eyes.

  He’s in love with her, I thought, and he’s supplied many a bottle himself.

  I said, “So Mavis just stays at the consulate and drinks.”

  “She stays in her room. Occasionally she wanders through the house late at night when she thinks everyone else has retired.”

  The way he phrased it told me he’d encountered her on those wanderings; had perhaps become her lover, or at least a confidant.

  “Do other people in the diplomatic community know about her problem?”

  “There were a number of embarrassing incidents when the elder Mrs. Hamid was entertaining last year, that necessitated sedating Mavis, but of late she has become very reclusive.”

  “In your opinion, was her husband’s disappearance the cause of her drinking?”

  “She always drank. So did Dave. A great many more of us do than you would suspect. But I would say that it became more extreme afterward.”

  “I still don’t understand why Malika Hamid refuses to get Mavis into treatment. If it’s negative publicity she’s afraid of, she could always send her to one of those discreet European clinics.”

  Lateef had been turning his knife over and over on his plate; now he grasped it like a weapon.

  I said, “Let me ask you this: does Mrs. Hamid abet Mavis’s drinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Mavis hates Malika. She has since their first meeting. If she were well and strong, she would take her daughter and leave the consulate. She would cash in the securities she inherited when her parents died several years ago and go far away. Malika would never see Habiba again.”

  “Mavis has said so?”

  “Many times—and in her mother-in-law’s hearing. Malika will never permit it. Since she lost her son, Habiba is everything to her. She will not let her go, and anyone who attempts to take her is expendable.”

  * * *

  “Gage, I need to get inside that consulate and talk with Mavis Hamid.”

  “Malika won’t allow that. And anyway, Mavis is so zoned out most of the time that nothing she says makes any sense.”

  “Still, I’ve got to try.”

  “Impossible.”

  “How can you say that? You control the security there!”

  “If Malika found out I set up a meeting between you and her drunken daughter-in-law, she’d cut off my pecker.”

  “That’s nothing.”

  There was a silence. Then Renshaw recognized my reprise of his earlier comment about my self-respect and laughed. “Shows what you know,” he said. More soberly he added, “You’ll have to prove to me that it’s necessary you talk with Mavis.”

  “I can’t prove anything. But you ought to realize that any bit of information, no matter how irrelevant it seems, can prove crucial to an investigation.”

  Renshaw was silent again. I cradled the receiver against my shoulder and glanced at the door that connected my office with Mick’s. He hunched at his desk, sandy blond head bent over the computer keyboard, stocky body dwarfing the posture chair. His fingers tapped furiously. Suddenly he peered up at the VDT, said “Uh-huh,” and recommenced tapping.

  “Gage?”

  “Hang on, I’m checking Hamid’s schedule.”

  More silence. Mick said, “Uh-huh!” I tried to catch his attention, but he was enrapt with whatever had appeared on the screen.

  “Okay,” Re
nshaw said, “the old dyspeptic camel—I like that, don’t you?—is off to dinner with the head of the Saudi Trade Commission tonight; they’ll probably plot to raise world oil prices. She’ll leave the consulate at seven; I’ll take you in to see Mavis at nine when our shifts change—less conspicuous that way. By then the younger Mrs. Hamid will be shitfaced and puking on the rug, but if you insist…”

  “I insist.” Then I thought of my plans to arrive at the cottage tonight with another load of possessions designed to ward off demons. If I didn’t get there Hy, unlike other men with whom I’d been involved, would understand. But the interview with Mavis Hamid probably wouldn’t take long. I’d nap before I went to the consulate and be fresh for the four-hour drive.

  Renshaw said, “One of our mobile units is parked around the block from the consulate on Laguna Street by Lafayette Square. I’ll meet you there.”

  I agreed, broke the connection, and motioned to Mick, who was standing in the doorway. “What had you so interested?” I nodded toward the computer.

  “The feds’re using the TechnoWeb to solicit information about the bomber.”

  “The TechnoWeb?” It was one of the on-line services he insisted we subscribe to, but I couldn’t for the life of me keep them sorted out.

  “Shar, I guided you through it just last month.”

  Mick found my inability to internalize computer-related information so irritating that sometimes I perversely simulated ignorance in order to get a rise out of him. I was feeling perverse now. “Refresh my memory.”

  He sighed. “The Web is a nationwide service with over two million individual users. It offers news, sports, and weather; educational and reference services; games, shopping, and travel arrangements; investment and real-estate advice; bulletin boards, E-mail, and live discourse.”

  “Those boards—”

  “Each board is devoted to a specific interest; you post notes that everybody using them can read, and anyone can respond to you by note. E-mail is private communication with an individual, again by note. Live discourse is like talking, only it’s via computer terminal. The feds’re smart to tap into the Web, and I’ll bet they’re using the other services like Prodigy and CompuServe and America Online, as well as the Internet.”

  “The Internet—that’s the monster one you need a road map to use?”

  Mick smiled smugly. “Some people need a road map, but not this kid.”

  “Okay—the task force posted on a bulletin board?”

  “Three that I’ve found so far: Law Enforcement, Crime and Criminals, and Famous Criminals. Basically the note was a recap of what anybody who reads the papers already knows about the case. It asked people to come forward with information, either on the boards or the task force’s eight hundred number, and mentioned the reward.”

  “You think they’ll get anything that way?”

  He shrugged. “You never know. People who use the online services are generally pretty intelligent, and a lot of the ones I communicate with tend to get caught up in what you’d call amateur sleuthing. But here’s what I’m thinking: this is an unusual item; people’ll be posting about it all over the boards. If I monitor them, maybe we’ll learn something before the feds do.”

  “Go ahead, then. But I’ll tell you, I don’t have too high an opinion of this mania for the boards. The computer puts distance between people, allows them to conceal and lie outright. Look what happened to Rae when she fooled around on the boards on Wisdom.”

  The previous fall Rae had become involved with two men through Wisdom’s Frank Conversations board. I wasn’t clear on the exact nature of the involvement because, try as I might, I could never figure out how one could have what Rae termed “an incredibly sensual experience” via computer terminal. Computer sex, I suspected, had evolved into phone sex, and Rae had gone about her business in a blissful if somewhat glassy-eyed condition until New Year’s Eve, when the two had traveled from their respective homes in Kansas City and El Paso to escort her to All Souls’s traditional party. Unfortunately, the evening ended badly when they recognized a mutual attraction and left together. Rae immediately swore off the computer as a recreational device and gave up on men in general. She now spent the majority of her free time watching old movies on TV or playing pinball down at the Remedy.

  Ted, who had recently taken a volunteer counseling position at a Noe Valley gay/lesbian crisis center, kept trying to convince Rae that such behavior was unhealthy, but she either barricaded herself in her office or used the TV’s remote control to turn up the sound and drown him out. Last week he’d asked me to reason with her, but I declined. I’d advised and consoled her during too many emotional disasters; my few words of wisdom had begun to sound like platitudes, even to me. Besides, Rae was an adult; if she felt she needed help, she’d ask for it.

  Mick interrupted my thoughts. “That call on the other line, it was Adah Joslyn again. Makes ten altogether today.”

  “How does she sound?”

  “Burned out and seriously mean. She said, ‘Where the fuck is McCone and why the fuck hasn’t she returned my calls?’”

  I sighed. “What did you tell her?”

  “That you were still out of the office and hadn’t called in. I didn’t think you’d want to deal with her.”

  “I don’t. If she calls again, you can tell her I’ve left for the weekend. In fact, I’m going home right now to pack the stuff I’m taking along. And then, you know what? I think I’ll relax for a few hours.”

  “I’ll believe that when. Are Maggie and I still supposed to look after the cats while you’re gone?”

  “Yes, but don’t coddle them. One of them assaulted W.C. yesterday, and the other’s refusing to turn state’s evidence.”

  Five

  At a few minutes before nine I parked down the block from the consulate and walked up Laguna Street through the gathering shadows. RKI’s van sat inconspicuously under an olive tree at the northwest corner of the hilly park called Lafayette Square. As I approached, Renshaw stepped away from it.

  “Electronic surveillance on the consulate?” I motioned at the van.

  “We’ve tightened security. So far, everything’s quiet. Hamid left on time, ordered the car to pick her up again at midnight. All the same, you’d better be quick about this. We’ll go in by the service entrance, and I’ll take you upstairs. You’ve got half an hour.”

  As we started downhill I asked, “Does Mavis Hamid know I’m coming?”

  “I dropped in on her earlier and asked if she’d like a visitor. The idea seemed to please her. As far as she’s concerned, you’re one of our operatives, making sure she’s comfortable with the security arrangements.”

  Renshaw led me through an automobile gate and down the consulate’s driveway; a door opened onto a graveled parking area in front of the three-car garage. He knocked, spoke softly to the guard on duty there, and we went inside, past a laundry room and a pantry to a steep uncarpeted stairway. The big house was silent; our footfalls seemed to thunder. The noise faded to a whisper on the Oriental rugs in the upstairs hallway. Renshaw went to a door, tapped lightly, and said, “You’re on your own now.”

  A woman’s voice called out something unintelligible. I took it as an invitation to enter and opened the door. The room beyond was lit only by the flames from a gas fireplace. Dark draperies masked the high windows, and it felt overly warm. There was a stale odor trapped within its walls—the kind you find in houses that have been closed up for a long time but shouldn’t exist in an inhabited place. I could make out very little except for the figure seated Indian-style on the floor in front of the marble hearth.

  Mavis Hamid was not beautiful, as Kahlil Lateef had claimed. She had dingy brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders and back; it looked thin and uncared for. She wore a black bathrobe with white piping, and her feet were bare. As she turned my way in the fire’s light I saw a pale oval face, its features puffy, its skin blotchy. In her hand she held a deck of cards, and a game of solitaire was s
pread out in front of her. I didn’t see a bottle or a glass, but as I got closer I could smell the alcohol; she wore its scent like perfume.

  “Mrs. Hamid?”

  “Call me Mavis. I don’t like that name; it’s my mother-in-law’s, not mine. Mr. Renshaw said you want to talk to me about something?”

  “Yes. We want to make sure you’re okay with the security arrangements. They’ve been tightened since the bombing attempt.”

  “Security’s fine,” she said vaguely and waved toward a love seat arranged at an angle to the fireplace. “Sit, please. Do you want a drink?”

  I didn’t, but she obviously did, so I said, “Yes, thanks.”

  She got up, stumbling slightly on the trailing hem of her robe, and hurried to a door that probably led to a bathroom. My eyes were accustomed to the gloom now, and I looked around. The room was large and overdecorated with gilt-framed wall mirrors and floral wallpaper that matched the valances over the dark blue draperies. The bed was buried in flounces and crowned by a canopy; a dressing table with a three-way mirror looked as if it were wearing a hoop skirt. The sitting area here by the hearth seemed crammed with furnishings: the love seat, a chaise longue, two recliner chairs. Yet Mavis Hamid preferred the floor.

  She returned holding two glasses full to the brim with clear liquid, no ice. I took the one she offered and smelled it. Vodka. Why do they always think it has no odor?

  Mavis said, “Cheers,” toasted with her glass, and took a drink. Then she sank to the floor, set the glass down, and picked up the deck of cards. “Solitaire. It relaxes me. A couple of years ago I got bored with the regular game, so I taught myself to play it backwards—kings up first, instead of aces—and made a lot of other new rules. My mother-in-law said I couldn’t do that. I told the bitch, ‘I can do any damn thing I please, it’s my system, it’s the one time I get to make the rules.’”