“Oh my God, we were there, Anyu. I was certain that you’d gone to the station, but I thought you’d head to Islamabad and then into India,” Abby said. “We must have just missed you.”
Anyu smiled. “But it good that we get away. We go to Lahore and I find my way back to women’s house. I know they help, and they do. They send girls to special place outside Mumbai. Pari, Geeta, safe there for now.”
“Why did you come back?” Nick asked.
“Womens in Lahore have you and Abby looked at. Understand? The women in Lahore know Americans in your State Office.”
“State Department?” Nick asked.
“Department, that right. Someone there check for womens and say you two not criminals, so I want to come back only to say girls are safe. Then I leave.”
“Where will you go?” Abby asked.
“To Lahore to work with womens. We help other girls. I good at helping.”
Abby quickly wiped the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re safe. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see someone in my life.”
Nick cleared his throat. “I’ve been to Delhi.”
Suddenly Anyu’s smile disappeared. “They look for me?” she fearfully whispered.
“No, no one’s looking for you. Well, maybe the brothel owner, but not the police. There’s no record of a murder at that brothel. They probably didn’t want any trouble and just dumped the body somewhere else. You’re safe, Anyu,” Nick said. “You should probably stay out of Delhi, but you’re safe.”
Anyu began to cry, soundless tears spilling from her eyes. She wiped at them with the end of her sari. “I not alone now. There are leaves on my tree and stars in my sky. Shukria, Mistah Nick.”
Chapter 26
“Jesus, what a day,” Nick said as he slid behind the wheel of his car. “Club?”
Abby nodded.
“Why so quiet?” he asked.
Abby sighed. “I screwed up, that’s why. I totally trusted Mohammed, and it looks as though he’s in the middle of this.”
“It sure does, but it’s not your fault.”
“What about Hana? Could she be part of it?”
“No,” Nick said. “She’s not involved in this.”
Abby shrugged. “You’re certain?”
Nick nodded.
“What do we do now?” Abby asked.
“Nothing, literally nothing. We can’t arouse Mohammed’s suspicions, so go to camp with him as usual and then home, out with Najeela if need be, but nowhere else with him. If he asks you about the rescue house, just say it closed. I’ll think of something.”
“Think that will work? I mean, he’s got to be working for someone.”
“Probably Imtiaz. Remember how that bastard showed up when you were alone, and then when I was away? And wasn’t it Mohammed who brought you to the Pearl the other day? It adds up. Mohammed is giving Imtiaz the information.”
At the club, Nick headed straight for the bar. “What’ll it be? Diet Coke or scotch, the breakfast of champions?”
“Funny,” she said, looking at her watch. “God, it’s one o’clock already, but no scotch for me. My days of feigning sophistication are over. I’ll have a Diet Coke and a cheeseburger. Maybe a beer later if I’m feeling wild.” She turned and headed for what was now surely their table.
Nick returned, and placing Abby’s drink down, he sat across from her, resting his elbows on the table.
Abby slumped in her seat. “This whole mess is depressing.” She eyed Nick’s scotch. “Maybe I should have ordered something stronger.”
Nick held out his drink, but Abby shook her head. “So we can’t do anything? We just sit and wait?”
“Well, we wait, but we don’t sit. I’ll send out a request for information on Mohammed later today, but for now, just be careful, and try not to let on that you suspect him. Keep your head down and your eyes open, and remember Najeela might be in the middle of this too.”
Abby sighed noisily. “I don’t think so. And now with Mohammed probably involved, it makes me think that even more. Najeela can’t stand Mohammed. She goes out of her way to be mean to him.”
“Don’t be fooled. She could be a great actress.”
“I don’t think she’s capable of pretending like that. She’s every bit as self-absorbed as she seems, and that self-absorption would get in the way of her being involved in someone else’s intrigue.”
“Suit yourself. Just be careful.”
“What about the rescue house?” Abby asked. “Can I at least go there with you?”
“Let me think about it. But my instinct is for both of us to stay away—for their safety and our own.”
“Food’s ready,” the bartender called.
Nick stood. “You want a beer with your burger?”
“You never give up.” Abby laughed. “No, maybe later. Right now, I want to think.”
He returned with the food, and they sat and picked at their burgers.
“What now?” Abby asked.
“I’m going to concentrate on Imtiaz.” Nick took a sip of his scotch. “See if I can’t put the pressure on, see what he does if he thinks I know something.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“I’ll be careful. Remember, I need proof for my story. The Times is not going to publish innuendo and hearsay. I need something solid, so I need to keep at it or hope that Imtiaz thinks I have something on him. That could force his hand.”
“Force his hand to do what?”
“I don’t know,” Nick answered. “I’m just thinking out loud.”
“What about Geneva? I know I can identify this guy, and I think he knows that too.”
“You can identify him? You’re certain?”
“I am. You believe me, right?”
Nick whistled. “I do. We’ll get back there. I’m not sure when, but we’ll get there.”
“Do you think the murder in Geneva is related to all of this, to Imtiaz, to trafficking?” Abby asked.
“I always thought it was pretty damn sinister, and trafficking leads to murder, that’s just how it is. If these girls start to talk, you have to shut them up somehow, and what better way?”
Abby shivered. “Evil, Nick, it’s evil.”
“Abby, you have to promise, no more risks. Understood?”
Abby nodded. “What about you?”
“I really don’t take risks. People just assume I do.”
“I’ll have that beer now.”
“I knew you’d come around.” Nick headed back to the bar.
He returned with a beer and a cup of coffee.
“Coffee?” Abby asked.
“It’s going to be a long day. I’ll need all the help I can get.”
Abby shook her head. “There’s just no figuring you out, is there?”
Nick winked. “Why would you want to?”
“You’ve got a point. So, today, can I come with you? I can help.”
Nick shook his head. “I don’t want anyone who might be watching me to see you with me today. I want to look into some stuff, and I need to do it alone. Trust me.”
“Oh, shit, Nick, don’t be so dramatic. Let me come.”
“No, Abby. It’s for your own good.” He looked at his watch and stood. “I’d love to hang out, but I’ve got to check this stuff out and it’s getting late.”
Abby drank the last of her beer, and they drove home in silence. Nick pulled up to her gate. “Just stay in, do some work or something. Don’t go anywhere, not even with Najeela. Not today. Agreed?”
Abby nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“You will. Maybe later in the day, but you’ll see me.”
He leaned over and kissed her lightly, and Abby didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in and kissed him back. “See you tomorrow,” she said. Abby rubbed away the goose bumps that had sprouted on her arms. She had a bad feeling about whatever he was going off to do, but she knew Nick was immovable once he’d set his sights o
n something. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Nick smiled and touched Abby’s cheek. “I will. You know I will.”
• • •
Abby let herself into the house, and right away she sensed the overwhelming quiet, the emptiness. Her footsteps echoed all the way to her room, and when she opened the door, she froze, her eyes riveted on the scene inside. She felt her bag slide from her arm, and she heard the small thump as it landed at her feet.
Her room had been torn apart, drawers pulled out, her clothes thrown on the floor. The old wooden chair had been knocked over so roughly, its legs had splintered. Her notebook, its pages torn to shreds, lay on the bed, the mattress askew. Her suitcase lay open, its contents strewn about. The curtains were drawn, but daylight seeped in, slicing through the debris and disarray.
Abby stood motionless as she tried to make sense of it all. Someone had turned her room upside down.
But why?
Her heart pounding, she stepped back into the hall.
Shit, shit, shit! Oh, God, was someone still here? Abby ran back through the house and, pulling open the front door, ran to the gate, yanking that open as well. She peered out and looked up and down the street, but Nick was gone. She slammed the gate shut, locking it behind her before leaning against it. What if the intruder was still here? Shit!
She took a deep breath. If someone was here, he would have come after her already. With that thought in mind, Abby walked slowly back into the house, leaving the front door wide open as an escape route—just in case.
She stood in the hallway and tried to think what to do. She had to check the house, but first she’d need something to protect herself with. A knife, she thought, one of Hana’s carving knives. She walked slowly, hoping to calm herself, and when she reached the kitchen, she grabbed a sharp knife from the counter. Her mind registered that Hana’s kitchen was spotless.
Something behind her creaked, and she spun around, the knife in her hand. She held her breath and listened, but the house was silent as a tomb. She stood perfectly still and tried to think what the hell someone might be looking for, but she didn’t have anything. Maybe it was a robbery. Maybe she wasn’t the target. She turned then for the dining room, but it was untouched, and as neat as it had been this morning. She ran to the office, but that room too was still tidy. Not even a breeze had disturbed its contents. She checked the two unused bedrooms off the hallway, but they were quiet and still. Only her room, it seemed, had been searched.
Abby walked back to her room and snapped on the light. Her eyes flickering against the sudden flash of brightness, she bent down and went through the clutter. Everything was there. Everything. Did someone want to scare her, or was there something else? Maybe they didn’t find what they wanted, which could only mean she had it on her, but all she had was her bag. Surely nothing of value was in there.
She picked it up from the floor where it had fallen and emptied the contents onto her bed. Keys, sunscreen, a handful of Pakistani rupees, a $20 bill. Her passport. Would they want to see the dates she was in Geneva? No, they must know that already, or Imtiaz could just ask Najeela. Her makeup; a tiny mirror; sunglasses; a gooey, half-melted peppermint; some pens; a work notebook; a folder with vaccine statistics, and Nick’s card. Shit, did they want that? No, they knew where he was. She had nothing that anyone might want.
She reached into the now empty bag, scouring the bottom of the tote. Her hand folded over a sheaf of papers stuck on a zipper, and she yanked them free, holding them up for inspection. An old newspaper? Why did she have this? She unfolded it and remembered. This was the newspaper Najeela had shown her ages ago at the Pearl. It had some story about her boyfriend, Lars. Abby had forgotten about the paper, and apparently Najeela had as well. She’d never mentioned it. Could someone want this old paper?
Abby smoothed out the creases and folds and spread the pages before her. The story was on page three. The picture, at the bottom of the page, was small. “Lars Rousseau, European Philanthropist, Donates to UN,” the caption read. Rousseau, Rousseau—where had she heard that name? The photo was grainy and now creased from so much folding. Abby ran her hand over the page to smooth out the wrinkles and looked closely at the image. Something about the man in the photo was familiar. He wore wire-rimmed glasses over drooping eyes, and thinning gray hair framed his face.
Abby held the newspaper closer and squinted to get a better look, the picture seeming to come into sharper focus.
Thinning gray hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, distinguished looking . . . a picture of a man who knows he’s important. Suddenly, a vision of the dead woman clutching broken wirerimmed glasses flashed before her eyes. Abby’s mouth went dry. She saw him, the shadowy stranger on the street as he turned toward her hiding place. She could hear his footsteps as he moved closer.
The newspaper photo suddenly seemed to come alive—it was him. Lars Rousseau. Rousseau—the name of Nick’s suspect, and the man from the balcony in Geneva.
Abby dropped the paper and stood, the floor swaying beneath her. She sat back down as a wave of dizziness washed over her. Was this newspaper photo what someone was looking for? Damn it, was it Najeela? Was she part of this after all? Was it Hana? Mohammed?
A heavy weight pressed down on her chest blocking her air, and she forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. She had to show Nick. Abby folded up the paper and stuffed it back into her bag. Her head still spinning, she took his card and went to the hall phone to call the hotel. Surely he was back by now. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the numbers, and she heard the first ring. But then it rang again and again, and Abby began to hyperventilate.
“Green’s Hotel,” a man said lazily.
“Nick Sinclair.”
“Not in,” the man replied without hesitating.
“Can you check, please?” Abby asked, her voice quivering.
“He hasn’t checked back in. He’s not here. I don’t have to check. I have his keys.”
“Can I leave a message?” Tears streaked Abby’s face.
“Hmm, go ahead,” the man said, exasperated.
“Tell him to see Abby. Tell him it’s important.”
“Anything else?”
“No, just that.” Abby laid the receiver back in its cradle.
She sank to the floor, Hana’s knife in her hand. She’d have to check the house herself, make sure everything was locked. She pulled herself up and headed back down the hall, snapping on lights as she went.
The rooms were empty, the windows shut tight, the back door secure. She closed the front door and slid the locking bolt into place. There wasn’t any sign that someone had broken in—no shattered glass, no splintered doorways.
Nothing.
What the hell was going on? Was someone just trying to scare her? If that was the point, they’d succeeded.
Goddamn it, Nick, get here. Abby sank down onto her bed. She couldn’t let her thoughts run wild. If it was just a robbery, and maybe it was, wouldn’t someone go through the rest of the house? Steal the computer? Suddenly Abby remembered Najeela’s jewelry. Was it there? Abby took a deep breath and walked back to the office. She dropped into the chair in front of Najeela’s desk to have a look. The lock seemed to be intact, the desk untouched. She tugged at the handle, expecting resistance, but the drawer slid out easily. The glitter and sparkle were almost blinding, and Abby blinked at the sight of the gaudy stash. The drawer was still filled with Najeela’s treasures, and Abby’s eyes suddenly locked on a diamond cuff bracelet adorned with rubies and garnets and sapphires.
The bracelet.
Abby’s heart pounded hard against her rib cage, and she opened her mouth to gulp in air. She slammed the drawer shut and closed her eyes. Take a deep breath, she commanded herself. Panicking now wouldn’t help anything. She steadied her arm, rested her fingers, now sticky with sweat, around the handle, and pulled. And there it was—the bracelet, shining and shimmering, taunting her with its familiar sparkl
e. Her hand trembled as it hovered over the bracelet, but as though a flame had licked at her fingers, she pulled away.
She knew she had to take the bracelet. It was further proof—the final nail, she thought, in the case against Lars, and a final act of respect for the woman who’d died. She examined the stones and remembered a CSI episode where someone had said fingerprints remained on jewelry. She had to remove the bracelet carefully, without touching it, and she had to store it in plastic. Isn’t that what they always did to preserve evidence? A Ziploc bag, that’s what she needed. She hurried into the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and drawers until she found what she needed, then she returned to the desk. She used a pen to lift the bracelet and guide it into the bag, exhaling loudly as she zipped it shut.
She sat and tried to clear her thoughts, to form a plan, to do something to help herself out of this mess. She turned to the computer. She’d check her e-mails, see if Emily had replied. She logged on, but her e-mails were gone—nothing in the Inbox, nothing in Sent. Nothing. Where was everything? She logged out and signed in again—but still—there was nothing. Her account was empty. When she clicked on the Inbox, a tiny dialogue box appeared. You have no messages, she read. The same notice appeared in her Sent folder. Pay attention, she told herself, and she logged in yet again. The screen flickered, and the same messages appeared. What the hell, Abby thought. She sat back, confused. She’d had this account for years. Why the trouble now?
Suddenly the fog in her head cleared, and she knew. Her account had been hacked. Someone had read her e-mail to Emily. Someone knew everything.
She looked at her watch. Six o’clock. Where was Nick? Abby retraced her steps to the phone and dialed Green’s Hotel once again. This time, a woman answered on the second ring.
“Nick Sinclair, please.”
“Just a moment,” the woman said. “I’ll connect you.”
Abby swiped her hand at the beads of perspiration that had formed on her forehead and listened to the shrill ringing of the phone. Six rings, no answer; then ten and then twenty, and still no answer; and Abby knew. He wasn’t there.
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