"No, I didn't know."
"Actually, we did—" Fred began.
"OK, you were out jogging, I guess…your car was still there…but all the bottles of Johnny Walker were empty."
"'Jack Daniels'," Ari corrected, then pursed his lips. Or was it Jim Beam? He couldn't remember.
"It looks like you empty them out before we can get to them. I'd like to rig an explosive to you so that you'd blow up if you entered a liquor store."
"You would destroy me to save me," Ari sniffed. "A very effective measure. You destroyed Iraq, and now it is paradise on earth."
"You need to stick to the program, Ari, for your own good. So, what is it? The booze? Or have you resumed your wandering ways? I know you have friends stashed away, somewhere. Are you playing games with them? What sort of games? I could have that ankle bracelet back on you in a heartbeat. You have to meet me two-thirds of the way."
"You mean 'halfway'?"
"I know what I mean." Karen jumped when the waitress appeared at their table. "Oh…I'm sorry. Have we decided?"
"I'm having what's he's having," said Fred, nodding at Ari.
Shifting her puzzled gaze across the table, the waitress asked, "And you're having…"
"The Double Bacon Cheeseburger," Ari grinned, "rare, with a plentitude of unhealthy condiments."
"Ketchup and mustard are on the table," said the waitress, turning to Karen. "And you, ma'am?"
"Anything with lettuce."
"Well, we have—"
"Just anything with lettuce," said Karen abruptly, holding up her menu for the waitress to take away.
"Anything to drink?"
"A waterfall of Mountain Dew, which sounds very refreshing," said Ari.
"Will a glass do?" the waitress smiled.
"If such is customary."
"Dr. Pepper," said Fred.
"I'll stick with water," said Karen.
"Water and lettuce," said the waitress. As she walked away, she added, "Sounds like the main course in solitary."
"I didn't ask for bread and water." Karen gave Ari a narrow look. He thought it went nicely with her cropped blonde hair, as if she was a Nordic warrior challenging a mythical beast with her spear. "So you're talking about a non-Middle Eastern serial killer on non-Middle Eastern soil, namely America?"
"You are correct about the soil."
"An Arab!" Karen exclaimed. "I knew it! And not the first one—right, Ari? That bomber—"
"Yes, all Arabs are serial killers, but not all of us act upon our avid and justified desires."
"'Justified'? How can you say—?"
"You have seen my wife," said Ari quietly.
Both Karen and Fred blushed.
"Yes," said Karen softly. "But you know…I hope you know…that was an accident…"
"The whole world is just, and the whole world is wrong."
"That's not true…"
"By saying that, you prove my point," Ari said grimly, then sighed. "The wrongness is universal, which is why I bring you here. I have no evidence that this killer is an Arab, but my inner soul grieves with the likelihood. You have seen the local information broadcasts, I presume. A Muslim woman immolated herself in a Richmond park."
Karen held her breath. "Everyone's heard about it."
Ari, who should have been among the first to know, had heard it first from Singh after it had become, within a few days, stale news.
"You think it was staged?" Karen asked.
"Murder? Yes, I suspect such a thing."
Fred had swiveled in his seat, awaiting his dinner. But now he turned back. Ari had the full attention of the deputy marshals.
"Okay," said Karen. "I get it. You've heard something from the Arab community. Something we wouldn't know about. I don't know what the other Feds are up to, but I don't think we would have informants in the Richmond area. There aren't that many of you here, right? Not like up north."
"But you don't know."
"No," Karen answered contritely.
"Then let it be known, there is someone known as the Namus plaguing the women of our community."
'Our community', Ari thought derisively. He had about as much contact with local Arab and Muslim immigrants as he did with the Man on the Moon. They were too dangerous, too fraught with knowledge that could prove dangerous to Rana and himself. Allowing himself to be lassoed into the investigation of O'Connor's had been a mistake. That was all too obvious, now. It was also too late to back out.
"'Namus'?" Karen asked.
"It has to do with the code of honor among Muslim men. Similar to your 'dissing'."
"And women are the victims?" Karen had edged forward. Having been raised on a farm far outside the tracer streams of political awareness, her sensitivity to all forms of unfairness—racial, sexual and everything on the fringe—had come belatedly. Which did not lessen its sincerity.
"Yes," Ari said. "It is a torment to my anniversary."
"Your what?" asked Karen, drawing back.
"Uhm…" said Ari.
He was saved from hunting for another, and possibly equally wrong, word by the waitress, who arrived with their drinks and meals. Karen gaped in horror at the bacon cheeseburger placed before her.
"It's garnished with lettuce," said the waitress.
"It's dripping with fat."
"Do you want me to take that back to the kitchen?" the waitress said with a smile one deciphered at one's peril.
"And make these guys wait?" said Karen.
"Who said we would wait?" said Fred.
"Forget it," Karen answered sourly. "I assume you have portable defibrillators on the premises."
"In fact, we do. Are you having palpitations?"
"I'll let you know." Karen stuck out her tongue as the waitress sashayed to the next table.
"Mmmm…" said Fred, struggling to pick up his burger. "Grease soaked hamburger buns. Yummy."
Karen refrained from hitting her partner. This was new. Perhaps she had learned tolerance. Or her supervisor had slapped sense into her. More improbably, maybe Fred had begun to hit back.
While gazing at a trucker at the next table, Ari took a grand mouthful and nodded in appreciation. He spoke before swallowing.
"Hey!" Karen protested. "You just spit crap on my crap!"
"I apologize deeply," Ari said. "For some reason, my table manners fade into nothingness in this country. I can't account for it."
The trucker in the next booth slammed his fist on the table and hawked a wad of phlegm.
"I can," said Fred. "Jeez, where's he going to spit that—oh, all right, he swallowed it. That's manners for you."
The man in the booth was swearing at the laptop open before him. He looked over at a trucker at a center table, who also had a laptop next to his plate.
"You getting a signal?" he asked.
"Off and on," the man answered with a grimace. "They say we're supposed to get a signal out in the parking lot, but I didn't see it. I came inside and ordered a meal just for a clear connection."
"They said their Wi-Fi's up and running," the man in the booth complained. "We could go to the internet kiosk."
"Yeah, you try," said the man at the center table, thumbing towards the back of the room where a large group was waiting in line. "I had to pay for the connection."
"Think I'll skip the tip," said the trucker in the booth.
"It's not the waitress's fault." The trucker at the center table took another glance at the crowd around the kiosk. "'Course, it could be considered a protest vote."
Karen and Fred paid no attention to this conversation, but Ari eavesdropped with keen interest.
"Do they rent portable computers at this facility?" he asked. Seeing Karen press her face into her sandwich, he added, "I see you are no longer averse to the products of the stockyard."
"I never was," Karen said, swiping away a slip of ketchup. "I was just trying to extend my lifespan. And no, I doubt they rent out laptops here. Most of these truckers have their own. They're alwa
ys hooking up, one way or another."
"Everyone is," said Fred.
"Do you 'hook up'?" Ari asked.
"Got my laptop in the car," said Fred, quickly adding, "Strictly for business."
"It's Federal property," Karen told Ari. "Every so often the IT people confiscate our computers for an audit. You know, making sure we don't download kiddy porn or snuff films."
"You reassure me to the utmost," Ari nodded. "Would it be possible for you to bring your laptop in here?"
"Why?" Karen asked warily, putting down her burger and eyeing Ari suspiciously.
"The serial killer…"
"I haven't forgotten."
"I have heard hints that he might be a trucker."
Karen and Fred looked across the tables. A roomful of suspects.
"If we could link shipment locations to the killings…"
"How would you do that?"
"These truckers are using the loading boards on the internet to arrange their shipments."
"What and why would you know about loading boards? And where did you come up with the idea that the Namus is a trucker?"
Ari gave Karen a look of endearing patience. "I discussed my contacts within the local Muslim community…"
"Oh, you have 'sources' now." Karen took up her fork and danced it around her half-eaten burger. "Don't tell me…there must be oodles of Arab truck drivers in this country."
"There are a few," Ari granted.
"'Oodles' means 'a lot'."
"There are a lot," Ari granted again.
"You don't know, do you?"
"Lots of Arabs have invested in our shipping companies," Fred interjected. "I read it somewhere."
"That doesn't mean the sheiks are driving semis," Karen said, shooting her partner a look of annoyance. "Is your source dependable?"
No one had suggested to Ari that the Namus was a truck driver. He was fishing for something else. Yet he had to admit, if the killer existed, it would be a wonderful cover.
"There is an ineffable sense of probability," Ari told her.
"That sounds like another way of saying 'vague'." Rubbing a finger against her stubby nose, she stared at her plate, as though searching the nearly raw hamburger for a sign from the gods. She suspected Ari was leading her on, but that was nothing new. The only thing that had tugged harder at her sense of violated morality was the day she and Ari had broken into house to find the homeowner beheaded in the middle of his kitchen.
Why wasn't anyone doing anything about the vile treatment of women overseas? Well…here was an opportunity to begin the remedy on her own doorstep.
"OK, go get your laptop," Karen said in a low voice.
"I'm not sure this is something we should get involved in," Fred said, though it was obvious he was eager to jump up and run to his car.
"Just shut up and get it."
"You shouldn't talk like that to me."
"I'm not hitting you, am I? And I wouldn't have to tell you to shut up if you would just shut up."
Fred sat pat, as a matter of principle.
"It takes two to tangle," Ari smiled.
"'Tango!' Ari! Tango!"
"The Latin dance?" Ari inquired.
"Yeah, the Latin dance. Fred, would you please go get the laptop?"
He thought of a rejoinder, then thought better of it and ran outside.
"'Tangle,'" Ari mused. "I have been living under a misconception."
"That makes two of us."
"Oh? What have you misconceived?"
"That you were normal."
Fred returned, breathless, and practically slammed the laptop onto the table.
"Don't break it!" Karen said around the mouthful of hamburger that she had resumed eating.
Fred had not been gone long enough for his meal to cool and he popped some French fries into his mouth while waiting for the computer to boot up.
"I would complain that you're going to get the keyboard all greasy but it's already a mess," said Karen.
Fred lifted the laptop and turned it upside down, shaking old crumbs onto his plate.
"Ugh," Karen protested when he put the laptop back down and took another bite out of his hamburger.
"Cyber-seasoning," Fred said. "Okay, let me find…all right, here's the Flying J Wi-Fi connection. He tapped the bar next to the mousepad and grimaced. "We have to register."
"So?"
"Fifteen dollar fee."
Karen presented a moon-face to Ari. "How much do you have left on that credit card the government gave you? It can't be much, because it shouldn't be much. How do you pay that French chef of yours, by the way?"
"My finances are in grievous disrepair." Ari was flush, but dared not admit it. He shrugged helplessly.
"That's all right. Fred is a geek wannabe. I'm sure he'll foot the bill."
"My finances are pretty grievous, too," her partner responded, his face drooping. "You know how much formula milk costs?"
"Your wife should try breast feeding," Karen said unkindly. "It's free."
"That's not fair…"
"Congratulations," said Ari. "I didn't know. When was the incredulous event?"
"Thanks, it is incredible. Maria gave birth to Mary last month."
"Ah, a daughter…"
"Don't make it sound like a tragedy," Karen shot across the table. "I'll bet the Namus hates little girls, too."
"I do not hate little girls," Ari protested. "I married one."
"You had one of those arranged marriages?"
"Not at all. She grew up, first."
"Well, the hell if I'll shell out $15. I have a boyfriend to support." She lifted a greasy finger to catch the attention of the waitress, who approached warily, as if half-expecting Karen to throw her loaded bacon cheeseburger in her face.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"I need a little favor." Karen reached into her pocket and pulled out a leather badge holder. Flipping it open, she reached across Fred and placed it in the waitress's hand.
"U.S. Deputy—"
"Shhhhh!" said Karen.
"Uhm…what kind of favor?" said the waitress. "I didn't mean to be rude—"
"You don't know 'rude'," Karen smiled as the waitress handed her holder back. "I've come across guys who…well, you don't want to know. So no hard feelings."
The waitress did not look relieved. Karen's tone might have had something to do with it.
"We're conducting an investigation and we need access to your Wi-Fi password."
"I don't know…I'd have to ask…"
"The fewer people you ask, the better," said Karen.
The waitress had turned her attention to Ari, performing a thorough visual frisk that questioned his right to be present at an official investigation. Seeing this, Karen elaborated:
"This man is a crucial witness."
"Oh Lord," said the waitress. "You think one of these trucks could…"
"It would be really helpful if you could give us that password," Karen reiterated.
The waitress took out her ink pen and wrote on a napkin. "This is what our IT folks use when they want quick access. Please, don't let anyone else know, or—"
"You'll end up like this hamburger," said Karen, smiling. "Not to worry, you're a patriot and we don't rat on patriots. In return, I'll ask you not to spread any rumors about trucks blowing up. That's not what we're looking into."
"Yes," a disgruntled Ari added. "If a truck blows up here, it is only God's will."
"Boy, that helped," said Karen as the waitress hastened away from their table.
"She thinks I cohabit with bombers," Ari complained.
"Well don't you?"
Fred held up the napkin and they read:
'Guest123.'
"With security like that, their IT people should be hacked to death," Fred said with a shake of his head. He typed in the code. "We're live. Now what?"
The deputies looked at Ari.
"I have heard that Truckstop is a popular site," said Ari.
Fred be
gan typing. "All right, here we are: Truckstop.com. We have to register. All right, no problem. Hey! They want $149 just to log in!"
"What is the phrase you used, Deputy Marshal Sylvester?" Ari asked. "'Shell out'?"
"This is bullshit," Karen all but shouted.
"How can a nation be so powerful, and yet so feeble?" Ari raised his hands in dismay.
"We're not feeble, just cheap." This came from the man in the next booth, who did not bother turning to look at them. "And you're right, it's bullshit. There's free loading sites. We don't make enough to bother with fancy hats around here."
The deputy marshals and the man under their care exchanged stupefied glances.
"I didn't think…" Fred sputtered. "…with the noise level in here…"
"You have to whisper mighty low to slip anything past truckers," said the man at the center table without raising his eyes from his laptop. "We pick up half our jobs listening in on our good buddies. Worse thing is going home in a bobtail rig."
Ari was gratified to see the deputies' bemused expressions.
"That means going back to your stack of bricks without a load." The trucker in the next booth twisted around in his seat. The lower half of his eyeballs were tinged red, as if indented by a thousand miles of horizon. "You guys really looking for a bomb? What kind of drag are they using? A thermos bottle? A skateboard?"
"I missed some of that," said the man at the center table, closing his laptop and scooting his chair over to the deputies' booth. "I've moved so much hazmat I glow in the dark. But you were talking about bombs?"
The booth seats must have been joined under the backrests because Karen and Fred bobbed up and down in unison as the man in the next booth shifted position and stared at the second trucker.
"Suicide jockey," he said, nodding at the man from the center table with a combination of admiration and disparagement. "You come across a big crater in the interstate, it's probably what's left of him."
"Listen, you guys," Karen pleaded. "Before you dump more incomprehensible jargon on us, can you just return where you were? This is sort of private."
"You mean, official government business?" The two truckers leaned in on them from both sides. "We pay our taxes. Don't we have the right to know about any bombs?"
"Besides," said the man in the next booth, "you need help finding a load site."
"Yeah," said Fred nervously as a thick arm brushed his hand. "We could use a little help…"
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 13