by Elise Noble
“I used to have a rabbit,” Zena told me. “Back when we lived in Portland. He was called Eddie. I still miss him.”
“How long do rabbits live?”
“Seven to ten years, usually.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Why? What’s wrong with that?”
“I’m meant to be on holiday, and now I need to investigate a crime and also work out how to export a rabbit to Virginia. Any ideas?”
“Nuh-uh. Can I pick it up? Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A girl. Be my guest, but don’t blame me if you get bitten.”
Zena dropped to her hands and knees, strawberry-blonde hair dragging in the dust as she crawled towards the rabbit. Every time I’d tried to get near, it’d hopped off, but Zena managed to get close enough to stroke its head before it wriggled backwards.
“Does she have a name?” Zena asked. “Aw, she’s so sweet.”
This was a different Zena to the one I’d first seen. Gone was the stroppy teenager, replaced by a carefree girl with a broad smile on her face. She liked animals? Okay, I could work with that.
“Nope. Want to pick one?”
“Really?”
Black wandered out of the villa, phone in his hand as usual. “What about calling it Stifado?”
No, he still wasn’t happy with me, and I couldn’t do anything to fix the problem with a teenager three feet away.
Zena’s mouth twitched. “Stifado? That sounds more like a boy’s name.”
Oh, such innocence. “It’s a kind of Greek stew.”
Now she gasped. “How could you?”
Still no smile from my husband. “Would you like a practical demonstration?”
Zena somehow scooped the rabbit into her arms and backed away. “Leave her alone!”
“It’s okay, he’s joking.” At least, I thought he was joking. “How about Thumper?”
“That’s so lame.”
“Fine, then you think of something. This barbecue you mentioned—are we supposed to be going?”
“Grandpa said he wanted to talk to you. Is it about the dead girl?”
“He told you about that?”
She took another pace back. “Not exactly.”
“Then how did you find out?”
“He was talking on the phone, okay? Nobody ever tells me anything.”
Mental note: Zena had sensitive ears. “We won’t know what it’s about until we speak to him. What time is the barbecue?”
“It starts at six. Where’s the rabbit hutch?”
“There isn’t one. I figured she could run around in the garden.”
“You know rabbits dig, right?”
Logically, I suppose I did. I’d almost broken my ankle in one of their fucking holes last year while I was out running. But somehow, I hadn’t thought of that little issue when I was handing fifty Egyptian pounds over to Youssef. In fact, I hadn’t thought at all. And Black would be just thrilled if craters started appearing in the lawn. Thumper would find herself on the barbecue.
“How would you like to earn some money? I’ll pay you to rabbit-sit.”
“Rabbits are nocturnal. Well, actually they’re crepuscular, but—”
Bloody hell. I’d ended up in a discussion with the love child of David Attenborough and that woman who presented Countryfile on the BBC.
“Crepuscular? What’s that?”
“They’re most active at dusk and dawn. Mom wouldn’t be too happy if I stayed up at weird times.”
Fuck. Then we’d have to put the rabbit in my old bedroom. The floor in there was tiled, so at least the bloody thing couldn’t tunnel out.
“Okay, okay… Plan B. Is it possible to litter train a rabbit?”
“Yes, but I’ve never done it. And Chris won’t let me have any pets.”
“Chris? As in Christopher, your mom’s fiancé?”
“Yeah.” Zena screwed up her face, leaving me in no doubt about her feelings on her new stepfather. “He made me rehome my snake before we moved to Seattle.”
“Why?”
“He said Basil creeped him out, but he lived in a vivarium in my bedroom. Chris didn’t even have to look at him.”
“Basil?”
“Short for Basilisk.”
While I didn’t love snakes—nearly getting bitten by a viper would do that to a girl—I found myself growing less fond of Chris as well. I’d only met him briefly, a quick introduction when we’d detoured to the main building to pick up breakfast after our morning run, and he’d struck me as a bit of a snake himself. Not the good kind. No, the type of man who slithered into your life and said all the right words, only to bite you on the ass when things didn’t go his way.
And while I was busy evaluating people, perhaps I’d been slightly hasty in my judgement of Zena’s character. I began to wonder whether the whining over the dress was less because she cared what she looked like and more because she didn’t want to go to the wedding at all.
“Did you talk to your mom about it?”
“I tried.”
“And? What did she say?”
“That I was ungrateful, that Chris had given us a beautiful home, and that I couldn’t bear to see her happy. Which isn’t true. It’s not my fault she keeps dating assholes. Just because he’s got money doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy.”
Lovely. Kinda reminded me of my own mother. When I’d complained about one of her many, many boyfriends molesting me, she’d warned me who filled our fridge. When I said I’d rather go hungry, she’d locked me in my bedroom for three days without food to teach me a lesson. He’d made my life hell for another two months before I realised he’d skipped bail and reported him to Crimestoppers. While Zena and I chatted, I emailed Mack at our head office and asked her to take a look at Christopher Holt. His details would be in the hotel database.
“You’re sixteen, right?”
“Almost seventeen.”
“So you’ve got a little over a year before you can leave home. Are you going to college?”
Because if Zena went to college, she wouldn’t have to put up with Chris anymore.
“If my grades are good enough.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Every time we move, I have to go to a new school, and I just get further and further behind.”
“How many times have you moved?”
“Three times in the last four years. Mom gets bored. I want to go and live with my dad—that’s all—but she won’t let me.”
Could that be an option, even temporarily? Lynn didn’t seem particularly enamoured with her daughter, and they spent most of their time fighting. A break might do both of them good. But focusing on the negative wouldn’t help Zena, so I tried another tack.
“What subject do you want to study?”
“Zoology. Which, to quote Chris, is a waste of time with no career prospects.”
“If you can get the grades, I’ll help you to find an internship.” There, that gave her an incentive. “How about that?”
“Really?”
Black and I had donated money to various projects, including a breeding program for endangered species at the Richmond zoo and conservation efforts in Zimbabwe. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find someone who’d do me a favour.
“Sure. But in the meantime, you need to think of a name for this rabbit.”
CHAPTER 11 - EMMY
AT A QUARTER past seven, Captain Bob beckoned us into his office, and I struggled to suppress a smile when I saw who was sitting in the chair opposite his desk. Were we going to get some information?
“Khaled, isn’t it?” Black said, holding out a hand.
Captain al-Busari’s sidekick. The guy from the boat.
Bob nodded. “Khaled’s cousin is one of our gardeners. I told Khaled about your background, and he’s agreed to answer a few questions.”
Khaled looked spectacularly uncomfortable, and it wasn’t only because Bob’s visitor chair had the lumpiest cushion I’d ever seen. But he still shook Bla
ck’s hand, although he didn’t make eye contact.
“Yes, Khaled Sabry.”
“Black. And this is Emmy. Can you give us an update on the investigation?”
“It is closed.”
“Closed? That’s it?”
“Captain al-Busari says she killed herself.”
That much we knew. Khaled didn’t seem particularly convinced by the assumption either.
“How did he come to that conclusion?”
“The doctor who examined the body said there was no evidence she was murdered, but I saw his report on the captain’s desk. There was no evidence she wasn’t murdered either.”
“And what do you think?”
The young man looked down at his feet. How old was he? Twenty? Twenty-one? “It is not my place to say.”
“We just want your ideas.”
Khaled shifted in his chair and glanced at Captain Bob, who nodded.
“It’s okay. Nothing’ll get back to al-Busari.”
“I have watched CSI—every episode—and never before have I seen a lady sink herself with rocks on purpose. Plus I checked on the internet, and the statistics say women are more likely to take a drug overdose or cut their wrists if they want to commit suicide.”
Well, at least there was one vaguely conscientious cop in the Dahab Police Department, even if CSI wasn’t the best place to get bona fide information.
Somebody had brought in a tray of drinks, and I poured little glasses of hot karkade for myself and Black. Khaled hadn’t touched his water, but Bob’s beer was half-finished. In the absence of gin, I was tempted to steal the rest.
“Any guesses why the captain ended the investigation?” Black asked.
Another glance at Bob, another hesitation before Khaled spoke. “He doesn’t want to lose his job. The last time a foreign lady got murdered in Sinai, the chief of police in Fidda Hilal got fired for arresting the wrong person. Captain al-Busari doesn’t want to make the same mistake.”
From what I’d heard, there was a bit more to it than merely arresting the wrong person, but that was a whole other story. Clearly al-Busari would rather sit around drinking coffee than put the slightest effort into hunting down a killer.
“So his approach is to not arrest anyone at all?” Black asked.
“Yes, exactly.”
Good grief.
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I do not want to walk along the street knowing that one of the people I pass could be a murderer.”
“Good answer. The question is, what do you propose to do about it?”
“What can I do? I am just a private.”
“You could help us.”
Something flashed in Khaled’s eyes. Fear? Excitement?
“Bob says you are a private investigator?”
“That’s right.”
“And you are going to find the lady’s killer?”
“We plan to have a poke around. Call it professional curiosity. But we’re only here for another week and a half, and we’ve got a tough job since your captain doesn’t want us involved.”
“I could share information.”
“And what would you want in return?” I asked.
In our world, nothing came for free. Favours, influence, or cold, hard cash—everything had its price. What was Khaled’s?
“I want you to teach me what you know.”
A mouthful of karkade went down the wrong way, and Black thumped me on the back as I coughed. Khaled wanted to play sidekick? Well, that was…unexpected.
“How about we pay dollars instead?” Black suggested.
“Education is more important to me than money.”
So the boy had scruples. That was a good sign.
I watched Black as silence filled the room. Although he was excellent at training people—not wanting to toot my own horn, but I was an example of that—he was also notoriously fussy about who he worked with. Last year, he’d interviewed seventeen people for a vacancy in our Richmond office and rejected them all. The HR lady was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when Black finally poached somebody from the NSA, and that had only been for a junior position.
But what were the alternatives? Sure, we could find out what the local police knew through a combination of hacking, bugging, and good old breaking and entering, but when it came to asking more questions, locals would respond better to one of their own than an American or a Brit, especially a Brit with boobs. If we could get Khaled to do some of our dirty work…
“What could you share?” Black asked.
“Everything I can find, but I can’t risk losing my job. My father is sick, and I need to look after my mother and sisters.”
“We need a copy of the autopsy report. Did a detective attend? An evidence tech?”
“No, neither. Just the doctor.”
Sloppy.
“What about toxicology? Tell me they’re running tests.”
“I think so. I overheard the captain on the phone, asking somebody to process the samples quickly so he could finish the paperwork and close the case.”
“Has Carmela been positively identified yet? Dental records? DNA?”
A quick shake of the head. “I heard the captain say we were waiting for the dental records to come from Italy. You will help?”
More silence. Black didn’t move a muscle, but Khaled squirmed in his seat. Like me, Bob had seen the effect Black had on people plenty of times before, and the corner of his lip twitched as though he was trying not to laugh.
Two whole minutes passed like that, but eventually, Black nodded.
“As long as you remember it’s a two-way deal. Let’s start with what you know about Youssef al-Masri.”
“He runs the chicken shop near Assalah Square.”
“That’s common knowledge. What sort of person is he?”
A glimmer of excitement flickered in Khaled’s eyes. “You think he did it?”
“I think he’s slippery.”
“He’s never been in trouble.”
“In this town, that doesn’t mean a lot. Find me some useful information.”
“Like what?”
Black ticked off the points on his fingers. “His phone number. Whether he has a vehicle. The names of his friends. Details of his family. Previous girlfriends. Financial situation. Has he ever got in a fight with anyone? Talked about Carmela? Mentioned plans for the future?”
Khaled scribbled frantically in his notepad, nodding to himself. “I can do that.”
“Then we’ll speak further tomorrow. Don’t forget the autopsy report.”
Nice. Minimal effort on our part to begin with, but we’d get to see if Khaled could deliver the simple things. And if he managed to find the autopsy report Black wanted, I might be able to spend an hour lying in the sun instead of breaking into the morgue.
Khaled finished his water and slipped out the door. I was ready to follow him when Black put a hand on my arm. Now what? I’d skipped dessert for this meeting, and if I got a shift on, there might be cake left.
But Black didn’t move, and it wasn’t out of concern over my diet. He and Bob seemed to be having a silent conversation with their eyes, presumably in some sort of Navy SEAL language I wasn’t privy to, and Black sat down again.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Would somebody care to enlighten me?”
Bob waited until Khaled’s footsteps had faded into the distance before he opened his desk drawer and pulled out two plastic boxes. Oh, hello. The contents of the one on the left looked familiar. Last time I’d seen that piece of string, it had been tied to a dead girl’s backpack.
“Where did you get that?” Black asked, pointing.
“Found it under one of the benches on the Blue Tang this morning. The police were meant to clean up after they left, but they didn’t do a very good job of it.”
Really? The cops had left valuable evidence behind? After meeting Captain al-Busari, I wasn’t exactly shocked. They probably just shoved the obvious bi
ts into a bag, then tossed a bucket of seawater over the worst of the bloodstains and called it a day.
“What’s in the other box?”
“Some sort of trinket. Looks like one of those scarab beetles they sell in the tourist shops. I don’t know if it came up with the girl or not, but I’m fairly certain it wasn’t there when I checked the boat over last weekend.”
“Who else has been on board since?”
“Couple of diving groups, and a Spanish party hired her for a cruise on Monday evening.”
Black took the lids off the boxes, and I leaned forward to take a closer look at the beetle, elbows on my knees. Boy, that was one ugly little pebble. It was black in colour, about an inch long, and when Black flipped it over with the end of a pen, I saw hieroglyphics on the underside and a hole drilled through the middle to take a cord.
“Seems it might have fallen off a necklace,” Bob suggested.
Black nodded. “Indeed. But our girl wasn’t wearing a necklace when we found her.”
“Could have had it in a pocket. Or that bag of hers.”
“Yes, she could. I’ll ask Aurelie if she remembers Carmela owning a piece like this. We also need to check with Khaled in case the police somehow brought it on board. If we eliminate both of those possibilities, then that leaves two options—either one of your guests dropped it, or the killer did. Mind if we take it with us?”
“That was my intention. You’re the detective, not me.” Bob’s phone vibrated, and he cursed under his breath. “Ah, fuck. Lynn wants to talk about table settings.”
“Good luck,” Black said. “Give me the dead body any day.”
“So, what kind of knot is it?” I asked Black when we got back to the villa. With dessert. I might have made a small detour to the restaurant on the way, and hallelujah, they still had two slices of chocolate fudge cake left. Black umm-ed and aah-ed and said he didn’t want one, but when I offered to eat it for him, he changed his mind.
“I don’t know.”
“But I thought you learned about knots in the SEALs. Didn’t you have to tie them underwater?”
“We learned five knots, and none of them were this one.” With his fork, he gestured at the piece of cord sitting on the coffee table in its plastic box. “I’ve sent a picture to the rest of the team. Five bucks says we’ll have an answer by the time we finish eating.”