by Elise Noble
“It was empty before.”
She went over to look, because of course she did, and came back with Zena’s fucking dog in tow, dirt covering its front paws and the front of its snout.
“We probably owe her a biscuit or something. I mean, if she hadn’t pestered Zena, Aurelie would be dead by now.”
“We already have a dog.”
“Well, we can’t leave her behind.” Emmy crouched down, and the mutt tried to lick her face. She laughed as she ducked out of the way. “Isn’t she cute?”
They could have the dog argument later. Now wasn’t the time, not when they were standing in the middle of a fucking crime scene. But part of Black relished the prospect of pissing off Lynn’s idiot of a fiancé.
“Fine. Bring her along, but if she shits in the house, you’re cleaning up the mess.”
“Speaking of cleaning up messes, how are we gonna deal with al-Busari? If we do a runner, that could cause problems for Bob and the hotel.”
“I’ve got a plan for that.”
“I’m all ears.”
“What’s the one thing Captain Al’abalah values above all else?” On second thought, Captain Idiot was too tame a name for the man. Captain Wilfully Negligent seemed more appropriate.
A slow smile spread across Emmy’s face as she realised where Black was going with this.
“I’ll call Mack.”
Zena squealed with happiness when Emmy led Patch inside, which validated the decision to bring the dog along. Even Aurelie half-smiled.
“Before you let her lick you, she needs a bath,” Emmy told her. “She’s been digging again.”
“I’ll do it.”
“And I’ll help,” Aurelie offered.
But the joy was short-lived. They had company, and from the hammering on the door, it wasn’t friendly.
“Captain al-Busari. How can we help?”
He started by jabbing a finger in Black’s chest, then shook his hand in pain when it turned out to be more solid than he thought.
“You are under arrest! You’ve corrupted my officers, interfered in police business, and evaded capture.”
“Evaded capture? I don’t follow. You’ll have to explain.”
“You ran from an official roadblock.”
“Ran? I don’t think so. Traffic was bad, so we decided to liven up the wait with some kitesurfing. The wind was great today.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“That’s up to you. I can only tell the truth.”
“I heard you chased a boat.”
“We did come across a boat, yes. Two of our friends were on board, and they didn’t look happy to be there, so we followed. A few miles out, the boat was met by a smaller craft, and the helmsman and a female accompanying him holed the boat and escaped.”
“You’re lying. Where are these so-called friends?”
“Right here.” Black waved at the couch. “Maybe you want to ask them?”
“It happened exactly like he said,” Zena piped up. “I was walking my dog when some crazy guy grabbed me and shoved me onto a boat.”
“Why would he do this?”
“Who knows? He just kept talking to himself like he was loony tunes.”
“It looked as if he was making a planned escape,” Black said. “Even had a suitcase on board. He probably wanted a hostage or two in case things didn’t go according to plan.”
“Where is this man now?”
Black gave a deliberately careless shrug. “Last seen heading for Saudi Arabia. This is just speculation, but it’s possible he’s got something to do with all the bodies that keep turning up.”
“We already have the man responsible for that in custody.”
That was news. “What man?”
“Gunther Krause. Two of my men caught him this afternoon.”
Two men? Khaled and Gamal? If so, then why hadn’t they been in touch? And why hadn’t anyone secured the crime scene at Gunther’s home? Khaled knew how important it was to preserve evidence. It was policing 101, and after the last two weeks, Black had been hoping that Khaled had stepped his skills up a gear.
“Terrific. Then those men are both heroes.”
“No, they are not. They deliberately disobeyed a direct order not to leave the police station, and then they stole a vehicle to chase the suspect. The owner is very angry.”
“So where are they now?”
“In detention. They will be dealt with accordingly, and so will you.” Al-Busari fumbled around his belt for a pair of handcuffs. “You are under arrest.”
“Really? For what?”
“Impersonating a police officer.”
Aurelie and Zena gasped, but Black held out his hands to be cuffed. With Gunther in custody, the danger had passed, and sometimes it was fun to fuck with a man’s mind. To lull him into a false sense of security before giving him a metaphorical kick in the balls.
“Sure, let’s go.”
Even al-Busari looked surprised, as if he’d been expecting a fight. But this battle wouldn’t be won with fists, it would be won with cunning.
CHAPTER 42 - BLACK
BLACK, KHALED, AND Gamal sat in a row on the other side of al-Busari’s oversized desk while the captain read the riot act. So far, he’d broken every protocol in the book, and Emmy’s laughter echoed through Black’s earpiece. No, al-Busari hadn’t bothered to search him beyond a cursory pat-down that missed the knife in his boot, the garrotte threaded into the waistband of his shorts, and the microphone built into the leather-and-silver bracelet on his right wrist.
The two privates hung their heads as al-Busari announced their suspension, effective immediately. Apparently, one of Gunther’s neighbours saw him heading out of town, so Khaled had borrowed the nearest vehicle with the keys left in the ignition, which happened to be a souped-up truck belonging to the son of the local auto shop owner.
Gunther had made it through the first checkpoint, and Khaled had to make a decision. North or south? Recalling that Gunther was Jewish, Khaled had guessed—correctly—that he’d seek sanctuary in Israel rather than trying to flee via Cairo or Sharm el-Sheikh and headed north towards Taba and the Israeli border. They’d caught up with Gunther’s SUV, rammed him off the road, arrested him, and brought him back to Dahab to face the music. Only to be detained themselves.
And Black’s fate? He was to be escorted to Sharm el-Sheikh and deported.
Finally, al-Busari stopped ranting. “So? What do you have to say for yourselves?”
“This isn’t a fight you want to start.”
“You’re a foreigner. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“No, I can’t, but I can talk about what you’ve done. Have you checked your Twitter feed lately?” Ah, that delightful look of confusion. “The departmental Twitter feed. Look at it. And Facebook too, while you’re at it.”
Al-Busari reached for his mouse.
Mack and her team had been busy, keeping Black updated on progress as they worked. When al-Busari opened Twitter, he’d find his mentions full of hastily written but thorough articles about the bungled police investigation in Dahab, all with his name featured front and centre. The words “incompetent,” “global implications,” and “oversight” were mentioned. Facebook was the same, with the added benefit of comments expressing disgust at the man’s actions.
Black used the key taped to the back of his watch to undo his handcuffs, but when he dropped them onto the captain’s desk with a thunk, al-Busari barely noticed. He was too busy click, click, clicking, no doubt trying to remove the scathing posts from Facebook.
“It’s called a botnet,” Black told him. “For every one you delete, ten more will appear in its place.”
“This cannot be happening.”
“The way I see it, there are two ways of spinning this. The first is that the man in charge of the Dahab Police Department, a lifelong officer who’s grown complacent over the last few years, fucked up the investigation of an organ theft ring, resulting in the deaths of a numb
er of foreign visitors. Then, because he’s scared and stupid, he tried to blame his shortcomings on the two junior officers who used their own initiative to catch one of the men responsible. How does that sound? I can have someone type it up and post it on Twitter in 280-character chunks if it makes it easier for you to digest.”
Al-Busari just stared at him. It made a pleasant change to see the man speechless.
“Or we can go with option two. Captain Mohammed al-Busari joined forces with investigative consultants from the US and the UK, fostering a spirit of international cooperation while tackling a tricky case. The culprits were identified thanks to innovative detective work, and two of his brave officers improvised when one of the suspects attempted to flee, resulting in an arrest. Those two officers received promotions and recognition for their excellent work, and the captain would like to reassure all visitors that Dahab is once again safe and open for business. Personally, I prefer that story. If we go with option one, the bots might start demanding overtime pay.”
Khaled and Gamal were staring at Black, mouths open. Seemed nobody had stood up to their boss before, with the exception of his wife, obviously. Meanwhile, al-Busari’s face went redder and redder. What was that shade? Plum? No, plum was more purple. Maroon? Russet?
“‘Local hero’ has a nicer ring to it than ‘disgraced former police chief,’ don’t you think?”
Emmy snorted in Black’s ear. “Nate’s just come up with a new hashtag—DismembermentInDahab. What do you think?”
“Is DismembermentInDahab trending yet?” he asked al-Busari. “If not, then don’t worry. We’ve got plenty more where that came from.”
“This is my town. You can’t march in here with your demands and—”
“It’s not your town, it’s everybody’s town. And I didn’t march in here. You brought me in handcuffs, remember? Now you’ve got a chance to do something great here, to leverage this case for additional resources and training. Give Khaled and Gamal more responsibility. Let them question Krause and tie up the loose ends in the investigation. Skilled individuals make the whole department stronger, and that’d reflect well on you. Far better than the alternative.”
“But—”
Black tapped his watch. “Time’s ticking. You’ve got five minutes to make a decision.”
“Will you take down all these tweets and posts?”
“We can do that. Will you promote Khaled and Gamal?”
A minute passed. Two. Black recognised the internal struggle of a man used to throwing his weight around to get his own way, but he sat it out. Al-Busari had to make the decision himself. Bureaucracy or justice.
Eventually, the captain gave a single nod. “It will be done. Now get out of my office.”
It was nine o’clock when Black slipped through the door of the villa. Emmy had her feet up on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand, but when she saw him, she rose to her feet, gave him a high-five, then wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Missed you, Mr. Black.”
“Missed you more, Mrs. Black.”
He picked her up, but before he could push her against the nearest wall, she pressed a finger to his lips.
“Shh. We’ve got company. Zena’s on what’s left of the bed in my old room, and Aurelie’s in the other one.”
“What happened to the mountain of junk?”
“Bob had his staff tidy it. Honestly, solving this case was worth it just for that.”
In that case… Black walked them through to the master bedroom, pausing to sweep the remains of his case notes off the bed before he lowered Emmy onto the mattress. When he kissed her skin, it tasted of sweat and seawater, the lingering evidence of the day’s adventure. This should have been a vacation, a much-needed break from the chaos of their daily lives, except now they had one day left in the sun and most of that would undoubtedly be spent answering questions and attending the wedding from hell and taking care of Aurelie and Zena and the rabbit and the damn dog.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Emmy’s temple.
“What for?”
“If there was a prize for the least vacation-y vacation, this trip would win hands down.”
“It’s not over yet. We’ve still got twenty-four hours left.”
And he’d spend that time taking care of her—not because she needed it, but because he wanted to. He undressed her, kissing each sliver of skin as it was revealed, then picked her up and carried her into the shower.
“Is this a subtle hint that I stink, Chuck?”
“Just shut up and give me this, Diamond.”
Months had passed since he washed her hair, and he’d almost forgotten the soft moans she made when he massaged her scalp. This was sweet Emmy. The girl she might have been if life hadn’t fucked with her from the moment she was born. Black combed conditioner through her hair, then squirted shower gel into his hands and started on the rest of her body. She’d gained lumps and bumps over the years, most of them barely perceptible unless you were up close thanks to skilful repairs by the best cosmetic surgeon money could buy. The faint ridge of an old knife wound on one arm. A tiny pucker of skin where a bullet had gone through her shoulder. The rough patch on her ass where she’d skidded along the highway after leaping from a moving vehicle. Every mark told a story. Their story. His dick hardened, but he ignored it until she dropped to her knees.
“Emmy, no. This is about you.”
“Exactly. It’s about me, and I want your cock in my mouth. Shut up and come, old man.”
Ah, fuck. He loved this woman. Love. An emotion he’d never thought himself capable of until she ran into him one dark night in London all those years ago.
He leaned against the tiled wall, water cascading over his chest as she took whatever she wanted from him. He’d give her anything. Anything.
Until death do us fucking part.
CHAPTER 43 - EMMY
“YOU’RE NOT GONNA believe this.”
Why the hell was my ex calling at…at five thirty in the fucking morning? I pressed the phone to my ear to avoid disturbing Black.
“Luke, the part I can’t believe is you’re calling me at this time. I’m not even awake.”
“You’ll definitely forgive me.”
“Please, just get the talking over with. I need to sleep.”
Black stirred beneath me, one arm tightening around my waist. He’d earned a lie-in with his efforts last night.
“This had better be good,” he mumbled.
Yes, it had.
“Mack asked me to take a look at Christopher Holt,” Luke said. “Said he was getting married to a friend of yours today?”
“Sort of. A friend’s daughter.”
“Well, I doubt his other wife’s going to be too happy to hear that.”
“His…what? What are you talking about?”
“Esther Holtz. She lives in Kansas with their teenage daughter.”
“Holtz? With a Z?”
“He seems to have dropped the Z, but the rest of the details match. Social security number, bank accounts, employment history.”
Holy fuck. “How sure are you about this?”
“I’d say ninety percent. Esther tried sending a private detective after him when he skipped his alimony payments, but the chap didn’t get far before she ran out of cash and the search got put on hold. Dan just called him—he’d be very interested in knowing Holtz’s whereabouts.”
“What can you send me to back this up? I mean legal stuff?” As opposed to the fruits of his slightly dodgy hacking habit.
“Court filings. A marriage certificate. The PI’s supposed to be sending more info to Dan.”
“Legend. Consider yourself forgiven.”
I flopped back on the bed, digesting that little titbit of information. Christopher Holt was a wannabe bigamist? Bloody hell. Tempting though it was to fly Esther Holtz to Egypt and have her pipe up when the officiant asked whether anyone had any objections to the marriage, I couldn’t do it. Mostly because the jet would
n’t fly fast enough, but also because I refused to embarrass Bob and Zena like that. Uh, and Lynn.
“Does this mean the wedding’s off?” Luke asked.
“I hope so.”
“Because I hear the stylist Bradley arranged has just landed at Sharm el-Sheikh airport with a cargo of dresses.”
Ah, shit. “It never rains but it fucking pours.”
Luke choked back a laugh. “And Mack found out why Gunther didn’t go to Saudi Arabia, in case you want to know.”
“Go on, tell me.”
“It seems…” Another laugh. “It seems he got caught a decade ago trying to smuggle alcoholic chocolates through King Khalid Airport. Due to an administrative mix-up, he made it onto a plane out of there, but he got sentenced to six months in jail and fifty lashes in his absence, and there’s still a warrant out for his arrest.”
“Chocolates? They arrested him for chocolates?”
“I guess it’s another reason to cut out the junk food.”
I hung up and tossed the phone back onto the nightstand. It was too early for this. But my busy mind was already wondering whether we could somehow drop Gunther off in Riyadh with a case of champagne and half a dozen gay porn magazines.
“What was that about?” Black asked.
“We need to have a chat with Bob.”
“I’ll kill him. If I do it at sea, I can make it look like an accident.”
Bob paced back and forth across his office, fists clenched at his sides, and I felt a tiny bit sorry for Chris. We’d printed off the worst of what Luke and Dan had sent through, and the papers were spread out across Bob’s desk in a slideshow of damnation. Dan had even found a wedding photo, which was a nice touch.
“Did he tell Lynn he’d been married before?” Black asked.
“No, he did not. He said he’d been consumed by his job, but now it was time to take a step back. You’re sure he never got divorced?”
“We can’t find any evidence of it. And refusing to pay alimony to his ex is a low move.”
Right. In a weird twist, I’d managed to stay on good terms with all my exes. I guess I figured that if I liked them enough to date them in the first place, it’d be sensible to keep them as friends. Luke was a case in point—look at the way he’d helped us this morning.