Controlling Interest (14 page)

“I had never met your father until our wedding day,” Shazia said firmly. “We have being very happy.”

“Yes, Ammi, but you are another age.”

Natalie smiled at Shazia's offended expression. “You mean another generation. The world has changed. As they say, it's a global community.”

“Yes, maybe, but my daughters are brought up very traditional. They go to school where we send them. They make the highest marks. They never go with bad company. They go to mosque every week.” She gave Liba an annoyed look. “They marry the man we choose.”

“Ammi — ”

Shazia cut Liba off with a wave of her small hand. “We discuss this later in private. The important thing is to find your sister.”

“You're right, Mrs. Patel.” Natalie put down the notepad and touched Shazia's hand. “Which means I need to ask Liba some questions that might have uncomfortable answers. Can you let her answer without getting upset?”

Shazia sucked in a breath. “I am no upset!”

“Ammi.”

“Well, maybe a little.” Tears swam in Shazia's soft brown eyes. “I just want my daughter to be safe. I am so afraid for her. She does not know this big country. She does not know anyone. How we will find her?”

“Matt and I are going to keep trying until we do.” Natalie rolled her PDA stylus between her hands. “Liba, if I can get you to a computer, will you let us print some of Yasmine's emails? If I can get to know her better, tracing her possible movements might be easier.”

“Of course.” Liba studiously avoided her mother's gaze.

“Great.” Natalie took her phone out of her purse and punched Matt's speed dial.

He answered on the first ring. “Natalie! Where are you?”

“I'm still with Liba and her mother. Hey, can I take them back to your office and use the computer? Liba's got some emails from her sister and said I could print them out. Maybe they'll give us a lead.”

Matt was silent for a beat. “That's a good idea. I'll meet you there in ten minutes.”

“Wait — how's it going with Mr. Patel?”

“I'll tell you when I get there. Just ring the doorbell and tell Tootie I said to let you in the office.” He muttered under his breath. “Guess I'm going to have to get you your own key.” He didn't sound happy about it.

“Don't worry, I won't steal your pencils.” She clicked the phone off and made a face at Shazia Patel. “My partner. My biggest fan.”

CHAPTER
EIGHT

A
s he passed the Jailhouse Rock Clock Shop, Matt glanced over his shoulder at the scowling young businessman dogging his heels. He had escaped from Abid Patel only to find himself caught up in the tide of Jarrar Haq's hot-blooded Middle-Eastern impatience. If he knew what he'd done to get himself trapped in this sitcom, he'd repent right now.

The outer door of his building opened before he could get his key out of his pocket.

“Matthew!” Tootie yanked him inside. “I wish you'd tell me when you've got company coming. I would've waxed the floors.”

“I'm busting my butt every time I take my shoes off as it is. This place is like a doggone skating rink. No more wax!” He looked around to make sure Haq had followed him into the foyer.

Of course he had. No getting rid of Prince Ali Baba anytime this century. The Pakistani computer nerd stood next to Tootie's antique coat rack, arms folded, heavy brows hooked together. He eyed Tootie's floral housedress, apron, and fuzzy slippers with patent disdain.

Tootie gave Haq an equally jaundiced glare. “Speaking of taking off your shoes . . .”

“Tootie, don't start, okay? This is Jarrar Haq, my client's future son-in-law. Haq, this is my landlady, Mrs. Sheehan. Tootie, have you got any soft drinks handy?”

Of course I do, sweet cheeks.” She directed a pointed look at the braided rug before backing into her apartment. “Wipe your feet.”

“You allow that woman to talk to you like a servant.” Haq followed Matt upstairs to his office. Matt noticed he did not wipe his feet on the rug, rather stepped over it.

“We have an understanding.” Matt looked over his shoulder as he reached the landing. “Aren't there women who more or less benevolently run your life?”

Haq's lip curled. “Hardly. Even my mother defers to me. When I marry, I will be master of my household.”

“Hmph. Your life's gonna be one heck of a wrestling match.” Matt opened his office door. He found Natalie seated at his computer, Mrs. Patel and Liba leaning over her shoulder. The printer was spitting out sheet after sheet of paper. “How's it going, Nancy Drew?”

Natalie looked around, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. “This is so interesting! I found a program that translates Urdu to English. Except some of it's a little . . . strange. Liba's going to help me with the idioms that don't work when they're literally translated.”

Mrs. Patel looked over Matt's shoulder and gasped. “Jarrar? Jarrar Haq?”

Liba and Natalie looked at one another, then stared at Haq, who drew himself up to his rather impressive six feet.

“I am Haq.” He nodded at Mrs. Patel without offering a hand. “I believe you must be Yasmine's mother.”

“Yes, I — why are you here?”

“He showed up at the hotel just as I was about to leave.” Matt gestured for Haq to follow him into the room and offered one of the folding chairs. He was going to have to work on getting some more comfortable furniture. “Your husband got a business call, said he'd meet you and Liba for dinner at seven.”

Haq hesitated, then gingerly sat down. “I am concerned about Yasmine's disappearance. Perhaps she was drugged on the plane.” He seemed, Matt thought, outraged as well as bewildered. “She didn't look drugged,” said Natalie thoughtfully. “A little nervous maybe . . .”

“Natural, how do you say, bridal nerves,” cut in Mrs. Patel. Clearly she didn't want to offend Haq.

Natalie seemed to have no such compunction. “I can understand why,” she said, frowning at Haq. “Are your parents here in the U.S., Mr. Haq?”

“They are still in Islamabad because of my father's governmental responsibilities. They had planned to arrive a few days before the wedding with my sisters and their families.”

Matt took out his notebook and leaned a hip on the corner of the desk. He warned Natalie with a look to pay attention and keep her mouth shut. “Remind me what your father does, Haq. I understand he's somebody important in the Pakistani government.”

“That is right.” Haq's thin, ascetic face unscrewed slightly. “My father is the Federal Minister of Commerce.
Very
important.”

“Especially to my father,” said Liba.

If Jarrar heard the trace of cynicism coloring the teenager's soft voice, he overlooked it. He gave her a lofty look. “As you say. But my father is not a man to let his daughters run wild. All three of my older sisters are married and living in Karachi with large families.” He smiled. “I look forward to the companionship of marriage myself.”

Matt suppressed a shudder. Companionship, yes. Marriage, not so much. “Haq, how long have you lived in the States? No offense, but couldn't you find a woman you wanted to marry over here?”

Haq's narrow shoulders lifted. “I have had difficulty finding a woman of suitable parentage and religion here in America. My parents negotiated the marriage contract with the Patels. Our fathers have been associates for many years. Because of her background, Yasmine will understand her role in a wealthy, well-connected family such as mine.”

When Natalie's expression clouded, Matt knew he'd better jump in before World War III ignited in his face. “Yeah, I can see that. And of course we'll find her. There's got to be some good explanation for her disappearance. So why don't we examine these emails Liba has pulled up for us?”

Liba already had one in her hands, correcting the translation. Her full lips were pursed with contained laughter. “This electronic translator is ridiculous.”

Matt waved a hand. “That's not likely to help us find her anyway. Let's skip that stuff. Did Yasmine ever say if she had friends who could help her when she got to the States? Anybody with family or other connections here?”

“She corresponded with me.” Haq looked offended at being ignored. “Twice.”

“Two whole letters.” Natalie shook her head. “Did you save them?”

“Why would I do that? It was all silly female nonsense about wedding dresses and party favors.”

Matt could sort of sympathize with the guy, but Natalie put her hands on her hips. “You pitched your fiancée's mail in the garbage? Some help you are.”

“There was a friend Yasmine mentioned.” Liba was flipping through the emails. “A young woman she went to boarding school with. It has been quite awhile since she spoke of her, though. I cannot remember her name . . . Wait, wait.” She triumphantly yanked a page free, letting the other papers scatter to the floor. “Here it is! Rafiqah Akbar — a psychology intern. She lives right here in Memphis.”

Matt and Natalie simultaneously snatched at the email just as Tootie barged in. She carried an old-fashioned metal tray loaded with five plastic tumblers and a plate of cookies that smelled like cinnamon and vanilla.

“Lemonade, folks! And my prize-winning snickerdoodles.” Tootie set the tray down on Matt's desk and stood back, brushing her hands together. “Come on, everybody eat up.”

Reluctantly surrendering the email, Matt took a handful of crisp, cinnamon-dusted cookies and peered over Natalie's shoulder. She was getting awfully big for her britches, as Tootie would say, but he'd give her kudos for persistence.

Natalie's bottom lip pushed out as she read. “It doesn't say where this Rafiqah lives. But maybe she's in the phone book.” She frowned at Matt. “Would you quit chewing in my ear?”

“Sorry.” He twitched the page out of her hand. “I'll do the search while you take Mrs. Patel and Liba back to the hotel. On the way back, ask around to see if anybody near the thrift store or Silky's has seen Yasmine today. We'll debrief in the morning.”

“In the morning?” She gave him a suspicious look. “You're going to take the case away from me, aren't you?”

“Why would I do that?” He grinned and offered a hand to Haq, who stood and shook it with great dignity. “Thanks for your help, man. We'll let you know when we find your girl.” He nodded at the two Pakistani women, standing by the window holding untouched glasses of lemonade. Anxiety drew Mrs. Patel's face to gether as if Tootie had left out the sugar, and Liba seemed reluctant to leave. “Mrs. Patel, I promise we'll stay in touch. Meet your husband for dinner, get a good night's sleep, and one of us will call you tomorrow.”

Natalie headed for the door with her charges in tow, but on the way she skewered Matt with a look. “I'll call you tonight.” The door shut behind her with a soft snap.

Tootie started loading tumblers on the tray. “Boy, you have met your match.”

Matt was very much afraid she was right.

After leaving Liba and her mother in the lobby, Natalie blew a kiss to the Peabody ducks and walked the two short blocks back to Beale. Three p.m. and on her own again. She looked up at Elvis's statue on the way past.

“Contrary to popular belief, you not only left the building, you're dead,” she told him.

He curled his lip.

Natalie curled hers too, then laughed at herself. Trading insults with the King wouldn't help her find Yasmine.

Only a sure-enough God intervention was going to do the job. She'd been learning to pray lately. It still made her stomach flutter a little — the awareness that her every thought was bared before an almighty Presence. But his Spirit walked with her. That was a good thing.

Wonder if Matt prays like I do. Wonder if he gets up in the morning and flings it all out there for God to take care of.

Matt didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd let his spiritual ducks fly wild. From what she'd seen so far, he was more likely to want them paddling in polite circles around a fountain.

So, Lord, how about a little moving of the Holy Spirit right now? I believe you. So would you show me and Matt both what you're up to?

She walked past a pretzel stand set up on the corner of Third and Beale. She'd passed it earlier in the day but didn't stop because of a crowd of tourists surrounding it. On a portable stool behind the wagon sat a wizened little white-haired man wearing a shapeless blue sweater and a Memphis Grizzlies ball cap. The smell of yeast and salt made Natalie's stomach growl. Matt, the turkey, had booted everybody out of his office before she got one of Tootie's cookies.

Making a U-turn, she retraced her steps back to the pretzel wagon.

“Hey,” she said to the vendor with a smile. She peered through the window across the front of the cart and pointed at a poppyseed pretzel. “I'll take one of those.”