Not One Clue (29 page)

“Skip?” Aalia asked, and disengaged from the doorway.

“What do you do here in the dark of the night?” Taabish’s voice hadn’t softened any. And I saw now that he held a baseball bat in both hands.

“Aalia said …” Skip staggered again, wiped his eyes, and ricocheted off his left headlight. Mace is hell on eyesight. “She said she missed Al Mahwit so I brought her a coffee tree.” A garbled rasp rattled up his throat. “So she would feel more at home.”

Oh crap. I felt a little sick to my stomach as we all glanced at the tree that apparently was
not
bleeding to death on the lawn.

Taabish was the first to turn back toward Skip. “My sister by law, she is yet married in the eyes of Allah,” he said.

“I know that. I realize that, sir.” Skip coughed, wiped his mouth, and generally looked as if he were going to die. “I just thought she could use a friend. I wanted to surprise her.”

Aalia had advanced a few feet, and because I had a front-row seat, I saw that the look he shot in her general direction had very little to do with friendship and a hell of a lot to do with adoration.

I couldn’t decide if I should feel hopeful or jealous. I had always kind of wanted my own stalker, but Taabish didn’t seem to see the beauty of the situation.

“My sister by law does not need a friend in the dark hours of the night,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir. I just … I know she’s been scared and I couldn’t sleep, so I …” He glanced through the window at me as though he kind of wished he was inside the car and maybe driving peacefully through some remote area of Nebraska. “I just thought I’d come by to make sure she was okay.”

“She
was
okay until you invaded our privacy in the small of the night.”

“I didn’t mean to—” he began, but then he started hacking again. It took him a while to straighten enough to stare through the window at me. “Holy cow,” he rasped. “What was that stuff?”

I tried not to wince. “Mace,” I said, raising my voice to make myself heard through the window. “It’s the first time I’ve tried it.”

“Pretty effective,” he said, and made a strange gargling noise. It almost sounded like a painful chuckle. “I’ll have to get Aalia some in case—”

“You will get my sister nothing,” Ramla said, and hustling to Aalia, pulled her toward the house. Taabish had drawn the bat back behind his body, and though I didn’t think they had a plethora of budding softball leagues in Yemen, he looked as if he had the general idea of how to hit a ball into the outfield. “She is a good follower of Allah.”

“I’m sorry—” Skip began again, but his apology was interrupted by the sound of sirens.

The police arrived moments later yelling for everyone to remain where we were.

We did. Me, still huddled inside the car; Al-Sadr with his bat still drawn back; the sisters frozen on the front lawn. And Skip, looking lost and ridiculously young, gazing at Aalia blindly, with his hands raised well above his head.

In the end, the officer first on the scene handcuffed Skip and eased him toward his squad car.

Once there, they stood for an instant as pertinent information was jotted down. I had a few minutes to speak to him before they hauled him off.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought—”

“No.” He shook his head, glanced longingly toward the Al-Sadrs’ house, even though Aalia had long since been shooed inside, and turned bravely back to me. “Don’t be sorry. I’m just glad to know she has a friend like you to look after her.”

“H
e really said that?” Laney had awakened at the first sound of the siren and hustled the police toward the backyard. We were sitting on the couch, pondering the intricacies of life. Well, she was pondering. I was eating the remainder of the Crazy Chrissy’s Caramel straight out of the jar. I have a strong conviction that calories consumed after a major trauma are not accounted for in the metabolic process. This theory has yet to be proven by the scientific community, research groups being what they are.

“Yup,” I said.

“While he was handcuffed?”

I peeled off another spoonful of midnight delight.

“Yup.”

She glanced at Solberg. He was sitting close enough to be a pimple on her ass. If a pimple would dare grow on her ass.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She smiled and touched his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

I glanced from one to the other and licked the spoon. “Sorry for what?” For being a cowardly dweeb who wasn’t good enough to spit shine Laney’s Manolos?

“Jeen didn’t want me to leave the house,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said again, and managed to tear his gaze from her face long enough to give me a guilty glance. “I didn’t know you were out there.”

“You didn’t hear the commotion?”

“Well …” He swallowed. “I didn’t know you were involved. And I thought … you know, someone was after Laney.”

“The letters have made us all jumpy,” she said.

“I’m usually more stoic in a crisis,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “he hardly ever cries like a baby just because you’re trying to leave the house.”

They both shifted their gazes to me, making me almost choke on my next spoonful. “You
didn’t!”
I said.

“I wasn’t
crying!”
he said. “I was just … faking it. Trying to convince Laney to remain inside … where she’s safe.”

“You
cried
?” I couldn’t believe it. I could hardly wait to tell Rivera, I realized, and wondered with a grin when that had started. “Like … real tears?”

“I was faking it!” he insisted, but his face was red.

I considered needling him some more, but the truth is, if Laney insisted on putting herself in harm’s way, I’d probably tear up a little myself.

“Well …” I ate more ice cream. “I’m
happy
you kept her inside.”

“I didn’t know who was out there,” he repeated.

I shook my head, amazed at the whimsical ways of the world. “Turns out it was just some lovesick boy mooning over Aalia.”

“How can you be sure he wasn’t sent by her husband?” Solberg asked.

“He was bearing a coffee tree.”

“Maybe it’s a ploy,” he said.

Leave it to Solberg to see boogeymen in gift trees. “The police searched his car, all he had was a college textbook and a Snickers bar, and that’s only dangerous to his glycogen level.”

We talked a little longer. Finally Solberg nodded off, slumped against the corner of the couch. He looked a little like an overgrown Yoda propped up against the cushions as he was. If I didn’t hate him so much I would have admitted he was almost cute in that so-ugly kind of way that lizards and newborns share.

“Did he really cry?” I asked.

Laney sighed. “He hasn’t been getting enough sleep.”

“Some people don’t burst into tears when they’re tired,” I said. “They just get grouchy.”

“You would know,” she said.

I had finished off the ice cream a while ago and wished I hadn’t. After all, I was still holding the spoon and it seemed like a terrible waste of energy.

“Even after I realized the kid had come bearing gifts, I still thought he might be trouble,” I admitted. “But now I think he’s just a nice guy. Worried about little Aalia. It’s kind of cute in a creepy, stalkerish sort of way.”

“I’m afraid they’ve got a lot against them.”

“How do you mean?”

“Aalia and Stephen. Religion can be as divisive as it can be enlightening. Could be Mr. Al-Sadr would be more comfortable with an abusive Muslim husband than a doting American boyfriend. The fact that Aalia is wearing blue jeans and spending her Saturdays at Starbucks is probably driving him crazy.”

I shrugged, willing to let them work that out for themselves as I glanced at Yoda once again. “What’d he do? Block the door with his meager body when you tried to leave?” I asked.

“He ordered me to remain inside.”

I felt my eyebrows make a dash for my hairline. “He
ordered
you?”

“It was kind of sweet.”

I glanced toward him. Turns out little Yoda had more balls than I’d given him credit for. Laney had been practicing yoga and kickboxing for more than a decade. She could have tied him in knots without turning a hair.

“What’d you do?”

“I think I may have sworn at him.”

“Seriously?”

“I kind of like you, Mac. Even when you’re grouchy.”

“You
swore
at him?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that when he started to cry?”

“Right about then.”

“Said he’d die if anything happened to you?”

“Something like that.”

I nodded, ruminating and licking the dry spoon. “You know what bothers me the most?”

“That you kind of want a stalker of your very own.”

“Yeah,” I said, and sighed.

31

I truly believe it is emotionally damaging to be amicable for long periods of time.

—
Christina McMullen, Ph.D
.

I
slept like a chilled reptile for the rest of the night. But by morning my mind still felt nubby. Sometimes running acts like a brain defuzzer, so I trundled up Chestnut Hill with Harley at my side in an attempt to wake up my cerebellum, but when I reached home I felt sweaty
and
nubby.

I reached the office at 7:50. At 8:10 Shirley buzzed to tell me Rivera was on the line. I took a fortifying breath and picked up the receiver.

“I swear to God I’m not trying to get myself killed,” I said. “I just … I was really tired, and I saw someone in the Al-Sadrs’ yard and I thought—”

“They picked up Ahmad Orsorio last night.”

My mouth was still open, trying to yammer out a defense. “What?”

“He’d checked himself into Glendale Memorial. Guess the bullet in his leg was giving him some trouble.”

“They got him?”

“The bastard’s femur was broken.”

“So what happens now?”

“Now he has an armed guard at his bedside till he goes to trial or gets shipped back to Yemen in disgrace.”

I sighed. “I
love
happy endings.”

Rivera chuckled. “So your bad-ass friend that shot him … what’s his name? I’d like to thank him.”

“I’ll make sure to relay your gratitude.”

“I’d rather do it in person.”

“I bet you would,” I said, and hung up a few seconds later.

O
ne would think with all these ugly loose ends being tied up, I would have been as cheery as a picnic basket that weekend, but something was gnawing at me and I wasn’t sure what it was.

By Friday I had eye bags the size of feed sacks, which made Laney’s chipper countenance that much more irritating.

“Good morning.”

“Really?” I said, and gave her a malevolent stare through one sandbagged eye. I was just pouring myself a bowlful of Cap’n Crunch. Diabetes in a bowl.

“I’ve made a decision about the wedding,” Laney said.

“You’re calling it off?” I asked, and added milk to the Crunch.

“I’m leaving all the details to Jeen.”

“Aren’t the details pretty well set?”

“He said he’s sorry I’ve gotten so stressed. He’s going to make some changes.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. He’s going to find a place where the paparazzi won’t figure out the location of the ceremony, for one thing.”

“He’s going to change the venue?”

“Not sure,” she said. She was busy pouring Green Goo into a Klean Kanteen. Apparently, she’d learned to make do without her recipe.

“Didn’t you pay an arm and a couple vital organs as a deposit for the Pavilion?” I asked.

“Something like that.”

“Can you get it back?”

“Maybe a gallbladder.” She was already making a beeline for the front door, but stopped halfway there and turned with a scowl. “Shoot! Do you think the cops can convince Nadine to give my jacket back?”

“She probably sold it on eBay for an arm and a spleen.”

She gave me a look. “Any chance that joke’s going to get old anytime soon?”

“Doubtful,” I said, munching a mouthful of the captain’s finest.

She sighed. “Can I use your jean jacket?”

“It’s nine hundred degrees out there.”

“But it’ll only be eight seventy-five this evening.”

“If you’d gain a couple ounces of fat maybe your body could regulate its own temperature instead—”

“Mac—”

“Sorry.” For one shuddering second I contemplated the idea that I was beginning to sound like my mother. But I would not consider suicide. Not until I started scrubbing my counters with Hi-lex. “It’s in the closet.”

“Thanks,” she said, and pacing over, snapped the jacket from its hanger before striding, long-legged and cool, toward the door. “Oh, Mac?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re nothing like your mother,” she said, and disappeared.

M
y workday went pretty smoothly until three o’clock when Shirley buzzed me, saying I had a call from a Courtney Paxton. I picked it up in a moment.

“Christina McMullen,” I said. I sounded confident and intelligent. Role-playing—highly recommend by leading psychologists and certified nut cases.

“Yes, Ms. McMullen, I’m the therapist at Northmont High School. I had a message to call you regarding Emily Christianson.”

My mind clicked into gear with little more than an audible groan. “Oh, yes. Thanks for returning my call. I was hoping to get a little more information about Ms. Christianson.”

“Such as?” She sounded a little wary.

“Any pertinent findings regarding her emotional and physical health.”

“As you probably know, she’s an excellent student.” She paused a second. “We had no warning that she was troubled until she was found bleeding on the tile in the girls’ restroom.”