Quicksand (11 page)

Javier the dishwasher walked by, carrying a still-steaming plastic tray full of dishes out to the server's station. He nodded to Nora, and she nodded back before whispering, “I don't want to marry that way, Baba.”

Her father looked up sharply, then set down his spoon, extinguishing the flame beneath the rice pudding. “Listen to me, Nora Khalil. If you think I let you go off to be a big bad police officer in order to have you forget who you are, you are very wrong. You are still my daughter. And it is my job to see you happily married. That. Is. My.
Job
.”

He watched her digest his words. “When Dr. Dallas comes, you will meet him. Because I wish it. And I'm your father. And I. Still.
Matter
.”

*   *   *

The November sun
rose coolly over an already bustling Monday. The thirty-three bus ground to a screeching halt under her window, and car horns echoed irritably through the streets as Nora donned her running gear. She had been tossing and turning most of the night, partially because she was so angry with her father, partially because she was so angry with herself for being angry. Of course he wanted her to marry an Egyptian doctor. Every Egyptian father wanted his daughter to marry an Egyptian doctor. Didn't every father on the planet want his daughter to marry a doctor?

It was all completely normal.

She stared at herself for a long time in the bathroom mirror, then began to laugh.
You're only upset because you've gone and fallen in love with Ben Calder
.

She laughed for a while, felt tears spring to her eyes, then determined that she would run it all off. She packed her drawstring backpack full of maps and print-ups of Kingsessing (all of Saturday night's research), and every missing persons report that looked vaguely like Jane Doe (all of Sunday's research), and she headed out into the Monday morning swirl. Her backpack flopping against her back, and Haifa Wehbe singing in her ears, she sprinted along 21st Street and over the train tracks to the river. She passed faces she recognized—serious runners could always pick each other out of the group on the Schuylkill Banks. She watched as a few Canada geese feinted at a swanky stroller. A demonic shout from the speed-walking mother scattered them.

Nora emerged by the Spring Garden Bridge and crossed over the parkway to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. She ran the steps to the top, pausing, not because she needed the air, but because she loved the way the city unfolded beneath her, perfectly aligned, the wide parkway rimmed with multicolored flags of every nation. The city from this angle was open, accepting, cultured, alive. She liked the way she felt from the top of those steps, and she wanted an extra dose today after all the time she'd spent in Kingsessing and in the Alternative Detention Center yesterday. Those places had nothing to do with the Philly she grew up in. This fact unsettled her more than she'd realized.

She ran up and down four more times before taking off down the parkway. She connected with Arch Street by Love Park's towering fountain, then headed past the Convention Center, through the electric bustle of Chinatown, past the detention center and finally in through the wide glass doors of the Federal Building. She chatted with the security guard, mourning the Eagles' loss with him despite her complete indifference, and then headed down to take a quick shower in the basement locker room. She changed into the extra white blouse and navy trousers she kept hanging in her locker. She wound her hair into a knot, secured it with an elastic, and walked meditatively up the eight flights of stairs. Two overly hair-gelled junior attorneys from the AUSA's office brushed past her, trying to find a secluded area to smoke. She knew that Saturday's corpse would already have made its way to one of Monty Watt's drawers and she cringed, remembering, and wondered for a moment if she shouldn't have followed her teammate Michaela into a nice, safe career as a personal trainer.

The din of ringing phones, both office lines and cellular, hit her like a wave as she pushed open the door to the eighth floor. Wansbrough was alone in their cubicle, and looked up as she walked in. “You look fresh from a run.”

She looked him over. “And you look worried. Did something happen with Fulton?”

“I heard from the AUSA he's pleading not guilty to the rape and murder.”

Nora sank into her chair, processing this. “How can that be?”

John shook his head. “Stranger things have happened. But because we still can't find the murder weapon, it doesn't surprise me.”

“But the DNA…”

“I don't know what he's up to. But that's not the worst part…” John continued.

She raised her eyebrows, questioning him.

“It's my twenty-fifth anniversary.”

She laughed, despite herself. “Is that all? Okay, how are you celebrating?” Nora asked.

“By not putting a gun to my head.”

“Did you get Olivia something?”

“I'm working on it.”

“You're still working on it?” Nora demanded.

“I'm
working
on it,” he repeated tersely.

“You got reservations somewhere?”

“
I'm working on it!
” he snapped.

“Oh my God,” she said. She powered on her laptop. “You're lucky it's a Monday, you might still be able to get reservations somewhere.” She began browsing the Internet. “Modern Asian fusion? Spanish tapas? Old-world steak house?”

“I could take her to your dad's place…”

“Cheapskate! Answer the original question.”

“Steak?” he shrugged.

She made her way through to Butcher & Singer's reservations page. “What time do you want to go?”

“Dinner time. Seven. Seven thirty,” he said, as though it was obvious.

Nora gazed at the screen and then smiled at him. “They have openings at five thirty or nine forty-five.”

“Jesus…”

“… likely won't be there. Now … which one?”

He shook his head. “Can't you see about some other place?” he asked plaintively.

“How can you skimp on the twenty-fifth anniversary dinner? Nothing less than a Stephen Starr restaurant will do.”

“I don't even know who that is!” he protested.

“
Olivia
does, trust me.” Nora entered the rest of his information after he reluctantly passed her his credit card to hold their place. “And she'll be
very
grateful.”

“You mean I might get lucky?”

“Eww. I meant she
might
decide to stay married to you.”

She could see, though, that he was contemplating the confluence of his twin ideals of steak and sex.

“You're alright, Nora Khalil,” he said finally.

Nora shrugged, ignoring the fact that he was still mispronouncing her name after six months. “You'd better call her. She'll need time to primp.”

As Wansbrough carried his cell phone into the bustling hall, Nora looked at her own fingernails—which she'd trimmed the night before with a toenail clipper while taking a break from her computer screen. She indulged in a thirty-second fantasy about a dim, romantic restaurant, a clingy black dress, and Ben Calder pulling out her chair. A second later, she spied Calder and Burton as they stepped out of the elevator together and started walking toward their cubicle. Nora tugged her brain into focus.

Burton didn't say good morning. “Did you hear about the plea?”

Nora nodded. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, pointedly.

Ben Calder smiled at her. “Good morning, Officer Khalil.”

“So. What's next?”

“Less sleep,” Ben said. “More
investigatin'
.”

“You should have that on a throw pillow,” Nora observed.

Wansbrough stepped back in, pocketing his cell phone. “Did you get in to see Jane Doe, Nora?”

She nodded. “Jane Doe needs to be in a psych ward. Like, immediately. She's completely traumatized. And guys, I think she's really young. I spent a lot of time trying to link her with someone—anyone—in the missing persons databases. I found nothing.”

John nodded, writing himself a note. “I'll get her transferred today. What about you, Eric? I heard you were working up a report for us. You ready to go with that?”

Eric said, “Actually, I believe the project is proving successful. The PPD is helping a lot, to be honest—Officer Cook aided in the arrest of two lower-level members of the Junior Black Mafia late last night, a boy and a girl, both minors. Both demanded lawyers, so we're forced to wait to talk to them.”

“Where did you find them, Eric?” Nora asked.

“Basement of grandma's house,” he answered smugly.

“Bad Granny!” Ben exclaimed, shaking his head.

“So, surnames are helping; we can thank Mrs. Baker for that one. In the meantime, I've made a layout of Junior Black Mafia territory.”

Eric finished hooking up his laptop to the plasma screen on their wall, and a bright map of Southwest Philly popped up. “Okay, so as we know, the Junior Black Mafia and the A&As are both transitioning from territorial into corporate gangs. If we can chart the perimeter of JBM territory, we're looking at basically this area of Kingsessing—from 54th down to 59th and from Springfield to Whitby. Dewayne Fulton's house is here,” he paused to point at the bottom southwest corner of the screen, “and our newest crime scene is here.” He extended his finger to point nearer to the northwestern edge of the screen. “The most drug business is on
this
strip, as we know,” he said, pointing at the line representing 55th Street.

With the press of a button, a half-dozen pulsing circles began to glow. “These are the locations of drive-by shootings. This is the most recent A&A drive-by that felled—” he checked his notes, as Calder piped up, “Shane Dillard, age seventeen, a.k.a. Benzo.”

Burton nodded. “Dillard. So, as you can see, most JBM activity is within these few blocks—both the drug dealing and the drive-by shootings. Investigating the local businesses and the community centers in this exact area has netted several leads that we will be pursuing while you guys are gathering intelligence on your stabbing victim.”

Wansbrough was nodding, impressed. “All right, Eric, nice work. Make sure you have enough backup, keep PPD in the loop like you have been, and keep your vests on. These kids are running scared. And they're probably a lot more scared of the cartels supplying them than they are of you.”

Burton nodded. “That's a fact, John. We have plenty of backup.”

“Okay,” Wansbrough said. “Nora?”

She pulled a stack of papers out of her drawstring backpack, and handed each of them a map of the neighborhood. She motioned at the houses generally. “We're still holding to the theory that this graphic a crime is meant as a message to someone, so we're concerned with who lives close to the corpse. I think we would be well-served by going house to house within eyeshot of the crime. I haven't found any direct link to the gang so far, although there are gang symbols everywhere down there. I attached a house-by-house report to the map explaining ethnic origin insofar as it could be determined, household income, and any relevant federal or state infractions.”

Her colleagues looked through the pages she handed them as she spoke. “There are two felons in the neighborhood—Elise Garcia at 5601 Chester for tax fraud and Byron Mack, at 401 55th Street, for drug possession; both did minimal time. Mr. Evans, Mrs. Chambers's white neighbor, has been charged with domestic violence twice. Charges were dropped by his wife both times. The others noted there are almost exclusively people who've had misdemeanor drug possession arrests.”

She made sure they were caught up with her, then continued, “We have four abandoned homes, one slotted to be taken over by the city.”

“Was that the one next door to Mrs. Chambers?” John Wansbrough asked.

Nora shook her head. “No, amazingly, that one
is
inhabited. Or it is, according to this. The nearest abandoned home to her place is three doors down. In a couple of cases it seems clear that the owner is not living on site; I found one, if not two, other properties coming up in their possession.”

“So, renting them out?”

“Probably without an official rental contract. To sum up, I couldn't find any gang links between any of the names that came up as owners of these houses. Meeting the residents face-to-face may tell a different story. For your reference I attached the pictures of the neighborhood homes that the techs sent me yesterday after they finished up out there.”

“Okay, good Nora. What about the neighborhood mosques?” Wansbrough asked.

“There are four in the general area. One is basically a storefront,” she offered. “The other three are converted townhomes, one a double.”

Wansbrough nodded. “Okay—Burton, can you do some research into the neighborhood imams, find out who they are and what they're up to, how best to approach them? As soon as we can get an ID from Watt or, worst-case scenario, a facial reconstruction, we can go talk to the imams. See if they're missing any of their flock?”

All the agents nodded.

“Okay, kids, we're not ruling out anything—our primary objective is to meet with the neighbors now, and Nora and I will also go chat with Mrs. Chambers's hairdresser.”

Ben said, “Seriously? The hairdresser?”

John stared at him. “What, are you new? Hairdressers have the pulse of a community, especially an impoverished area like this one.”

Ben nodded, chastened. “Okay, duly noted.”

John continued, “I'll look for Burton's report by tomorrow, and then we can ask questions in the mosques. Ben—why don't you go ahead and call Watt now and ask him to get an artist to re-create that face for us. You two call us if you need anything out there.”

As they rose to part, Nora could tell that John wished Schacht hadn't prioritized their newest case, and that they were joining their teammates instead. She met Ben's eyes, and said, “Call me if you have trouble running 'em down.”