“You scared me.”
He stood, laughing. “I could tell. You don’t have the porch light on.”
She must have forgotten to flip the switch in her hurry to get out the door.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. What are you doing here?”
Hal scratched behind Buster’s ear in the way the dog loved. “No, that’s not for you, buddy. That’s for your mama.”
The smell of jasmine and curry reached her nose. “You brought dinner?” Suddenly, she was famished. The smell of the food had her drooling. She twisted the key in the lock, and the three of them went inside. “You want to grab plates? I need to feed Buster.”
“Got it.”
Schwartzman shrugged out of her coat, filled Buster’s bowl with clean water, and dished up his food. She poured herself wine from a bottle she’d opened the night before and raised the bottle toward Hal, though he wasn’t a wine guy.
“No, thanks.”
“You want a beer? I bought some of the ones you like.”
Hal looked up from setting their plates on the table. “Really?”
“I know you don’t like wine.” She gestured to the refrigerator. “Or bourbon,” she added, teasing him. For the length of their friendship, she’d been trying to convert him to a bourbon drinker, offering up her father’s favorite, Evan Williams.
Hal opened the fridge.
“It’s on the bottom shelf,” she said.
The refrigerator was the old style—fridge on the bottom and freezer up top. She planned to replace it, as well as the old dishwasher and the linoleum floors—when she had time to organize the little remodel. At almost five foot nine, Schwartzman felt awkward reaching for items on the bottom shelf of the unit, but Hal almost folded himself in half to reach the six-pack of Guinness.
“What?” he asked, seeing her expression.
“It’s a small refrigerator,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s bigger than the one in my place,” he said, opening the can of beer. “I’ve got to get on my knees to find things in the back.”
The image made her laugh, and it felt good. The strange case, the missing kids, not to mention the lack of sleep—it weighed on her. It was refreshing to feel normal for a minute.
Hal grabbed the bottle of water she kept in the fridge and set it on the table. She brought glasses and sat down across from him. Buster, who had eaten his dinner in a matter of a dozen bites, slurped loudly from his water bowl and came to lie beneath the table in case one of them should drop something.
He was forever hopeful.
They served up dinner and fell into the comfortable silence of eating for a few minutes. He’d gotten lamb saag, a spinach-based sauce, which was his favorite, and murgh makhani, better known as butter chicken, which was hers. Hal had never had Indian food until last spring, when he’d been sick and she’d brought it to the department for him one afternoon, promising the curry would do wonders for his cold. She’d bought it from the place Ken Macy had suggested. Though they’d dated only a few times, spicy ethnic food—Indonesian, Lebanese, Indian—reminded her of him. She had hoped they might be friends, but Ken still kept his distance. He’d taken eighteen stab wounds for her. How could she blame him if that had make things awkward?
Hal had been outwardly skeptical about Indian cuisine on his first try, but he’d taken to it. She watched him enjoying the food, grateful that he’d come. She suspected he had news he wanted to share—or a problem he wanted to tease out with her—but she let him come to it on his own.
It didn’t take long. “I got a call from Detective Bond.”
Schwartzman set her fork down. Subjects that related to her own past always threw her. Deacon Bond, a retired detective with the Greenville Police Department, had worked the death of Joseph Strom—the man whose death certificate had been left on Schwartzman’s windshield a year earlier. Hal had reached out to Bond at the time, but when Bond had been diagnosed with prostate cancer, investigating a fourteen-year-old death no longer topped his list of priorities. When Hal mentioned Bond’s cancer, Schwartzman had wondered if it wasn’t strange that she and Bond—bound by some tragedy years earlier—were both suffering from the same disease on opposite sides of the country.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “How is he?”
“Good. He’s cancer-free.”
“That’s good.”
“He said he’d pulled the files on Strom’s crash. Promised he’d call me after he’s had some time to look at them.”
Schwartzman took a deep breath. Strom had been a developer and a client of her father’s. Last fall, she had received a copy of Strom’s death certificate from a woman with Alzheimer’s who had sworn his death wasn’t an accident. In the months before Strom allegedly ran his car off the road and died, he had been working on developing a small subdivision north of Greenville. The deal fell apart after his banker had convinced the landowner to sell to him instead. Six months later, the banker had flipped the land for a healthy profit—something just shy of seven figures.
That banker was Spencer.
Her father had died from a stroke three months after Strom. Or that’s what the pathologist had told them. Schwartzman had never doubted the diagnosis until Strom’s death was called into question.
She had no idea if it meant Spencer had been involved with either death—Strom’s or her father’s. What it did mean, though, was that Spencer had known her father before he’d died—at least as acquaintances. Not only had her ex-husband failed to mention this, but he’d led her to believe the two had never even crossed paths, saying he wished he’d met her father.
Schwartzman swallowed the rest of her wine.
Hal reached for the bottle. “You want a little more?”
She nodded, and he refilled her glass. “Any updates on the case?”
“The team went through the Laughlins’ apartment. Nothing suspicious there. Aleena hadn’t packed anything, and her jewelry was in her dresser drawer, including what appears to be her wedding ring.”
Schwartzman considered what that meant. Some women didn’t wear rings. But if Aleena Laughlin normally wore her ring, leaving it at home meant she was worried about it. About losing the ring? About having someone notice it or steal it?
“The team is still working on Laughlin’s Jeep, but the inside of the theater is a dead end,” Hal said. “There are too many prints and hairs to narrow anything down.”
“What about the dark hair Roger found on one of the chairs?”
“According to Roger, it’s likely a match to the boy.”
“Not the girl?” That night in the park, she wished she’d seen into the backseat of the Jeep. Or looked. Would she have been able to see an infant? Maybe not, but surely, she would have spotted the shape of a car seat.
“The texture suggests hair from an older child.”
She said nothing.
“But Roger is running tests. He got a sample of the boy’s hair from the pillow at the hospital, so he’s checking the two samples for a DNA match. And Roger has some news on the dragonfly.”
“What did he say?”
Hal patted his pants pocket and drew out the little black notebook he kept there. “It’s called a Trithemis aurora.”
She smiled at his pronunciation of the Latin name.
“Also called the crimson marsh glider. Mostly found in peninsular India, according to Roger.”
Schwartzman chewed on that. “I would have guessed Aleena’s heritage was Iranian or Iraqi.”
“It is. According to Ben and Phyllis Johnson, the neighbors, her parents emigrated from Iraq when she was five and her younger sister three.”
“Does the family have any connection to India?”
“None that they know of.”
“Maybe through her religion?” It sounded dumb as soon as the words were out. She should have known more about other religions. As it was, her knowledge of her own religion wa
s limited to what little she’d learned from her father and Ava. And a bit about Christianity that she’d garnered from the times her mother had dragged her to church and to Bible school.
“That’s the only thing I can think of,” Hal agreed, making her feel better. “Islam is the second largest religion in India. But Roger didn’t find anything that related dragonflies to Islam.”
“I did some reading on them.” She shared what she’d learned about dragonflies as symbols for change.
“Roger read something similar. He also mentioned how fast they are. They can fly something like forty-five miles per hour, change direction, fly backward. Like a helicopter.”
“They’re incredibly graceful and strong,” Schwartzman agreed.
Hal flipped his notebook open. “Roger said they represent ‘a spiritual guide through tricky winds.’”
“Is that a reference to Laughlin? Or to her killer?”
“That’s what we need to find out.” Hal tipped the bottle of Guinness to his lips and took a swig.
Schwartzman raised the wineglass and did the same, imagining the dragonfly that had buzzed around the morgue. A spiritual guide through tricky winds. The notion brought to mind the suspicious circumstances around her father’s death. She could use a spiritual guide of her own. When she looked up, Hal was watching her. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” Maybe she didn’t have a spiritual guide, but she had Hal. Thank God for that.
16
Hal woke to his cell phone ringing beneath his pillow. He lifted his head, disoriented, before pulling it out to check the caller ID. San Francisco area code. He was waiting to hear from Jared Laughlin in Afghanistan, but surely, that call would come in as an international call. Or maybe from DC.
The night behind the blinds was still black as he pushed himself off the mattress and rolled over, answering the call midring. “Harris.”
“This is Phyllis Johnson. Parveen is at the apartment. She came this morning.”
Parveen was the woman who sometimes cared for the Laughlin children. Hal sat upright, squeezed his eyes closed.
“She has the baby—Naadiya,” Phyllis said in a rush of words and breath. “They’re both here, and the baby is fine. And our attorney helped us file for temporary custody, so we were able to bring Kaelen home from the hospital last night.”
Hal fell back against the pillows, letting the long breath escape his lungs. Thank God. “Where have they been?”
“I thought you might want to speak to Parveen.”
“I do.” He sat up quickly and rubbed his face. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Come when you can,” Phyllis said. “I’ll put on some coffee.”
Twenty minutes later, when Hal knocked on the Johnsons’ door, Phyllis answered immediately. Her gray hair hung loose, and as she led him into the apartment, he noticed that it reached her waist. Despite its length, it was thick with a gentle wave that matched her personality.
In the kitchen, Ben Johnson stood at the stovetop, the smell of bacon and eggs thick in the air. Hal’s stomach growled, and Ben turned around as though he’d heard the noise.
“I’m fixing some breakfast if you’re hungry,” Ben offered.
“That’s kind, but I don’t want to intrude.”
“I’m making enough for everyone.” He pointed his spatula to the coffee maker. “There’s coffee, too.”
Phyllis helped Hal to a mug of coffee. The boy sat on the floor inside a narrow pantry. His legs crossed beneath him, he leaned forward and rattled toys in front of his sister, who was propped up by a U-shaped pillow Hal remembered from when his youngest nephew, James, was an infant.
“He woke up when he heard his sister,” Phyllis said to him. “I think he sensed we were worried.” To the boy, she said, “Kaelen, can you say hello to Mr. Harris?”
Kaelen looked up. “Hello.”
“Hello, Kaelen.”
Hal had received a copy of Kaelen’s hospital report. When the boy arrived at the hospital, his blood had still shown traces of diphenhydramine—a common ingredient in allergy and sleep medications. Not ideal, but the drug hadn’t caused any lasting damage.
Smudges of darkness lay under the child’s eyes, like dark makeup rubbed into the hollows. Perhaps they came from the residual effects of the drugs and the time in the hospital or from knowing his mother was dead. Aside from those, Kaelen appeared every bit a healthy seven-year-old.
The child psychologist who’d interviewed Kaelen at the hospital said he didn’t remember anything from the night before. He’d been at karate before going to the park with his mom. The next thing he remembered, he was in the hospital.
That might change.
Other memories could surface, but Hal knew better than to hold his breath. If those memories were forever forgotten, it would likely be the best outcome for Kaelen. Who knows what he’d witnessed that night?
Hal watched the two children.
Phyllis lowered her voice. “We told him about his mom, but I’m not sure he quite understands. Have you reached Jared?”
“Not yet,” he said. “His regiment is off base on an assignment.”
As Phyllis’s gaze found the two children, the worry lines on her forehead deepened.
A thin Middle Eastern woman entered the kitchen. She was probably in her seventies and had the gentle roundness that reminded Hal of his own mother. He rose from his chair as she approached the table.
“Inspector Harris, this is Parveen Yasmin.”
Without meeting his eye, Parveen offered a thin hand, which Hal shook gently. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said.
Schwartzman had said that Aleena Laughlin had been wearing a burqa. Had Schwartzman seen the red lips, she would have remembered—Hal was certain of that. But what Parveen wore covered only her head and neck. A hijab, it was called.
He’d had so few interactions with people who practiced Islam that he knew little about the variations in the religion. With the recent changes in the world, he knew it was important that he understand Muslims more than he did.
Hal pulled a chair out from the table and waited as Parveen settled into it. Before her was a small teapot. The ceramic top rattled with the tremor in her hand as she poured green tea into a mug. Taking care of an eight-month-old had to have been exhausting.
Phyllis and Ben served food while Parveen spoke softly, telling Hal how she’d come to know Aleena and Jared Laughlin. Originally from Iraq like Aleena’s family, Parveen had been their neighbor when she’d first arrived in America. As was natural with immigrants from the same country, the families had kept in contact—to offer each other advice on the best place to buy za’atar and sumac, on local service providers who spoke Arabic, and to celebrate the Assyrian New Year on April 1 and Independence Day in October.
Eventually, the families had drifted apart. Aleena’s parents had been busy raising their two daughters, and Parveen had no children of her own. After her husband died, Parveen had moved into the city, letting a single-room basement apartment to be closer to the small population of Muslims in the area. It was there that she had reconnected with Aleena through the local mosque.
“I ran into Aleena shortly after Naadiya was born. She was busy with the two kids and Mr. Laughlin’s . . .” She looked to Ben.
“Deployment,” he offered.
“Yes,” Parveen said. “I offered to take Naadiya a couple of mornings a week so that she had some time to herself while Kaelen was at school.” Her eyes lit up. “I loved having time with the baby, and I came to think of Aleena as a daughter.” She blinked away tears. “She and her own mother didn’t speak, and managing both children with her husband away was quite stressful.” Parveen looked to Phyllis. “I think Aleena came to rely on me.”
Phyllis nodded.
Parveen spoke of Aleena in more intimate terms than Phyllis had. Was it the shared religion that made Parveen more a mother to her than Phyllis? Or simply circumstance? Hal made a note in his book. “But this week
Aleena asked you to take Naadiya overnight.”
Her focus flitted across the table. “Yes.”
“Had she done that before?”
“No.” Parveen drank from her tea. She seemed nervous. A fresh wave of grief?
He gave her time to go on.
“I was surprised. I was worried about what was going on.”
“Did you ask her?”
Parveen gave a short nod. “She would say very little.”
“What did she say?” Hal asked.
“Just that I should take Naadiya.”
Hal watched her until she met his gaze. There was something there, something she wasn’t saying. “Nothing else?”
“No.”
Phyllis had settled into a chair at the table, though she wasn’t eating her food. Ben remained standing, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
Hal watched their expressions as they took in the news. A sense of remorse on Ben’s face? Was it frustration as well?
“Maybe Kaelen wants to watch a video?” Phyllis said, nodding to the boy, who was still sitting within earshot.
Ben nodded, crossed to Kaelen, and led the boy from the room. Children’s music filtered through the doorway, and Ben returned to the kitchen.
“And she didn’t say anything to you?” Hal directed the question to Phyllis.
After a quick shake of her head, Phyllis lifted her fork and pushed a scrambled egg around on her plate.
Ben’s shoulders heaved several times before he made a long, sniffling sound. “That’s my fault.”
The fork Phyllis had been holding dropped, clattering against the plate and sending bits of egg across the table.
“She was nervous and distracted,” Ben said softly. “She almost melted Naadiya’s bottle in the pan last week. And then she served Kaelen mac-n-cheese that was scalding. It burned the roof of his mouth.” His voice dropped. “Remember?”
Phyllis’s shoulders sank. “Yes,” she whispered.
Parveen was focused on her teacup. She lifted it off the saucer as though to take a sip but lowered it again, holding her hands on the porcelain.
“When did she start to act nervous?” Hal asked.
Expose (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 3) Page 9
