At first Elise’s head swirled, still hazy from being hit. Then she recalled Valerie’s strange behavior and palpable fear. Her sister had chanted that she was not scared in an eerie manner that suggested she was frightened of something more than becoming a slave. Later, she’d said that the truth could get a person killed in Eurabia. Now, seeing the dead girl and knowing that a cop was looking into the Persian School of Dressmaking—the same place where Salim was training his slaves—Elise was struck by the coincidence.
Elise feared Valerie was in even greater peril than she’d suspected.
In the time it took for Ali to gather his material and leave the room, Elise regained her senses from the beating he’d administered. She cursed herself for alienating him, then realized that if she hadn’t infuriated him, he wouldn’t have reached over to slap her, and the contents of the folder wouldn’t have spilled onto the floor.
Ali had left the interrogation room. The man she’d refused to speak with earlier, the one Ali had referred to as Captain Zaman, was eyeing her with hate. Beside him stood the fattest Arabian she’d ever seen. She inferred he was Zaman’s superior, most likely the chief of police or a government bureaucrat. He wasn’t even looking at her, he was looking through her. To him she was a non-entity, a means to some political end who didn’t even register as a human being. Elise could tell by the way he disregarded her that, in his eyes, she was little more than an animal.
Nevertheless, Elise thought, she had no time for pride. The two men stood whispering to each other near the doorway. The guard who’d brought her in was making his way to uncuff her hands.
“I’ll talk,” she said to Zaman and the fat man. “Tell Major Ali to come back, please. I want to talk to him one more time.”
The fat man paid no attention to her and continued talking. Zaman’s head shifted slightly in her direction but he continued nodding and looking directly at his boss. After the guard ambled in, the two men left.
The guard, an apathetic middle-aged man with a mustard stain on his uniform, led her back to the holding cell. Elise asked politely, pleaded and then tried to cajole him into calling Ali on her behalf.
“Tell him I saw the pictures that fell out of his manila folder,” she said. “Tell him I have information about the dead blond girl. The one with ties to the Persian School of Dressmaking.”
The guard ignored her, stopped short of the holding pen, and unlocked the door to a private cell. He ordered her to step inside and place her hands on two metal rings attached to the door. After cuffing her wrists to the rings, he removed the shackles from around her ankles, uncuffed her, and locked her inside.
Before slamming the door shut, the guard uttered three and only three words in response to what Elise thought was a plea with a shocking amount of detail to it, sufficient to prove she really did know something.
“Shut up, bitch.”
CHAPTER 25
Ali returned home from work with a renewed sense of hope. Sabida, of course, knew that he’d done his job and pleased the General even before Ali stepped foot in the house. He could smell the baklava she was baking for him as soon as he walked into the kitchen. He enjoyed a long shower, a hot cup of tea, and an in-depth debriefing of what his daughter had learned in school today. When he awoke the next morning, he felt as though his life was back on track.
Despite these developments, Ali didn’t hesitate when he got in his car after breakfast. Zaman wanted Elise De Jong to stew in her cell for twenty-four hours before further questioning, so Ali wasn’t scheduled to interview her until the end of the day. Thus, instead of driving directly to the station, he took a detour to the place he longed to visit more than any in the world, even more than the glorious city of Florence in the country formerly known as Italy.
He drove to the Persian School of Dressmaking.
A light shone on the second floor of the building where the school was located. Ali spied a silhouette moving about from street level, which left no doubt that either class was in session or someone was preparing the school for opening. He buzzed the intercom and a surly-sounding woman let him in. As he climbed the stairs, Ali remembered the young woman at the Curry House, who’d described the killer’s dinner companion as a woman with fat, old eyes.
A sleepy receptionist sat drinking coffee at the front desk. Ali asked if the owner was present, and a minute later a second woman joined them from a door in the wall behind the receptionist. One look at the pronounced folds of fat and wrinkles under the woman’s eyes and Ali knew he’d found her.
“Arabic chicken curry with noodle rice?” Ali said.
The woman frowned. “Excuse me?”
Ali showed her his ID and introduced himself. She told him her name was Miss Mona. He asked if they could speak somewhere privately, and she escorted him into a massive room with chairs and tables arranged by work stations. Ali suspected that the dead dhimmi girl, Greta Gaspar, had sat in one of these chairs as she learned how to sew a dress as part of the curriculum of Imam Salim’s slave training school.
“I’m conducting an investigation,” Ali said, “and a garment bag from your school is an important piece of evidence.”
“A garment bag?” Miss Mona’s face lit up with fascination. “From this school?”
“Is it a common item?”
“Common?”
“Have you had many of them made? Are there many of them around?”
Miss Mona shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a relative question, isn’t it? I’ve probably had a hundred of them made since my husband and I started our business nine years ago. That sounds like many, but compared to our retail store across the hall—Reza Couture—it’s a small amount.”
“Who gets these garment bags? The teachers? The students?”
“Just the older students, the full timers. When it comes time for them to work on their final thesis—their masterpiece dress—they’re given one to carry their work to and from class. And the teachers get them too, but there are only three teachers.”
“And what about you? Do you use one of these? Do you carry one around with you often?”
Miss Mona appeared to consider the question seriously for a moment, then narrowed her eyes. “Why does that matter?”
“Please answer the question.”
“Not until you tell me exactly what this is all about.”
Ali reached into his manila folder and pulled out a picture of Greta Gaspar’s corpse. “Do you recognize this girl?” he said.
Miss Mona glanced at the picture of the strangled girl. “Greta,” she said, without a hint of emotion. “I was told she was ill …”
“Greta Gaspar,” Ali said, images of the look-alike he’d known as a child dancing in his eyes. “She’s what this is all about.”
“She looks … I mean, obviously she’s … how did she die?”
“Answer my question. Do you use your own garment bags?”
Miss Mona drew a line with her lips. “I still don’t understand why you’re asking me such a question. What does this dhimmi girl … what do garment bags … what does any of this have to do with me?”
“Do you like curry?”
“What?”
“Did you go to the Curry House for lunch a week ago?” Ali informed her of the specific day in question.
Miss Mona took a step back. “I don’t like your questions or your tone of voice.”
“You have me confused with someone who cares what you like,” Ali said. “Answer the question, please.”
Miss Mona arched her chin. “No. I don’t think I will. Do you know who I am? Do you know who I’m in business with?” She glanced at Ali’s folder with disdain. “You dare to suggest I had anything to do with some dhimmi girl’s death?”
“I haven’t suggested anything—”
“Isn’t there enough crime in our community to keep you busy? Why are you wasting time on a dead dhimmi girl?”
Ali took a step forward. Fear clouded Miss Mona’s face and then vanished. She stood nose-to-n
ose with him refusing to yield.
“I’m investigating the murder of Greta Gaspar because she was a citizen of Budapest,” Ali said. “A citizen of Eurabia. Her parents pay a dhimmi tax that earns them—that entitles them—to the protection of the police.”
“In theory—”
“I am the police. That’s the only thing you need to be concerned about. And you will answer my questions or I’ll arrest you right now as a suspected accessory to murder. I’ll haul you into the police station. I’ll lock you in a holding cell and make you sit there for twenty four hours before you even see an attorney. I’ll make it my life ambition to ruin your business. Yes, I know who you are. You’re in business with Imam Salim. I don’t give a shit. Now, do you want to answer my questions, or do you want to go to jail?”
Ali watched and waited for her answer. If she were involved in some scheme relevant to Greta’s murder, she’d refuse to submit to him and would seek Salim’s protection. But if she were merely conducting business and innocent of wrongdoing, she’d answer his questions. Salim was a cleric and a businessman. He accumulated power and money by selling people a sense of purpose. Like all ambitious men, he didn’t want to waste time or be associated with scandal. Neither did the parents of her other students.
“Arabic chicken curry with noodle rice,” she said. “I had it at the Hindu place. The Curry House.”
“You had one of your garment bags with you,” Ali said.
“I’m working on a dress for Imam Salim. Something personal.”
“Who was the man in black that you were having lunch with?”
“The Gentleman from Prague.”
“Real name?” Ali said.
Miss Mona shook her head. “I only know him as the Gentleman from Prague.”
Ali remembered Elise De Jong’s dissertation on Muslim gentlemen. She’d love this bastard, he thought
“Who is he?” Ali said.
“A broker,” Miss Mona said. “He scouts and acquires specimens on behalf of distinguished clientele.”
“A private slave broker?”
“A buyer’s broker.”
“But you don’t know his name,” Ali said. “What was the nature of your business?”
Miss Mona shrugged. “Just as you’d guess. He scouts the best and the brightest across Eurabia.”
“And how did he find you?”
She glared at him. “All the top training schools have reputations. Those who are looking for the finest specimens know who they are. Dressmaking is a core curriculum. I’m more accessible than the Imam, so it was only natural for him to come to me.”
“If you don’t know the man’s name, how could you be sure who he is? How could you be sure you could trust him?”
“The first time we met—about a month ago—he showed up with an incredible list of references. A who’s who of power brokers in Budapest, Prague—”
“Vienna, Copenhagen, Bern …”
Miss Mona stared at him with amazement. “How did you know that?”
“Did you check those references?” Ali said.
“I did.”
“How many?
“Enough to make me comfortable.”
Ali returned her glare. “How many?”
“Three. One person called me back.’
“Only one?”
“But he had glowing things to say,” Miss Mona said.
Ali reflected on Miss Mona’s willingness to do business with a man whose references she’d barely confirmed.
“Did any money change hands?” Ali said. “Did the Gentleman from Prague pay you an introductory fee of some sorts?”
“He paid in gold, as he did when I shared our class rankings with him.”
“Was Imam Salim aware you were meeting with him?”
“Of course,” Miss Mona said. “He has a team in charge of placing all his specimens—his pupils, he calls them. When I get inquiries, such as this one, I keep them informed.”
“And did the Gentleman from Prague make any bids?”
“Not yet.”
“How many times have you met?” Ali said.
“Just twice.”
“How were the meetings set?”
“By e-mail. We ended up meeting at the same location. I guess he likes the food there.”
“Did you get a good look at his face?” Ali said.
“No. He was completely covered up except for his eyes both times. They were brown. Warm, friendly. Like he sounds. He has a nice voice.”
Ali asked questions about the man’s height and weight, and the answers were consistent with what the priestess had told him. He looked like a common man.
“Anything else you noticed about him?” Ali said. “Anything peculiar?”
Miss Mona shook her head as she thought about it. “No, not that I remember … Oh. There was one thing. He massaged his right wrist every once in a while, as though it was bothering him.”
“If the first visit was an introduction,” Ali said. “What did you talk about the second time?”
“The specimens. I shared the class rankings with him.”
“The girls of yellow.”
“Yes,” Miss Mona said. “That list, too.”
“You mean there’s more than one?”
Miss Mona shrugged. “There’s an overall class rank. And the girls of yellow.”
“You mean there’s a separate list of girls with blond hair?”
Miss Mona nodded. “The girls of yellow. They’re rarer, and over time they’ve become a bit of status symbol, so they cost more.”
“Was Greta Gaspar on the list of girls of yellow?”
“Yes, but what does that have to …. You’re not suggesting the Gentleman from Prague …”
“If there’s a change to the list,” Ali said, “say there’s a new girl that’s worth seeing, how do you get in touch with him?”
“E-mail, and then wait for a reply.”
“I’ll take that e-mail address and all his references,” Ali said, “including the one that you checked. And I’d like copies of both lists. The most recent ones, and the ones when Greta Gaspar was still alive.”
“If I give them to you, will that conclude our business?”
“Almost. The last thing I need you to do for me is to call the Gentleman from Prague and tell him you have three new specimens to show him, that they’re climbing the class rankings and that buyers are circling already.”
“Is that … is that really necessary?”
“Tell him you’d be happy to meet with him at his favorite location.”
Miss Mona’s face fell.
“Look at the upside,” Ali said.
“I’m trying to but I can’t see it,” Miss Mona said.
“Arabic chicken curry with noodle rice. Sounds delicious to me.”
CHAPTER 26
Elise’s cell contained a bed, a sink, a toilet and a closed circuit camera hanging near the ceiling in the corner of the room. Her first order of business was to wash her face and let the cold water remove some of the sting that lingered from Ali’s slap. Her second goal was to calm her mind. Images of the dead girl in Ali’s crime scene photo kept morphing into pictures of Valerie’s corpse in an identical setting. Only the faces changed.
In the absence of narcotics, legal or illegal, Elise prescribed physical exhaustion and meditation for herself. She began with ten burpees, falling to the floor to execute a push-up only to thrust herself back to her feet and repeat. Then she sat with her back pressed against the wall at a ninety-degree angle for a count of sixty, using only the muscles in her thighs to support herself. She repeated the cycle ten times, after which her legs wobbled when she tried to stand. She drank water and paced in her room until her heartbeat slowed to ninety beats per minute. Then she began her practice of yoga, nothing strenuous, focusing more on breathing and the visualization of stress leaving her body.
All the while she reminded herself that her situation wasn’t hopeless. Once she didn’t return to the hotel by
midnight, Christendom would go looking for her. The Eurabian police might lie and deny that she’d been found and placed under arrest. Later, if discovered, they could feign confusion. Or, they could just as easily tell her colleagues that they did, indeed, have her in custody. The purpose for the Intertheocratic Conference was to facilitate dialogue and prevent the theocracies from destroying the planet. Her arrest was just the sort of trivial event that could escalate tensions and ignite a war, Elise thought. It was in everyone’s best interest for her to be treated in accordance with intertheocratic diplomatic guidelines.
Still, such a rescue would likely take time. She couldn’t assume that Christendom would be informed of her arrest, send a lawyer and secure her release before her scheduled meeting with Valerie tomorrow. That meant her most promising path to release remained Ali. He wanted to solve a murder. The pictures that fell from his manila folder proved as much. Why else would he be carrying them around? She had something to offer, namely inside information from the Persian School of Dressmaking via her sister.
Ali and his superiors would take another run at her, of that there was no doubt. The question was, how long would they wait?
After she finished her yoga, Elise meditated in a cross-legged position for half an hour and then went to bed. Her prescribed medication worked, and she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
A tremendous racket woke her up the next morning. At first she thought a guard was preparing to enter her cell. Then she saw that he’d merely opened an aperture in the door above a ledge that rested on the inside. A tray of food appeared, and beside it a half-bottle of water.
Elise bounded toward the door to grab the tray and water for fear the guard might pull it away if she didn’t take it. When she glanced at the tray, she saw that it contained half a pita and a cup of some sort of soup. Steam wasn’t rising from the cup. Elise hadn’t expected anything better. In fact, she’d been prepared to fast indefinitely in case they didn’t feed her at all.
Girls of Yellow Page 17
