Dr. Brodsky smiled and patted Miriam's arm. “We all have to do things, make deals,” she said obliquely. “Take patients for free, write a prescription as a favor. Turn a blind eye. Life is like that, you understand. You must understand—you're working there. I doubt if you're documented. You're working for tips only. You're not being paid as you should be."
Miriam felt chilled by Dr. Brodsky's recognition of her undocumented status, but she still didn't quite follow what was going on.
"It's not legal,” said Dr. Brodsky patiently. “Don't misunderstand me. I don't care. But what the hotel does isn't a legal way of doing business.” A minute later, she offered Miriam some vitamin samples, then said, “I don't see a thing wrong with you, thank God. You're fine.” That Miriam was healthy was nothing she hadn't known all along, though she'd learned other things, things she needed to think about for a while.
* * * *
Since she was early for her work and she knew Nana hadn't yet arrived, Miriam took the escalator up to the ballroom floor to use the ladies’ room. She marveled at herself as she looked back at the stylish guests seated in the first floor lounge and was satisfied to see two black men, very much at ease, in suits. How far Miriam had come from her small town in Ghana. Inside the bathroom stall, she resolved to give the attendant a whole dollar tip.
But the attendant wasn't alone, and Miriam listened to the conversation that developed. The guest wasn't a guest at all, she said, but a “state labor investigator.” Miriam was both interested and afraid, worried that her documentation—or lack of it—might be checked. She came out, washed her hands, took her own paper towel, and continued to listen while the Hispanic bathroom attendant kept telling the investigator she didn't understand English. When Miriam came into the outer room, the attendant cast uncertain glances at the woman from Ghana, as if the presence of a customer was only making her dilemma worse.
The situation was awkward and Miriam hurried out, not leaving the poor woman so much as a dime.
Miriam sat down on a nice chair in one of the hallways. How wonderful the furniture was. What she wouldn't do for seating like this with a beautiful blue floral fabric. So elegant. And how sturdy the legs.
So many possible answers to Anna's death. The woman could have simply dropped dead on her own, from high blood pressure, as Dr. Brodsky said—that would explain why the police weren't here today, a lieutenant like Columbo looking as if he already knew the answer to the death. Or oppositely, Dr. Brodsky, as nice as she seemed, could have been lying to protect herself—what was her motive?—or to protect someone else. Dr. Brodsky had admitted to disregarding wrongdoing so that she could afford to raise her children decently, and she now lied to continue in her place.
This was a case in which too many potential villains had turned up. Or perhaps no one was guilty of anything at all except less than admirable behavior. Miriam took the elevator down to the basement, where God in His wisdom had planted her for the time being. She went into the locker room and changed her clothes, then sat on the uncomfortable wooden bench and waited for Nana.
* * * *
Miriam knocked on the manager's door. She was quite unsure of her deduction, but felt that confronting Mr. Reyos might lead to the disclosure of a further truth. She had no other course of action open to her in her investigation, and she wasn't afraid of losing a job she didn't want anyway. Moreover, if Nana got out before the state labor agency checked the workers for identification, so much the better.
Still, when Mr. Reyos told Miriam to come in, her heart skidded into overdrive. How nice that the organ was in fine working order and all that Miriam required was a bit of bravery. She walked in and closed the door behind her, but not quite all the way.
The man's head was averted, and he studied the papers on his desk with some absorption. “Sir, I have made inquiries.” Miriam stopped and Mr. Reyos looked up. “I have heard that we're not being treated according to the labor laws of the state.” She didn't know him well enough to understand what his muted reaction meant. His expression changed little, though he sighed.
"What is it you want?” he asked. He sounded resigned and not angry at all. Perhaps he hadn't killed Anna when she'd threatened to turn him in to the state.
Miriam tried to think of what Anna might have said in such an interaction. “What can you offer me?” she ventured. “What did you offer to give to Anna?"
"Anna?” he rose from his seat. This time he sounded agitated.
Miriam staunchly stood her ground. “Or perhaps you offered her nothing, but merely killed her. The fines for violating the labor laws of the state would be severe.” So the investigator in the ladies’ room had told the attendant.
Surprisingly, Mr. Reyos laughed. “Severe? An enforcement agency imposing serious penalties? That just doesn't happen."
Somehow his answer made Miriam angry. Perhaps Anna had been angry and they'd grappled?
"But other consequences could arise,” Miriam said. “And now a charge of murder and jail time."
He came out from behind his desk.
"You can't kill everyone who crosses you,” Miriam said evenly.
"I didn't kill Anna.” He was adamant and undoubtedly irked.
"Then what happened?” asked Miriam.
Mr. Reyos shook his head. “She fell back against the locker,” he said suddenly. “That's all I know. When I saw her collapse, I got out of there. I'm not guilty of anything."
Thoroughly appalled, Miriam smiled. Mr. Reyos had deserted Anna when she'd needed help. He'd let her die when he should have called an ambulance. Miriam had seen this very situation in a television episode—or maybe not an exact duplicate, but close enough. She searched for the words the television prosecutor has used. “You had a duty to render aid,” she said.
"No,” denied Mr. Reyos, and his eyes burned into Miriam's own. “I looked it up."
Miriam brought out her trump card. “Yes, as her employer, you had a special relationship,” Miriam said. If the D.A. was as concerned and courageous as the one on TV, Mr. Reyos was headed upstate for a long stay in the Big House, whatever that meant. And if Miriam was wrong? She couldn't imagine. Because by abandoning Anna and letting her die, the man was guilty. Guilty of murder—if not actually in the eyes of the state, at the very least in Miriam's eyes.
She turned to go and call the police.
"Whatever you claim, I'll deny it,” said Reyos. “And they'll kick you out of the country. Oh, and by the way ... you're fired."
Nana entered, followed by Zeline and some of the others, all of whom had been listening through the open office door. Miriam faced Mr. Reyos. “Deny all you like,” she countered. “Everyone heard. And I don't think you can fire me. Remember, Mr. Reyos. I'm an independent contractor. Or if we're employees, you owe us all back pay."
Everyone, except for Mr. Reyos, smiled.
* * * *
When they found out that the district attorney wasn't going to file charges, Nana cried. Miriam felt glum as well. Though Anna's family might sue Mr. Reyos and the hotel for wrongful death, she had no family. But this was the law and how the D.A. applied it.
Mr. Reyos, they soon found out, had been fired, while the state settled with the hotel for back pay for all the documented, affected workers.
The undocumented workers vanished like snow in a heavy rain. But of course they didn't disappear, not really. They went on to try to earn their living elsewhere, and Nana returned to the safety of the Obadah home.
Yet birds will fly, and Miriam watched for Nana to once again extend her wings.
Copyright (c) 2007 G. Miki Harden
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Department: BOOKED AND PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn
Long-buried secrets or long-buried treasure can add spice to a mystery, and a touch of scandal never fails to add a particular flavor as well. This month's mysteries include a debut novel, a final novel, and a sophomore effort that brew up enticing combinations of murder, scandal, and treasure to which
closely held secrets hold the key.
* * * *
* * * *
British author Michael Dibdin died in March 2007, which means that his entertaining travelogue of Italy conducted by Italian police detective Aurelio Zen ends with END GAMES (Pantheon, $23.95), the eleventh entry in the series. Dibdin was an internationalist with degrees from the University of Sussex as well as the University of Alberta. He taught English for four years while living in Perugia, Italy, and chose to live in Seattle during the last decade of his life.
His best-loved character, Aurelio Zen, is an acute observer, and a droll one, whose talents are not always appreciated by the superiors he serves. Even when his results are good, his methods tend to ruffle the feathers of those in charge. Yet he is too valuable to be dismissed. So Zen has toured Italy and taken readers along for the journey: to Venice in Dead Lagoon, to Naples in Cosi Fan Tutti, to the Italian Alps in Medusa, to name a few. In End Games, Didbin makes the Calabria region of Southern Italy, which is mountainous, isolated, and staunchly rooted in the past, come alive.
Zen is posted to the town of Cosenza as a fill-in for the current chief of police who managed to shoot himself in the foot—literally. Adding interest to the task is the murder of an American lawyer who just happened to speak Italian with the local dialect. Meanwhile, a famous Italian film director is planning a biblical film that will outdo any previously made, and an American company named Rapture Works, who's financing the project, is scouting locations in Calabria for the film and sundry other projects.
Dibdin artfully weaves ancient and modern history into his present tale. There's a rumor floating around that the invading barbarian Alaric, who sacked Rome in the fifth century, had left behind buried treasures, including certain Christian treasures, in the area around Cosenza. The local characters are immensely colorful yet authentic, while the foreigners Dibdin introduces to the scene are flamboyant, outrageous, and engaging. As always, Zen provides a lens through which the reader observes the foibles, customs, and history of one of Italy's distinctive regions.
Cambridge-educated Englishman Jason Goodwin is a historian with nonfiction works to his credit (Lords of the Horizons: A History of the Ottoman Empire.) His first novel, The Janissary Tree, copped the 2007 Edgar Award for best novel.
* * * *
* * * *
That novel introduced Yashim Togalu, a eunuch and an investigator in the cosmopolitan city of Istanbul in the 1830s. Now Yashim is back in another outstanding mystery, THE SNAKE STONE (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, $25), which should solidify Goodwin's reputation for combining vivid historical background, intriguing plotting, and memorable characters.
The long and complex history of the city that was known as Byzantium, then Constantinople, and finally, Istanbul, has created a multicultural city where varied architectures, customs, languages, and religions form a cauldron of commerce and secrets. A visit from a French archaeologist, Maximilien Lefevre, brings mention of some treasures brought to Istanbul during its long history—including the holiest relics of Christendom, the plate and goblet used by Christ at the Last Supper. In a later visit, a very frightened Lefevre seeks Yashim's help to leave the city. That help is provided, but has unexpected consequences when Yashim finds himself the primary suspect in a murder.
Among the denizens of Istanbul Yashim counts among his acquaintances are Stanislaw Palewski, ambassador for a Polish state that no longer exists; a Greek bookseller who prices his books according to how much he thinks his customer wants it; and even the Queen Mother, a Frenchwoman and mother to the Sultan. Those memorable characters and many others high and low will play a part as Yashim struggles to clear his name.
When Yashim is forced to go underground, he discovers one of the most astounding and least-known architectural and engineering secrets of Istanbul. Yashim's expertise in navigating Istanbul's corridors of power, as well as its meanest alleys, is thoroughly tested. Goodwin has delivered a sequel worthy of his Edgar-winning debut.
There are no hidden treasures in Laura Benedict's debut ISABELLA MOON (Ballantine, $24.95), but there are plenty of secrets in this thickly atmospheric debut novel set in a still-isolated area of rural Kentucky.
* * * *
* * * *
Carystown, Kentucky, sheriff Bill Delaney doesn't usually have to contend with a litany of major crimes. The worst blot on the office is the two-year-old disappearance of nine-year-old Isabella Moon.
Then Kate Russell, a newcomer to Carystown, shows up in Delaney's office with the startling news that Isabella has appeared to her and led her to where her body lies. Despite his skepticism, Bill is driven to investigate. Almost at the same time, a young high school athlete drops dead, and the department has a second death to investigate. Then when a close friend of Kate's is brutally murdered, suddenly the small-town police chief has major problems, and Kate seems his most likely suspect.
Kate Russell is a complex and captivating character. She is haunted not only by the shade of young Isabella Moon but by her own past, which emerges slowly and hauntingly as the story progresses. Kate's past is also the stumbling block that keeps her from being able to trust the goodness of the new man who's come into her life.
But Carystown's citizens have plenty of secrets to hide, and the web of deceit envelopes those who live in the Chalybeate Springs Co-op Farm (a commune on the edge of town), the powerful wheeler-dealer Janet Rourke, Kate's friend Francie Cayley and her lover Paxton Birkenshaw, and his domineering mother. As Kate's meddling and Delaney's investigations continue, more deaths occur, and the fate of Isabella Moon casts a shadow and a pall that blankets much of the town.
Too many of Benedict's characters tend to be starkly good or evil, but her strong female characters should appeal to plenty of readers. She evokes the reality of small-town Kentucky life buffeted by the currents of big-city problems nicely. Benedict's short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine and based on this debut, it is likely that more novels will follow.
Copyright (c) 2007 Robert C. Hahn
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Fiction: CLICK, CLICK, CLICK by R.T. Lawton
Beaumont bent over to reach inside his wide-mouthed burglar bag currently parked on a snow-covered back porch in an older neighborhood, a neighborhood that the local police department had recently designated as a high-crime area. To blend in with the silent night, Beaumont kept his voice barely audible.
"You sure this is Antoine's house?"
Directly behind him, two steps down and leaning forward to peer into the bag, Beaumont's sometime partner Yarnell swatted at the white fluff ball dangling from the end of his Santa hat. Darn thing seemed to tickle his big nose, made him want to sneeze. Plus it had to be tough to see around all that fluff, especially when the white cotton ball swung right in front of the single-eye night vision scope he wore strapped to his forehead. But in order to better answer Beaumont's question, Yarnell raised to his full height of six foot three, glanced off to his left and up over the top of a nearby six-foot wood fence. Using his right index finger, he started counting the roof of each house from the corner of the block right up to the roof above the back porch where he stood.
"This is the third house,” he announced in a loud whisper, “and Antoine himself told me he lived in the third house from the left."
"From the corner?"
"That's right, from the corner."
Beaumont removed a glass cutter from the black nylon burglar bag, straightened up, and took off his gloves. To keep his hands free, he stuffed the gloves into the rear pocket of his oversized red pants.
"They ought to sew more pockets in these Santa suits,” he grumbled. “There's no place to put everything you need."
In reply, Yarnell patted the wide black belt around the waist of his own fat Santa suit. “Only thing I need is this Smith and Wesson. Don't know why I ever let you talk me into doing this job the sneaky Pete way. ‘Cause when I'm holding a gun on them I don't have to worry about waking the people u
p, I already got their full attention. You see what I'm saying?"
Beaumont tried not to think about the guns they were carrying. Peering through his own night vision lens, he licked the large rubber suction cup on the cutter arm before attaching the rubber cup to the glass in the rear door. Finally, he turned his head to speak back over his shoulder.
"I been wondering about something. If'n Antoine is a convicted felon, then he shouldn't have no firearms in his possession anyway, right?"
"Right."
"So why are we carrying guns?"
"The world has become a dangerous place for guys like us, Beaumont. Didn't you read that Twenty-Four Rules to a Gunfight pamphlet I gave you last week? I'm telling you a man never knows when he'll need a loud weapon to get himself out of a tight spot."
"We're not in a tight spot."
"No, but we could be."
"All we're doing right now is standing on Antoine's back porch."
"Right now, sure, but what about later when we're standing in his house? See, that's when guns can be a man's best friend in our line of work. You do realize this state has one of those Make My Day Laws for homeowners?"
"Yarnell, you're a real comfort to have on the job."
"And that's why,” continued Yarnell, “I just wish you'd'a brought something heavier than that little .25 caliber automatic you got. That's an old lady's gun.” He paused for a moment. “You did bring it along, didn't you?"
Focusing his mind on one thing at a time, Beaumont rotated the glass cutter in a circle around the suction cup. A light scratching came from the metal blade. At the end of the circle, the blade and the sound stopped. He refocused.
"Yeah, the granny pistol's in my hip pocket underneath my gloves. I brought it along just to shut you up, but don't plan on me using it. Keep in mind I'm a professional burglar, so loud noises bother me. They usually mean you're going to prison."
AHMM, January-February 2008 Page 7
