Leila doesn’t answer right away, and there’s a tight, sour expression on her face, like she doesn’t like what she’s hearing. “So then what?”
“So then I keep digging. Look for Miriam. She’s the only suspect I could find. No one else had any reason to want Ben dead. No gambling debts, no gang affiliations, no enemies, not even a bar fight. Just his battered, abused girlfriend. And there’s a lot on her, motive-wise. A nurse at Mercy Hospital tells me Miriam was brought in a few days before Ben’s body was discovered. Someone drove by an alley, saw her on the ground. Thought she was dead, she was so badly beaten. The nurse was emphatic that Miriam should have died. Ribs broken, lungs punctured, fractured cheekbone, fractured skull, severely concussed, bleeding from everywhere. She was brutalized, Leila. So there’s the second impossibility: she got up and walked out that same day, with the guy who put her in the hospital in the first place. Shouldn’t have been conscious at all, should have had months of surgeries, healing, recovery, physical therapy. But she walks out on her own two feet hours later.”
Leila isn’t looking at me now, running a thumbnail in the Styrofoam of her cup, making abstract patterns. “That is weird.”
She knows more than she’s letting on, that’s my impression. I shake it off, and keep explaining, because I’ve already gone this far, so why not?
“Then there’s the lady who saw a weird glow out her living room window late one night. She went to the window, peeked out the blinds of her second story apartment. She claims—she swears—she saw a girl walking down Eleven Mile Road, glowing. She wasn’t senile, wasn’t suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s or even boredom. No medications that might cause hallucinations. So she must have seen something, right? I have no reason to disbelieve her. So then I have to believe her, right? But…a glowing person? Glowing like she had the sun inside her, the witness insisted. Then a motorcycle shows up, swerves, crashes, and the glowing girl goes to the rider of the motorcycle, a guy I find out later is named Jack, who was also at the hospital, begging Miriam to go home with him, not Ben.
“So go back to more weirdness: She has a guy who clearly cares about her, who knows she’s got this asshole hanging around who likes to hit her, but she doesn’t leave with him, she leaves with asshole? What the fuck? That’s what I’m thinking. But the motorcycle crash, the glowing girl, who I’m assuming is Miriam, based on purely my own intuition, she glows even brighter, so bright the old woman who saw all this said she had to look away because the glow was so blinding.
“And then, of course there’s more. A fancy sports car shows up, a big guy gets out, looks angry, and this is Ben I think. Miriam faces him, they argue, and Miriam—again, according to the eighty-six-year-old eyewitness—catches on fire. But doesn’t burn. Like she was fire, the lady claimed. Not like she was on fire, like someone tossed her a match—and get this, it was raining buckets at this point anyway—but like she was made of fire.”
I lift a hand palm-up, shrug, and shake my head. “Okay, so the fancy sports car. Legally registered to Ben, but…no proof of sale. It was a Maserati, a car worth a quarter million dollars. And this was a guy who worked at a bar and lived off his USMC savings. No way he’d ever afford a Maserati. No way. Yet it was registered to him. No title in his apartment or in the car, no transfer of funds to show he’d purchased it, no importer or high-end dealer in the surrounding four states with a record of that car’s VIN in their inventory. Also highly bizarre, but not really material to the murder. It was found in the casino’s parking garage, several levels up from where the body was found. So it wasn’t stolen or stripped for parts, despite its value.”
Leila glances at me, then back to her cup. “I’m starting to see why you’re having a hard time with this case. Nothing adds up.”
“No,” I agree. “Nothing adds up. Until Miriam herself shows up at the precinct one day and tells me the whole story. An abusive ex-boyfriend, how Ben saved her, they dated, and then he joined the Corps and went to Afghanistan, came back a different man. Meeting Jack, ending up in the hospital, leaving with Ben, getting kidnapped by Ben after she finally had enough of him—did I mention Ben had another girlfriend who Miriam hadn’t known about? Yeah, he did. Nice guy, right?
“And then she gets to the confrontation in the parking garage. Ben kidnapped her, brought her to the casino, was going to rape her. She escaped, ran, he caught up to her in the garage. Jack showed up about the same time, but he wouldn’t say how he’d found them…. So there was a big showdown. Ben had a gun, Jack fought him for it, Jack got shot, Miriam got shot…but neither of them died, or needed medical attention. And Miriam killed Ben. She said as much, in so many words. It was self-defense, she claimed.”
Leila’s voice is low and even. “How did she kill him? And how did they both survive being shot? Did she explain that?”
I nod. “She sure did. She healed Jack, because she has magical powers. And then she killed Ben because she’s—what was the word she used? A djinni. She claimed she was sort of a mythical or mystical being called a djinni, and that fire was a integral part of her essence. Now, aside from the fact that her explanation fit all the evidence, it sounded like delusional horse shit. Right? Magical powers? The ability to heal gunshot wounds, to heal herself of brutal injuries, and oh yeah, she also claimed the Maserati was her doing too, because a djinni is where we get the myths about genies, right?”
I glance at Leila, and see that she’s gone stock-still, expression blank. I watch her as I finish my explanation. “So of course I’m openly and obviously skeptical. But then she closed her eyes, and when she opened them…I don’t know how to explain this part. Her eyes were flame. As if the sun lived inside her soul. As if…like the old lady said, and as Miriam herself claimed, as if she was made of fire on an elemental level. I saw it, Leila. With my own eyes. And then…and then this little flame, the size of a candle flame, it comes out of her fucking fingertips, dances across my desk, onto my palm. It was fire, and it was…alive. On my hand. I felt it. It burned, it hurt, but it didn’t consume me. It was just there. And it looked at me. I swear it did. But…that’s impossible, right? Yet I saw it, and I can’t forget it. I’ll never forget what I saw, but I can’t explain it. Not to anyone. You probably think I’m crazy.”
I look at her, and instead of laughing at me or telling me how nuts I am, she snags a packet of matches from a glass on the bar, folds the lid over to reveal the striking surface, lights a match, and watches it burn down toward her fingertips. Before it touches her skin it suddenly extinguishes, as if puffed out by a gust of wind.
She glances at me sideways to see if I notice, and I wonder if she’s hoping I did notice, or hoping I didn’t?
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” is all she says. A long moment of silence, during which I should ask her why she doesn’t think I’m crazy. I don’t ask her this, and she sighs. “So what are you going to do? Is the case still open?”
“Yeah, it is still open,” I say, avoiding the question of my sanity. “Technically, legally, what Miriam did was manslaughter. She should’ve reported Ben to the authorities and let them deal with him. But, speaking as one of those authorities, by the time she did, and we had investigated, he would have vanished. He would’ve disappeared before we could have caught him and, honestly, there are just so many other more pressing cases to investigate that a domestic abuse complaint is a lower priority. I’m not saying this is right or okay in any way—abuse in any form is despicable. I don’t mean it that way at all. I just mean that with all the drug cases and murders and shit like that, her case would just get…lost in the shuffle. And although I’m not supposed to say this, all the evidence points to Ben being an asshole who deserved exactly what he got.” I drain the last of my drink and chew on an ice cube. “I know what I should do, what I’m supposed to do, according to the most correct definition of my job, but I just don’t think I can. I became a cop to get justice for people. There were other reasons, but that was the biggest one. In the case of Miriam,
she did the only thing she could in those circumstances, and I just can’t make myself arrest her for it. It’s like...ethics versus morals, you know?”
Leila nods, bumping her shoulder against mine, and I pretend like the quick, innocent touch doesn’t send a bolt of lightning through me. “Hey, all you can do is what you think is right, you know?
Leila has a ring on her right hand that she twists absently. I remember the first time I met her, the way she’d pause before answering a question, and how she often fiddled with that ring, how I thought she was a woman with a story to tell. I have that feeling about her now more than ever. She didn’t balk at my story in the slightest, despite how crazy it sounded even as I told it. In fact, she looked like she was finding it all too believable, and disturbing for that very reason.
She twists the ring again, then glances at me. “So you’re gonna close the case?”
“Yeah, I think I am,” I say. “I’ll tell the captain there’s not enough to go on. And, honestly, there isn’t. There’s no physical evidence tying Miriam to Ben’s death, and even if there might be plenty of motive to pin on her, there’s no way to make a charge stick. It would waste everyone’s time and money, and just cause more trouble for Miriam. And she’s had enough of that, if you ask me.”
“Good,” Leila says. “I’m glad.”
I hesitate for a moment, and then go for it. “So...what’s your story? You said before you needed a fresh start, so you came here. What’s that about?”
Leila glances at me, and seems uneasy. “Oh, it’s a long story, and not a very interesting one.”
“You never know what I’d be interested in.” I reach over the counter, grab the soda gun and fill my glass with water. “I’m interested in you, for example.”
Jesus, did I just say that? I didn’t mean to.
I focus on sipping at my water to cover my flush of embarrassment. Leila turns on her stool, regarding me, several emotions flashing across her face: surprise, embarrassment, curiosity and maybe a little fear.
“You are, huh?” she says eventually, with a slight smile on her lips.
“Yeah, that just kind of slipped out.” I let out an awkward chuckle, and then decide on further honesty. “But it’s true.”
“A Freudian slip, huh? What else are you thinking about me that you’re not saying?” She’s inched over on her stool, just at the edge of my personal space.
I’m hoping I’m reading her body language right. “Oh...I don’t know,” I say, setting my glass down and looking at her. “You’re gorgeous.”
Leila’s laugh is an infectious, musical sound. “Is that right? Keep going.” She crosses one leg over the other, facing me.
“Um…”
There are a lot of things going through my mind: her lips look soft, a slight glimmer of lip balm on them; I wonder what her lips taste like.
“I’m wondering what flavor Chapstick you have on. What your lips taste like,” I hear myself say. I cover my face with my both hands and speak through my fingers. “God, I suddenly have no filters.”
Leila arches an eyebrow. “Filters are a nuisance anyway,” she says. “I’ve always believed in saying what you mean.”
Is it my imagination, or is she leaning in to me, ever so slightly?
I’m tipping toward her, thinking how badly I want to kiss her, and if kissing her is a good idea or not, what I would be getting myself into. “Yeah? So what are you thinking? Now that I’ve embarrassed myself.”
“Oh, so it’s my turn?” She’s definitely closer than she had been a moment ago. Her wide eyes are inches from mine, sparkling with amusement and secrets, and something I really want to believe is desire. “You haven’t embarrassed yourself at all. I’m glad you say what you’re thinking.”
“You’re avoiding my question.” Leila is facing me now, her feet between my legs, perched on the rungs of my stool.
I put my hands on her knees, and she doesn’t pull away.
“True,” Leila admits, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Okay, so what am I thinking? Hmmm. I’m thinking…you’ve got this rugged, sexy look going on, and that I’m digging it. I’m also thinking that you’re a little drunk.”
Leila’s fingers are plucking at a loose string on the collar of my shirt, and then they’re playing with a lock of my hair near my neck. It’s an odd intrusion into my personal comfort zone; touching someone’s hair is a strangely intimate thing. I don’t mind, though. Not at all. Not when it’s this beautiful girl doing the touching.
“I’m thinking...I like you,” she says, “and I’m hoping you’ll ask me out. There. How’s that for embarrassing yourself? Admitting something like that to the guy you’re interested in goes against every rule of the dating game I know.”
“I’ve never been too interested in the dating game anyway,” I say.
“Me neither. That’s part of the reason I moved up here,” she says. “I know I’m avoiding your original question, but...I don’t want to talk about that right now.”
“Fair enough.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Leila asks. “Or a wife?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Would I be here, talking to you like this if I did?”
“You’d be surprised what some guys will try, even when they’re involved with someone else.” Her eyes harden.
I shrug. “You’d be surprised how much it takes to surprise me. I’m a homicide cop, remember? I’ve seen just about everything.” I move my hands a little higher, from her knees to her thighs. “But, no. Short answer is, I’m not married, dating, or seeing anyone in any capacity.” I had been about to kiss her, but the moment seemed to have passed with the turn in the conversation.
“Well, that’s good. I wouldn’t like to have any surprises come up later on.” She glances down, then adds, “if there is a later on, that is.”
“Why wouldn’t there be?”
“Well, I left you a pretty big opening to ask me out, but you didn’t.” Leila bites her lip and scratches at a stain on the leg of her jeans.
Drunk dumbass, I scold myself. “Yeah, I guess I missed the boat on that one. Is it too late?”
“You’ll never know until you try,” Leila says, still not looking at me. But she’s smiling a little, and her eyes flick to mine, then away, and back again.
“So...do you want to go out with me? For dinner? Sometime?” I shake my head, irritated at myself. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. Lemme try again. Leila, would you like to have dinner with me?”
Leila rolls her eyes. “You’re funny,” she says, a teasing grin on her face. “Yes, Carson, I would. I’m off this Tuesday.”
She’s tilting forward again, touching her lips with her tongue. There’s an invitation in her eyes. I watch her tongue wet her lips, watch her teeth catch her lower lip and let go.
I let myself fall forward, touch my lips to hers slowly and hesitantly, giving her every chance to pull away. But she doesn’t. Instead, she moves one of her hands from her knee to my thigh, and her other slips to my neck, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss.
Her breath is cold, like a winter wind, and her lips taste like cherry lip balm, with a hint of rum and Coke. I could have sworn a breeze had kicked up somehow, blowing through my hair, ruffling my shirt, and skirling Leila’s long raven-black hair around us.
Then I feel a quick, sharp pang of pain blast through the back of my skull, and darkness leaps up to swallow me.
As I fade into unwilling unconsciousness, I hear Leila shrieking and cursing, and I try to fight back, try to stay awake, but it’s no use.
The world goes black and silent.
Chapter 2: Spinning a Web
Leila
They found me. I can’t believe they found me. I mean, I figured they would eventually find me, but not quite so soon.
All I want is to be left alone. Is that so much to ask?
For my father and Hassan…yes, it is too much to ask. They think they own me, they think they can determine my life, they think they c
an make choices for me.
But if either of them think I’m going to just lie down and let them control my life, they have another thing coming.
Especially Hassan al-Jabiri. The arrogant bastard.
I know it was his thugs who came for me, who showed up at the bar and forced me to defend not just myself this time, but Carson. If I’d been alone, things might’ve gone differently. I might not have used so much…restraint. But Carson was there, and I couldn’t let him get hurt any more than he already was.
God…Carson.
Why did he have to show up? And why does he have to be so goddamn sexy and irresistible? Why did he have to kiss me? I might have sensed them coming. But Carson was there, watching me with his electric blue eyes, roving over me, devouring me. He was there with his spiked brown hair and big, hard muscles coiled like springs under his shirt. He was just sitting on the stool next to me, downing gin and tonics like he wished he could drown in them, tempting me with his hesitant flirtation. His lips touched mine and I couldn’t see or think or feel anything else.
I don’t know all that much about him, but I think he hides behind his job. He seems most comfortable talking about his work, and I can tell he wants me, but, for some reason, he doesn’t dare let himself think it.
I like the desire in his eyes. It’s not possessive, calculating, or domineering. It’s just simple male desire. Maybe “simple” is not the right word, but it is free of ulterior motives. He wants me just because I’m me. Not because of my family, or because of my father’s wealth and position within the clans. He doesn’t even know about any of that. I think he knows there’s a deeper story behind why I’m here aside from “needing a change.” He didn’t buy that at all, obviously. He’s a cop, after all, so I’m sure he can smell evasions and prevarications from a mile away. Part of me wants to tell him everything about myself. Which is stupid, idiotic, foolish. And dangerous, for him and for me. He doesn’t need to know anything about me. He doesn’t need my life story. He doesn’t need to know why I ran away from a spoiled life of sheltered privilege and endless wealth.
Djinn and Tonic Page 2
