Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  Her voice held a note of reprimand. “Don’t leave anything out. You know the smallest detail can make a big difference in a case.”

  After telling her about hearing Farah and Bashir speaking Farsi in the parking lot, I said, “When Farah introduced herself to me, she said she was an Iraqi who spoke Arabic.”

  “Farsi is spoken in Iran, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I assume you speak Farsi?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Arabic?”

  “That too.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m happy to speak a little Spanish.”

  “Spanish is good.”

  She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Why do I have a feeling you also habla español?”

  I smiled but didn’t respond.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She got up from the couch and retrieved her purse from the foyer table. “I want to make some notes while we go over this again.”

  When she sat back down, she pulled out the small black notebook she’d used when recording my statement earlier in the day and wrote something in it. “So you believe Farah and her husband were hiding their country of origin. Is that right?”

  I nodded. “There’s something else you need to know about Farah.”

  She pointed her pen at me and said, “You know, it’s really nice to have some cooperation from the feds for a change.”

  I grinned at her. “You probably shouldn’t get use to it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m smarter than that.”

  After I told her about Farah’s use of the back stairs as a means of getting to class on time and her perpetual lateness, Nikki resumed her detective persona. “Since it appears there’s only one car between them, perhaps her husband had an early morning class and didn’t get back home in time to have her there at exactly nine o’clock. That might explain her tardiness.”

  “That could be it, but, as a whole, Iranians are not very punctual people. In fact, it’s rare for them to be on time for any occasion. One time in Tehran, I was kept waiting for two hours by an Iranian businessman, and I never even received one word of apology for his behavior.”

  “Please don’t tell me anymore or you might have to kill me.”

  Nikki’s remark was so unexpected, I laughed at the old joke. Then, when she started laughing too, Stormy got excited and jumped up on the couch with her. I yelled at him to get off, but she kept petting him, insisting he be allowed to stay where he was. After he put his head on her lap, she picked up her notebook again.

  “You promised to tell me about the Nissan.”

  Watching Nikki and Stormy together gave me such an unexpected surge of happiness, that, for a moment or two, I couldn’t remember what she’d asked me.

  “Yes,” I finally answered, “I first saw the Nissan this morning after pulling into the parking lot. As I’m sure you understand, it’s an operational habit to keep tabs on anything out of the ordinary, and the Nissan drew my attention because I’d never seen it before, and it was parked close to the back entrance.”

  “Was it occupied?”

  “No. There was no one inside.”

  “So you think the driver was already in the building when you arrived?”

  “I believe that’s the most likely scenario. He could have hidden underneath the stairwell or just inside the kitchen and waited for her there.”

  She looked thoughtful. “You’re assuming the assailant was a man.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Purely from a statistical standpoint, this type of murder is usually committed by a male, but there’s no direct evidence of that so far. Unless . . .” she paused and gave me a suspicious look, “you know something about the murderer that I don’t.”

  “I assure you I don’t know who murdered Farah,” I said, “but since my area of operations is centered around the Middle East, I’d like to make sure my arrival here in Norman and Farah’s murder are purely coincidental events.”

  She nodded. “I get that.”

  “I guess now would be a good time to confess I didn’t tell you everything this morning.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  I tried to look contrite, but she didn’t look like she was buying it. “So, tell me what you left out.”

  “After checking Farah for a pulse, I went down the stairs and out to the parking lot to see if I could spot anyone fleeing the scene. That’s the moment I noticed the Nissan was gone.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t tell me this earlier because as an unassuming writer you couldn’t easily explain your actions or why you had noticed the Nissan in the first place?”

  I started to quibble with her description of me, but then I said, “That’s right.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s the extent of what I know. Now, it’s your turn.”

  She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she flipped through several pages in her notebook, pausing every now and then to read what she’d written there. Her delaying actions made me wonder whether she was having second thoughts about our agreement.

  However, after a few seconds of consulting her notes, she began describing what she’d found at the scene. “The evidence is pretty sketchy right now, but I can tell you one odd thing. I went through the contents of Farah’s handbag, and, while it contained the usual items a woman might carry, there was no cell phone. When one of our officers asked Susan Steward about a number for Farah’s husband, though, she said it should be on Farah’s phone. So, we’re certain she owned a cell phone.”

  I nodded in agreement. “She definitely had a cell phone. I saw it the first day when she showed me how to play a word game on it.”

  “I was at her house all afternoon, and it didn’t turn up there. We’ll get her phone records tomorrow. Maybe they’ll tell us something.”

  “What did you find at the house?”

  “Well, it appeared Bashir emptied out a small safe in the bedroom before he left. So wherever he is, he probably has cash and his passport.”

  “What about a computer?”

  “According to one of our techs, there were two laptops in the house on a wireless network. However, when we arrived, we found only one of them.”

  “Could you tell whether the one left behind belonged to Farah or to Bashir?”

  “We’re assuming it belonged to Farah, but we'll know for certain tomorrow.”

  “Finding that Nissan should be a top priority. I told Danny I thought the last letter of the license plate was either K or H, and he’s going to pull in his state resources to help us locate it.”

  “I already have notices out on both the mysterious Nissan and Bashir’s Honda.”

  “I’m afraid Bashir has had enough time to leave the state by now.”

  “Yeah, that’s a big possibility,” she said. “Do you think one of the ESL students notified him of his wife’s death, and that why he left his OU class so abruptly?”

  “If that’s what happened, he may have left out of fear for his own life. Yet, I don’t think he’s the kind of man who would run, especially if someone had just killed his wife.”

  “You really know Bashir? I thought you were lying about that.”

  “I don’t know him as well as my scholarly persona implied,” I admitted, “but when I met Bashir, even though our encounter was brief, he struck me as a man who would fight instead of run.”

  “Maybe he went to a safer place until he figured out how to do that—the fighting part, that is.”

  “You could be right. A well-trained officer recognizes retreat is sometimes the best option.”

  “Was Bashir in the military?”

  “I believe so, but that’s just speculation on my part.”

  “Speculation is a big part of this job.”

  “Were there any photos at the house showing Bashir in a uniform?”

  As she started running through the pages of her notepad again, Stormy jumped down from her lap and t
rotted over to the door. After letting him outside, I asked Nikki if she'd like another cup of coffee.

  “No thanks,” she replied. “I really should be going.” Closing her notebook, she said, “I don’t remember seeing any photographs at the house, and I didn’t make any notes about them, but I’ll check when I go back to Bashir’s house tomorrow.”

  “Would it be a problem if I joined you there?”

  She considered my question. “No, I don’t think so. The captain has all the other detectives working a double homicide. Did you hear about that?”

  I nodded. “One of your officers told me about it. Is that why you were so nervous when you were taking my statement this morning? Was Farah’s homicide your first case to work without a partner?”

  As she got up from the couch, I saw fire in her eyes.

  “I wasn’t nervous when I was questioning you this morning,” she stated emphatically, “and I’ve worked homicides alone for two years now.”

  In one quick fluid movement, she slipped her shoes on, grabbed her purse, and headed for the front door.

  Meanwhile, I followed her, trying to make amends for my blunt question and struggling to explain what I’d observed.

  “I didn’t mean to sound like you weren’t doing a thorough job,” I said, “and maybe nervous wasn’t the right word. I probably should have said you seemed uncomfortable in those surroundings.”

  As she turned to face me, I watched her anger slowly disappear.

  “No, you’re right,” she said quietly. “I did feel uncomfortable, but it wasn’t related to the murder. The truth is . . .”

  She paused for a couple of seconds and then started over again. “The truth is I hadn’t been inside Bethel Church for many years, and I found it painful to be there. When I went there as a child . . .” She shook her head. “Well, let’s just say it was a difficult time for me.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “I wasn’t offended.”

  She gave me a weak smile and offered me her hand. “Thanks again for the dinner, Titus, and for letting me meet the real you.”

  I didn’t dissuade her from that notion.

  CHAPTER 24

  I was barely awake when Carlton called the next morning.

  “You sound as if you’re just getting up,” he said.

  “That’s because I am.”

  “I thought you always got up every morning at six o’clock.”

  “It is six o’clock.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re on Central Time there.”

  I knew Carlton was fully aware of the time difference between Oklahoma and Virginia. However, just like his love of being a detailed person, he also took great pride in arriving at work every morning earlier than anyone else. The track of our conversation was simply a ploy for me to acknowledge he’d already been at work for several hours.

  Instead of feeding his ego, I asked, “Has Ahmed been found?”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “The FBI is coming up empty-handed so far. The Venezuelan student who owned the van has completely disappeared, and his friends keep insisting he decided to quit school and return to Caracas.”

  “Well, maybe he did. Did they check the airlines, bus stations, rental cars?”

  “The FBI knows how to conduct a manhunt, Titus.”

  He sounded exasperated, but I didn’t think his feelings were directed at me. He simply hated being dependent on other organizations to move along an investigation.

  He continued, “They’re certain he didn’t fly back to Caracas. Buses are another matter because they present numerous possibilities. He could have taken a bus into Mexico and caught a plane from there. He could have rented a car, then taken a bus, then taken a plane.”

  “You don’t sound very encouraging.”

  “That’s because I’m giving you the FBI report. On the other hand, I told Katherine to pull the records for car sales in the Austin area, because we know if Ahmed was the shooter, he had plenty of cash for the operation. He could have purchased his own car after dumping the van, thus avoiding all public forms of transportation.”

  “You’re running your own investigation and not coordinating with the FBI?” I made a tsk, tsk, tsk sound. “Frankly, Douglas, I’m shocked.”

  Carlton hated being teased about his occasional rule breaking, and he quickly replied, “I’ll share things in a timely manner when it’s appropriate.”

  “So you found something?”

  “Possibly. In San Marcos, just south of Austin, we located a car dealer who said he had sold a new car to a Hispanic male for cash. It got my attention because it was a cash deal and the dealer said the buyer was in a hurry. That was on Saturday, just one day after Wassermann’s killing. I have someone in San Marcos checking on this report, even as we speak.”

  “Let’s hope the buyer was the Venezuelan. Did the car dealer say he was alone or was he with someone?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I know something.”

  Carlton’s evasiveness made me wonder if Ahmed had already been spotted with the Venezuelan in San Marcos. If so, then Ahmed al-Amin was connected to the Venezuelan’s van and was definitely Wassermann’s killer. There was no other explanation, because both Carlton and I knew a Venezuelan kid hadn’t taken out Wassermann.

  Trying to pull more information out of him, I said, “Since I haven’t heard from you, I’m assuming Katherine hasn’t picked up any chatter about the hit yet. She said if Wassermann’s killer was Ahmed, she expected to have some type of communication into Tehran about his success in killing me. Hasn’t there been anything yet? It’s been almost a week now.”

  “No, but the operations center at NSA is reporting a slowdown in communications across the board. We’ll be discussing this issue with several of our division chiefs later today.”

  “Who doesn’t know the NSA has the ability to intercept every kind of communication out there? Perhaps the terrorists are relying on human couriers now, or they’re coding their messages differently.”

  “We’re looking into it,” he replied. “Anything new with you?”

  Here was an opportunity to tell him about Farah’s murder and to mention a certain female detective, who was now aware of the true identity of his covert operative.

  I reported, “Stormy has learned how to catch a ball.”

  The moment I ended my call with Carlton, my iPhone rang. The screen indicated the call was from the Norman Police Department.

  “Hi, Titus. It’s Nikki.”

  “It’s good to hear from you.”

  Strangely enough, I wasn’t just mouthing a cliché.

  Last night, after Nikki had left the house, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Although she appeared to be a tough detective and a smart interrogator, she also struck me as an emotionally fragile and vulnerable woman.

  That dichotomy intrigued me.

  She said, “I’ve got a few new details to share, but, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to discuss them with you later.”

  The background noise coming from her phone indicated she was in a room full of people.

  “I don’t mind at all. I’m getting ready to leave for a physical therapy session, but after that, I’ll be free the rest of the day.”

  “Can you meet me at Bashir’s house around one-thirty? We can talk then.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  For once, I was telling the truth.

  I drove to Bashir’s house around one-twenty and was pleased to see Nikki’s silver Toyota was the only car in the driveway.

  When Nikki met me at the door, she had her cell phone up to her ear, but she waved me inside. Using hand gestures, I indicated I wanted to look through the house, and she nodded her head and motioned for me to go ahead.

  The Karimi’s house was furnished in a style common to most wealthy Iranians. The furniture was large and ornate, and the colors used in the draperies and upholstery fabrics were bold and vibrant. However, missing from the decor were any fam
ily heirlooms—Persian rugs and tapestries, family paintings—which were typically passed down from generation to generation and extremely prevalent in most Iranian households.

  I understood why Nikki had not recorded anything in her notes about framed photographs on display. There were no wedding photos or family pictures in evidence anywhere.

  After scrutinizing the rooms and finding nothing of interest, I sat down at the kitchen counter and leafed through a telephone directory, looking for any items or locations the couple may have underlined or marked in some way that would give us a clue as to where Bashir could have gone.

  However, this proved to be an exercise in futility. Most likely—like all young people today—they had just used the internet whenever they wanted information.

  Nikki was still on her telephone when she wandered into the kitchen. Apparently, she was listening to someone dictate a list of items to her. She kept repeating “okay” after writing down a line or two.

  Today, she was wearing a patterned red and black jacket over a knee-length solid black dress. Some of her long brown hair was pinned on top of her head, while the rest of it fell loosely around her face. She kept brushing strands of it away as she talked.

  For some inexplicable reason, she looked even more beautiful today than she did yesterday.

  She snapped her phone shut and sat down beside me at the counter. Looking down at the telephone directory I was holding, she asked, “Find anything?”

  “Nothing.” I replied, pushing the book aside and pointing to her notebook, “but you look as if you’ve had a productive morning.”

  “Puzzling might be a better word. Tomorrow I should have a printout of both Bashir and Farah’s phone records, but, to get us started, I asked the phone company to give me the last five numbers the couple had called or received.”

  “And what was puzzling?”

  “According to their records, the last phone call Farah ever made was to her husband’s cell phone at nine fifty-two yesterday morning. The call lasted about two minutes. However, you said you found her body on the stairs at around nine-twenty. That’s puzzling unless the—”