Zoe turned the page and found another letter:
Dear Jan,
Last night I went to Addis Ababa. Men stopped and talked to me. One was white. He sounded British. We did business in the car. He was rough, but he paid me a hundred pin. Later a colored man asked if I would come with him to the Intercontinental. He gave the guard money and took me in the back. There was another colored man in his room. They hurt me and only one of them paid.
I hate the street. But Kuyeya needs surgery. Her eyes are bad. I walked to the Pamodzi to find another customer. Some girls were there. They yelled at me and told me to go away. One of them hit me with a bag. I went to the Ndeke Hotel and an old man picked me up. He told me he was from Kinshasha. He was dirty, but at least he was kind.
On the following page, Zoe found a third letter addressed to “Jan.” The letter read a lot like the first two—a lament of poverty, disease, and violence—but by now Bella was living with Doris. Kuyeya was ill again, this time with a rash on her face. A client had asked for unprotected sex, and she had consented, but he had paid her the condom price and hit her when she protested. Another client—one of her steadies—had stayed the night with her and woken with a terrible hangover. When he saw Kuyeya’s rash, he screamed at her, terrifying the child.
Zoe read until she could no longer see the notebook. Every page contained an undated letter, and all were addressed to Jan. Each letter carried the same matter-of-fact tone, the same relentlessly depressing news. Bella used descriptions, not names, to refer to her clients. Among them were the “truck driver from Nairobi,” the “man with the penguin suit,” the “the AirTel boy,” the “man who paid double for all night,” and “the minister who thinks he should be president.” Jan himself remained a mystery. The only revealing reference in the first ten letters was a comment about Mosi-oa-Tunya—Victoria Falls.
She went inside and warmed up leftover nshima and ndiwo—relish made of groundnuts, beans and collard greens—from lunch the day before. Setting the food on the dining room table, she uncorked a bottle of South African pinotage and lit a candle. Then she turned on some Johnny Cash and placed the notebook beside her. Somewhere buried in Bella’s mordant recollections was a clue, Zoe was sure.
She would read until she found it.
Chapter 5
On Wednesday morning, Zoe drove to the office, feeling inspired. Her examination of Bella’s notebook had revealed nothing about a suspect, but the handwritten letters had afforded her tantalizing glimpses into Bella’s past. The more she had read, the more she had convinced herself that the missing pieces of the woman’s story could shed light on the investigation.
At nine o’clock, the response team met in the conference room. Joseph laid the doll and glasses on the table, and Zoe placed the notebook beside them.
“It seems we’ve had developments,” Mariam remarked. “Please fill us in.”
Zoe traded a glance with Joseph, and he surprised her with a nod that said, Go ahead.
After collecting her thoughts, she offered the team a summary of their meetings with Doris, the discovery of the doll and glasses, and the appearance of a second eyewitness—Given. Joseph chimed in a few details but otherwise left the narrative in her hands.
At the end of her report, Zoe held up the notebook. “In the last five years of her life, Bella wrote one hundred and eighty-nine letters to a person named Jan. In them she describes the disintegration of her health, her desperate attempts to provide for Kuyeya, and her work as a prostitute. Joseph and I agree that Kuyeya’s rape was likely premeditated. If that’s true, the obvious suspects are customers. Unfortunately, Bella never named names. She referred to her clients in code. In addition, she never mentioned a client with an interest in her daughter.”
She showed them the inside cover of the notebook. “That said, this is the third volume; the first volume, apparently, was lost and the second was destroyed. We know nothing about what Bella did before April of 2004. In the absence of a better approach, I propose that we fill in the gaps. I have a hunch that Bella will lead us to the man who raped her daughter.”
After a pause Niza was the first to speak. “I’ll admit I haven’t read the letters, but Bella’s past seems like an odd place to look for a suspect.”
“Granted,” Zoe said. “But even if I’m wrong, what I’m proposing should give us confirmation of Kuyeya’s age.”
Until now Sarge had been leaning back in his chair. At the mention of age, he perked up. In contrast to adult rape, defilement was a strict liability crime, meaning that consent was not an issue so long as the prosecution could establish that the victim was under the age of sixteen.
“Please explain,” he said.
Zoe nodded. “Bella says surprisingly little about her childhood, but it’s clear she grew up near Livingstone. She talks about Victoria Falls and her grandmother’s village. She also dropped a hint that she studied nursing. There’s a nursing school at the Livingstone General Hospital. According to Doris, her parents are probably dead. But I bet we could find someone from her extended family who could establish Kuyeya’s date of birth.”
Niza shook her head. “Without a suspect in custody, evidence of age is meaningless. You could spend weeks tracking down her family and get us nowhere.”
Zoe’s eyes flashed. “We’ll get nowhere sitting at our desks.”
Mariam looked dubious. She turned to Joseph. “What’s your opinion?”
“It’s an intriguing theory,” Joseph said. “But I suggest we wait on a trip to Livingstone.”
Zoe frowned. “You have a better idea?”
“Not better,” he replied. “More pressing.” He fished in his pocket and removed his digital camera. “I took this on the way here,” he said, handing it to her.
Zoe looked at the image in the frame. A black BMW sedan was parked beside a tall fence. In the background, slightly blurred, was the sign for the British High Commission.
“Look above the bumper,” he said.
Zoe’s heart lurched. Beside the license plate was a sky blue crest with an X at its center. Except the X was not a character of the alphabet. It was a pair of golf clubs crossed at the neck. The clubs were overlaid with three stenciled letters: LGC.
“The Lusaka Golf Club,” she said softly.
“Let me see that,” Niza said, taking the camera from her. She stared at the screen while Sarge and Mariam crowded around. “How can you be sure this is the right symbol?”
“I’ll confirm it with our witnesses,” Joseph replied.
“Are you going to stake out the golf club?” Zoe asked.
Joseph nodded.
“Can I come along?”
He smiled. “The more the happier.”
She laughed. “Merrier, you mean.”
He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
Zoe was tempted to accompany Joseph to Kanyama to question Dominic about the bumper sticker, but the memory of the gang leader in the bandana dissuaded her. Until the election was over, she intended to stay out of the compounds. Agreeing to meet Joseph at noon, she climbed into her Land Rover and placed the doll and glasses on the seat beside her. If the objects were indeed Kuyeya’s, she needed to give them back.
The drive to the children’s home took half an hour. She parked in the scarlet shade of the poinsettia tree and found Sister Anica in the breezeway beside the courtyard. “We’ve made progress,” she said, giving the nun an outline of their discoveries. “Her name is Kuyeya.”
“So that’s how you pronounce it,” the nun replied. “Sister Irina said ‘Kuwia.’”
Zoe was instantly curious. “She started to talk?”
“A little. Come, they’re in the garden.”
Zoe followed the nun through a trellis of bougainvillea to a cultivated field brimming with plants and herbs in the first stages of growth. She saw the girl rocking quietly on a bench, Sister Irina beside her.
“She spends hours here,” Sister Anica said. “It’s her favorite place.”
; Zoe recalled the fingernail marks in Doris’s apartment. You’re learning to see the sun, she thought. “How is she handling the pain?”
“She’s taking her Tylenol,” replied the nun, “but I doubt she’ll run for a while.”
They greeted Sister Irina, and Zoe sat beside Kuyeya on the bench. “Hi there,” she said to the girl, wondering if she understood English. “Do you remember me?”
Kuyeya pressed her lips together and made the balloon sound.
“She does that when she’s happy,” Sister Irina explained.
“Hi, Zoe,” Kuyeya said spontaneously, her tone flat and her speech slightly slurred.
“I taught her your name,” Sister Irina explained. “She likes to say it.”
Zoe laughed. “I have a present for you, Kuyeya. I bet you like presents.”
The girl nodded, beginning to smile.
Zoe took out the glasses and tried them on her. They fit perfectly. The girl looked toward the trellis of bougainvillea in the distance. After a moment, she made the balloon sound again. This time it carried a faint chime of laughter. She’s nearsighted, Zoe thought.
“I have another present for you,” she said, handing over the doll.
The sight of the stuffed toy transformed Kuyeya. She snatched it away and began to rock back and forth, groaning softly under her breath. Suddenly, she spoke. “Baby is hurt. Baby is not bad. Baby is hurt.”
Zoe felt a chill. “Who is the baby?” she asked, but Kuyeya didn’t seem to hear her. Zoe looked at Sister Irina. “Has she talked about a baby before?”
The young nun shook her head.
“It might be a projection. She could be talking about herself.” Zoe turned back to Kuyeya. “Who hurt the baby?” she asked slowly.
Instead of responding, the girl rocked faster.
Zoe tried again: “How is the baby hurt?”
Kuyeya crossed her eyes, then refocused. At last, she gave an answer: “The man hurt Baby. The man is bad. Baby is not bad.”
At once, Zoe found herself acutely conscious of her surroundings. She heard the drone of an airplane overhead, the voices of children nearby, the whistle of the breeze in her ears.
“Who hurt the baby?” she probed. She willed Kuyeya to speak again, but the girl gave her nothing more. She gritted her teeth in frustration. You saw his face. What is his name?
She turned to Sister Irina. “It would be helpful to know what she says. Would you mind keeping notes?”
“I’d be happy to,” the nun said.
Zoe touched Kuyeya’s shoulder. “We need you to talk to us. Please talk to us.”
Leaving St. Francis, Zoe dropped by her flat and made two brown-bag lunches. Then she drove to the golf club to meet Joseph. She parked at the edge of the lot beneath a jacaranda tree. The spot gave her a view of the gate and the clubhouse—a compact, single-story building with the familiar blue crest above the entrance. She scanned the lot and saw at least a dozen SUVs, including one that appeared to be silver sitting in the far corner.
Joseph arrived just after noon and parked in the space beside her. “Dominic confirmed it,” he said, joining her in the Land Rover. “It’s the symbol he saw.”
Zoe nodded. “How do you want to do this?”
Joseph surveyed the lot. “I’m going to walk around. You stay here. Your face is too memorable.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. There’s a silver SUV on the far side.”
“I noticed,” he replied, and slipped out of the cabin.
Zoe watched as Joseph canvassed the ranks of parked vehicles, angling toward the silver SUV. He barely glanced at the vehicle before entering the clubhouse. A minute later, he returned to the lot with keys in hand, as if he had remembered something.
“It doesn’t have a sticker,” he said, climbing in again. “I only saw a couple of them in the lot. The lady in the club said they don’t make them anymore.”
“That’ll make our suspect easier to find,” Zoe replied. She reached into the back seat and handed him a brown bag. “I made you a sandwich.”
His lips widened into a smile. “That’s very kind of you.”
The gift of food seemed to unlock something in Joseph. Suddenly, he became a conversationalist, engaging Zoe about everything from his childhood in the Southern Province to the issues at stake in the election. As the afternoon deepened and the sun traced out its westward arc, at least two dozen automobiles came and went. Zoe kept watch for another silver SUV but saw only rainbow colors in the parade.
Around four o’clock, their fortunes turned. A silver Lexus RX270 pulled into the lot and parked in their row. Two Zambian men—one tall and trim, the other shorter and muscular—collected golf clubs from the trunk and strolled toward the clubhouse.
“I’ll check it out,” Joseph said, leaving the cab. He wandered down the lane and continued into the clubhouse, emerging five minutes later with a troubled look in his eyes. He took out his camera and snapped a photo of the Lexus. Then he returned to the Land Rover.
“The crest is there, but it’s on the wrong side,” he said, showing her the photo and Dominic’s sketch from his notebook. The boy had placed the crest to the left of the license plate. On the Lexus, the crest was to the right.
“Maybe he misremembered,” she said. “It was dark.”
Joseph frowned. “Right now his memory is the best evidence we have. There’s something else. I talked to the men. I asked if they’d played over the weekend. The tall one said he was in Johannesburg on business.”
Zoe sighed, dejected. “We should confirm that. We also need to double-check Dominic’s recollection.”
Joseph nodded. “I’ll run the plate.”
Chapter 6
The Lexus, it turned out, belonged to the son of a bureaucrat at the Ministry of Finance who worked for Barclays bank. Joseph called his office and confirmed that he was, at least ostensibly, in South Africa on the night Kuyeya was raped. Dominic, too, seemed certain that the crest on the perpetrator’s SUV had been situated to the left of the plate. The child even drew a sketch in Joseph’s notepad. In a flash of insight, Joseph drew the emblems of the popular automobile manufacturers above the plate, and the boy circled the three-pointed star of Mercedes Benz. But of this fact he had been less certain.
Joseph returned to haunt the Lusaka Golf Club in search of another silver SUV. Zoe, meanwhile, spent her days at the office, whittling down the stack of legal work that had piled up. New case files had to be reviewed and status reports delivered to Mariam; two research memos she had written for Sarge and Niza required editing; and a brief Sarge had drafted for the Zambia Supreme Court needed footnotes with citations along with substantial grammatical polish. She checked her iPhone obsessively, hoping for a text from Joseph. But the time passed without incident and she found herself wishing that she had pushed Mariam to authorize the Livingstone trip despite Joseph’s reluctance. Whatever the merits of her theory, searching for Kuyeya’s family was far more interesting than being handcuffed to a desk.
On Thursday after work, Zoe vented her frustration, doing thirty laps in the pool without pause. Afterward, she sat on the edge and dangled her feet in the water, breathing steadily until her pulse—and her mind—stopped racing.
It was then that her iPhone chimed. She jumped to her feet, certain the text was from Joseph. She groaned when she saw it was from her father.
Zoe, I landed in Kinshasa last night. I’m really looking forward to our dinner tomorrow. Let’s plan on seven o’clock at the Intercontinental. I’ll book a table at the Savannah Grill. It will be a joy to see you again.
She walked the length of the pool, and then swam another ten laps for good measure. When she climbed out, the sun was gone and the garden had fallen into deep shadow. She dried off and walked home, slower this time, drinking in the twilight. She gave thought to calling Joseph but couldn’t think of a legitimate excuse. Letting herself into her flat, she remembered something her father used to say: “Patience is a necessary evil.”
She smiled at the irony. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The following evening, Zoe sat on the couch in her flat, staring at the clock and dreading the forced march of time. She crossed her legs, certain that the black dress and pearls she had selected were too formal. Although the Intercontinental was one of Zambia’s premier hotels and her father would be wearing a suit—a Zegna, no doubt, with a crimson tie—Lusaka was worlds apart from Paris or New York. Still, it was the look he would be expecting, the Zoe Fleming who had dazzled the deans at Stanford and Yale Law, the daughter of elegant Catherine. She twisted her watch—a diamond-encrusted Charriol the Senator had given her as a graduation gift—and felt like a fraud.
When six thirty came, she collected her purse and left the apartment. The air was cool in the dwindling light, and a crescent moon hovered over the trees to the west. She drove to the Intercontinental in a daze, wishing she could have declined her father’s invitation. It would have been easy to contrive an excuse—a critical business trip, a long-planned holiday with friends. But St. Francis had lost a third of its donors after the financial crisis, and SCA was struggling to stay afloat. They needed her support, as did the children they served, and she needed her father to run interference with Atticus Spelling. For the thousandth time, Zoe wondered why her mother had named Spelling as her trustee. He was Catherine’s antitype—calculating, institutionally minded, and instinctively bleak. It was a mystery that had baffled Zoe for a decade.
After parking in the hotel lot, she entered the lobby and made her way to the Savannah Grill. The restaurant was located on a covered terrace overlooking the pool. She saw her father at a candlelit table for two, studying the menu. She also saw his security detail—two men in suits, one by the grand savannah window and the other sitting by the pool, looking ridiculous.
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 7
