by Diane Kelly
I blew my runny nose and blinked my burning, teary eyes. I wasn’t the only one crying. Beauregard was sobbing his heart out. The prospect of years in the klink tends to bring on the boo hoos.
Given all I’d suffered, Eddie offered me the privilege of reading Beau his rights. I always loved Mirandizing someone we’d nailed. Reading the rights was essentially the legalese way of saying “neener-neener.”
“You have the right to remain thilent,” I said.
What?!?
I tried again. “Thilent.” I looked up at Eddie. “Thit! Thith thucks! I can’t talk right with my tooth mithing.”
Eddie put a hand over his mouth, but his shaking shoulders gave him away. The bastard was laughing at me!
“Thome partner you are.” I glared at him. “Athhole.”
“Please.” Eddie made an openhanded gesture inviting me to continue, all the while fighting a grin. “Go on.”
I wasn’t going to give Eddie the thatithfaction—make that “satisfaction”—of seeing me back down. I’d been totally humiliated, but I was Tara Holloway, by God, and I’d power through. And at least I hadn’t bitten off my tongue. A chipped tooth and a slight lisp was nothing compared to losing your tongue. Not that I felt at all sorry for Homsi, but still.
I turned back to Beauregard. “Anything you thay can be uthed againtht you in court. You have the right to conthult an attorney and to have the attorney prethent during quethtioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
At least that last one didn’t contain any s’s. Thank heaven for small favors.
Beauregard’s rights now read, I figured it couldn’t hurt to see if he’d talk. Besides, I was curious. “Where’d all the money go, Beau? How doeth a perthon thpend theven hundred thouthand dollarth and have nothing to thow for it?”
“Blackjack,” he sputtered. “I’ve got a gambling addiction.”
His attorney would probably try to use the addiction in Beauregard’s defense, argue for a reduced sentence.
Once the marshals had taken Richard Beauregard off our hands, I gave Eddie my keys and he drove me to the doc-in-a-box. Ajay suggested I see my dentist about the broken tooth, but my burning eyes and split lip he could handle.
He affixed a butterfly bandage to my lip and flushed my eyes for the second time in a matter of days. “Here,” he said, handing me the bottle of soothing saline solution. “Take this with you. It will save you the trip next time.”
God, I prayed, please don’t let there be a next time!
* * *
Brett called soon after I arrived home.
“I’m planning to fly back to Dallas this weekend,” he said.
“That’th great, Brett.” We’d finally be able to have our talk. I was ready. Earlier I’d dreaded it, but now that I’d been forced to put it off for so long I’d had time to prepare myself, work through exactly what I wanted to say.
He was quiet a moment. “Dare I ask why you sound funny?”
“I ate thome tile at the airport. Half of my front tooth ith mithing.”
He was quiet another moment. “You remember when I told you that I wanted you to always be honest with me?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “From now on, make something up. Something that won’t make me worry.”
“Thure,” I said. “I’d be glad to.”
Brett said he’d be done fixing things at the country club by the weekend. Though the beetles had devoured some plants and eaten parts of the turf on the golf course, the infestation had been discovered fairly quickly, and the damage was not as widespread as they’d initially believed. Chef Fiona had prepared him a special meal to celebrate these happy discoveries, had even taken a break from her duties to join him at his table while he enjoyed her delicacies.
“That’th good newth,” I said. “Tho now that the beetleth are taken care of you won’t have to go back to Atlanta, right?”
He didn’t respond to the question, but it didn’t really require an answer. Of course he wasn’t going back to Atlanta. What reason would he have to go back once he’d completed the repairs?
His voice became soft. “I really need to see you, Tara.”
Ugh. Why did he have to be so sweet all the time? Just once couldn’t he be a jackass so I wouldn’t have to feel so bad about my attraction to Nick?
We talked for a few more minutes about nothing in particular. When we finished, I poured myself a tall glass of peach sangria and slugged it back. The ice-cold liquid sent a shock through my broken tooth. Yee-ouch!
I went to my miscellaneous drawer and rummaged through take-out menus, plastic silverware, and packets of ketchup, mustard, and soy sauce until I found a drinking straw. I tore off the paper wrap, plunked the straw in my sangria, and took a sip.
Aaah. The straw worked. No pain.
Alicia hadn’t come in yet by the time I went to bed. Martin and McGee always threw parties for their weary, exhausted staff after the April 15 and October 15 deadlines and gave everyone the day off afterward. The parties were one of the things I missed about working at the firm. The partners spared no expense, renting a fancy hotel ballroom with a dance floor, serving a scrumptious buffet, hosting an open bar.
Alicia wouldn’t be home until late. Too bad. I wanted to freak her out with my broken tooth.
* * *
My alarm buzzed at 4:00 AM and I nearly knocked the clock off the night table in my attempts to put an end to the infernal noise.
What the…? Oh, yeah. Time to get up and prepare for the early-morning trip to the mosque.
I groaned. Seemed everyone was being hard on me lately. Beauregard. Nick. The TSA agent. Even Allah.
“Why are you getting up so early?” Alicia called from the guest room across the hall. “Are you finally going to do your laundry?”
I told her of our plans to visit the terrorists’ stomping grounds today. “We’re thtarting with one of the mothqueth. We have to be there for predawn prayerth at five forty-five.”
It was her turn to groan now. I heard rustling from her room as she apparently threw back the covers. I was a little surprised she didn’t notice my new lisp, but Alicia didn’t notice much before her first cup of coffee.
“I’ll start the coffeepot,” she said. “It’s the least I can do for you after you’ve put up with me the past few days.”
I took a quick shower, wrapped my wet hair in a towel, and ventured down to the kitchen in my bathrobe. Alicia stood at the counter, pouring hazelnut creamer into a mug. She topped off the creamer with the fresh-perked coffee.
She stirred the coffee with a spoon, turned, and handed me the mug. “Here you go.”
“Thankth.”
Her eyes flickered to my mouth and her hands reflexively went to her face. “Holy hell! What happened to you?”
I explained how I’d been tackled by the TSA officer at the airport after stupidly leaving my badge in my pocket, setting off the metal detector, and taking off after Beauregard before they could clear me.
I sighed. “I look horrible, don’t I?”
“I don’t know,” Alicia said. “It has a certain white-trash charm. All you need to go with it are a banjo, a baby bump, and a dozen mangy dogs.”
“Thankth a lot.”
“It’s four thirty in the morning,” she said. “You can’t expect more from me at this ungodly time of day.”
“I hope my dentitht can thqueeze me in today.” I didn’t want to go around looking like this for long. I also wondered whether I could talk Lu into reimbursing the cost of the cap for my tooth. They didn’t come cheap. Since the injury had taken place on the job, it seemed only fair for Uncle Sam to cover it, right? Maybe I should go for a gold cap, like Johnny Depp wore in his role as Captain Jack Sparrow in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. Or maybe caps with diamonds imbedded in them. I’d look like Nellie or that other rap star, Waka Flocka Flame.
I took a sip of my coffee. Dang! The hot liquid shocked m
y tooth as bad as the cold sangria had last night. I went to the drawer and fished out another straw, hoping the coffee wouldn’t melt the plastic and poison me.
Alicia and I headed back upstairs.
“You’ll need to cover your head if you’re going into a mosque, right?” she asked.
I hadn’t thought of that. “You’re right.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” She dashed into the guest room and returned with the beautiful Hermès scarf she’d scored at the thrift shop along with the discounted wedding gown.
“Perfect.” While Alicia returned to her bed for more sleep, I dried and styled my hair, dressed in a business suit, and wrapped the scarf around my head. The stylish accessory almost made up for my redneck tooth.
Almost.
But not quite.
chapter thirty-one
Home Ain’t Necessarily Where the Heart Is
I met up with Eddie and Agent Zardooz in the parking lot of the mosque. Although the sun had yet to come up and the morning was still dark, the parking lot was well lit. The building was large, with a dome in the center and decorative minarets at the corners. A steady crowd of people, mostly men, streamed inside. Was one of them the person who’d helped the terrorists send their funds to Syria undetected?
Zardooz had brought his wife, Dorri, with him.
I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Dorri.” Finally! A name I could not only pronounce but also remember. It was the name of the fish in Finding Nemo, the one with the voice of Ellen DeGeneres. I’d watched the movie at least a gazillion times with my young niece.
Dorri Zardooz looked nothing like a fish, however. She was a pretty woman, with the kind of naturally thick, dark lashes I could achieve only with three coats of mascara. She glanced up at the scarf covering my hair and dipped her head in gratitude. “I see you have prepared yourself. Thank you.”
While Zardooz gave Eddie and Wang a quick primer on mosque etiquette, Dorri did the same for me. “Remove your shoes when you enter,” she advised, “and walk behind those who are praying.”
I nodded to let her know I understood.
We spent several minutes in the mosque. It was plain inside, without the distractions of stained-glass windows, oil paintings, statues, and candles that I was used to.
While Azad led Eddie to the men’s prayer room, I followed Dorri to the women’s room, standing at the back and merely observing. Women were lined up, heads bowed in prayer. I noticed Lilith among them.
When the ritual ended, Zardooz spoke to the imam, asking if he would be willing to talk to me and Eddie. He agreed and we stepped outside to the parking lot.
Zardooz introduced us to the imam and informed us that the two had already engaged in an extensive discussion about Algafari and Nasser.
“They prayed here,” the imam said, “but this is a large mosque and I did not know them well.”
Two young men walked past us on their way to their cars and the imam called out to them, reminding them about the upcoming youth group trip to Six Flags. The youth group from my family’s church back in Nacogdoches took a trip to Six Flags each year, too. Nothing like ascending twenty-five stories high on a roller coaster to bring you closer to your God, huh?
“Can you think of anyone who might have helped them move money?” I asked, hoping the question would not cause offense. “Maybe someone with a job at a bank?”
The imam shook his head. “I wish I could help you,” he said, “but I can’t think of anyone. The men kept to themselves and did not interact much with the others.”
I thanked the imam for his time and he went back inside.
Zardooz shrugged. “I interviewed the imam at Homsi’s mosque in Fort Worth,” he said. “Homsi didn’t socialize much, either.”
It was typical of radicals, I supposed. They tended to be loners or associate mostly with others of like mind.
The four of us went to a nearby waffle house for breakfast. I fortified myself with gravy-covered biscuits and cheese grits while Eddie opted for scrambled eggs and an English muffin. Dorri headed home after breakfast while Eddie and I followed Azad to Algafari’s apartment.
Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front door. Agent Zardooz pulled it back to allow us to enter.
Eddie flipped on the lights and we looked around. The place looked like a typical bachelor pad. The living room contained a comfortable couch, coffee table, and a big-screen television. Two tall wooden stools stood at the breakfast bar.
I opened the pantry to find canned vegetables, a moldy loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. A bag of Oreos sat in the pantry, too, half of them already eaten, the rest surely stale by now. I checked the freezer and refrigerator next. Typical bachelor foods there, too. The only thing missing was the usual six-pack of beer.
The small bedroom contained only a twin-sized bed and a dresser. The closet housed the usual trappings of an urban professional. Slacks, loafers, dress shirts, belts. Ditto for the dresser. Underwear, socks, pajamas.
We returned to the living room. Eddie retrieved the remote from the coffee table and turned on the television. It was tuned to Al Jazeera, which showed video footage from yet another bombing.
Would the madness never end?
Algafari’s apartment was an end unit, so he had only one neighbor. We spoke to the woman who lived there, a butch and bulky fortyish woman who drove a forklift on the graveyard shift at a local warehouse.
“Hardly ever saw the guy,” she said. “I once gave him a jump start when his car battery died, but that was the extent of our interaction.”
We thanked her and made our way down to the apartments’ mailboxes. Zardooz stuck a small key in Algafari’s box and retrieved his mail. He’d received a cable bill and credit card solicitation, along with a postcard depicting a beach. Though the address was written in English, the rest of the postcard was in Arabic.
Zardooz translated for us. “‘We had a wonderful time at the shore. Hope you can come visit again soon. Love, Aunt Sabeen.’”
We left Algafari’s apartment and drove to Nasser’s, located a few miles farther west. His apartment was a virtual duplicate of his cohort’s, though Nasser had a treadmill in his living room. I’d been thinking about getting one myself, for those days when I couldn’t make it to the YMCA. I looked the machine over. It was a nice piece of equipment, though it had accumulated some dust while Nasser had been in jail.
I noticed a small orange spot near the digital readout and instinctively scratched at it, assuming it was a speck of paint. It wasn’t paint, though. It was a tiny remnant of an orange sticker that had probably been the manufacturer’s warning label. Really, weren’t some of the warnings they put on exercise equipment ridiculous?
Do not place treadmill in water. Gee, I can’t use my electric treadmill in water? How shocking!
Wear proper athletic shoes during use. Darn! I so wanted to take a run in my stilettos.
If you feel faint, stop exercising immediately and consult a doctor. If I want to drop dead, isn’t that my own business?
The warning label might as well say: Do not use this machine if your head is up your butt.
Nobody was home at the apartments located on either side of Nasser’s digs. His neighbors were probably at work.
While Eddie and Zardooz grabbed some lunch, I made a quick stop at my dentist’s office. He was able to use some type of composite to repair my tooth. Thank goodness. I was tired of sounding like Daffy Duck.
We three agents hooked back up and visited Texas Instruments next. Eddie and I searched through Algafari’s desk and spoke with his manager and coworkers, but none had anything of interest to offer. We had the same results at the small biotech company where Nasser had worked. Apparently both men had kept their noses to their respective grindstones and had interacted with their coworkers only on business matters.
By that time, it was late in the day. We decided to make the rounds of Homsi’s mosque, home, and workplace the following day, though we suggested
visiting the mosque after the daytime prayers. I didn’t think I could handle another 4:00 AM muster.
chapter thirty-two
Matchmaker
It was nearly seven that evening when I made my way into the drive-through at the same coffee shop where Nick, Josh, and I had met up with Kira a couple of weeks ago. I ordered a decaf this time, hoping to get a decent night’s sleep tonight given the early morning I’d had. I snagged another double espresso for Kira. Josh had told me she was a night owl.
I drove to her office a few blocks away. She leased a small space on the second floor of a trendy strip center. She was still at work, just as Josh had assured me. When you’re your own boss, you get to set your own hours. Kira generally worked noon to ten. Then, presumably, she stalked the streets looking for victims with good veins.
Her office was dark, lit only by her computer screen and a black light that made the velvet Mad Hatter poster behind her glow. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim, I could see that the walls of her space were decorated with enlarged prints of Web sites she’d created. Her desk wasn’t actually a desk at all but rather a space-age-looking glass-top structure with spiderlike chrome legs. Today, Kira’s blond almost dreadlocks were pulled up into a sort of ponytail on top of her head and hung down, surrounding her head as if she were a modern-day Medusa. She wore a sweatshirt with a picture of a smiling Justin Bieber on it.
I gestured to her sweatshirt as I handed her the espresso. “You’re wearing that ironically, right?”
She took the espresso, glanced down at her sweatshirt, and shrugged. “Actually, I think the little dude is kind of cute.”
Huh. Who would’ve thought it?
