A Wild and Lonely Place Read online

  I’d been noting her speech patterns: she slurred some words, but on the whole she sounded coherent and animated, if a little erratic. What interested me besides that was her apparent lack of emotional affect—she hadn’t reacted at all to my mention of the bombing attempt that had nearly taken her child’s life—as well as her undisguised hostility toward Malika Hamid. The latter could be exploited.

  I asked, “What was your mother-in-law’s reaction?”

  “She told me I was being childish. I don’t know why she couldn’t understand. I mean, she makes up all the rules around here. Malika’s got a rule for every occasion, and when they don’t suit her anymore, she just changes them. I told her she ought to have them printed up daily and posted like a menu so people would know which set we’re following. You can bet she didn’t like that.” She giggled, holding a card over her mouth—a naughty child.

  “Tell me about Malika’s rules.”

  Mavis looked pointedly at the glass in my hand. “You’re not drinking.”

  I took a small sip, nearly gagging on the warm undiluted liquor. “The rules?” I repeated.

  She tossed the cards on the floor, reached for her drink, and leaned back against the chaise longue. “There’s the rule that I can’t see Habiba—that’s my daughter, do you know her?”

  I nodded.

  “That I can’t see Habiba for more than an hour a day. Except when Habiba pitches a fit and cries for me, and then I can see her till she stops. There’s the rule that I can’t drive or go out for a walk, I can only go in the car with Karim—he’s the driver. Only I don’t have a car of my own, so I wouldn’t drive anyway and, besides, there’s no place I want to go. But that rule gets changed when I drink too much and take pills and they can’t get Dr. Lee over here to give me a shot. Then they make me go out and walk and walk, but always with Karim.” Her lips curled up—slowly, almost dreamily. “There’s no rule about the booze, of course. I can have all I want, as long as I behave and stay in my room.”

  “Behave how?”

  “Oh, don’t wander into one of her damn dinner parties and start talking to somebody important. Don’t ask to see Habiba except during her hour. I’m a bad influence on her, you know.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Oh, yes, I must be.”

  “So that’s what you do—stay here in your room most of the time?”

  “If I want the booze, I do. And I do—want the booze, I mean.”

  “What about Habiba’s father? What does he have to say about all this?”

  Her still smiling lips pulled down and her eyes sparked with anger. “Dave-the-magnificent? You see any signs of a man around here?”

  “No.”

  “That’s because Dave-the-perfect, Dave-who-Mama-claimed-could-do-no-wrong hasn’t been around for years. Malika didn’t think to make up any rules about sons not being able to disappear.”

  “He disappeared on purpose, then?”

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t want to get away from that smothering bitch?”

  “But what about you and Habiba? Why did he leave you behind?”

  “Dave and I stopped getting along the minute he brought me to live under this roof. He was as glad to get away from me as from his mother, I’m sure. Habiba…that I don’t understand. He adored her.” Briefly her eyes grew soft with some memory, then turned hard and angry again. “But if he really adored her, he’d’ve never subjected her to this household, now would he?”

  “I don’t know. What was his reason for living here?”

  “Money, what else? Dave-the-paragon was kicked out of UCLA; he claimed it was grades, but I know it was cheating. I graduated, but a degree in English lit and a flair for poetry don’t pay rent or buy food, and it wasn’t in Dave’s scheme of things to hold down a job. So we came here. For a while Malika pulled the financial strings and Dave was her little puppet. But then he got into something else.”

  “What?”

  Mavis shrugged and went to refill her glass. When she came back she flopped on the chaise. “What did you ask me?”

  “What did your husband get involved in?”

  “Oh, that. I don’t know. By the time I realized he had something going we were living in separate rooms and barely speaking. I supposed it was another woman—somebody with money, because all of a sudden he had plenty and was taking absolutely no shit off Malika. But if there was somebody, why didn’t he divorce me and take Habiba? Divorce is no big deal in the Muslim community, and Malika would’ve made sure he got custody.”

  “How?”

  “By making me out to be an unfit mother. I was already drinking a lot at the time and I’d…had some affairs.”

  “But your husband never mentioned divorce?”

  “No. And then all of a sudden, no Dave.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “February of…ninety. Dave didn’t come home all night. That wasn’t unusual, he stayed away a lot that last year, but he always came back in the morning to change clothes. After three days and still no Dave, Malika called in private detectives.”

  “Not the police?”

  “No way.”

  “Do you recall the name of the detective agency?”

  “…No. I don’t know if I was ever told. Frankly, my memory isn’t all that good.”

  “Did the detectives find out anything?”

  “Not that anybody ever said.”

  “Why do you suppose your mother-in-law didn’t want the police involved?”

  “It was too soon after—”

  “After what?”

  “No. That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Mavis—”

  She sat up straighter and looked sharply at me. “I’m sorry, why did you say you were here?”

  “To make sure you’re satisfied with the new security arrangements we instituted after the bombing attempt.”

  She frowned. “What bombing attempt?”

  My God. Mavis Hamid was so disconnected from the household that she didn’t know her daughter had nearly been killed the previous afternoon. I didn’t dare enlighten her; there was no telling how the news might affect her, and I’d risk her mother-in-law finding out about our meeting.

  Quickly I said, “At another consulate.”

  “Oh.”

  “As you were saying about Dave’s disappearance—”

  “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.” Then she made another erratic conversational detour and began a monologue about poetry. I hadn’t read much of it since high school and the few lines I’d once penned for a class assignment made Hallmark verses look like Shakespeare, but I couldn’t help being intrigued by Mavis’s talk about shaping ideas and emotions into poetic image. Intrigued, too, by the pleasure and excitement she displayed and how her hand never once strayed toward her glass of vodka. When I finally told her I had to leave and went to the door, she hurried after me and pressed a slender volume into my hand. Laments and Victories, by Mavis O’Donnell Hamid.

  “Thank you for listening,” she said. “I haven’t talked about my work for such a long time.”

  Impulsively I hugged her before I stepped into the hallway.

  Renshaw was leaning against an armoire by the far wall. As I closed the door he said, “What a touching display of sisterly affection.”

  “Listen, somebody ought to be a sister to that woman. This”—I gestured at Mavis’s room—“is a criminal situation!”

  “And not ours to interfere with.”

  “Probably not, but it makes me furious!” I clutched Mavis’s book tightly while we left the consulate, as if by protecting it I could somehow protect its author.

  We parted on the sidewalk, Gage heading toward the mobile unit up the hill and I to my nearby car. When I turned the key in the door lock I realized I’d left it open. Careless, McCone, too damn careless.

  As I slid behind the wheel and reached for my seat belt, a voice said, “Take me for a ride…please.”

  Even t
hough it was a child’s voice, I briefly froze. Then I turned toward Habiba Hamid. She sat in the passenger’s seat, all buckled up and ready to go.

  “How did you get out?” I asked sternly.

  “I know lots of ways.” In the dim light I made out a sly grin that resembled her mother’s. She was a thin little girl—too thin, really—with shoulder-length black hair that curled under like mine and a slash of bangs across her forehead.

  “I’ll bet you do,” I said, “but it’s not too smart, particularly at night. And why are you in my car?”

  “I like red sports cars. My father used to have one. And you were nice to me yesterday. So tonight when I saw you drive up and you came in to see my mom, I snuck out.”

  I was nice to her. I’d winked, that was all. My God, the child’s life must be as empty as her mother’s.

  As if she knew what I was thinking, Habiba added, “Yesterday? When you winked?”

  “Yes?”

  “That used to be my mom’s signal when she wanted to see me for some special time together. She’d wink and say something like, ‘The flowers down at the gazebo are lovely this year,’ and then I’d know she’d be waiting there for me in an hour.”

  “You said ‘used to be.’ Doesn’t she do that anymore?”

  “Not for a long time, she hasn’t. She doesn’t even notice me…or anything very much. She’s awfully sad and sometimes I hear her crying. That’s why I’m glad you came to see her.” She twisted around and looked into the rear carrying space where I’d set my bag and Mavis’s book. “She gave you her poetry collection. That means she was happy. When she’s sad she won’t even talk about the poems.”

  “She did seem sad at first. Do you know why?”

  She shrugged, looking down and fiddling with the seat belt.

  “Are you sad, too, Habiba?”

  “…Most of the time. Lonesome, too.”

  “Do you miss your father?”

  “Sort of, but I don’t really remember him.”

  “No? You must’ve been around four when he went away; that’s old enough to remember something about him.”

  She pursed her lips, as though she was making a difficult decision. “Okay, I lied. I remember him; I saw him just last month. Grams says I can’t tell anybody about his visits because if my mother found out she’d put a stop to them.”

  Was the child making this up? Hamid had supposedly vanished years ago. “How often does he come?”

  “Two or three times a year. He always brings presents.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know. He says he travels a lot.”

  “Well, what kinds of presents does he bring you?”

  “The last time it was this wooden bracelet with parrots carved on it.” She pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and held out her arm. The bracelet was white, girded with brightly painted birds, and looked like a cheap tourist souvenir. Hamid—if Habiba’s story was true—must have been traveling in the Tropics.

  I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, wondering if the gift-bearing father wasn’t only a wishful fantasy created by a lonely little girl. Two of my nephews had suffered through their parents’ bitter divorce, and my youngest sister’s three kids had never even known their respective fathers. From observing them I knew how yearning for an absent parent could create a rich imaginary life.

  “Please take me for a ride,” Habiba said again.

  “All right, but only a short one.” I started the MG and edged out of the parking space. Drove down the block and made the first in a series of right turns that would eventually take us to RKI’s mobile unit.

  “Tell me more about your father’s visits,” I said.

  “Well, he only stays for a few hours. Beforehand Grams sends everybody away except Aisha—that’s my nanny who she trusts ’cause she’s been with us forever. First my father and Grams talk in the library. Then they come out and Aisha serves us lunch.” Frown lines appeared between her eyebrows. “He really doesn’t know what to say to me. He asks all these questions about school and my lessons and what I’ve been doing, but I can tell he’s not listening to my answers because he’s too busy trying to think up the next question. Sometimes Uncle Klaus comes with him; then it’s better.”

  Kahlil Lateef had said Dawud was an only child. “Is Uncle Klaus your mother’s brother?”

  “No, he’s not really an uncle, that’s just what Grams told me to call him. He’s my dad’s business partner.”

  “What kind of business are they in?”

  “Well, it’s got to do with managing money and they both travel. Dad said he’d explain it to me when I’m older. You see what I mean about him not knowing how to talk to me? He acts like I’m about three!”

  In some respects Habiba did seem younger than nine; she’d led a very sheltered life within the confines of the consulate. On the other hand, she’d demonstrated a fairly adult insight about both her parents. “Klaus,” I said, “that’s a German name.”

  “Yes, he told me once that he was born there, but he left when he was a teenager.”

  “Your grandmother—”

  Habiba leaned forward suddenly, peering through the windshield. “Oh, no, it’s Mr. Renshaw!”

  We’d rounded the last corner and were approaching the mobile unit. Gage stood behind it, scowling and motioning for me to pull over.

  “He’ll tell Grams I snuck out!” Habiba’s hand clutched at my arm.

  “I don’t think so.” I stopped the car. Renshaw leaned down, saw Habiba, and scowled.

  I reached across her and rolled down the window. “Hi, Gage. Habiba needed to get out for a while, so I suggested we go for a drive. I told her you wouldn’t mind.”

  Renshaw covered his annoyance quickly. “Well, her nanny’s upset, so I guess we’d better get her back home.” He opened the car door and bowed from the waist. “May I escort you back to your castle, my lady?”

  I stared; in all my dealings with him, Renshaw had never exhibited so much as a shred of whimsy. Habiba giggled.

  I said, “The lady would prefer the queen not know about this excursion.”

  “Understood.”

  The little girl turned to me. “Thank you,” she said softly. “And thank you for being nice to my mom.” Then she added, “What’s your name?”

  “Sharon.”

  “Sharon.” She seemed to savor it, forming the syllables slowly.

  Renshaw said, “Your escort awaits you, my lady.”

  Habiba got out of the car.

  “Wait,” I said. “That signal you and your mother used to have? The wink? How would you like it if it was ours—yours, mine, and Mr. Renshaw’s? If you need to talk privately to either of us for any reason at all, just wink and say something about the place where you want us to meet you and when to be there.”

  “Could we? I’d like that.”

  “Just remember—for any reason at all. And we’ll do the same with you.”

  Renshaw smiled at me and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger above Habiba’s head. He didn’t realize that I hadn’t set the game up for the sake of the investigation. I’d done it for her.

  Six

  So what did I have?

  A lot of facts and events that might be relevant to the bomber’s activities and might not. A lot of behavior on the part of Malika Hamid that didn’t add up. A badly damaged woman and a love-starved little girl who were virtually prisoners in a house that technically was considered part of a foreign nation. A man who seemed to have disappeared but hadn’t.

  And where was I going with all this?

  Nowhere except home to pick up the boxes I’d packed that afternoon, then straight north on Highway 101 to the Anderson Valley cutoff to the coast.

  Still…

  While stopped at a light on Market Street I called my office. Friday and Saturday nights Mick could usually be found there while Maggie—a premed student—worked the late shift at a nursing home. When my nephew picked up, he sounded reli
eved to hear my voice. “I’ve been trying to reach you all evening. You should think about getting a pager.”

  Then he’d really have me where he wanted me—on a short tether. “I’ll think about it,” I lied. “What’s up?”

  “Don’t go home.”

  “Why not?”

  “Joslyn called; she’s camped on your doorstep. She doesn’t believe you’ve left for the weekend, and she sounds like she’s ready for an ugly face-to-face.”

  “Damn!” I’d thought she’d have calmed down by now. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t go home to pick up my things; I kept weekend clothes and extras of everything else I needed at the cottage, and the boxes could wait till the next trip. But I’d hoped to ask Adah to access some information for me before I left town.

  “Well, thanks for the warning,” I told Mick. “Are you checking the bulletin boards?”

  “Yeah. So far there hasn’t been anything worthwhile.”

  “What about that research on Azad that I asked for? How’s it going?”

  “Done.”

  “Printed out, too?”

  “On your desk.”

  “Good. You willing to work tomorrow?”

  “Might as well. Maggie’s cramming for exams.” He sounded glum.

  “Okay, here’s what I need.” I explained it in detail. “Fax it to me at the cottage.” Then I pulled into the left-turn lane at Church Street, correcting course for Bernal Heights.

  * * *

  Mick had gone by the time I got to the office. I looked at my watch: after eleven. Hastily I bundled the stack of printout he’d left on my desk into my briefcase, but something nagged at me and I sat down to think. After a few minutes I moved my chair closer to the desk and dialed Captain Greg Marcus’s extension at the Hall of Justice. My old friend was now on Narcotics and by virtue of rank should have been off duty at this hour, but he’d recently told me he’d been putting in double shifts because of a severe manpower shortage. Tonight he was still at his desk.