The Sanctity of Sloth Page 20

  Abby's stomach knotted. His look turned pleading. "I thought it was better to feed her a little information. You know. Satisfy her curiosity, so she didn't keep asking questions."

  "She must have gone to the police. She must be the witness." Abby struggled to get the words out.

  "I did help maintain your amnesia story, by the way. I wish you'd have warned me," Carlos said.

  "If she thought your father was guilty of something having to do with that girl, you can't blame her," Tallulah said.

  Abby turned away from Carlos. She was so angry, she couldn't look at him. She'd told him her suspicions about the Jacksons, but he'd ignored her. Thought she was paranoid. Well, this proved she was right. Didn't it? Why would Mimi assume her father's conversation with a wall, and the dead girl were connected? Nobody told her they thought the girl had been kept in the anchorhold. The answer seemed obvious to Abby. Mimi wanted to build a case against her father to distract the police from looking too closely at her own family.

  "Mimi knew where the hide-a-key was," Abby said. "She lives right next door."

  "What are you saying?" Carlos said.

  "She or her husband probably set that fire last night."

  "You're not making any sense. Why would she go to the police, tell them her suspicions about Paul, then go burn his house down?"

  "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore." Abby heard the edge of hysteria in her own voice.

  "Abby," Carlos touched her arm. She jerked away from him. "I'm sorry I said what I said, but I still think you're jumping to conclusions."

  She felt his eyes on her, but refused to meet them. After a long, painful silence, Carlos said, "I'd better check in at the nursery booth." He disappeared down the aisle of kiosks.

  "Honey, I don't want to intrude but I think you're being hard on that man," Tallulah said.

  Before Abby could answer her, a fit looking woman in yoga pants accompanied by a pony-tailed girl, wandered up to the booth. "Look at the necklaces. They're so pretty," the girl said.

  "They're not necklaces. They're rosary beads," the fit woman said.

  "What're rosary beads?"

  Abby didn't hear the answer. The questions in her mind screamed too loudly. Was she being too hard on Carlos?

  If he had taken her seriously, he might have unearthed some evidence by now. Evidence that would shift Sylla's attention off her father and onto the Jacksons. And he wouldn't have given Mimi any ammunition. It was possible the knowledge that someone had been in the anchorhold had scared the Jacksons enough to push them into making another attempt on her father's life. An attempt that almost succeeded.

  A couple stepped up to the candle display on the other side of the booth, and forced her attention onto the task she'd signed up for. Abby assisted them, then a single woman, then two teenage girls, and on it went. For the next two hours, she and Tallulah were so busy, she had no time to think.

  The first lull came at 10:25. Tallulah looked at her watch. "The parade starts in a half hour. It should be a little quieter for a while. If you want to go for a coffee or something, I can handle things on my own."

  "I do need a bathroom break," Abby said.

  She passed kiosks selling tie-dyed skirts and retro sandals, homemade jewelry, kitschy pet paraphernalia and one offering chiropractic adjustments on her way to the porta-potties. When she was done she made a right instead of going straight to the Mission kiosk. She was pretty sure she'd seen a booth selling coffee and Greek pastries in that direction.

  "He's such a dweeb." A young male voice caught her attention.

  "Math nerd," another voice agreed.

  "He wants to play basketball. On the team. But I said, 'Dude, you know you play it with a real ball, right?'"

  Abby spun around. Two teenage boys—one tall, lean, and dark-haired, the other short, stocky, and fair—walked in the opposite direction. They must have gone right by her, but she hadn't noticed. Not until she heard the voice.

  She hurried after them. The stocky boy laughed and adopted a falsetto. "I'm, like, a Wii pro. Check out my score." Abby didn't care about his voice. It was the dark-haired kid she wanted to hear speak again.

  "So stupid," the taller boy said.

  Stupid. That's what she'd heard that night. The young man at the Mission had said, "This is stupid." The voice, the inflection, even the way he held his "s" a little longer than most people did, it all sounded the same. She was close behind them now. Close enough to smell their cheap aftershave. Her heart thudded in her throat.

  "Excuse me." She put a hand on the taller boy's bony shoulder. He stopped and snapped his head around. Eyes, exotic. Cheekbones, high. It was him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 10:25 AM

  CARLOS MEASURED THE stack of "Free Consultation" postcards in his hand. He'd given out at least half of what he'd started with. Not bad for a few hours of work, especially since he hadn't had his mind on the job. The crowd was thinning out now, and all he could think about was finding Abby.

  She was mad at him. Maybe even madder than the night they'd had their big fight and she’d disappeared into the anchorhold. He was sorry he'd said what he said to Mimi. Maybe he should have taken Abby's fears about the Jacksons more seriously.

  If the police pressed charges against Paul, it would be a nightmare. It was the kind of story that made headlines. Brainwashed girl and unknown dead victim held captive by father in strange, medieval, religious ritual. It would be worse than being the daughter of Mad Molly.

  But they didn't have anything solid. They didn't have anything because Paul was innocent. He wished Abby could see that.

  Carlos told the woman manning the nursery booth he was leaving, dropped his cards on the counter, and left. He walked past kiosks, tourists, locals, baby strollers, and kids on skateboards without seeing any of them.

  He had to find Abby. Promise her he'd make it right. Tell her he'd fix it. If the police wouldn't protect Paul, he'd do it. He'd find the people who were trying to kill him, and . . . He didn't know what he'd do when he found them, but he'd figure it out.

  He crossed the street moving against the tide of people surging toward the parade, and picked up his pace. He saw a tousle of brown hair through the crowd and knew it was her. He could have seen just a hand, or a shoulder, or the curve of her neck and known her. Because she was his. A part of him.

  He had to figure out how to make this relationship work, because he wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't sure he could even if he wanted to. He saw now that they were disconnected puzzle pieces of opposite shapes, but each was integral to the whole. Once they found their fit, the picture would be complete. He needed her, and she needed him.

  He wove between parade goers, to reach her. He'd never been big on speeches, but he was going to tell her how he felt. How much he wanted to protect her, take care of her. How he'd try harder to understand her. He'd even read the damn book when she finished it.

  Their eyes met. She raced toward him. He felt happy for the first time in a long time despite all the terrible things that were happening. She had forgiven him.

  "Carlos." She was breathless. He opened his mouth to tell her all the things he'd been thinking, to tell her he loved her. But she interrupted him. "Carlos, look." She pointed to something over his shoulder. He didn't want to look now, not when he had such important things to say. "Look." Her face was white. He turned, but all he saw was the backs of strangers.

  "See those boys?" she said.

  It took him a minute to figure out who she was talking about. "The teenagers? Mutt and Jeff?"

  "Right." She took his arm and pulled him along with her. "The tall one, he's the one I saw at the Mission that night."

  He stopped walking. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. I'm sure. Come on." She urged him forward. "I heard his voice, and I ran after him. It's him."

  "Did you talk to him?"

  "Yes, for a second. I said I thought he was someone else. But I got a good look at his
face. And it's him."

  "You thought Chad was. . ." Doubt crawled into his mind.

  "I know. I know. There's a resemblance, but as soon as I saw this kid, I knew."

  They were headed toward an intersection, and Carlos had a choice to make. He could run around the corner, loop back, get ahead of the boys and take their pictures. Take Abby at her word. Or, he could go with the flow of the crowd. Tell himself this was just another of her crazy ideas.

  If he did that, he'd lose her.

  "See that lamppost?" He pointed a half block up. Abby nodded. "I'm going to get there before the boys do and take some pictures. I'll make sure I'm zoomed in on the kid. Then we have something we can show Sylla."

  He didn't wait for Abby to answer, but jogged left when they hit the crosswalk. He cut past a row of kiosks, ran across a greenbelt to the next row and bolted over to the main street. He anchored himself against the lamppost, pulled his phone from his pocket, and scanned the crowd.

  The boys were close. He could see their sweatshirts, one blue, one black, but couldn't get a clear view of their faces. He raised the phone, and watched for them to appear on the screen.

  The blond boy came into the frame first. The dark-haired kid was still half hidden by a Bruins cap on the man in front of him. The man moved to the right. Carlos focused on the boy's face, then dropped the phone to his side. He didn't need to take a picture.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 10:42 AM

  CARLOS TOOK OFF running. Abby stayed as close to the boys as possible. She didn't need to worry about them noticing her. They never turned. They were in their own teen world, oblivious to everything around them. Including her.

  The stream of people headed to the parade route had picked up its pace. The boys were getting close to the lamppost, but Carlos wasn't there yet. Anxiety tripped up her spine. If he didn't get there in time what should she do? Keep following the boys? Shouldn't one of them keep the kids in sight? Carlos could find another opportunity to get a picture. Maybe at the parade route.

  Just as she resigned herself to plan "B," Carlos appeared. She stopped. People separated behind her and came together in front like a stream parting for a rock. They jostled and nudged, but she held her ground. She didn't want Sylla to see her in the picture, to know she'd been following the boys.

  She watched as Carlos raised his phone. He stood, as still as she, waiting. For a split second there was nothing between him and the boys. Take it. Take the shot.

  But he didn't.

  His arm dropped to his side. Why? Why hadn't he take the photo?

  Carlos searched the sea of people until he found her, and swam through the throng to meet her. His face was troubled.

  "What happened?" she said when he was close enough to hear. He didn't answer. He took her arm and dragged her out of the flow of traffic.

  "I didn't need to."

  "I thought you said—"

  "I know him." Abby let those words sink in. Know him? That was amazing. So much better than a picture. It meant they had a name. Possibly an address. Excitement, hope, thrummed through her. "Who is he?"

  "He's the son of one of my clients. They live in Nellie Gail. Leena and Tarik Basara."

  "We need to talk to Sylla. Tell her we know who was responsible for the girl's death. The people who tried to kill Dad." She turned in the direction of the parking lot, anxious for the first time to talk to the police.

  "Wait. We need to think about this for a minute." He drew her to a table on the empty patio of a coffee shop.

  Abby perched on the edge of a chair, impatience not allowing her to sit. "We need to tell Sylla."

  "Why would she believe us? You'll have to admit you and your father lied to her. You'll have to tell her you were the one who saw the men, not him."

  Abby felt her face grow hot. Lies. Lies and secrets. Well-intentioned, seemingly insignificant falsehoods. They had a way of crawling out of the dark, scorpions under a black light, shining with florescence, stingers poised. "So what do we do? We know who did this terrible thing. Do we just let them get away with it?"

  "No. Of course not. But we need more evidence. More than just your word, which," an apologetic look filled his eyes, "doesn't carry a lot of weight with the police right now."

  "How do we do that?"

  "Maybe the same way you were trying to gather evidence against Mimi's family." Abby's lips thinned. He didn't say it, but she heard the "I told you so" in his voice. "Let's go to the house. They owe me money. I've been trying to collect from them for two weeks. I'll knock on the door, and see if I can get inside. You take a quick look around outside. There's only a house and a garage. No shed. No outbuildings. Maybe we'll see something."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know." He threw his hands up. "You've been after me to snoop around the Jacksons' place. Look for who knows what. I'm just saying let's do the same thing. We know they're guilty."

  "Okay. Sorry." She put a hand on his leg. "You're right. We might not see anything, but we might. Even talking to them could give us information that would help."

  "Right. I've never even asked them what country they're from, or how long they've been in the States. I'm sure they're from the Middle East somewhere, and that's where authorities think that girl was from. We need more to give Sylla if she's going to take us seriously."

  "When do you want to go?"

  "Let's do it now."

  "They might be here. At the parade."

  "If they are, we'll walk around. Look for evidence they started the fire, a place they could have held the girl. I can go back tonight or tomorrow and talk to them."

  They took off for the parking lot. Abby heard the sounds of the parade in the distance. A high school marching band blaring the Star Wars theme, the jangle of horse harnesses. This was the first year in her memory she wasn't there on the route, cheering on the participants. It was also the first year in her memory her father wasn't there. That thought stiffened her resolve. They knew who had left the girl, who they suspected had hurt her father. Now they had to prove it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 11:10 AM

  The Wife

  "ARE YOU READY? The parade started ten minutes ago." Really, Tarik was as vain as a woman. I was forever waiting for the man while he shaved, patted lotion on his skin, and styled his hair. He was proud of his hair. It was the only thing that remained of the stunningly handsome man I had married. The physique had gone to pot.

  "Yes, yes." He scurried into the front hall where I stood, sweater on, purse over my shoulder. "I can't find my keys."

  "I've got them." I struggled to keep the irritation from my voice. I didn't want to go to the parade. Not today. I wanted to contact Seb Skandalis before Seb Skandalis contacted us. It had been two days since Tarik had taken the passports. I'd asked him to call yesterday, but he'd resisted me. He wanted to wait until the fire had been set and Paul Travers was dead so he'd have good news to soften the bad. But it hadn't worked.

  We'd sat on the street near Paul Travers's house every night for almost a week. Except for Thursday of course. Thursday he'd been celebrating the stolen passports and was in no condition. We'd found a spot where we could see the house through the trees, and any car leaving the property would have to drive right past us. Finally, on Friday night our patience was rewarded. We saw the daughter get into her car and drive away, leaving her father home alone.

  I did my part, just as planned. I followed Abby Travers to the market and kept her there as long as possible. Very cleverly, I might add. Tarik was the one who hadn't followed the directives.

  He'd made his way through the trees to the house. Then, the way he told the story, he'd become such a professional at breaking into houses, he'd jimmied the back door with a credit card in no time at all. I thought it was more likely Abby had forgotten to lock it. However he did it, he got in. But unfortunately, that was all he did correctly.

  I'd told him to plant the rags and pap
ers in the center of the house, in the hallway or the living room. But he heard movement and got nervous. Why an old, sick man would make him nervous is beyond me, but that's what happened. He set the fire in the kitchen and ran back to the road. Abby and the fire department rescued Paul Travers, and now he was in the hospital where we couldn't reach him.

  "Sunglasses?" Tarik said.

  "In my purse."

  "Mine?"

  "Yes. Both of ours. If we're going to go, let's do it."

  "You will be glad when you find out the reason for our little trip."

  "What's that?" My nerves thrummed. I didn't like it when Tarik concocted plans of his own. They rarely turned out well.

  "Michael has seen the daughter." His face broke into a delighted grin.

  "Abby?"

  He nodded.

  "How would Michael even know what Abby Travers looks like?"

  Tarik looked at me like I was an imbecile. "Social media, of course."

  "That's not what I'm asking. What reason would he have to know what she looks like?"

  "Well." He checked his perfectly clean fingernails. "We will need to know where Paul Travers goes after he leaves the hospital, correct?"

  I gave him a brief nod.

  "So I paid Michael a little extra in his allowance to look for Abby Travers, knowing she would lead us to her father."

  Rage erupted inside me, choking my words. "You did what?"

  He looked at me with wide eyes. "You heard me."

  "Why would you do that? We agreed Michael would not be involved in anything else. What happened with Hannah was terrible enough."

  "Relax. He was perfectly safe. He enjoyed it. He researched her on the computer, just like a real detective. He is very smart, our son. Simo helped him."

  I wanted to ask him what this had to do with the parade this morning, but I couldn't speak. I couldn't believe he'd gotten both our sons involved in his crimes.