A Wild and Lonely Place (8 page)

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.

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 relieved 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.

“This is a surprise,” he said. “I take it you want something.”

Greg’s and my relationship has always been abrasive, even when—eons ago—we were lovers. Something about our personalities,
which doesn’t allow us to blend our strengths and dilute our weaknesses. With us there’s always a competitive edge—and not
the sort that allows us to be the best we can. Over the years we’ve both mellowed, but I still don’t know how things will
go when I contact him.

That night we must’ve both been in a very mellow phase; his voice was playful, and the remark simply amused me. “Yes,” I said.
“I want to buy you a drink.”

He laughed. “As I recall, you buying me a drink usually leads to me doing you a favor. Where are you? Your office?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll see you at the Remedy. Half an hour, max.”

I closed up the office, stowed my briefcase in the MG, and walked downhill to Mission Street. The usual Friday-night crowds
were out; the usual sex and drug deals were going down. I spotted one of my informants, Frankie Cordova, leaning against an
iron-grated storefront, beer in hand, his arm draped across the shoulders of a stoned young Latina. When I nodded, he toasted
me with his bottle.

The Mission had long ago lost its charm for me. Years before, when I lived in a tiny studio apartment near Twenty-second Street
on Guerrero, it was a hospitable area, if a little rough at the edges. I had good neighbors in the building good neighbors
across the street at Ellen T’s, my favorite bar-and-grill. But then one of the tenants on the floor above me was murdered
and my investigation into her death showed me the ugly underside of the district. As soon as I could afford to, I bought my
house and moved away. In the intervening years gangs and pushers had moved in. Ellen T’s husband, Stanley, was shot to death
in a holdup, and Ellen sold the bar and moved back to Nebraska. Now parts of the Mission came close to being war zones. Drug
dealers terrorized residents on their own front steps; gunshots were commonplace. Parents were afraid to let their children
walk to school alone; the ever present gang members looked nothing like the highly romanticized figures I’d cynically viewed
during a recent rerun of
West Side Story.

Some of the Mission’s residents hadn’t caved in to the criminal element. Frustrated by the lack of police protection, they
banded together with merchants to organize and fund citizen patrols. Women and men stood guard at such trouble spots as the
Sixteenth-and-Mission BART station. Armed only with nerve and wits, they were determined to take back their neighborhood.
I wished I could believe they’d succeed. The McCone who had inhabited that tiny apartment on Guerrero would have naturally
assumed so, and probably joined in. But she was someone I hardly knew anymore, distanced by a number of eye-opening years.

Noise greeted me as I pushed through the door of the Remedy Lounge; patrons crowded around the bar and jammed the booths and
tables. When I finally got to the bar, I ordered an espresso from Brian, the owner, then settled down in a booth that had
just been vacated.

After twenty minutes the crowd began to thin. I went back to the bar, got another espresso to fortify myself against the long
drive ahead, and ordered a glass of red wine for Greg. I’d just sat down again when he came through the door—a big man with
sandy blond hair that was now shot with white and a body that as yet showed few signs of middle-age spread. He grinned when
he spotted me, quirked one dark blond eyebrow when he saw his drink was already on the table.

“Service with a smile, even,” he said, planting a kiss in the vicinity of my right ear. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“It’s about the only service you’ll get in this place.” The Remedy has never been able to keep a waitress or waiter longer
than a week, and Brian refuses to extend table service to anyone but Rae, who reminds him of his dead sister.

Greg sat opposite me, took a sip of wine, and said, “You’re looking as good as ever.”

“What, did you think I’d fallen apart in the last few months?”

“You never know, in your business. You still seeing that terrorist with the airplane?”

“Hy specializes in counter-terrorism, and you know it. You still seeing the fry cook?”

“Lynda’s a chef at a four-star restaurant—and you know it.”

We smiled, the seals of our friendship intact.

“So what do you want this time?” he asked.

“First of all, confidentiality.”

“I’m not your lawyer. Or your priest.”

“This is serious. Can I count on you?”

He ran his hand over his stubbled chin, eyes thoughtful—probably remembering the other times he’d trusted me and I hadn’t
disappointed him. After a moment he nodded.

“I’ve been working with Adah Joslyn on the Diplo-bomber case. She’s out of control.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I’d suspected word of Joslyn’s uncharacteristic behavior had gotten back to the department. “How bad do they say it is?”

“She’s riding for a fall.”

“That’s why I can’t ask her for what I need—access to NCIC and CJIS. There’re a couple of other ways I could get it, but I’d
rather go through official channels.”