Yasmine wandered down Beale Street, working hard at invisibility. In a city full of dark-skinned people, this wouldn’t have been difficult if her mother hadn’t insisted she make the twenty-four-hour flight in the traditional Pakistani shalwar kameez. “Jarrar will expect his bride to be properly dressed for the first meeting,” Ammi had told her, adjusting the embroidered dupatta around her shoulders.
Since what Jarrar expected was no longer an issue — she hoped — Yasmine had every intention of getting rid of the costume. She stuck out like a canary among a flock of sparrows. Thank you so much, Ammi.
A cluster of young women came out of a shop to her left and stopped to stare. One of them lifted the camera dangling from a strap around her neck and aimed it at Yasmine.
Lowering her eyes, Yasmine hurried past. But she managed to note the girls’ outfits. Tight, low-cut jeans and skimpy knit tank tops in multiple layers that bared an embarrassing amount of flesh.
The young woman who had met her at the airport hadn’t been dressed that way. She seemed to be a friendly person whom Yasmine would like to have gotten to know. But she would have taken her to Jarrar’s home, so the only course had been to run away.
It was early in the day, but she had to start thinking about a place to stay for the night. Also her stomach ached for food. She hadn’t eaten anything since the hamburger she’d had last night. Begging was not an option, but Abbi had raised his daughters to be resourceful, scandalously so. Uncle Rais was always saying Abbi was too westernized, too liberal, regarding the upbringing of his three children.
Unfortunately, Abbi had not been too liberal to arrange a marriage for Yasmine.
Resourceful. Yes, by the grace of God, she was indeed resourceful. He would help her reach her destination before Jarrar could enforce the marriage.
First she had to remove this getup — that was what Zach called it. She unwound the dupatta and stuffed it into her backpack. Feeling rebellious, but much less eye-catching, she walked along humming, face lifted to the mild breeze. She’d already run away from the fiancé chosen by her father. What was one more little rebellion?
She stopped. She’d never see Abbi again. Or Ammi or Liba. Or Uncle Rais who treated her like a two-year-old. The staggering import of this truth buckled her knees so that she had to lean against the closest brick wall.
She hoped she was doing the right thing. The Holy Book commanded one to honor mother and father. And she did so in her heart. But how could she marry Jarrar when she didn’t know him, let alone love him? How could she align herself with a man who had done the things Jarrar had?
The thought of going back was scarier than going forward.
With a lump in her throat, Yasmine took a step, then another, down the sidewalk. The street was busy, crowded with old buildings lumped together in tawdry fashion, their crumbling bricks forming a messy backdrop to flashing neon. They were nowhere near as ancient as the buildings of Karachi, but they had a tired sort of weight about them, as if they might tumble down if she breathed too hard.
Her sandaled feet ached along the insoles, but she turned around and hurried to catch up to the young woman who had taken her photograph. Perhaps she would be kind as well as tactless enough to photograph a stranger.
“Excuse me,” Yasmine said boldly.
One of the three dark-skinned girls, the one with tight braids and a big laugh, looked around to find Yasmine. Her eyes flicked up and down the yellow-green shalwar kameez. “Yeah?”
“I am so sorry bothering you, but could you direct me, please, to the closest cheap store?”
“Sheep store? What’s that?” The girls looked at one another and giggled.
Yasmine sighed. If anybody needed an interpreter, it was she. “I need clothing.” She lifted the filmy side panel of her shalwar kameez. “Jeans and a T-shirt?”
The girl with the braids smiled. “You don’t want a thrift store. You want the mall.”
“No!” She’d seen pictures of American malls. Too many people. “Just send me to the cheap clothes place.”
One of the other girls, notable for clownlike makeup, spoke up. “We could show her to the Salvation Army. That’s just a block down on Jackson.”
Yasmine recognized two words. Salvation and army. Salvation she needed, but she wanted to stay as far away from armies as possible.
Before she could protest, the three young women turned in flank and left Yasmine behind. She hurried to catch up. “Wait! I don’t want to — ” Then she saw the store’s sign. It looked vaguely familiar. A red shield. Oh — that kind of salvation. That kind of army.
One of the girls opened the door and held it for Yasmine to enter. “Thank you,” Yasmine whispered as she slipped through. “So kind.”
“You gon’ be okay?” asked the braided girl, backing outside. “You got some money?”
Abbi owned several oil wells. Of course she had money, though it happened to be in a form she could not spend. “I have enough for cheap clothes. Thank you. I am fine.”
The girl gave her a doubtful look, then disappeared. Yasmine was on her own again.
She looked around the store. She couldn’t see where the shield applied. Salvation Army. What a peculiar name for a place with so much junk. Rows and rows of clothing were arranged on steel racks — ladies’ on one side, men’s on the other — apparently sorted by color rather than size. A couple of tired-looking mannequins sported outfits that Yasmine somehow knew were sadly out of style. Perhaps she should rethink her choice of boutique.
She sidled toward the ladies’ section. A woman leaning against the cash register near the door didn’t seem to be concerned about Yasmine’s appearance. Perhaps Middle Easterners in traditional dress shopped in this store on a regular basis.
After a long, confusing search, she found a pair of jeans that looked like they might fit and a T-shirt with Elvis on the front. The young, handsome Elvis, not the older fat one with enormous sideburns. Yasmine was proud of her knowledge of Memphis history. When she’d thought she would have to live here, she’d decided she might as well learn about the place. The T-shirt would help her blend in, here in the King’s hometown.
She took the outfit to the fitting room, hurriedly stripped off the shalwar kameez, and put on the American clothes. She’d guessed correctly, but — oh, my. The jeans weren’t as low-cut as those worn by the girls who had brought her here. Still, she felt bepardah — exposed. Her dressy sandals looked funny with the jeans, so she wandered over to the shoe rack. After examining a row of down-at-heels sneakers, she shrugged and returned to the fitting room. For some reason she couldn’t bear the thought of wearing used shoes.
Dressed in her own clothes once more, she took her purchases to the register, which was surrounded by a glass case displaying an amalgam of brooches, earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. She fingered the earrings Abbi had brought from a business trip to Morocco. She wasn’t going to buy cheap jewelry, even to blend in.
“How much, please?” She laid the jeans and T-shirt on the counter.
A smile lightened the clerk’s lined face. “Good choice, dearie. You can’t beat Elvis when he was a young buck. That’ll be four dollars for the jeans and two-fifty for the shirt. With tax, it’s . . . let’s see. Seven-ten.”
Yasmine blinked. She could almost afford another outfit with her U.S. dollars. But she’d best be frugal until she could get to a bank and exchange more rupees. She lifted the shalwar kameez draped across the counter. It would take up a lot of room in her small backpack. She looked at the lady. “You may do whatever you want with this. I can’t take it with me.”
The lady’s eyes widened. “You gonna donate it? You better let me give you a receipt.”
Yasmine frowned. “I get a receipt for giving something away?”
“For your taxes.”
Abbi paid plenty of tax in Pakistan, but clothing donations had no effect on it. Yasmine shook her head. “No. But I think I will keep this.” She picked up the beautiful dupatta Ammi had given her for her birthday last summer and stuffed it into her backpack. Parting with it was impossible. She smiled at the clerk. “Thank you. Good-bye.”
Properly dressed — she thought with irony of her mother’s comment as she’d put Yasmine on the plane — she walked out of the store into the bright sunshine.
She considered her next move. Across the street was a law office next to a coffee shop whose dark, strong odor brought waves of homesickness. Drawn, she crossed the street and looked in the coffee shop window. People clustered around small tables, intent on conversation or focused on laptop computers. She could treat herself to just one cup of espresso.
But getting to Rafiqah — the one person she knew in this city, the one person from home who would help her escape — was more important. She straightened her shoulders and stepped back from the window. As she walked past the law office, a lady on the inside, cleaning the front window with a blue cloth, peered out. Her stern face and the hidden twinkle in her eye reminded Yasmine of her Aunt Karimah — whose flamboyant turbans and westernized clothing, cigarettes, and expensive perfume everybody tried to hide from Yasmine and Liba.
The lady raised her bottle of cleaning solution in greeting, giving Yasmine a wave with the blue cloth. Yasmine smiled and hurried on.
As she walked toward the smell of the river, she kept thinking about Zach. He’d never explained exactly what his job was, and he would often disappear for days with no explanation other than to apologize when he returned and say he’d missed her. The day he bought her the little silver ring, which she wore on a chain hidden under her blouses, was one of the happiest days of her life. She hadn’t taken it off since — even the weekend she went home for holiday and her parents told her about the wedding.
She understood the rules of her culture. One did not flout the wishes of one’s parents. Besides, she loved Abbi, who made it clear the connection was one that would benefit him — and that offending the family of the Commerce Minister would create untold awkwardness. So she’d swallowed and said she would think about it, and everybody assumed that meant “yes.” Especially Ammi, overjoyed that her elder daughter was finally marrying suitably, indeed brilliantly. Only Uncle Rais watched Yasmine carefully and said she’d better be sensible or she’d break her parents’ hearts.
Yasmine faltered. She looked over her shoulder, caught the eye of the lady in the window, and stumbled on. There was more at stake now than her parents’ approval.
She had to get to Zach.
Jarrar Haq was outraged. The moment his private jet landed at Wilson Air Center, attached to Memphis International Airport, he turned on his cell phone and called Yasmine’s father.
“You are coming to the U.S., no?” he demanded as he gestured for Feroz to collect the carry-on luggage. “She must be found.”
Feroz, scowling, followed with his own duffel bag and Jarrar’s briefcase trapped under one muscle-bound arm. In the other hand he carried a pair of thirty-pound dumbbells.
He deserved to be inconvenienced. Because Jarrar had detected something odd in the tone of Yasmine’s last couple of emails, he had sent his bodyguard to retrieve the girl from the airport. Despite every precaution, she had given Feroz the slip, as well as Tubberville’s brainless daughter.
Ignoring his grumbling subordinate, Jarrar bounded down the steps to the tarmac and headed for the terminal as a crew of mechanics swarmed the plane. They would clean it and go over it thoroughly before parking it in the hangar Jarrar rented by the year. He paid well for good service.
Which was one reason the marriage must be consummated.
“I am making arrangements.” Patel sounded offended. “My wife and daughter wish to accompany me.”
Jarrar could not have cared less about Patel’s feelings. He had bought the man’s daughter with his father’s good will. Business was business. “How do you propose to find her?”
“I assure you no one cares about my daughter’s return more than her mother and me. My colleague Eddie Tubberville has secured a detective who will spare no expense or effort to find Yasmine.”
“Tubberville?” Jarrar entered the air-conditioned terminal and, waving away a solicitous airport employee, shoved open the door of the lounge. “Is not this the man whose stupid daughter lost Yasmine in the first place?”
“Do not be so quick to disparage him. Tubberville knows the value of a daughter.”
Finding the lounge empty, Jarrar covered the phone with a hand. “Feroz, leave my briefcase on that table and deal with the rest of the luggage.” After Feroz had left the room, Jarrar went back to Patel. “I must meet this detective. Make sure he understands the confidential nature of our situation.” He paused, considering how his words must sound. “I am very concerned for Yasmine’s reputation. And yours.”
“I assure you,” Patel said quietly, “no one appreciates my honor more than me.”
With that Jarrar had to be satisfied.
The airport was buzzing with activity, and out of habit, Matt kept his eyes peeled as he headed across the central lobby. You never knew when you might see something — or somebody —important.
“So when did you decide you wanted to be a private eye?” Natalie trotted behind him, her sandals making slapping noises against her heels.
Like little gun shots. Pow! Take that, Hogan, right between the eyes.
Matt got on the down escalator and looked over his shoulder. “It wasn’t a conscious decision. I just kind of wandered into it.” All morning she’d been lobbing questions at him. He felt like an interviewee on Larry King Live.
She caught up to him, despite his best efforts to leave her behind. “Didn’t you read the Hardy Boys when you were a kid?”
“Not voluntarily.”
“You don’t like to read?” She sounded like he’d just told her he ate locusts and honey for breakfast.
“I don’t get the point of fiction.”
“Wow.” There was a moment’s blessed silence while she digested his illiteracy. “How do you ‘wander’ into a career like private investigations? I studied for four years and still don’t know everything there is to know.”
He shrugged. “The idea never occurred to me until I’d already graduated from Northern Illinois with a business degree.” He caught her elbow as she stumbled off the escalator. “I had no idea what I wanted to do, so I followed one of my girlfriends here to Memphis. She’s a journalist, works for the Commercial Appeal as a food reporter.”
“Girlfriend? Are you still dating?”
He shook his head. “We split after a couple of months. But I liked the warm weather down here, so I stayed.”
“But I thought — Daddy said your agency used to be based out of Chicago.”
“It was. Anyway, I spent a lot of time hanging out with newspaper people. They introduced me to one of their sources, a detective named Sonny Johnson. You sure you want to hear all this?”
“I like to know what makes people tick.” She gave him a sunny smile. “Especially when they’re surly.”
“I’m not surly!” He squinted at her. “Whatever that means.”
“Perpetual bad mood. You’ve hardly cracked a smile since we left your office.”
“Don’t you think I’ve had reason to be a little ticked? Getting my business hijacked right out from under my nose?” They reached baggage claim. “Is this the last place you saw Ms. Patel?”
“I told you, I watched her get in a van parked outside.” She huffed. “How is it my fault you sold your agency to my dad?”
Matt veered toward the exit. “It may not be your fault, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. The whole reason I’m in this mess is because for once in my life I tried to do what God told me to do. Looks like there should’ve been some kind of reward. Instead I get kicked in the teeth.”
Natalie looked up at him, nose scrunched. “There’s nothing in the Bible that says God doles out rewards like a gumball machine. Sometimes you don’t see the reason for things until years later. Sometimes not at all. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“That’s another long story.” The automatic doors opened and they walked outside. Lord save him from nosy women. “You wanted to know how I got from Memphis to Chicago and back. So anyway, I needed a job, and Sonny gave me a couple of computer-investigation projects. He saw I had a knack for it and taught me some tricks of the trade. I liked it enough to go into business with him. Then my dad had a heart attack.”
“Whoa. I’m sorry to hear that.” Natalie’s animated expression softened.
“Yeah. Well, I went home to help my mom out. After Dad recovered, my sister talked me into staying. I was still pretty much a Good-Time Charlie at that point, and Chicago’s got a busy nightlife. Lots of business for a PI, if you know what I mean.” He shrugged. “I opened my own agency and stayed there for a while until I took a case in Alabama.”
“You mean Judge Kincade? That was all over the news last summer.”
Matt nodded. “It was the beginning of the end — both for my client and me. I backed the wrong horse and wound up getting stiffed.”
“But you met the Lord because of it. Aren’t you glad about that?”
“Sure, I — I guess so. Of course I am.” Matt squirmed. “Is this where you were standing? Where was the van parked?”
She pointed. “Down there. Northwest passenger pickup.”
“Okay, come on.” Matt approached a broadly built skycap notable for a shock of gray hair — J.T., according to his nametag. “’Morning, sir. Could I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Happy to,” the skycap boomed. “What can I do you for?”
Natalie smiled. “We need help finding someone who disappeared from the airport yesterday just before six o’clock.”
The skycap frowned. “A child?”
“No, a woman — a young lady about my age.”
Matt reached into the pocket of his jacket and handed a three-by-five photo of Yasmine to the skycap. “This is the girl we’re looking for. She’s Pakistani, small and dark, dressed in one of those gauzy tunic-and-pants outfits — lime green. She arrived on a flight through Amsterdam, and Natalie here sent her to pick up her luggage while she went for coffee.” A completely female and ridiculous thing to do, in his opinion. “Were you working yesterday?”
“Yeah, but this is a busy airport.” J.T. spread his beefy hands. “No tellin’ how many Middle Eastern women came through those doors. I can’t watch ’em all the time.”
“How about the van she got into?” Natalie was all but bouncing on her toes. “It was white with some kind of lightning logo on the side — an electrical company maybe? — parked in front of baggage claim.”
J.T. tapped his chin. “We had some trouble with the carousels yesterday. There were a couple of guys from Mojo Electric here working on them.”
Natalie lit up. “That’s it! That’s the logo I saw. Come on, Matt.” She grabbed his arm.
Matt shook hands with the skycap. “Thanks, man. You may have saved a woman’s life.”
“Glad to help.”
On the way back across the parking lot, Natalie tugged Matt’s sleeve. “Where’d you get Yasmine’s photo?”
“Your dad emailed it to me last night.”
“Last night? Then you were planning to take the case all along!”
“No, I wasn’t. But I save everything. Learned the hard way.”
She gave a small, indignant huff. “Daddy could’ve given me her picture before he sent me to pick her up.”
“Baby, nobody said life is fair,” Matt said callously. “Get used to it.”
“Oh, trust me, I’m used to it. But that’s the kind of thing you need to teach me.”
“You just learned, right? You’ll never forget. Always take a picture with you if you have one.”
“Got it,” she muttered, tucking the photo into her purse. “Oh, and unless you want a karate chop to the throat, please don’t call me ‘baby’ again.”
Natalie paid for Happy Meals at the Golden Arches. She shouldn’t have made the karate chop remark. Nick, the little twerp, told her regularly that her teasing had all the subtlety of Miss Piggy on a tear. She noisily sucked the last of her milkshake down as Matt drove his neat black Volvo to an industrial area in central Memphis. He probably had no idea how chauvinistic he sounded.
She looked out the window, where a row of recently remodeled office-warehouses lined a set of railroad tracks. Trees were scarce and the pavement was crumbly, but the area had a generally hopeful appearance. At least the whitewash on the doorframes was fresh.
Matt parked beside a truck in front of a building emblazoned with the “Mojo Electric” lightning bolt. “Okay, Nancy Drew,” he said as Natalie started to get out. “I’m taking the lead.”
She sighed. Too bad a karate chop was out of the question.
Slinging the strap of her saddlebag purse over her shoulder, she followed Matt to the office door. She’d left the little spangled wrist-bag at home, since it wasn’t big enough to hold a PDA. Pretty soon she was going to have to start carrying a feather-edged tote like Grandma Tubberville.
Matt held the glass door for Natalie to walk through. At least he was a gentlemanly chauvinist.
“Depending on what we find here,” he said, “we split up. Divide and conquer.”
“Split up?” She halted inside the tiny foyer. “I can’t learn from you if I’m not with you. Besides, my Investigative Techniques professor said you should always have one person conduct the interview, and another to take notes.”
“I’ve never had that luxury, so I make a point of remembering what people tell me. Then I write it down when I get back to the car.”
“I’m sure you’ve got a fabulous memory, but what if you have to talk to somebody for more than a few minutes? It’s important for court records to have detailed notes. Besides, your partner can observe clues in a room, note body language, all kinds of stuff you can’t do if you’re by yourself.”
Matt looked at her for a moment, frowning. “Guess you have a point. I’m always torn between starting at the last place the person was seen, or with family members who know them. You know, letting the trail get cold versus ascertaining their probable moves.”
Natalie’s mouth fell open. That had almost sounded like a compliment. “I printed out a list of questions. If you’ll take the short version and conduct the interview, I’ll take notes. Goodness knows I’m used to clerking.” She hesitated. “Then when we finish here we could go see Yasmine’s family.”
“Your dad says Yasmine’s parents are still in Karachi. They hadn’t planned to come over until a couple of weeks before the wedding. Now that she’s disappeared, her father’s gone postal. The Patels will fly in tomorrow.”
“That eliminates an interview with them, then — at least for today. What about her fiancé and his family?”
“I get the feeling they know facts about her, like we do. But not so much personally. Yasmine and Haq were hooked up by their parents long-distance.”
Natalie made a face. “How could you marry a guy you never met before? What if he was a dork? What if he turned out to be a wife-beater?”
“You know what? I bet there are a lot of American women who marry men like that, guys who’ve deliberately hidden things. Seeing people socially doesn’t let you into all their secrets.”
She gave him a speculative look. “I suppose so. What secrets are you hiding?”
“If we ever see each other socially, I’ll let you know.” He looked amused. “Come on, let’s see what gives with these Mojo guys.”
Natalie followed Matt into the barren little office and looked around. As expected, wires of every conceivable thickness, length, and color hung on the corkboard walls. A woman of indeterminate age with brassy yellow hair sat reading a travel brochure behind a counter. She looked up when the door opened.
“Read the sign,” she said in a raspy smoker’s voice. “No solicitors allowed.”
“We’re not soliciting.” Natalie sailed up to the counter. “We just want to talk to the two guys who were fixing luggage carousels at the airport yesterday.”
Matt stepped in front of her. “That’s right. Do you know where we could find them?”
Second banana wasn’t Natalie’s favorite gig, but she moved to the background.
The yellow-haired lady leaned around Matt to look at Natalie. “They’re out on a job.”
Top Banana moved aside with an ironic hand gesture. Natalie grinned at the lady. “Can you give us an address?”
“Maybe. Did Joey win the lottery again? He’s the luckiest goober I’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t know anything about the lottery.” Natalie smothered a laugh. “We think these two guys gave a friend of ours a ride from the airport. She — the friend — has disappeared.”
“My stars, those two just can’t leave the ladies alone. If it ain’t stopping at Hooters between jobs, it’s picking up strange women at the airport.”
“You mean they’ve done this before?”
“Done what?”
“Picked up women.” Natalie felt like she was in an Abbot and Costello sketch. “Where would they take her?”
“Take who?”
Matt, lips quirked, cut Natalie a look. “May I?” When she shrugged, he leaned on the counter and gave Yellow Hair his charming smile. “Let’s start over. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Peaches.”
“Okay, Peaches. Here’s the deal. Joey and his buddy — wait, what are their full names?”
“Joey Roberts and Leland Stafford.”
“Right. Roberts and Stafford. They took the daughter of a business associate away from the airport after she’d been met by my lovely — uh, partner here.” He ignored Natalie’s frown. “If you’ll tell us where we can find these two guys, we’d like to ask them a few questions.”
“Are they in trouble? ’Cause if they are, I’m not saying a word. Joey ain’t got the sense to come in out of the rain, but he’s a sweet guy. And Leland’s our best technician. We can’t afford to lose him.”
Matt shook his head. “We’re not the law, we’re just trying to find Yasmine.”
Peaches looked at Natalie. “You swear?”
She nodded. “Promise.”
“Okay. Well, there’s a little pool hall off Airways, over by the airport. They like to hang out there after work. It’s called Porky’s.”
“Porky’s?” Matt frowned. “Is that next to Fred’s Dollar Store at the Winchester intersection?”
“That’s it. You know the place?”
“I’ve heard of it.” Matt glanced at Natalie. “Thanks, Peaches. We’ve got to be going.”
“Guess you heard about the little dust-up down there last year. It was in the paper. Place almost burned down. If the cops hadn’t of raided — ”
“Hey, look at the time.” Matt grabbed Natalie’s arm and peered at her wristwatch. “We have another appointment. Will you give my card to Joey and Leland if we miss them?”
“A raid?” Natalie dug in her heels as Matt towed her toward the door. “I wanted to hear about the fire.”
“What’s the big deal? We gotta go. Besides, Peaches is busy.”
Natalie looked over her shoulder. The woman already had her nose buried in a Star magazine. In the parking lot, Natalie yanked her elbow out of Matt’s grasp. “You are certifiable, you know that? How’re we going to learn anything if you decide to leave just when the conversation gets interesting?”
Matt looked harassed. “Alright. Whatever. You go talk to Yasmine’s future in-laws, and I’ll interview the two Good Samaritans.”
“We decided not to split up.”
“That was before I knew you were going to be such a — ” He raised a hand before she could protest. “Alright. Let’s go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”