From Cape Town with Love (35 page)

“That'll happen at breakfast time,” Marcela said dryly. She was a stickler for propriety—and maybe females can smell trouble from matching chromosomes.

Dad turned on a grin at full wattage, pulling out an empty chair at the head of the table. His eyes lapped up Marsha as if she were a bottle of Ensure. “Join us, miss. Pancakes?”

I'd never seen my father in Mack Daddy mode, but Marcela must have seen Billy Dee in him since he'd been paralyzed in his nursing-home bed. She'd paid him extra attention, so he'd charmed himself out of dying. I wanted to slap Dad for the open yearning in his eyes.

“Oh, I couldn't,” Marsha said in a schoolgirl's voice. “I'm just checking on Ten.”

“I'm fine,” I said.

Her eyes gave me a private glint. “Are you? You seemed a little out of your mind.”

My teeth tightened. “Maybe it was an allergic reaction to getting stabbed in the back.”

“We're taking good care of Ten,” Marcela said. “I just patched him up.”

After my shower, Marcela had disinfected and wrapped my injury again, declaring that I'd avoided infection even without stitches or antibiotics—so far. My migraine medicine dulled my back's stinging. Marcela had offered me a painkiller with codeine, but I didn't want to get knocked out. A few hours' sleep had only made me feel like rolling into a grave.

I made no move to relieve Marsha of her flowers, so Dad took them instead. He handed them over to Marcela, who took them to the kitchen after giving him a chilly look.

“Come on, sit,” Dad said to Marsha. “A friend of Ten's is like family.”

“Well, if you're sure there's enough food . . . ,” Marsha said, taking her seat.

Chela glanced back and forth between me and Marsha, deeply amused.

“Let's all bow our heads,” Dad said, and inclined his head for grace.

All heads went down except for Marsha's—and mine. She mouthed
We need to talk.

“Dear Lord . . . ,” Dad began. “Our hearts are heavy as we share your bounty this morning. A child is away from home and needs your guiding hand . . .”

Let me explain,
Marsha mouthed at me. I raised a silent finger to my lips:
Shhhhh.

Marcela's evil eye shamed Marsha into finally lowering her head. Chela had to curl her lips tightly to keep from laughing.

“. . . Please watch over little Nandi, and guide Tennyson, Lord,” Dad went on. “We don't always understand your plan, but we know you have one for us all . . .”

Marcela broke in: “Yes,
Dios,
and please protect us from the forces of Satan, in whatever form they may take.” I remembered my Sunday school lessons about how much God hates lies.

I surprised myself by joining the prayer. “And help us learn the whole truth,” I said. “Help us see past falsehoods.”

Dad glanced up at me, surprised and moved. “Well, amen!”

The food blessed, we ate.

“You have a beautiful family, Ten. Chela's a triumph. I mean that. Congratulations.”

Marsha walked to my corner desk after touring my screening room—or, I should say, Alice's screening room. Now it was my office, with a screen more than a hundred inches tall and nearly two hundred across when I needed entertaining. Alice used to host elaborate Oscar parties, as commemorated by rows of signed head shots decorating the walls. The only people I shared the big screen with were Dad, Chela, and Marcela. And April. I wondered if I'd gone home with the wrong woman on Monday.

“Is that really Sidney Poitier's autograph?” Marsha said, pointing to the photo above me.

I ignored Marsha's small talk. “How'd you get the gun into the club?”

“Pieces,” Marsha said. Although there were two rows of movie-style
seating to choose from, Marsha sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, bunching her dress between her legs to be demure. “It's ceramic, not metal. And ceramic rounds can make decent earrings.”

No wonder her earrings had been so hideous. Function, not fashion.

“And you didn't see a need to tell your partner,” I said.

“I said I wouldn't tell you everything.”

That was true, at least.

Marsha reached into her cheerful straw handbag and pulled out a wad of paper she unfolded twice. She laid about four creased pages on my desk beside my hands. The bad photocopies were typewritten, splotched with black marks.

“What's this?” I said.

“An apology.” Then it was Marsha's turn to raise her finger to her lips:
Shhhhh.

“What's wrong? You don't want Grandma to hear?”

Marsha showed me her right ear, then her left. No earpiece. “I'm not worried about Grandma.” She indicated the pages. “Just accept my apology, please.”

I started reading past the bars of solid black ink obscuring the text. Nearly half of the text was marked out, including the title at the top of the first page, so I could make out only snippets.
“. . . alternately called Kingdom of Heaven, according to [DELETED], who was introduced to members of the criminal organization by [DELETED]. [DELETED] . . . has confirmed that [DELETED] met with Pakistani operatives with ties to Al Qaeda to discuss the formation of a terror cell within the United States.. ”

I sat up straight in my office chair. “You were already investigating—”

Marsha shook her head, firmly. Her shake said
Not here.

“I did a bad thing yesterday,” Marsha said, although there were no apologies in her eyes; she was role-playing, but not for me. Had someone bugged my house? Marsha cooed, “I can't stand it when we fight, Ten. Let's take a drive together. Let's talk.”

“Only if you have something to say.”

“Plenty, sweetness,” Marsha said.

I took Dad's laptop and my bag of supplies, including my phone charger, although I was in too much of a hurry to pull together a disguise beyond a baseball cap and sunglasses. The paparazzi had moved on to fresher blood, so no one waited in my yard.

Mrs. Katz was weeding her roses in her robe, but she came to attention when she saw me.

“Hello, Mrs. Katz,” I said, waving to let her know I'd caught her staring.

Instead of answering, she pulled a disposable camera out of her robe pocket and snapped my picture. And returned to her gardening.

“Happy birthday!” I called to her. “Try the
Enquirer
first!” Only then did I notice that Marsha had turned her face slightly away the instant the camera emerged. Mrs. Katz could have caught nothing but a blur. Nice reflexes.

I headed for my Corvette, but Marsha grabbed my hand to stop me. “My car,” she said, gently tugging me toward her sun-faded rose Toyota Camry. The car was practically invisible.

In fewer than twenty-four hours, in the chill of a federal holding cell, I would be asked to explain why I climbed into Marsha's car. The better question was
Why not?

I was about to learn if Nandi's kidnappers had made further contact, or if we'd been played. The abductors might have split town with or without Nandi, using the delayed drop-off as a ruse to try to get a head start before the FBI started looking hard. After the incidents with Spider and Paki, it might be too late to bring Nandi home, but at least I might learn what had happened. Maybe I could give Sofia Maitlin that much, anyway.

And it might not be too late for Nandi.
That's why I got into Marsha's car.

That's why the day took me where it did.

“They're supposed to be terrorists . . . ?” I said. After years of Christmas-light terror alerts, I was skeptical.

“This conversation is extremely illegal, Ten,” Marsha said.

“And?”

Yeah, that's exactly what I said. That's where my head was that day.

“Fair warning, that's all,” Marsha sighed. “Kingdom of Heaven's only ideology is the worship of green, but they cast a wide net. They're creative when it comes to making new friends. They've set up international shell companies like mushroom sprouts.”

“So they're not just gangbangers from South Africa?”

“No, they're not. All immigrant groups bring crime with them. The Italians, Koreans, Chinese, Japanese, Mexicans . . . ask the Native Americans and they'll probably talk about the Pilgrim Mafia. At first, it's all just criminals organizing to stay out of each other's way, but they eventually evolve to share political coverage and information resources. The Kingdom followed this model: It's like a small multinational now. Actually, probably not so small. Some of the leadership is still in SA, but Umbuso Izulu is only the brand name.”

I flipped through the pages she had given me.

“. . . [DELETED] has long purported that Kingdom of Heaven's smuggling operation, based at the [DELETED], has successfully smuggled tens of millions of dollars' worth of weapons and drugs over U.S. borders . . . [DELETED] first proposed a partnership between the Kingdom of Heaven and Al Qaeda to bring biological weapons through Los Angeles . . .”

“How firm is the Al Qaeda tie?” I said. “Or is it speculation?”

“They're smugglers, and they're damn good at it, so that's enough to get our attention. We've had a lot of chatter in the past week. Maybe it was just about the kidnapping, but we're not sure. We don't like not being sure.”

Marsha was suddenly using the word
we,
like Maitlin had when she invited me back into the investigation. Marsha's
we
didn't include me, but maybe she was opening a window.

I tested the fresh air. “What were we really doing yesterday?” I said.

“Looking for a trail to the Kingdom of Heaven. We have mutual interests, Ten.”

“And the Girl Scout who wanted to do a good deed? Isn't that what you said when you bared your soul to me yesterday? That was a good moment for you, by the way.”

“Who says it's not both?” she said. “Nandi's a two-year-old girl. I used to be one, too.”

“How did you end up . . . ?” I didn't finish. The woman in my car had banished the shy, sweet-faced girl I'd known in high school. “You were all set to be an actress.”

“I
am
an actress, as you might have noticed. Are you ready to focus?”

“Promise me you didn't know,” I said.

“Know what?” Marsha sounded flustered.

“You didn't know Nandi was about to get grabbed.”

“Of course I didn't know! You honestly think I would sit back and let that happen?”

You might, if you thought it would get you closer to your targets.
I thought. All I knew for certain was that I couldn't believe her. But I thought there was a chance I could, just once.

“Do you know where Nandi is?” I said.

“If I knew where she was, we'd be there now.”

The might of Marsha's bosses hadn't done any better than we had, and neither had the FBI. The growing futility of our mission deadened my blood.

“I heard about Paki,” Marsha said, reading my face. “Nelson's a fool for calling you on your landline. But I guess he's a big boy.”

Marsha was still monitoring my phones, but it seemed pointless to nag.

“Who else has me wired?” I said.

“Maybe that group we affectionately refer to as the Cowboys In Action. And I'd bet you're still on the FBI's radar,” Marsha said. “Nelson's a pawn. His FBI source isn't telling him everything. They're giving you the rope to hang yourself.”

“I don't get it,” I said. “With Paki taking off, how can they think I'm a suspect?”

Marsha chuckled, shaking her head. “You're screwing with their case. That's enough. Do I know for sure they've got your house wired? Maybe not. But why take the chance?”

I hoped she was wrong. I could imagine breaking Nelson's nose someday, but I'd hate to see him blow his career because Dad had asked him for a favor.

“So, Mr. Sensitive . . . ,” Marsha teased me. “Do you see now why I couldn't tell you everything? And why I sure as hell can't tell you more?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Where was fucking me in your plan? What did that get you?”

“Orgasms,” she said. “What did it get you?”

“This is about trust, Marsha.”

“In my line of work, there's no such thing. Take it or leave it.”

“Who was the Asian man?” I said softly, her last chance.

“Listen to you! Are we back in high school?”

“I saw you following him, Marsha. You took his picture.”

“He's a figment of a sleep-deprived imagination,” she said. “I didn't notice any Asian guy, Ten, or
any
other guy except Spider. I saw a long line for the bathroom,
darling.
I remembered there was another bathroom up front, but once I got closer I could tell it was more packed out there. I gave up. I had to go so badly, I nearly pissed on myself when some fool stranded me on an empty street without a car. End of story.”