Sheikh Surrender Page 3

  “Beth left nearly two weeks ago, correct?” Zahad’s eyes took on a hooded appearance that told her he was far from convinced. “You must have emptied your wastebasket since then.”

  “I might not have noticed a little scrap like that on the carpet,” Jenny said. “I’m afraid I don’t vacuum as often as I should.”

  This wasn’t enough evidence to implicate Ray, to her relief. She could see, however, that in the sheikh’s estimation her neighbor had just become a suspect.

  “Where does this man live?” he asked.

  “Next door.” She gestured.

  “I thought the woman who found Fario—what is her name? Dolly?—lived there.” He pronounced “Dolly” with a hint of disdain, as if it were too frivolous a name for a grown woman. “What is their relationship?”

  “Her name is Dorothy Blankenship, although everybody calls her Dolly. She’s his mother-in-law.” Jenny trailed Zahad along the hallway as he examined the carpet and moldings. “There are two houses on the property.”

  “They do not live together?”

  “No, but Dolly owns both houses. She rents the front one to her daughter.”

  Jenny sometimes envied the close family grouping. Her own mother, who lived in Connecticut, had become absorbed in her husband and stepchildren after remarrying.

  By contrast, Dolly was always there for friends and loved ones. A dynamo at sixty-two, she tended to her ailing husband, Bill, and baby-sat for her daughter, Ellen. Since the cyber-stalking began, she’d also begun patrolling Jenny’s property while she was at work.

  Zahad peered into the master bedroom. Jenny saw the police had been here, too. Not only had they pulled aside her flowered coverlet, they’d also opened drawers and left black powder on the surfaces. She quailed at the thought of strangers pawing through her things.

  Everything needed to be laundered. She wanted to scrub the whole house with Lysol and take a shower so hot it scalded.

  “Do any of your neighbors have extensive knowledge of the Internet?” Mercifully, the sheikh’s question pulled her away from her inner turmoil.

  “Ellen designs Web sites at home. Everyone else uses it, too, I’m sure, except maybe Bill,” she said. “He used to be a truck driver, but he’s in poor health now and kind of forgetful. He might play video games.”

  “Who else lives close by?” He glanced into Beth’s room but made no attempt to enter.

  “The lot on the other side is undeveloped.” As they returned to the living room, she filled him in on the people across the street. They included an elderly widow and a young married couple who’d moved in six months before. Directly across from her lived the police detective, Sergeant Parker Finley, along with his ten-year-old son, Ralph, and his housekeeper. His wife had died about five years earlier.

  “Are you good friends with him?” the sheikh asked.

  “Am I what?” She raised an eyebrow. It was the same expression with which she would greet a student’s explanation that the cribbed test notes in his hand had fallen out of another student’s pocket.

  Zahad made a placating gesture with his hands. “I do not mean to insult you, Mrs. Sanger.”

  “It may come as a surprise, but I don’t jump into bed with every male I meet,” she snapped, and felt doubly annoyed when she recognized the note of hysteria in her voice. Jenny knew unflattering rumors about her had been circulating ever since the cyber-stalking began.

  “That was not my implication. You may be completely blameless.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Her words dripped with sarcasm.

  Frustration tightened his jaw. “I should have sent my cousin Amy to talk to you. You would love Amy. She is a rabid feminist who can never bear to lose an argument.”

  “Not with you, anyway,” Jenny ventured.

  He shrugged. “Yes, why me? I will never understand women and their prickliness. I am simply going about investigating this case in a rational manner. I had no intention of offending you.”

  “Oh, really?” She couldn’t resist baiting him.

  “It is not your fault if men react to your appearance. There. Have I apologized enough?”

  “You haven’t apologized at all.” However, Jenny didn’t feel angry anymore. She was beginning to find this man’s clueless behavior around women almost appealing. He might be a male chauvinist, but at least he wasn’t a smooth playboy. “You aren’t exactly overloaded with social graces, are you?”

  “I have had more important things on my mind.” As Zahad spoke, his white scars stood out against his olive complexion. “I was forced to become a freedom fighter when I was young. Even after we liberated my country, assassination attempts were made against my cousin Sharif, an important leader for whom I served as chief of security. Now my brother is dead. I am sorry if I tread upon your delicate sensibilities, Mrs. Sanger, but it is in the pure interest of finding the truth.”

  The country of Alqedar, which had once been just a name on a map, began to seem more real to Jenny as the sheikh spoke, and so did the man himself. He had not merely led a colorful existence but a proud and distinguished one, which involved risking his life to protect his people.

  It was hardly fair to expect him to behave like a politically correct Californian. Besides, she needed to find out who was stalking her, and he might be able to help.

  “All right,” she said, “let’s make a pact. You treat me with respect and I’ll do the same for you. That doesn’t sound hard, does it?”

  His bunched shoulders relaxed. “I can see that you must make a good school principal. Yes, that seems acceptable. May I continue?”

  “Please do.”

  “If I may ask this without raising your hackles, I would like to know whether you have had any romantic entanglements with a man who might behave jealously. Any man.”

  “Okay, I’ll answer that,” Jenny said. “But I’m going to start cleaning up while we talk.”

  “Allow me to assist you,” he offered. Despite some reservations, she agreed.

  The sheikh not only helped move furniture, he volunteered to vacuum, although it took him a few minutes to get the hang of guiding the device over the carpet. When his longish hair flopped onto his forehead, he pushed it away impatiently.

  As they worked, Jenny explained that she hadn’t dated seriously since her divorce from Grant. Nor had she grown up in Mountain Lake, so there were no old boyfriends hanging around. With her father in the military, the family had moved frequently. They had lived in several countries, including Japan.

  “I came here three years ago, after my divorce,” she said. “Since I’d inherited a place to live, I applied for an opening as assistant principal at the local junior high.” She’d been hired and remained there for two years before being promoted to elementary-school principal a year ago.

  When the vacuuming was finished, Zahad borrowed her bottle of cleanser and a rag and tackled the fingerprint powder that had drifted to the dining table. “You have no inkling of anyone who wishes you ill?”

  “Not aside from Grant and his wife,” she admitted.

  “Does your ex-husband have any friends in Mountain Lake?”

  “He has no connections here that I know of.” She paused in the middle of straightening her glassware to observe Zahad with mingled amusement and dismay. He was swirling the rag around the tabletop, smearing the powder rather than removing it. “I take it you don’t do much cleaning at your palace. I suppose that’s your wife’s job.”

  “At the palace, the servants handle such matters. I have no wife. I have never taken the time to look for one.” He frowned at his handiwork. “Why does this not look clean?”

  Jenny started to laugh but changed her smile to a cough when she saw his mouth tighten. She had promised to treat him with respect. “Your technique could use some improvement.”

  “I believe I have assisted you sufficiently.” With a grimace, he set down the cloth and went into the kitchen. She heard the water running as he washed his hands.


  When he came out, Zahad said, “The detective is expected at his office by now. I believe he will want to see what I found.”

  “Do you plan to stay in town long?” she asked.

  “A few more days, until Fario’s body is released. I have taken a room at the Mountain Lake Inn.”

  Jenny felt a twinge of disappointment that he was leaving so soon. Despite his high-handed manner, there was something reassuring about the sheikh’s confidence, not to mention his background in security.

  No, she was being naive. This man was not her cyber-stalker, but he might be the killer. He could have visited Fario in Los Angeles and seen an e-mail with her address and the date of the rendezvous. Zahad certainly knew enough to have set up the gun, and he had benefited from his brother’s death.

  She didn’t really think he would have done something so dishonorable. But she didn’t intend to let down her guard with him.

  “Well, have a safe trip back to Alqedar,” she said.

  The sheikh looked into Jenny’s eyes as he extended his hand. When they touched, his strength enveloped her. At one time, she would have found it easy to yield to such a man.

  And that kind of weak-mindedness, she told herself sharply, is how you ended up being a thirty-two-year-old divorcée with a daughter to support and an arrogant ex-husband at your throat.

  She felt vulnerable, that was all. Shaky and scared and longing to turn back to childhood, when she had always had someone to protect her. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t turn to a man that way.

  The sheikh held on to her hand a moment longer than necessary. “It is you who must be careful. You should hire a bodyguard.”

  “That’s way beyond my budget.” If Grant filed for custody, attorneys’ fees would quickly deplete Jenny’s modest savings.

  “Then let us hope my brother was the intended target and you are in no further danger.” Zahad released her hand. “Still, I am troubled about this cyber-stalker.”

  “Why do you care?” she asked.

  “That is a question I cannot answer,” he replied gravely, “except that I despise those who attack women and children. Also, you and I were brought together by a tragedy that will always haunt me and perhaps you as well. Such connections are not to be dismissed lightly.”

  Jenny had never given much credence to the idea of fate shaping someone’s future. If there was a code of beliefs in California, it was that people made their own choices and determined their own futures. Yet the strength of Zahad’s conviction made her less certain of that.

  “I promise to watch my step,” she said. “Good luck talking to Parker. I mean, to Sergeant Finley.”

  “Thank you. One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I suggest you lock your toolshed. If someone decides to do any further mischief, at least make him bring his own tools.”

  “Good idea,” she said.

  With a nod, he took himself away. The room seemed to shrink, as if adjusting itself to his absence.

  Jenny waited until she heard the hum of an engine starting out on the street. Then she went to the alarm box and reset the code.

  THE WOMAN WAS even more beautiful than she appeared in the photograph Zahad had seen at the police station. The passage of a few years since the picture was taken had given her an air of wisdom and maturity without diminishing the vulnerable look in her eyes.

  She clearly had become cautious about sharing herself. The more he thought about her, the less able he was to consider her as the immoral temptress he had expected. Had he not read it in the police report, he still would have guessed that her ex-husband had been abusive.

  Even if a woman infuriated him, Zahad would never strike her. That was the act of a coward.

  Focusing his attention on the four-mile drive to town, he noted the way Pine Forest Road snaked between wooded rises and set-back, rustic homes. To those primarily concerned with aesthetics, Jenny’s property would seem an ideal setting. To one concerned with safety, its isolation made it a poor bet.

  Mountain Lake itself was a small town, distinct both from the dusty, ancient, spice-scented towns of Alqedar and from the medieval solidity of England, where Zahad had attended university. The buildings along its main street, Lake Avenue, blended frontier vitality and ersatz Swiss coziness with, at present, a garish overlay of Christmas lights and Santa Claus decorations.

  He parked his rental car on the main street rather than tucking it out of sight at his nearby motel. It was harder for someone to tamper with a car in open view.

  Across the street, the blandly modern building that housed the police department sat in a cluster of municipal structures beside an outdoor mall. Visible through a break between shops, Crystal Mountain Lake failed to live up to its name. In the dusky light, its surface appeared flat and leaden.

  Nor was Zahad lulled by the apparent placidity of the town. Someone had committed a heinous crime here, and the list of suspects forming in his mind included the man he was about to meet.

  In the glass-fronted lobby of the station, the desk sergeant called someone in the detective bureau and spoke in a low tone. The only other person there was a young man farther down the counter, filling out what appeared to be a theft report.

  Thefts, traffic accidents and domestic disputes composed the majority of crimes in almost any jurisdiction. Zahad wondered how much experience Detective Finley had solving murders.

  A middle-aged woman opened the door from a hallway. “Sheikh Adran?” She surveyed his leather jacket and slacks with a trace of disappointment. Apparently she’d been hoping for Lawrence of Arabia. “This way, please.”

  She led him past Traffic and Records to Detectives. An unoccupied desk in front bore a placard reading Mrs. Altoona. This, he presumed, was his escort.

  The partitions that subdivided the large space failed to reach the ceiling and to dampen the clamor of ringing phones and beeping computers. Scuffed linoleum underfoot and acoustic tiles overhead, along with the uninspired ceiling fixtures, did nothing to soften the utilitarian planes.

  Mrs. Altoona pointed the way to a corner office. “Sergeant Finley is expecting you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and took a moment to gird himself for the interview. Competent or incompetent, dedicated or corrupt, the detective he was about to meet would play a significant role in determining whether Fario received justice.

  As Zahad entered, a man in a conservative business suit rose from behind his desk. Jenny’s neighbor had regular features, a muscular build and the permanently tanned skin of an outdoorsman. From the touch of silver in the man’s brown hair, the sheikh estimated him to be in his mid-forties.

  “Sergeant Parker Finley,” he said, thrusting out his hand.

  The sheikh introduced himself and shook it firmly. At the detective’s invitation, he took the only free seat, a straight wooden chair. A file cabinet loomed to his right, while a window behind the sergeant offered a view of a leafless tree and the municipal library.

  “Sorry I wasn’t available when you came in earlier.” Finley resumed his seat behind the desk. “I understand you were allowed to read our preliminary report. It’s not our custom to share the details of our investigations with the public, not even the families of victims. The desk sergeant shouldn’t have shown it to you.”

  “I believe he consulted one of the captains before doing so.” Zahad had no patience for bureaucratic stonewalling.

  “I’m just letting you know that we won’t be sharing our information from here on out,” the man said.

  “I, however, am willing to share whatever I come across,” Zahad answered. “I think you will be interested in what I found at Mrs. Sanger’s residence.”

  The sergeant’s expression hardened. “You went poking around the house?”

  “With Mrs. Sanger’s permission, of course.” He struggled to keep his tone even. He preferred not to get locked into a testosterone-fueled battle over territory, unless it was unavoidable.

  “Please don’t both
er Jenny in the future.”

  “It is Mrs. Sanger’s right to decide who enters her property.”

  The sergeant folded his arms. “You may be some kind of high official in your country, Mr. Adran, but you’re in my jurisdiction now.”

  “Yes, and therefore I turn over to you the evidence that you overlooked.” Zahad handed the plastic bag across the desk. “This lay underneath a wastebasket adjacent to the rear hall. It appears to bear the logo of the First Bank of Crystal Point. Mrs. Sanger will confirm that I discovered it in her presence.”

  The sergeant inspected the contents through the plastic. “Damn. I can’t believe we missed this.”

  “Jenny—Mrs. Sanger—said she does not keep an account at this bank. A neighbor named Ray works there,” Zahad added.

  “A lot of people use that bank,” Finley said. “Including me.” He clamped his jaw shut as if he wished he hadn’t volunteered the information.

  “I’m sure a number of people could have accidentally contaminated the scene.”

  The detective’s mouth worked angrily. But he replied with a terse, “We’ll check it out.” He retrieved an evidence envelope from his drawer and placed the Baggie inside.

  “I will, of course, provide you with any other evidence I come across.” Zahad waited for the explosion. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Mr. Adran, you have my condolences about your brother,” the detective retorted. “But if I find you interfering with my investigation, I won’t hesitate to bring charges against you.”

  “As Fario’s elder brother, it is my responsibility to uphold his honor.”

  “Not everyone in your country sees your relationship with your brother in such a benevolent light. I received a phone call this morning from a Mrs. Adran, whom I gather is your stepmother. She thinks you’re behind his death.”

  That didn’t surprise him. “Numa is distraught about losing her son.”

  “Apparently you should have inherited the—what do you call it?—sheikhdom from your father, but your half brother displaced you,” the sergeant pressed on. “Now it’s all yours.”