Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [67]
She was almost too flustered to answer. “Forget it.”
She hurried out of the store, her mobile still ringing, not sure what she was going to say when she got back to the flat and he grabbed her by the hair and said, “What the hell have you been up to, you little slut?”
Chapter Thirty-two
I’m sorry for the loss of your son,” said Jack.
Neil echoed Jack’s sentiment, and Maryam Wakefield expressed her appreciation quietly. She looked physically and emotionally drained, and with good reason.
Wednesday morning marked three days since Jamal’s death—the end of the traditional Islamic mourning period for any relative of the deceased other than the widow of a married man. On Sunday Jamal’s uncle flew down from Minneapolis to be with Maryam, but the medical examiner didn’t complete his autopsy and release the body until early Tuesday. Islamic law called for a quick burial and disfavored transportation of the body. Jamal’s uncle washed and wrapped the body in a shroud, a brief funeral service was held on Tuesday afternoon, and Jamal was taken directly to the cemetery and laid to rest (on his right side, facing Mecca) in Miami, the community in which he had last lived.
Jack could see in Maryam’s eyes that she had slept not a wink last night.
“Come in, please,” she said.
Jack was respectful of her loss, and he wouldn’t have come if Maryam had not extended an invitation. Her suite had a kitchenette and spacious seating area, but it was the kind of low-budget hotel that any last-minute traveler could pick up on the Internet for the price of dinner for four at McDonald’s: well within earshot of both the airport and the expressway, and last updated when fluorescent tube lighting and shag carpeting was all the rage.
Maryam introduced Jamal’s uncle as Hassan. His dress was not as Western as Maryam’s, and he had the full beard of a traditional Muslim male. It was Jack’s quick impression that he was more religious than Maryam, and that he’d been a tremendous help with the necessary arrangements.
“Your brother?” asked Jack.
“No,” said Maryam.
“I am the brother of Abukar,” said Hassan. “Abukar is Jamal’s father.”
The terrorist recruiter, thought Jack—and then he immediately chided himself about the whole guilt-by-association thing.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Neil, seeming to recognize that Jack was momentarily tongue-tied.
Maryam led them into the seating area and took the armchair. Jack and Neil sat on the couch facing her. Jamal’s uncle sat away from them on a barstool at the kitchen counter. He read in silence from the Koran, seeming to ignore the company.
“It wasn’t my plan to call you,” said Maryam. “But Detective Burton from MDPD came to see me this afternoon. He told me about a lead they were pursuing. A message of some sort that was written on a cocktail napkin from that club he went to.”
Jamal’s uncle looked up from his Koran. The mere mention of a cocktail napkin from a club on South Beach did not sit well with him.
“What kind of message?” asked Jack.
She opened her purse and handed Jack a paper. “Here, I wrote it down exactly as the detective described it.”
Jack inspected it, and immediately felt chills. “Are you afraid of The Dark?” Jack said for Neil’s benefit. “It’s identical to the one I got on the night Ethan Chang was murdered. Right down to the capital T and capital D. Also written on a napkin.”
“I know,” said Maryam. “Detective Burton seems unwilling to share his theories as to who wrote them. I wanted to hear yours.”
Jack again caught a glimpse of Uncle Hassan. He was clearly listening from across the room, and it bothered Jack that he was pretending not to.
“I honestly don’t have any ideas,” said Jack.
“Detective Burton also told me about the phone call you received.”
Jack had, of course, reported it to the police. “What did he tell you?”
“Everything,” she said. “Except where it came from.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes. He said he was not at liberty to say.”
Jack had heard of detectives keeping certain facts secret in an ongoing investigation, but he had another theory