Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [38]
“But there must have been drugs in Jackson’s system. Don’t you think that will weigh in your favor?”
He half laughed. “Shit, Doc, this is L.A. There’s probably crack in the fucking ventilation system.”
I almost wished that was true. I could use a little something to dull the aches and fatigue that plagued me. “Isn’t crack supposed to make you feel good?” I asked.
He looked at me and grinned a little. “You do kinda look like you been hit by a train.”
I resisted checking the little round mirror stashed in my purse.
“Do you still hope to gain custody of Jamel?” I asked.
He watched me with solemn regard, then rose and walked to the window. I have a tantalizing view of the coffee shop next door. “He’s my son,” he said.
“There’s no law against saying no to that question.” I kept my tone soft. Emily Christianson carried her stress in the tight clasp of her hands. Micky wore his on his face.
“He’s not safe where he is.”
“But if he were … if he were safe and happy, would you still want him to live with you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “You know what he said this morning?”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. A patron had exited the coffee shop. He’d tip the scale at a solid three hundred. It almost made me regret my breakfast burrito. At least I should have refrained from eating the bag.
“He said he wanted to grow up to be president. That Barack Obama did it, so he knew he could, too.”
“Big goals.”
“Yeah, I told him that would take a lot of work. That he’d better do well in school.”
I waited.
“He gave that some thought, then said maybe he’d just marry one of Obama’s daughters, then, ’cuz they’re hot.”
I watched as he turned toward me. There were tears in his eyes. My heart tied itself in a tricky little knot in my chest.
“Yeah,” he said. “I want him.”
* * *
The rest of the day slipped by. Trying to make recompense for breakfast, I had a late lunch, which consisted of nothing but yogurt, and made it through the afternoon without falling asleep or dying of malnutrition.
Ramla called at 3:20. I hadn’t heard from her since Thursday when she’d left a voice mail saying all was well. Shirley put her through to me.
“Allah blesses you,” she said.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. My first reflex was to ask her to thank him for me, but that might sound kind of cheesy and I needed all the blessings I could get. “So Aalia is doing okay?”
“She is resting and healing. Safe and whole. Because of you. Already, though, she becomes impatient to be out on her own. To see this new country.”
I thought I heard a little worry in her voice. “There’s a lot to see, and maybe she feels she’s been told what to do long enough.”
“This is just what she says. But I have no wish for her to reject the ways of our people. It is … how do you say … who she is.”
I wondered to myself if poor little Aalia had any idea who she was. When a man promises to love and honor, but ends up abusing and debasing, it tends to mess with a girl’s head.
“She has some decisions to make,” I said. “But I’m sure she’ll figure things out. She’s very clever.”
“She has always been so.” Ramla’s tone was rife with that deep maternal pride some older sisters develop. I wondered what it would be like to have a sibling who adored you instead of three bothers who consistently tried to make you spew Jell-O out your nose.
“Has she said anything about the men at the airport?”
“She said that you should be very careful.”
My heart slowed dramatically. That wasn’t exactly what I had been wanting to hear. I had hoped that after she was able to relax she would realize there was nothing to fear.
“She still doesn’t think she recognized any of them?”
“No. But she said that her husband …” Ramla made a spitting noise. I waited patiently until it ended. “She said he has many friends she was not allowed to meet.”
I called Elaine a couple hours later. She answered on the third ring.
“When will you be home for supper?” she asked.
“You’re cooking?”
“Jeen is.”
That was not good news. It meant that Solberg was in