Misgivings Page 10

  Despite its luxurious trappings, the island wasn’t large; within minutes, Horatio was presenting his ID to a video camera set into a concrete post. A moment after that, the large, ornate iron gates beside it swung open.

  At the end of a long driveway stood a truly opulent mansion, built in a style that would do an emperor proud. The roof was a gleaming glass pyramid, with minaret-style towers rising from its four corners. Wings branched off from two sides of the pyramid, paralleling the seafront the building faced.

  The entrance was framed by six large marble columns, more Egyptian than Greek, and a door that looked as if it had been stolen from a pharaoh’s tomb; it appeared to be made of solid stone, with an intricate hieroglyphic frieze carved into its surface.

  The man who opened it as Horatio walked up the front steps was dark-skinned, with a thick black mustache. Other than the spotless white turban on his head, he was dressed in traditional English butler’s livery, right down to the white gloves.

  “Please come this way, sir,” the butler said, his accent somewhere between Calcutta and Oxford.

  Horatio followed him into a foyer large enough to hold a basketball game and lit by a chandelier that resembled a frozen explosion in a diamond warehouse, then into an adjoining room through a set of large glass doors. It was a study, of the kind often depicted in Sherlock Holmes novels: tall bookshelves full of leatherbound volumes, a stone fireplace, a large desk with a wingback chair behind it. Those with too much money, Horatio had noticed, often substituted an obsessive attention to detail for taste. It was as if, rather than evaluate any one object for its own worth, they simply pointed at a page in a catalog and said, “Make it look like this. Exactly like this.”

  The butler told him to wait. He took a seat on an antique divan upholstered in dark green velvet and looked around the room curiously. A large, brass-mounted globe dominated one corner, while a thick book propped up on an angled stand stood in another.

  The man who entered the room a few moments later was tall, broad-chested, with a fringe of iron-gray hair around a brown, smooth skull. He wore a white linen suit, brocaded gold slippers, and a red silk tie. His beard, mustache, and eyebrows were a scattershot of black and gray, his features strong and angular. Khasib Pathan had passed down many things to his son: his jutting nose, his chin, his sharp black eyes.

  But not, Horatio thought, his beliefs.

  He rose when Khasib walked in the room. “Mister Pathan. Thank you for seeing me.”

  Khasib nodded. The smile he gave Horatio was polite, but guarded. “Lieutenant Caine, correct? I’m not sure what this is all about—it concerns Abdus in some way?”

  “Yes. I don’t wish to alarm you, Mister Pathan, but it seems your son was involved in a physical altercation that resulted in his being arrested and another man spending the night in the hospital.”

  Khasib’s reaction was only a slight frown. “I see. What sort of criminal charges is he facing?”

  Horatio paused. “Well, sir, at the moment he isn’t being charged with anything. There have been some technical problems with both the evidence and the witness.”

  Khasib nodded. “Ah. And it would be reasonable, I suppose, for the person responsible for freeing my son to seek out his grateful father.” His tone was mild, with just a touch of amusement.

  Horatio smiled. “I’m sorry, but you misunderstand. Nobody in my department tampered with the evidence, nor am I here looking for a payoff.”

  It was Khasib’s turn to hesitate, but when he spoke again the amusement in his voice had deepened. “Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t, because you would be sadly disappointed. What are you here for, then?”

  “A little understanding. The attack was sudden and violent, but triggered by something trivial—a revealing photo of a woman in a magazine. Your son has no connection to this woman that I can find. Does this make any sense to you?”

  Khasib shook his head. “You presume a great deal, Lieutenant. To come to a man’s house, to accuse his son of crimes while admitting he has no proof . . . what makes you think I won’t take offense?”

  “In my line of work, Mister Pathan,” Horatio said, “I frequently have to take that risk.” What he didn’t add was that sometimes a lot more was revealed in anger than in friendship. Horatio was often asked to leave . . . and just as often, he came back. Usually with a warrant in his hand.

  “I certainly could play the offended father,” Khasib said coolly. “But I value honesty in my dealings— especially with those in authority—and so I will not. My son Abdus and I do not see eye to eye on many things. In truth, he is largely a mystery to me. While I have attempted to instill in him the wisdom of Muhammad’s teachings, he does not see the truth and glory of Allah.”

  “So you have no idea why a nude photo of an Arabic woman, one he doesn’t know, would make him angry?”

  Khasib shook his head, his dark eyes never leaving Horatio’s. “I do not. He has never shown any reverence for the traditions of the hadith, including those that dictate dress or behavior. If this . . . woman . . . was in some way connected to what he calls his trade, his behavior might be explainable.”

  “You mean his career as a magician?”

  “Yes. It has consumed him, his entire life. I think perhaps one of the reasons he chose it was because of my protests. Islamic teachings are very specific concerning the subject of al-qamrah; it is the seventh apostasy, like as-sarf and al-’atf, and whoever practices it or is pleased with it has disbelieved,” Rasulullah said. “‘The prayer of everyone is accepted in the night of fifteenth Shaban but not the prayer of the magician and tax collector.’”

  Horatio glanced around the room. “Well, I can see why you might have a problem with the tax collector . . .”

  “But not with a harmless hobby? With card tricks and pulling rabbits from hats?” Khasib scowled and crossed his arms, and for a second Horatio could see how intimidating his displeasure might be to a young boy. “I realize that to those who do not believe, the traditions and practices of the faithful sometimes seem foolish. I am not an unsophisticated man, Lieutenant; but the essence of faith is trusting that there is a higher power who knows and understands far more than you ever could. I trust in that wisdom, and in the wisdom of all the great Islamic scholars who have interpreted it throughout the ages. That wisdom, sadly, was not enough for my son.”

  “When was the last time you talked to Abdus?”

  “I see him rarely—once every six months, perhaps. We last spoke a few weeks ago, I believe. It was concerning plans for a party for one of my wives.”

  Horatio’s eyebrows went up, but he said nothing.

  “I am a citizen of Saudi Arabia, not the United States. Polygamy is common there; the Quran says that a man may have as many as four wives, as long as he is able to properly look after them.” Khasib smiled. “As you can see, that is not beyond my means.”

  “Obviously not,” Horatio said. “May I ask which of your wives is Abdus’s mother?”

  Before Khasib could reply, the butler reappeared at the doorway to the room. “Excuse me, sir. Your son Abdus is on the telephone. He says it is most urgent.”

  Khasib cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Horatio. “Well,” he said. “Most unusual timing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Maybe he’s calling to ask for the name of a good lawyer,” Horatio said, but Khasib’s only reaction was to stride to the desk, pick up the receiver, and push a button. “Hello? Yes, I—what?”

  Khasib’s demeanor changed abruptly. A look of shock and alarm erased any trace of parental irritation. “Where are you?” he demanded, almost shouting. “Where? No! No! Let me talk to my son!”

  “Sir? Is everything all right?” Horatio snapped. Every cop instinct he had was roaring.

  Khasib held the receiver in front of him, staring at it as if it were some sort of foreign object he couldn’t identify. “It was Abdus,” he said, his voice somewhere between confusion and fear. “He said . . . he said that he’s been kidnapped.
That they are going to kill him . . .”

  9

  THE HAT—A BASEBALL CAP EMBLAZONED with the name of some South American soccer team—that Solana Villanova had given Alexx found its way to Delko. He managed to pull a few epithelials from the sweatband, and even a hair with the root intact, meaning he could DNA-type it. The samples went to the DNA lab.

  He was planning on talking to Solana Villanova herself—but his entire day changed with one phone call from Horatio.

  “Delko. What’s up, H?”

  “Eric, I need you and Calleigh to meet me at this address.” Eric grabbed a pen and jotted it down. “I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”

  “Sure,” Delko replied, “but I’m supposed to do an interview with this woman in about twenty minutes—”

  “The Villanova case?”

  “Yeah. She flew in from Brazil.”

  “I’m sorry, Eric, but she’ll have to wait. We’ve got a kidnapping—and the clock is ticking.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Delko hated pushing a case—any case—to the back burner, but in a kidnapping time was crucial. He’d have to talk to Solana Villanova later.

  He tracked down Calleigh in the gun lab, signed out a department Hummer, and flipped a coin to see who drove. Calleigh won.

  “So,” she said as Eric buckled his seat belt and she started the engine, “our reluctant magician has pulled his own vanishing act, huh?”

  “This guy’s really a magician? Live doves up his sleeve, the whole bit?”

  “Well, I don’t know about any doves,” Calleigh said, pulling out of the staff parking lot, “but he’s definitely got something up his sleeve. You heard about the fingerprint?”

  “Yeah. You think it might have been—”

  “Excuse me,” Calleigh snapped—not at Delko, but at a car that was being a little slow to get out of her way. “Trying to make a lane change here . . . Actually, I don’t know what to think. Horatio checked my work, and he says there was no evidence the print was planted. Our best guess is that the guy doctored his own prints while in custody— but so far, we’re not sure how he did it. We figure his lawyer’s involved, but the guy used fake credentials. Horatio’s trying to track him down.”

  “I gotta say—this Pathan getting snatched right after the whole fingerprint thing? Something’s off.”

  “You mean the kidnapping might be phony? Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me?”

  “That’s how it looks to me. What do you think?”

  “I think we should wait until we see the crime scene. There’s definitely something odd going on, but we shouldn’t be making any judgments ahead of time.”

  “Can’t argue with you there—”

  “Would you please mind moving over? Thank you so much,” Calleigh said, apparently to the driver of a small black truck.

  “You know they can’t hear you, right?” Delko asked with a grin.

  “I know, I know.” Calleigh smiled. “But I was raised to be polite. They may not be able to hear me, but it makes me feel better. Honking a horn just seems so—well, rude.”

  “Let’s hear it for Southern hospitality,” Delko said. “Or should that be Southern horsepower?”

  “Whatever gets people out of my way,” Calleigh murmured. “Pardon me, the posted speed limit is more than fifteen miles an hour. . . . Why, thank you, too.”

  Delko smiled and shook his head.

  * * *

  Under Title 18 of the United States Code, Sections 1201, 1204, and 1073, the Federal Bureau of Investigation had jurisdiction over kidnappings. Horatio had no choice but to notify the Miami field office of the FBI as soon as he learned of the crime . . . but that didn’t mean he was happy about it.

  Horatio had a history with the federales, and it wasn’t exactly a friendly one. Though the friction between the Bureau and local law enforcement was so firmly entrenched it had almost become a cliché, Horatio had nothing against the FBI itself. The job came first, and who slapped the cuffs on was much less important than who wound up wearing them. The FBI had access to manpower, equipment, and resources that Horatio’s department did not, and he was all for cooperation if it helped take a criminal off the street.

  The key word was cooperation.

  In Horatio’s experience, the Bureau used the word strictly as a euphemism for “give us everything we want and we won’t come down on you like a ton of dead fish.” It was a euphemism Horatio himself was familiar with, but he tended to use it on suspects; certain representatives of the Bureau, though, seemed to use it on just about everyone they met.

  Representatives like Special Agent Dennis Sackheim.

  Sackheim strode into Khasib Pathan’s study like a general entering the parade ground: back straight, eyes sweeping from side to side, three other agents—two men and a woman—in step right behind him. When he saw Horatio sitting there, the look on his face didn’t change at all—but then, it had been as blank and unforgiving as a brick wall to start off with.

  “Lieutenant Caine,” Sackheim said.

  “Agent Sackheim,” Horatio replied. He didn’t get up, and Sackheim didn’t introduce any of his fellow agents.

  Horatio had dealt with Sackheim before. The FBI man and he had clashed over several cases, and Horatio’s opinion of Sackheim was that he cared more about solving the case than he did about the people involved. Not the best person to be handling a kidnapping, he thought.

  Khasib stood at the window, staring out over the ocean with an unreadable expression on his face. Horatio had already talked extensively to him, but now Khasib would have to answer the same questions all over again.

  “Mister Pathan, I’m going to put a tap and trace on the phone line.” Sackheim nodded at the female agent, and she went straight to the phone. “I’ll be handling the investigation; it’s vital that you share any and all information you have concerning your son. Friends, romantic affiliations, business associates . . .”

  Horatio stood. “Why don’t you give him a moment, Dennis? I’d like to speak to you, if I may?”

  Sackheim turned his blank gaze on Horatio for a moment. Horatio looked back mildly.

  “All right,” Sackheim said. “Excuse us, Mister Pathan.”

  Sackheim turned and walked out into the foyer, taking the two male agents with him.

  “Mister Pathan?” Horatio said. “I promise you—you’ll see your son again.”

  Khasib’s voice held only a hint of a tremor. “I know . . . I know that you will do everything you can, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

  Horatio followed Sackheim into the foyer, closing the study door behind him. The two other agents had disappeared, well-trained hounds taken off their leash. Horatio had no doubt they were already interrogating the staff.

  “What’s the problem, Caine?” Sackheim said.

  “No problem,” Horatio said, putting his hands on his hips. “But I thought you might appreciate a heads-up about your vic.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Gracious as ever . . . “Abdus Sattar Pathan is not exactly an innocent.” Horatio gave Sackheim a condensed version of the events that had brought Horatio to the Fisher Island mansion.

  “So you screwed up a piece of evidence,” Sackheim said. “Wish I could say I was surprised. I’m going to need to look at everything you’ve collected, anyway.”

  “My people,” Horatio said, “did not screw up. And we’d be happy to share what we have so far, Dennis—but I expect to be kept in the loop as far as the ongoing investigation is concerned.”

  “Look, Caine, this is federal now. My game, my rules. You can’t even print a man in custody properly, and you want us to partner up?” The look Sackheim gave him was openly skeptical. “Do you even know who you’re dealing with here? Khasib Pathan is the head of a Saudi family with more oil than blood in their veins, and he has some powerful friends who are very aware of that—if I wind up sharing jurisdiction with anyone, it’ll be the State Department or Homeland Security. You couldn’t even
hang on to your guy when he was in a jail cell—so unless you feel like suiting up to play scapegoat, I suggest you stay out of my way.”

  Horatio met his eyes. “Suggestion noted. And I have one of my own, Agent Sackheim.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. I suggest you don’t forget you’re looking for a human being. Because if you lose sight of that, it’s not the State Department or Homeland Security who’s going to be standing over his grave . . . it’ll be his family.”

  Horatio slipped on his sunglasses and walked out the front door.

  The primary crime scene was the spot where Abdus Sattar Pathan had been abducted. Unfortunately, Horatio didn’t know where that was . . . so he told his team to start with the man’s home.

  Pathan lived in Sweetwater, just west of Miami. Although Pathan’s Arabic heritage might have drawn him to a suburb like Opa-locka, with its faux Middle Eastern architecture and streets like Shaharazad Boulevard, Sweetwater had apparently proven irresistible to the showman in Pathan. Founded in 1941, the community’s initial residents were primarily Russian circus midgets who were looking for a warm place to retire; they had their homes custom-built to their size, giving Sweetwater the nickname of the “Midget City.”

  Pathan’s home was built neither for the diminutive or the rich—despite his family’s money, he seemed to be living a decidedly middle-class lifestyle. The house was a two-story, squarish ranch-style with an attached garage, the yard small but well-maintained. A car was parked in the driveway, a late-nineties, gold-colored Camry; Calleigh pulled in behind it.

  “Don’t see H’s vehicle,” Delko said as they got out. “Guess we beat him here.”

  Calleigh handed Eric’s kit to him and grabbed her own. “No reason to wait, I guess.”

  “Not if we want to see anything before the Feebs get here.”

  Calleigh frowned. “You know, I’ve never liked that term. Can’t you just call them the Bureau?”

  “Hey, every cop I know calls them that,” Delko said, smiling. “I think they’re used to it by now.”

  “Well, I’m not. And anyway . . .”