Controlling Interest (22 page)

Deprived of the last word, Matt sat back, teeth gritted, to endure the rest of the ride into downtown Tunica.
Resisting arrest.

Now what, Lord?

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

B
radley took off his brown straw campaign hat as they came through the station doorway, glanced at Natalie, and sailed the hat toward the coat rack. It clanged against the metal tree and rolled to the dirty tile floor. Scowling, he picked it up and plopped it on a hook.

Natalie rolled her eyes. The first time she'd seen Bradley ring the coat rack, she'd been impressed. Sort of like Wyatt Earp twirling his guns before a showdown. But eventually she'd realized he was looking around for applause and sulking when he didn't get it.

The attraction wore off.

She stomped toward the desk that she had occupied until Friday two weeks ago. Maybe she'd clean out her drawers while she was here and not depend on Sheriff Luby to box everything up and mail it to her.

“Where do you think you're going?” Bradley jerked a thumb at the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit down here by your boyfriend while I fill out the paperwork.”

Matt, looking righteously annoyed, stayed on his feet. “I was under the impression that law enforcement officials were supposed to treat citizens with respect.”

“You're not a citizen, you Yankee playboy. Sit down.” Bradley picked up a NASCAR mug full of stone-cold coffee and took a slurp.

Natalie marched over to stand beside Matt in sudden solidarity. “Matt isn't my boyfriend, and he's not a Yankee either. He's from Illinois. Since you were probably shooting spit wads during junior high social studies, that's in the Midwest, not New England. Where's Helen?” The night shift dispatcher's cookies had been the one thing that made her life in the sheriff's office tolerable.

“I don't know.” Bradley rooted around a pile of files on his desk and unearthed the computer mouse. “Guess she went out to get a candy bar. She ain't as conscientious as you.” He said it as if conscientiousness caused cancer.

“You can't leave the switchboard unmanned!” Natalie glanced at the phone. If it rang, she was going to answer it, whether she still worked here or not.

Bradley threw himself into his chair with a squeak of springs. “Yeah, I hear your daddy bought you a detective agency.” He glanced at Matt. “This your sidekick?”

“It's
my
agency.” Matt placed his hands flat on the only two square feet of clear space on Bradley's desk. “I'd appreciate it if you'd fill out whatever paperwork you have to complete and let us get back to work. We have to be in Helena, Arkansas, by — ”

Natalie whacked him on the shoulder. “Matt! Shut up!”

It was too late. Bradley perked up. “By when? Y'all on a deadline crunch?”

Matt straightened. “Never mind.”

“Bet there's a lot of money involved.” Bradley smiled. “I could help.”

Natalie glared at him. “No way!”

“I'm just saying. I could give you an escort across the river.” Bradley laced his fingers over his belt. “The casino traffic is something fierce these days.”

Matt's fists balled at his sides. “I think we can handle it.”

“I was talking to Natalie.” Bradley frowned. “
You're
not going anywhere until you produce bail.”

“I'm calling a lawyer.” Natalie headed for the phone on her erstwhile desk. “And when we get through with you, you're going to wish you'd been parked anyplace but Highway 61 tonight.”

Bradley shrugged and used the computer mouse to pull up a misdemeanor report file. He looked around when Matt followed Natalie. “Hey, get back over here and sit down.”

Matt ignored him and leaned close to Natalie. “Go on to Helena yourself and intercept Yasmine.” His voice was low, urgent. “This is a pain, but we don't have any other choice.”

“No, I've been thinking.” She looked up into the multicolored eyes, trying to reassure him. “The boat won't leave until morning. Daddy'll have you out of here by then.”

Matt chewed the inside of his cheek. “What if she leaves the boat in Helena? We'll lose her.”

“Why in the world would she be going to Helena, Arkansas? More likely her ultimate destination's New Orleans.”

“Natalie, we don't know anything about this girl. Nothing she's done has been logical.”

“Well . . . I guess you could say that. A Muslim carrying around a Bible. I'm going to have to get really nosy and read that little notebook.”

“I thought you were going to read it on the way here.”

“How could I? I was driving!”

“You two stop arguing and get over here so I can book you!”

Natalie had forgotten all about Bradley. She waved an irritated hand at him. “Keep your shirt on.” She stood on tiptoe and lowered her voice to a whisper. “If we don't go along with him a little bit, he'll make things worse. I need to stay out of jail so I can contact my dad and get you released.” She squeezed his hands. “Don't worry. It'll be okay.”

Matt just looked at her. Her reassurance would have been a lot more comforting if she hadn't been the sole reason he was in this mess.

Shortly after nine o'clock Yasmine stood on aching feet at the galley sink, washing the enormous pots in which Cook had boiled pounds and pounds of odd-looking little red potatoes. She had spent the afternoon trudging up and down the stairs between decks. The occasional glimpse of the rolling black river, the slow passing of wooded banks, reminded her of the
Adventure
s
of Huckleberry Finn
, which she'd read in undergraduate school. By nightfall she had begun to sympathize with the slave Jim's longing for freedom. She also wondered if the captain had any intention of stopping before reaching the Gulf of Mexico.

Wherever that was.

At an ear-shattering whistle blast, she looked over her shoulder at Cook.

“Comin' up on Helena,” he drawled around a toothpick. “We'll dock tonight and let the folks tour in the morning. Then we head on down to Vicksburg.”

“Am I allowed to get off the boat?” Yasmine had not much idea of what her job entailed, other than following the orders of the mild-eyed, dark-skinned man who'd bandaged her feet and fed her crisp-fried catfish filets, creamy potato salad, and balls of fried cornbread which he called “hush puppies.” Clearly she had landed in culinary heaven, even if she had to work for it.

“Long as your shift's over, you can do whatever you want. Just make sure you're back on board before we weigh anchor at eleven.”

Yasmine hurriedly rinsed off a big cast iron frying pan. She would be off duty in a few minutes but had to get up at five a.m. to start setting the dining room tables for breakfast. She wouldn't be off again until three. By that time the boat would be headed downstream.

Maybe she should stay onboard. She was curious about the southern states where Zach had grown up, but Florida was her ultimate goal. She couldn't take a chance on getting left behind. Besides, Jarrar Haq and the detectives her father had hired would not give up chasing her. She had recognized the man following her at the barbecue festival as the one from the airport. Her fiancé's hired goon was infinitely more frightening than the two American detectives.

Biting her lip, she wiped the frying pan dry and hung it on its hook above the stove, then hung her towel on the dish drain. “Mr. Cook, may I be excused now? I'd like to check on my roommate.”

“Lord, child, you don't have to ask me. It's eight o'clock straight-up.” The cook's rubbery dark face softened as he made a little shooing motion. “You go on, get a good night's sleep. Everybody's first day's a hard one.”

Out of habit Yasmine started to incline her head. Then she remembered she was in America. She smiled.
Freedom
. Freedom to talk about whatever mattered most to her, and freedom to go wherever she wanted. Even to a place called Pins Up Cola.

“See you in the morning,” she said to Cook on the way out of the galley. “Good night.”

She entered one of the narrow passageways that led to the female employees' sleeping quarters. The motion of the boat was so violent she had to slide her palm along the wall to keep her balance. Good thing she was quite a fine sailor. Twice she'd sailed on Mediterranean cruise ships with her family, and she'd loved yachting as a teenager.

A pang of regret surged through her. There might be no yachts or cruises in her future. Even if she found Zach, who was a navy man, he would not be allowed to take his wife on every tour of duty. He had warned her that navy wives were left alone on shore for long periods of time.

Yes, he had warned her, and then he'd left her. A sacrifice, he said, for her own good.

Bah. Men. Even the best of them could be stupid.

Halfway down the hall she halted with a jerk and flattened her back against the wall. Hewitt was standing outside the door of her room.

Dear God, oh my Father. Please let Oksana be gone. She's so afraid of him.

What was she going to do? What was that man doing here? How could she confront him alone like this?

Father, help me. Show me how to speak. Tell me what to say.

Almost against her will, courage eased the pounding of her heart.

She watched Hewitt test the doorknob. When it didn't open, he knocked. He rattled the doorknob again, violently. “Oksana, I know you're in there. Open the door. I want to talk to you.”

Yasmine pushed away from the wall. “Oksana is not there.” She prayed it was true. “Is something the matter?”

Hewitt wheeled. “Yes, something's the matter.” He folded his arms, that intimidating stance she'd noticed in both Pakistani and American men. “She's late for her shift.”

“Her next shift doesn't start until midnight.” As a cocktail waitress in the bar at the center of the boat, Oksana worked crazy hours.

“Maybe I had the time wrong.” Hewitt raked his gaze down Yasmine's figure. “I see you found some shoes. You know, that uniform doesn't do you justice. It's too baggy.” He turned away, reluctantly. “Tell Oksana I want to see her before she starts her shift.”

Shuddering with relief, Yasmine waited until Hewitt had disappeared into the darkness at the end of the passage before she unlocked the door. It was so swollen with age and moisture that she had to yank hard to get it open. The crew did not live in the best of quarters. Finally she went inside, slammed the door, and leaned back.

Oksana sat huddled at the head of her bed, knees drawn up under her chin. “He is gone?”

Yasmine nodded and inched her way across the tiny space between the door and the “closet.” “I am glad I have a baggy uniform.” She fell against the closet door when the boat lurched.

Oksana laughed and relaxed against the pillow propped against the wall. “That is the boat coming into the pier,” she said in Russian. “I'm going to sneak out and find a beer. You want to come too?”

Yasmine paused in the act of slipping off her dress and looked over her shoulder. “You are kind. But Cook tells me some of the young people get together in his quarters and play cards and enjoy soft drinks. Maybe you join us?”

Oksana wrinkled her nose. “Maybe. I like beer.”

“If I were you, I'd keep all my wits about me. People take advantage of you when you're drunk.” She'd heard of women in America who lost their virginity, drove into light poles, and acted in innumerable other stupid ways.

Oksana was silent for a moment while Yasmine dressed in her jeans and T-shirt. She sat down on the bed to pull on her “new” tennis shoes and caught a glimpse of Oksana's thin, sharp face. Tears dripped down the Russian girl's cheeks.

Alarmed, she dropped her second shoe. “What is the matter, Oksana?”

“This is how I get in such the mess. I like the vodka and sign papers to come to America to get married.” Oksana smeared her hand across her chin.

“Oh, no, I'm sorry to make you feel bad.” Yasmine's heart hurt at the sight of her roommate's distress. On the other hand, one couldn't come to Christ without recognizing her need of him. She herself had been forced to do so. She picked up the shoe and looked down at it as she put it on and tied it. “I came to America to get married too.”

Oksana gasped. “You did? Where is your husband?”

“I ran away before I met him.” She lifted her shoulders. “I am a very scaredy-cat.”

“I think you are the bravest woman I ever meet. I want to run away, but I afraid.”

Yasmine's gaze flashed to the other girl, who stared at her with wide blue eyes. She smiled a little. “I think we have to be brave together. But first I need to tell you who takes care of me, and why I am not a jelly-puddle in the middle of the floor. Do you want to listen?”

Oksana's smile flashed like a beam of moonlight. “I like to have someone care for me too. I listen.”

Yasmine wished she had not left her Bible in the park. She would have to repeat the words from memory.
Father, help me.