Quicksand (23 page)

“You'd left in a hurry,” Nora surmised. “So it was all you had with you.”

“This crew up in Strawberry Mansion, said they had a safe house where we could ride it out under the radar, but they wanted somethin' in return. Didn't know they'd put us in a fuckin' crack house.”

Nora regarded her for a while, recalling the stench of the house and the chaos within. “Why … why didn't you just get out of town?”

Rita gave her a scathing look. “You ever traded your blanket for food?”

At Nora's silence, Rita continued. “You ever steal some cough syrup for your baby sister so she can sleep through one night?”

Nora faltered, “I…”

“Situation like that, the gang steps up. The crew is your family. Got your back, you got their back. You don't run from that. You don't just get outta town. You in it. For life.”

Nora tilted her head. “And Dewayne? You think Dewayne still has your back?”

Rita was silent.

“He's been busy these days, right? With the girls. With Kylie Baker…”

Rita Ross tsk'd softly, then lifted the mug of tea to her lips again.

“Kylie was in love with him,” Nora ventured.

Rita harrumphed. “She mighta thought she was.”

Nora looked a question at her.

“You think I don't understand Kylie? Kylie saw Dewayne, with his Beemer and his bank. And it couldn't've mattered less what he did or how he did it or what he asked her to do. She just wanted to hold on to the idea that there was a way out.”

“But Kevin had that. He was taking care of his family, wasn't he?”

Rita's face darkened. “Kevin Baker is a
piece of shit
. He don't take care of nobody but Kevin Baker. Soon as he got himself some Gs, he was buyin' the flashy ride and then movin' out of his house, wearin' the gold. His mama was sick, she
still
need an operation so she can walk better, fix her knees, he don't even give her the time of day … Kevin Baker is worried about one thing: Los Zetas. He's gotta sell and sell some more. If he can't hold on to the turf here and keep the supplies flowing, they will find someone who can. And that will be that.”

Nora couldn't keep from glancing up at the mirror as she digested this.

Rita Ross stared into her mug. “Girl like Kylie wants to be taken care of. Sometimes you wanna get so spoiled you forget what it was like to be hungry. And you want someone to lie to you and say you can have it all. Dewayne was like that with me in the beginning.”

“And then…?”

“And then he got tired of me.” She took a swallow of the tea. “He coulda gotten rid of me. But he kept me. Trained me to make the connections he needed.”

“You mean, made you use your body to build his network.”

Rita didn't answer.

“And then made you watch him start pimping girls. Some of them little girls.”

She inhaled, staring down at the spot where one of her electric blue fingernails had popped off, exposing a stunted, broken nail, bare of paint.

Nora pulled out Jane Doe's picture and slid it across the table. “We found her. We have no information on her. She won't talk. She's scared and alone.”

Rita looked at the picture, then looked away.

“Do you know her? Rita?”

She shook her head. “Nah, I don't know her. But if she's one of the girls, she'd be on the disk.”

Nora straightened in her chair. “What disk?”

“Flash drive. Lisa Halston and Dewayne had been putting together information on all the girls. For marketing purposes,” she said icily. “Dewayne called it his moneypot, but Lisa was behind it. Ms. In-Control. Had the girls' real names and their street names and how much they brought in. And their … special talents.”

“Where was this disk?” Nora asked, leaning in.

Rita shook her head. “The bitch always kept it with her. So she could stay in the game, she said. So Dewayne wouldn't cut her out. She was the expert at bringing them in, see? Showed the girls her fancy loft, her shoes, her shit. Once in, Dewayne knew how to keep them. Anyone change her mind, he pull her by the hair into the street, slam her head against the pavement. Tell the whole neighborhood, ‘This bitch is mine!' Used his belt on them, used his ring. Used his cigarettes. One girl, he tied her up three days in his bathroom. Every time he needed to go, he went and pissed on her, then kicked her a few times, then left. Three days, until she swore never to turn down a customer again for the rest of her life.”

Nora watched Rita's face. “We can help you,” she said softly.

Rita met her gaze and held it, then whispered, “There's no help for me. That's the thing about hell, see? You don't get to leave.”

The two looked at each other for a long moment, and Nora nodded slowly. Reluctantly, she rose to leave, and was almost at the door when she heard Rita murmur, “West Philly High.”

“Excuse me?”

“I ran the 100, 200, and four-by-100 meter relay. West Philly High.”

Nora nodded again. “Thanks,” she said, gently closing the door in place behind her.

*   *   *

He was moving
her
.

Slowly she realized he was covering her hair with a black scarf, and then pinning a long black niqab over her face.

You have to walk now, you understand me? You have to walk. No sound. No sound at all.

She understood.

She had been moved often.

No one ever told her where.

No one had to tell her why.

She did not know the name of the city where she now was, only that she and the six other girls had been brought here at night in the back of a van with blackened windows.

She knew the others had already been taken away, the first night that the police came and took the body in the alley.

They had been left there long enough to see the message, long enough to learn their fear anew.

And the people of this new town had gotten the message, and had surely begun to fear as well.

Whatever hope had invaded her at the sound of the sirens was driven off now by the sound of the door closing behind them. He seized her by the elbow and steered her down the crumbling cement stairs, as the cold midnight swallowed them whole.

 

CHAPTER
7

The home of
Anwar al-Islahi was slightly less ramshackle than the neighboring row homes. An optimistic hand had once painted the intricate trim teal; now, it struck a tinny dissonance alongside the other weary facades.

John and Nora stood on the porch.

Nora paused before rapping on the outer door. “He's not going to be happy to see us.”

“Get used to it, Rookie.”

“I completely hate it when you call me that,” she said, knocking.

“Yes, I know. But that was a very rookie thing to say. Toughen up. We're not baking cupcakes here, we're fighting crime.”

Nora gave him a half smile. “I'll make a note of it.”

Imam Anwar wore a gelabiyya that grazed his bare ankles. He was not happy to see them at all. Before opening the outer door, he looked uncomfortably at John. “I thought that the sister would be coming in alone.”

John asked, not masking his irritation, “Is it a one-room home, sir, or is it possible to speak with you in a dining room while Officer Khalil interviews your wife in the family room?”

The imam blinked rapidly. “I need to be present while my wife is interviewed.”

Nora answered firmly, “That's completely impossible. May we come in please?”

The imam stepped to one side, bristling. The house was spare, the home of a new immigrant, free of inherited furniture and the accumulated clutter of years spent in one place. An IKEA shoe rack designed for a closet was placed prominently in the foyer, and Nora promptly slid out of her shoes, with John reluctantly following suit.

The imam ushered John into a dining room that held a bruised and rather wobbly-looking second-hand table surrounded by six mismatched chairs. Nora watched him scan the room for every exit, noting every feature before seating himself at the head of the table.

She then followed the imam into the living room. Two small sofas faced each other, each covered in bedsheets that apparently masked the flaws or stains of the original upholstery. A straight-backed chair was piled high with neatly folded prayer rugs. On one wall was a large poster of the Ka‘ba back-lit by neon-laced minarets; the surrounding open mosque was packed with thousands of devoted pilgrims. The walls were completely bare except for this. The north end of the room ended in what Nora guessed was the basement door, not far from steep stairs ascending to the second level. Shaykh Anwar called upstairs to his wife, and she descended, cloaked in full niqab.

Nora watched her apprehensively. Her form was slight, and her steps were measured. When the woman greeted her with an accented
Hello
, Nora replied by saying
As-salaam alaykum
. Shaykh Anwar narrowed his eyes at Nora, then explained to his wife in Arabic that he would not be allowed to sit in on the interview, and he would be in the dining room with the other agent.

She followed his retreating form with her eyes, and Nora saw through the slit in her face veil that they were light, almost amber-colored. When Shaykh Anwar entered the dining room, John rose and closed the door, giving Nora a pointed look.

Nora held out her hand to shake that of the imam's wife. She was met by a tiny gloved hand that felt birdlike in her grasp. “My name is Nora. May I ask yours?”

The woman nodded slightly. “Khulood.”

“It's nice to meet you,” Nora said, but the woman did not reply. “Madame Khulood, I need to ask you to remove your face veil for our interview,” Nora continued, as gently as possible.

The woman sat stock still, considering this. “I don't—” she began

Nora cut her off. “You know that the face veil must be removed for praying and for performing the pilgrimage…” she said, gesturing at the poster on the wall. With a start, Nora realized that she had been paying attention to her mother's occasional discussions about Islamic law after all. “You must also remove it for official appearances like marrying and giving witness. This is an instance of giving witness.”

Khulood's light eyes met Nora's. Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled the veil up over her head. Her face was thin and her cheekbones high. She had a pointed chin and a small mouth. The lashes that surrounded the light eyes were pale and feathery.

“Did you know Hafsa al-Tanukhi?”

The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, yes I did.”

“Did you study English with her?”

Khulood narrowed her eyes. “A few times … yes.”

“I need to know the names of the women who studied with her. In particular I am trying to find a woman named Basheera. Do you know a woman named Basheera?”

Khulood looked worried, and cast her eyes at the closed door to the dining room. “I don't think so…”

Nora tried hard not to show her irritation. “What did you think was the purpose of my visit today, Khulood?”

She received no response.

“Were you there for the lesson your husband gave on Saturday?”

Khulood looked flustered. “I'm not sure…”

“You're not sure if you were there or not?” Nora pressed.

Khulood quickly shook her head. “No, no, I was there, of course, I just … I can't remember everything…”

“Well, try to remember one thing.”

Khulood shrugged. “He gave the lesson. We listened. We all left. Nothing happened unusual.”

“What were the names of the women who attended your husband's lesson?”

The woman began to tremble and her eyes started welling with tears.

Nora didn't back down. “Did Hafsa speak to your husband that day?”

The small woman widened her wet eyes. “No!” Then she looked again at the dining room door, giving off the aura of being adrift.

“Khulood, I came all the way over here to save you the inconvenience of having to come to my office. I would be very happy to call you into the office if it will make it easier for you to share information.”

Khulood shook her head slightly, then murmured, “May God forgive you. Basheera Johnson. I do not know her telephone or address. There were others, another black woman named Karima … something. Some Arabs like Fatma al-Bakry, Marwa Abd al-Hamid, they had taken some of the English lessons because they had no language skills at all. And very little Arabic literacy, frankly.”

Nora was scribbling in her notebook. “Why would Hafsa have wanted to talk to your husband, Khulood?”

“She had no reason to talk to him at all. She taught language. He taught religion. That was all,” the woman replied simply. “I'm sure whatever happened to her was God's plan for her.”

Nora's pen paused in midair over the notebook page. “Her eyes were cut out, Khulood. Her throat was slit.”

Khulood dropped her eyes. “God is the most merciful,” she said softly.

*   *   *

Both agents were
quiet as they headed back to the Philadelphia field office.

John finally spoke. “How did it go?”

Nora shook her head. “She lied. A lot.”

John Wansbrough nodded. “The same with her husband. He was very scared, very on edge. I think his life is being threatened.”

“Did you let him know you thought so?”

“Yes. He said that was preposterous. I wasn't very convinced.”

“I think he coached his wife. She had a script she was supposed to stick to. She really didn't want to give me the names I got.”

“We're gonna need to track down those names,” John said, guiding the car over the South Street Bridge.

Nora asked, “Could one of the gangs be threatening him? Is that why he's so scared?”