Layover in Dubai

Mooney seemed unwilling to interrupt. Instead he turned back toward Sam with an air of mild exasperation.

“I also gather that the cause of death isn’t in dispute. I mean, well, you saw him, correct? Do you retain any doubts?”

“No. He was shot. That was pretty clear. But what about other factors?”

“Such as?”

“Well …” Sam fought hard to clear his mind, and he seized on a couple of stray thoughts that had occurred to him earlier. “Whether he’d been drugged in advance, for example. Or whether he’d engaged in any sexual activity before he was killed.”

Maura Steele frowned disapprovingly.

“How could that possibly be relevant,” she asked, “other than as a potential embarrassment to his family and colleagues?”

“Because if he didn’t have sex, it could mean he was there for something else, which could have had a bearing on his death. So I would think that at the very least—”

“Sam?”

It was Nanette, who was back at the table. She didn’t look or sound angry, or even disappointed. Her demeanor was closer to abiding, tolerant, as if she completely understood his concerns but nonetheless needed him to see things their way.

“It’s the police who counseled this course of action,” she said. “Apparently they’re convinced they know what transpired beforehand, and from what little I’ve heard I trust their judgment.”

“Okay. Good enough for me.” Even though it wasn’t. Or maybe he was just exhausted. Whatever the case, the weight of all his worries and what-ifs seemed to press him deeper into the chair. He resolved to say nothing further unless called upon.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. An hour later Nanette and he were again seated in the limo, this time with Woodard between them as they headed for the Shangri-La. The two new arrivals checked into their rooms while Sam went upstairs to crash. He drifted off to sleep before he could even remove his shoes. His cell phone woke him a half hour later. It was Nanette, offering to meet him in the lobby. She had reserved a table for dinner at Marrakech, one of the hotel’s restaurants—that is, if he was still interested. Still in a fog, he figured he had better say yes. It was now dark outside. He had been in Dubai for barely forty-eight hours, but it felt like weeks.

He splashed his face in the bathroom sink, shaved, and changed into a fresh shirt and trousers, all of which left him feeling a little more alert. He wondered if he should also change into fresh briefs. That made him realize that at some level he was treating the evening like a date, which was downright silly, not to mention unwise. Fortunately, Woodard would be along to dispel any such illusion.

He reached the lobby to find Nanette alone on a couch, drink in hand. She had changed into a skirt far more accommodating of expat tastes. With her legs crossed it rode several inches above her knees.

“Where’s Woodard?”

“Too busy. Consular paperwork, plus some other arrangements. I’m sorry that Mooney fellow ran on like that. I could have briefed you on pretty much all of that. He’s new here, so I suppose he felt like he had to impress us. How ’bout a drink? You look like you could use one.”

It was the same remark Charlie had made to start off their night on the town, and Sam was briefly disoriented, feeling as if Charlie might come bounding around the corner at any moment, raring to go.

“Are you all right, Sam?”

“Fine. Although maybe I should hold off any drinks until dinner.”

No sooner had he said that than a waiter appeared with a gin and tonic, which Nanette must have ordered on his behalf. Why not? he figured.

·    ·    ·

Sam was hungrier than he had expected, and he ate his fill. The waiter brought dish after dish of North African mezze, plus plenty of wine. He hadn’t realized they were drinking quite so much until the waiter uncorked the second bottle.

Between that and his lack of sleep, he felt like he was floating. It was a precarious sensation, but also quite pleasant considering everything he’d endured in the past twenty-four hours. An oud player calmly plucked his instrument in the corner of the restaurant, adding to the serene atmosphere. Sam was finally able to put his auditor’s brain on idle, content to let Nanette dictate the flow of conversation. She blessedly steered clear of any mention of either Charlie or Pfluger Klaxon, and they might have avoided the subjects altogether if Sam hadn’t blundered during a moment of relaxation, right after the waiter brought the coffee.

“One thing about all this that still bothers me,” he said, the thought rising to the surface like a bubble. “Why was Charlie fully dressed when he was shot? I mean, considering what he was supposedly there for.”

“Maybe he had, well, finished?”

“I thought that, too. But in an office? That’s where they went, as far as I could tell. There was no bed, no couch. Nothing but a desk.”

Nanette raised her eyebrows at the mention of the desk.

“A small desk,” he clarified.

“You’re blushing, Sam.”

She reached across the table to touch his hand. Then she smiled. Or had he imagined the touch? Her hand was already back on her side of the table. He was wrung out. Sauced and marinated, too. Venturing back onto the subject of the murder was making his mind pop and buzz like neon, a jazzed condition that seemed likely to persist as long as Nanette kept looking at him so intently with those vivid green eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, the way they were after her workouts at the Manhattan health club.

“I hate to admit this,” she said, “but it bothers me, too.”