he sends my father a check every month.”
“They all do? All twelve of them?”
“Of course. Many Emiratis do this, in all walks of life. You look as if you disapprove.”
“Well, it’s just that, for a policeman …”
“What?”
“It could appear to be …”
“A conflict of interests?”
“Yes.”
She smiled, the same smile you offer children who believe in Santa.
“You sound like everyone who works in my building. They are more interested in appearances than in reality. Maybe it is because of what they do for a living—managing spin, molding perception—whether they are in PR, like me, or work for CNN. To me, either you are honest or you’re not. If you are, no amount of money can compromise you. If you’re not, then even the best appearances don’t mean you can be trusted.”
“And your father?”
“Not the easiest man to live with. But he is honest. Always.”
The front door slammed shut. Laleh’s expression changed dramatically, and with the deftness of a magician she pulled out a white head scarf seemingly from nowhere and quickly wrapped it around her head, covering her hair in an instant. Heavy footsteps sounded in the foyer. Sharaf appeared in the doorway and warily surveyed the scene. He was still breathing heavily from the encounter on the lawn.
“Laleh! What are you doing in this part of the house unaccompanied when there is a male visitor? And without your abaya! What would your mother say?”
“That I’m being hospitable?”
“You probably weren’t even covering your head until I came in.”
Her blush told him all he needed to know.
“Yes, I thought so.” He turned on Sam. “You weren’t speaking with her, I hope?”
“I just—”
“He hardly said a word. I did most of the talking.”
“Not surprising. Well, I’m here now, so he’ll get all the hospitality he needs.”
“Nice to have met you,” Sam said, feeling he should help deflect blame. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“That will be quite enough, Mr. Keller.”
“I have a ten o’clock curfew, if you can believe it.” Laleh was halfway out the door. She now sounded more like a teenager than a confident young businesswoman.
“That will be all from you as well.”
Sharaf stared until she had retreated out of sight. Sam heard a television switch on, a channel in English playing just the sort of music that Sharaf probably despised. The volume went up a notch. Sharaf stepped across the room, shut the door, and then turned back toward Sam.
“Does she really have a curfew?” Sam asked.
“Is that any of your business?”
“No. But I’m not really any of your business, either, according to Lieutenant Assad. So maybe you owe me an explanation before things go any farther. Or maybe you could just let me use the phone.”
“I wonder if Laleh always has this effect on men, making them too bold for their own good. Has it occurred to you, Mr. Keller, that Lieutenant Assad might actually have been doing you a favor by having you arrested this morning?”
“What do you mean?”
“By moving you out of harm’s way. Especially considering what has become of the only other reliable witness to those men who killed your friend.”
“You mean—?”
“Yes. I mean it is probably not safe for you to be wandering around on your own. Even if you were free to do so.”
“Then why didn’t you leave me at the police station?”
“Because it is also possible that Lieutenant Assad wants to put you somewhere secure, like a jail, not to protect you but so that an accident can easily befall you. Which do I think is the likeliest? I have no idea. And that is one reason I want you here. With your help I might be able to find out the answer, to that question and to others.”
“So you’re not going to let me use the phone.”
“Not for the moment. But I will reexamine the question tomorrow.”
“What will I do about clothes? And money. A toothbrush, my razor.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
Sharaf sized him up, then nodded.
