“I’m not tipping everyone.” Pablo lowered his shoulder and tried plowing through, but one of the pencils stabbed him in the neck. As he hit the floor, he noticed the waiters were all wearing gray socks.
39
Buca and Y’or waited for Kenuda to bully the keyboard with his thick fingers; Brown Hats believed justice was patient.
Kenuda glowered at the screen one more time, daring it to disobey. “Bit of a fire drill today. There are about nine million former soldiers that we know of through various pensions, medical care, DV settlements. That we know of. Suddenly many of them want to come to the game. In four days. And I’m in the center of it all.”
The detectives shrugged politely, unimpressed as they had to be.
“But I always have time for my colleagues the police,” he continued, ready for these annoying little men to leave him alone. “What can the office of the Commissioner of Sport and Entertainment do for you?”
“Nothing,” Buca replied, puzzled by the question. “This is personal, Third Cousin.”
Elias narrowed his eyes warily. “In what way?”
“It concerns your fiancé Annette Ramos.”
“What happened?”
“We believe she was abducted during a prison escape on the night of the blackout.”
Kenuda didn’t quite take that in. “I don’t understand.”
“A prisoner, Zelda Jones, was, we strongly believe, rescued from the Bronx Courthouse. According to the security check-in, Ms. Ramos was visiting Ms. Jones as part of the accused/accuser provision. When the lights were restored, both siblings were gone and blood, tracked to Ms. Ramos, was on the floor of the prisoner’s room.”
Y’or handed Kenuda the report, which he quickly studied and returned with a shake of the head. “I don’t know anything about this. Who would rescue Jones and why would they take Annette?”
Buca straightened the crease on his pants leg. “The former, we’re not sure, but suspect it has to do with the missing orphan child. The latter, either your fiance was a witness to this crime or participated in the escape.”
Kenuda laughed. “Annette? Unless shoes are involved, that’s very unlikely.”
The Detectives exchanged a meaningful look. Y’or continued, “When’s the last time you saw your fiancé?”
“The day of the night game. She was here in my office.”
“Not since then?”
“I’ve been busy,” he said edgily.
Buca cleared his throat. “As an engaged couple, you do live together, correct?”
“Yes, so?”
The Detective raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you concerned when she didn’t come home the last two nights?”
“Until we’re married, Annette has her own apartment, according to law, so there’s space to work out any issues should they arise.”
“And are there any?”
Kenuda suddenly darkened. “Are you accusing me of something?”
Buca smiled blandly. “Not at all, sir. We’re giving you the courtesy of this information that your fiancé is missing.”
“And what’re you doing about it?”
“Interviewing everyone who might have information, Third Cousin.” Buca and Y’or rose as one and headed toward the door.
“Wait a second.” Kenuda came around his desk. “Do you think she’s okay?”
Buca shrugged.
Elias was staring blankly at the endless demanding messages from all over the country when a bell tinkled softly and Pablo’s face drifted onto the screen. A follow-up to the dismissal of every Cousin candidate was automatically sent to their potential mentor; just because someone failed at achieving candidacy didn’t mean they should be dismissed completely. There might be an opportunity for a reach-out on a personal level to guide them to something more suitable. As Grandma’s Twentieth Insight said, Being what you can be isn’t the same as being what you think you are.
Kenuda was about to file this, but a dancing flower icon kept insisting he had to read the report first. He was too tired to argue with a rose and began skimming, slowing down as he absorbed the details.
Again with that damn diner?
• • • •
HIS BROTHER HAD moved back in right after the Janazah like once their father was dead, he and Mama couldn’t take care of themselves. On the first night of the mourning, Omar moved Papa’s chair to the corner of the dining room, insisting that was proper according to the Quran.
Mama was too busy crying. She’d cried for a week. She’d cried especially loudly when Papa came already wrapped in the white kafan.
“I must see him again,” she’d screamed in the funeral home. The director, who looked like a frog, insisted Papa had been badly burned and they had to wrap him to prevent leakage. All of that sounded disgusting and made Mama yell even more, but Abdul didn’t cry. He had to be brave as much as his heart broke. He was afraid to let Mama down.
That was the love and sadness part of his heart. He was afraid to leave Mama alone, but Omar ordered him to resume normal life once the mourning was over. He said that as if Abdul’s normal life was bad.
Abdul played a lot of football. In the madrassa, his friends offered their apologies and prayers. But it wasn’t like when Khalil’s father died last year. Some Crusaders had bombed a school and Khalil’s father was one of the police who hunted them down. In the shoot-out, Khalil’s father was killed. He was a hero. There were photos of him everywhere, online, in newspapers, on television. Khalil was proud of his father.
There were no photos of Papa. No one mentioned his name. Abdul was convinced he had been murdered on a secret assignment for the Grand Mufti, not when his boat had caught fire.
He’d asked Mama why she believed that Papa, an experienced Captain, wouldn’t have escaped. Mama just cried and said he should ask Allah. He had asked Allah that and many other questions like why Omar hadn’t died instead, but Allah hadn’t answered.
Abdul had no one else to ask.
That night he lay in bed, bouncing his ball from knee to knee. His brother entered, prayed and removed his black robe, sneering at Abdul dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. He disappeared into the bathroom, brushing his teeth like
