“Contact me the instant you hear anything,” I tell Woodley.
The venue Emma suggested takes a bit of finding. I park on Berkeley Square near the Triangle in the city center. A short walk away, past kebab shops, an American-style diner, and an Indian restaurant, I find an alleyway where the tarmac’s pocked with puddles and seems to lead nowhere. A cat sits in a lit second-floor window and stares down at me. Otherwise, there are no signs of life. I wonder if Emma’s sent me to a dead end to make a point and I’m about to leave when two customers, looking well-dressed and well-watered, emerge from an unmarked black door. I knock at it.
Inside, I find Emma sitting at the bar. It’s a classy place but dark. Tasseled table lamps keep faces in shadow. Bottles of spirits are stacked up behind the bar in staggered rows like stadium seats, glinting dimly where they can catch some light. Emma’s nursing a tall drink. A young barman in a white shirt and waistcoat’s polishing glasses. He’s wearing silver shirt-sleeve holders.
This is a posh venue masquerading as a speakeasy, and it’s an ironic place for a detective and a crime reporter to meet, as if we’re characters who’ve been cast, not real people. I’m sure that’s not lost on Emma, and I wonder what she’s trying to say about us.
I get a sparkling water. She doesn’t look at me until I take a seat beside her and then the eye contact is electrifying and terrifying all at once, just like it used to be.
I have to look away, to focus on a pair of gloves she’s put neatly on the bar, and not her slender forearm that rests on the bar, fingertips on the rim of her glass, nails painted and glossy.
“Hello, Jim,” she says.
“You spoke to Fiona Sadler?”
“Not here for a personal chat, then?”
“Sorry.” The way I say it makes it plain it’s not an apology.
“Don’t be.” She puts her chin up defiantly, but I notice that she swallows, too. Nerves. So it’s not just me. There’s no sign of them in her voice, though. “Yes, I’ve spoken to Fiona Sadler. At her invitation.”
“Are you going to publish her story?”
She stirs her drink. It looks like a cocktail and I’m sure it’s for show. Unless she’s changed a lot since we were together, Emma’s far too focused to drink on the job, even if she’s chosen a career where that’s the cliché.
“We are,” she says.
“Don’t.”
She shakes her head, lets out a small snort of laughter. I reach for her hand. The movement takes her by surprise. She lets me hold it for a moment, just long enough for us both to feel the warmth of the other, then pulls it away and rests it in her lap, among the folds of her skirt.
“You don’t want to do this. It’s not who you are. Think of the other boy and his family.”
“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t want to do. I’m publishing because I believe there’s a story that needs to be told. I think Fraser and you and the CID department are trying to bury this because you’re afraid of backlash after the almighty cock-up managing the White Nation March. How many injuries were there? How many arrested? Can you remind me? How much was the cost to the city in damages?”
“You’re bitter.”
“I wonder why.”
“Is this some kind of revenge? You weren’t the only casualty on that case.”
“From where I’m sitting, only one of us is still wearing a CID badge.”
The barman glances at us and she lowers her voice. “You’re unbelievable, Jim. Unbelievable.”
“The Somali boy doesn’t deserve this. He’s innocent.”
“Really? Can I quote you on that?”
I shake my head.
“Can you point me to some evidence of his innocence?”
“Not without compromising the investigation.”
“Then I publish.”
“I thought you were better than this.”
“You thought nothing of the sort. You’re the one who destroyed my career.”
“You did that all on your own.”
I stand. I’m ready to leave. I’m flogging a dead horse and it’s time to stop.
She puts her hand on my arm as I turn to go. “Look at me, Jim.”
How do you hide feelings that are so strong they threaten to destroy your rationality and make a mockery of your loyalties? When I look at her, I can’t help seeing the future that we could have had. It’s painful and tempting, and I wonder how you can hate somebody and desire them so very much.
She stares back at me. Her nostrils flare minutely as she breathes. Something hard sets behind her eyes.
“Never mind,” she says, letting go. She drinks, draining her glass, and scoops up her belongings in a fluid movement that I’d forgotten was her habit. I watch as she walks away from me. She’s dressed to the nines. I wonder if that was for my benefit.
When I make my way out a few minutes later I stand in the dismal alleyway and call Janie Green.
“CID Press Office,” she answers.
“How are you for problems today?”
“I have more than enough, thank you.”
“Room for one more?”
It was worth a try, seeing Emma. I thought I’d get the upper hand, but I guess she’s more in need of a victory than I thought, after the way things ended between us. I’m not done with her yet, though. I can be patient. I can regroup. If there’s one thing Dr. Manelli taught me, it’s that.
Sofia wakes up to find her father at her bedroom door, holding her phone. It’s confusing. She doesn’t know why he’s got it.
“Abdi is contacting you!” he says.
Her mother and father gather around Sofia’s phone with her, deeply dismayed by Abdi’s message. They watch as she types her reply and sends it.
“He’s read it!” Sofia says as the tiny icon beside her message displays Abdi’s profile picture, and collectively they hold their breath as the sign that Abdi is typing appears, but all of a sudden it disappears and doesn’t reappear.
“No!” Sofia shouts. “Come on!”
In an Internet café in the St. Paul’s area Abdi Mahad logs out of Facebook.
He wanted to reply to his sister, but he just didn’t know what to say. He thinks it’s better if they’re not in contact anymore.
He’s also been staring at the photograph of the man who he believes is his father. He knows that this man no longer has a broken lip and crazy teeth, but a surgically repaired mouth, and he knows that this photograph is fifteen years old, but he still stares. He’s looking for a trace of himself in the other man’s face.
The trail he has followed to learn that this man is his real father started last week.