Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(64)

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Brenda’s contact information was at the bookstore, where I kept all my client files. When I arrived that afternoon I was met by loud voices raised in argument. The amateur sleuths, the ZEBRAS, were in their usual corner. “You can’t tell me Kay Scarpetta is more memorable than Carlotta Carlyle!”

“We’re not talking about individual quirks of character, we’re talking about where they stand in the pantheon! The woman’s powered almost twenty-five novels over the better part of two decades!”

“Don’t start with the quantity-over-quality argument, Abe, it’s beneath you.”

“I’m surprised you ever got past the Hardy Boys. You have the mind of an adolescent and always will.” Abe, the passionate founder of the ZEBRAS, accentuated his point by crumpling up the page of The Times he was reading and hurling it toward Zach, his antagonist of the moment. The crumpled paper bounced off Zach’s glasses and rolled to the ground.

Zach shook his head. “When words fail, resort to physical assault. Classic.”

I picked up the ball of paper, smoothing it. “In Abe’s defense, sometimes words do fail.” I handed the paper back to him. “You dropped your newspaper.”

Abe drank his coffee and shook his head sadly. “My apologies, Lisbeth. We didn’t mean to expose your delicate sensibilities to such turmoil.”

I pinched his ear. “If I was fifty years older I’d show you turmoil.” About to walk away, I stopped. “Hey, let me see that.” I took the newspaper I’d just given him and looked closer at the small photograph of a man, recognizing immediately the curly black hair and missing tooth. I read the few lines of print under the photograph.

ANTICORRUPTION BLOGGER’S DEATH NO SUICIDE, FAMILY CLAIMS

Sherif Essam, a Cairo blogger who had devoted his career to exposing government corruption following the Arab Spring, was found dead after leaping from a rooftop this past September—only his family insists his death was anything but willing. Reports from friends, relatives, and human rights organizations are insistent that Essam never would have jumped. “My husband had the courage to point at powerful people and accuse them of crimes. We received threats, he knew he was in danger … but to call it a suicide?” said his wife, Dina, 31. “He spoke too loudly, and so they murdered him.”



The last time I had seen his face had been in a different newspaper. While taking the affair photographs for Brenda Johnson. Then the death had been described only as a suicide. I wondered what had changed. The face was familiar for another reason, but my thoughts were interrupted by Jess. “Any progress?” she wanted to know.

I rubbed the back of my hand into my eyes. “Ask me anything but that.”

“Okay.” She considered. “So how are things with Ethan?”

I thought about the attempted robbery, the conversation in the donut shop, the note he had left. “A few bumps. But better now, I think. I hope.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Long-term like?”

With slight surprise I found myself nodding. “Yes. Long-term like.” Saying it made me realize how much I meant it. I found a couple of clean coffee mugs and poured us each a generous measure of scotch. We sat on the floor and Jess threw a little toy mouse across the store so Bartleby could charge crazily after it. “I swear he thinks he’s a dog,” she said as the cat trotted back to us, mouse in mouth, depositing it neatly on Jess’s lap to be thrown again.

It felt good talking about something other than Care4 for a few minutes. “How’s Linda?” Jess’s fiancée was a pediatrician. We usually had dinner together at least a few times a month. I liked her a lot. There was a wedding planned for the following summer.

“She’s good. Except we’re going down to her family’s place for Thanksgiving.”

“That’s a problem?”

“Orange County. I get to enjoy four days of beautiful weather and expensive restaurants, swim in a seriously big infinity pool, and listen to a lot of pointed questions about how much longer we’ll continue our untraditional lifestyle.”

“Don’t tell me that’s still a thing? In California?”

She took a swallow of scotch. “With Newport Beach Republicans? Very much so. Especially when they’re convinced that the loving partner is only in it to inherit their millions. That’s the thing about people with money. If you don’t have it, they’re convinced you must want it. And the more you protest, the more convinced they become.”

I picked up the mouse and threw it. Watched the cat sprint across the floor, gray legs a blur. No doubt in his mind about what he was pursuing, I thought jealously. “You can’t skip the visit?”

“Nope. Thanksgiving, every year. Part of the deal we made. Even though her father still won’t have me at his damn golf course. One of those old-boys clubs that would rather choke to death than have to choke down some diversity.”

“Well, let them choke.” I finished my drink. The ZEBRAS were packing up their books and food. The store was empty. “You should get out of here. I can close up.”

“In a few,” Jess agreed. “Finishing some paperwork.”

Upstairs, I looked up Brenda Johnson’s number. If her husband had been at Care4 I wanted to learn why. But I dialed a different number first.