Tips for Living(92)

I opened my eyes as the oxygen cleared out the brain fog.

“Oh my God,” I gasped as Al went out the door. “They’re taking Abbas. You can’t let him get away.” I tried to get off the floor again, but Mac put a firm hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down.

“The police have to arrest him!” I cried.

“Okay, okay, Nora. Calm down. I knew I recognized that guy. Abbas, the art dealer, right? He was at your wedding.”

“Yes! He’s the one who killed Hugh and Helene!”

“Hold on. An hour ago, Grace said you were sure Hugh’s brother killed them.”

“We were wrong. It’s Abbas. Don’t let him go. He’ll leave the country!” I attempted to sit up once more, but Mac wouldn’t have it. “I need to go out there and stop him—”

“No, Nora. We’ll have the police look into it. We need to get you to the ER. That’s the priority now. What the hell was Grace thinking, letting you evade a police officer and come here by yourself?”

“Don’t be mad at Grace, please.”

His face softened and he touched my shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’m relieved you’re not worse off.”

The door opened and Detective Roche swaggered in, brushing the snow off his broad cop shoulders and stamping his boots.

“I’d like a minute with Ms. Glasser.”

Mac scowled and stood up.

“She could be hypothermic, Detective.”

Roche waved him off. “This won’t take long.”

Reluctantly, Mac stepped aside.

“Did you arrest Abbas Masout?” I asked, anxious.

Roche sat on the blind’s wooden bench, looking down at me. He cleaned snow off his brown corduroy pants and then blew on his hands.

“No.”

“You have to! He killed Hugh and Helene.”

“And you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be held against you in a court of law.”

“No!” I cried. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“What?” Mac cried out. “That’s crazy—”

Roche shot him a hard look.

“You’re making a mistake, Detective. Arrest Abbas,” I pleaded. “He killed them.”

“You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“Mr. Masout says otherwise. He says you came to the studio to sell him valuable artwork you stole from your ex. When he refused to buy it, you attacked him with a knife. You told him you’d killed the Walkers and would kill him, too.”

“That’s a total lie.”

“He fired his gun in self-defense and you ran. He chased you. Found you injured from a fall. Before he could call us, the hunter misread the situation and shot him in the arm.”

“No, he’s lying. I swear. Ask the hunter. Ask Jake.”

“We’re about to get his statement.” Roche paused. “You know, you’re pretty good at deception yourself. Nice trick there with Sergeant Crawley.”

I put my hand under the blanket. Before I could reach the ninja book, Roche had already whipped out his gun.

“Don’t move.”

“Fuck,” Mac said.

“I’m just taking out a notebook.”

“Do it very slowly.”

I removed the battered book gradually and passed it to Roche.

“Abbas wanted to get his hands on this. That’s why he tried to kill me. His motive is in here.”

He took it and puzzled over the cover.

“There are sketches in there showing that Abbas knew Hugh was leaving the gallery and taking away millions of dollars’ worth of business,” I said. “Abbas would have been ruined by it. I can explain more if you need me to.”

“You and Mr. Masout will have a lot of explaining to do,” Roche said, standing up. “After you’re stabilized, I’m bringing both of you in.”

“No!” Mac cried out, unable to control himself.

“Abbas Masout killed them,” I insisted, frustrated.

“We’ll see.”

At least Roche is taking Abbas into custody, I thought fearfully.

“Mac, please call Douglas Gubbins. Tell him I’m under arrest.”



The klieg lights reflected off the snow, bathing the area in brilliant white as Mac and Al carried me out of the blind. The police were working the crime scene, tromping through the snowdrifts wearing plastic gloves and Tyvek paper shoes, measuring angles and trajectories, distances and shoe sizes. They’d collect DNA and blood samples. The powder they sprinkled on Jake’s arrow and on Abbas’s gun would capture fingerprints. Their labs would confirm that the gun had been fired numerous times near the inlet—evidence (I hoped) that Abbas had attempted to kill me because of what I knew.

The police were after the same “five w’s and an h” a reporter would seek: “Who? What? When? Where? Why? How?” They were using all the science at their disposal to compile the facts and help the district attorney build an airtight case. But “why?” was a question their methods couldn’t address. I was counting on the ninja notebook providing an answer to that one.