Lisa Gardner

CHAPTER 1

“My friend’s name is Sabera. She’s been gone for three weeks. You will find her. Here, try this.”

My hostess, Aliah, picks up a pretty blue bowl and holds it out. The coffee table in front of me is covered with similar dishes, all in deep jewel tones with scrolling gold patterns that shimmer beneath the overhead lights. The overall effect is less an offering of treats than a scattering of gems. It’s made me hesitant to touch anything.

Aliah’s two-bedroom apartment in downtown Tucson may be a relatively modest affair, but her hospitality is clearly world-class. I dip my fingers into the proffered bowl, tentatively extracting a few pieces of dried fruit. They resemble shriveled white black- berries, which is to say I have no idea what they are. So far, that’s par for the course. I’ve spent the past ten minutes watching Aliah perform some kind of elaborate ceremony that resulted in the best cup of tea I’ve ever had—saffron, she informs me, which tastes just as good as it smells.

To accompany the tea is a dizzying array of nuts, dried fruits, crunchy chickpeas, and bright candies, all placed elegantly around a magnificent centerpiece of fresh whole fruit.

I sample the first wizened berry in my hand. Sweet, tart. I like it, follow it with more. Aliah nods in approval.

“Toot khoshk. White mulberries. They’re my favorite. Here.” She hands me a shiny green pear. “Eat, eat. It’s good for you.”

I bite into the fruit, juice dribbling down my chin, while Aliah takes my plate and dishes up little piles of almonds, raisins, and hard-coated candies, then hands it back. She’s very serious about this eating business, especially as there are just the two of us pres- ent, and she’s laid out enough snacks to feed an entire elementary school.

As new case meetings go, this one is off to an auspicious start. Of course, I met my last client at a maximum-security prison where she was serving time on Death Row. Not too hard to beat that.

Aliah had found me through a friend of a friend, which was pretty good considering I don’t have many friends. I was enjoying a long-overdue hiatus that had brought me all the way to Seattle when I got her call. Maybe I shouldn’t have answered the phone. Maybe it’s the true measure of my obsession that even happy and well rested for the first time in years, I clicked answer. Or maybe it’s the full degree of my self-destructive streak that led me to say yes to her, and no to him, even though it hurt us both.

I’m not one to look back. At least, for the past twenty-four hours that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

And now I’m at a charming tea party in Arizona.

My specialty is working missing persons cold cases. I can’t tell you exactly why I take on this particular mission versus that one. Given there are hundreds of thousands of people who’ve disappeared at any given time, I might as well be throwing darts at a board. Money is not a factor—I don’t charge for my services as I’m not a trained professional, just a woman with an obsessive hobby. Geography is also a moot point—I don’t have a home, family, or real job, meaning I can go anywhere at any time.

Some people might find my lifestyle concerning. What kind of idiot dedicates herself to finding people she’s never met in cities she’s never frequented at the behest of complete strangers she’ll never see again? I’ve spent the past ten years trying to answer that question. If only I knew.

In Aliah’s case, the timeline sparked my interest. Her friend, a fellow Afghan, vanished three weeks ago. Definitely not my usual cold case terrain. In fact, not enough time had passed to motivate the police to search overly hard or alarm the husband enough to launch his own efforts.

The combination of searching for a missing refugee—exactly the kind of at-risk population that’s often overlooked—as well as possibly discovering someone still alive proved compelling enough to bring me here. That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m completely on board yet. In my line of work—okay, in my kind of hobby—it pays to be skeptical. People lie. Endangered people who live in marginalized communities often have a tendency to lie even more, with good reason.

“Look,” I attempt now, setting down my pear, sampling another one of the ridiculously good dried mulberries, “you say your friend has disappeared, but you seem to be the only one who’s worried about her. Why are you so certain she hasn’t run off with another man, taken a mental health break, whatever? Didn’t you say she’d just immigrated to the US? That’s got to be a little traumatic.”

“Of course, Sabera’s overwhelmed. In the beginning, we all are. But she has a daughter. No mother leaves her child, especially not after fighting so hard to get here.”

“What do you mean by fight?”

“There are thirty million refugees in the world. Do you know how many are actually granted placement, a chance at a fresh start?”

“Not many?”

“Barely one percent. Sabera and her husband are the lucky few, and they know it.”

I nod. “Fair enough. But fortunate or not, their stress level has gotta be real.”

“She would not leave her daughter,” Aliah insists. “Zahra is only four. She needs her mother, especially now that they’re in a new country.”

“What about Sabera’s husband? The guy who’s not even looking for her yet?”

“It’s not a love match,” Aliah confirms, her scowl returning. “How long have they been married?”

“Four years.”

Married four years with a four-year-old kid. I can’t help but arch a brow. Aliah merely shrugs. “My understanding is that Isaad was a friend of her father’s. They had just gotten married when Kabul fell. Isaad was able to get Sabera out of the country. Her family was not so lucky.”

“What happened to them?”

“They’re dead.”

“All of them?” I can’t quite keep the shock from my voice. Aliah gives me a look. “Sabera is a refugee,” she repeats. “Not a tourist.”

“Walk me through this,” I say at last. “When did Sabera and her family arrive in Tucson? Where are they staying? When did you last see her, that kind of thing.”

“They arrived ten weeks ago from Abu Dhabi.”

“Why Abu Dhabi?”

“After Kabul fell, they bounced from a temporary refugee camp in Islamabad to a larger one in Abu Dhabi, where they awaited official status. It’s a process.”

“And you went through something like this?” I ask Aliah, who appears closer to fifty than twenty.

“I went through something like this twenty-five years ago, the first time Kabul fell to the Taliban.”

Her tone is hard. I don’t blame her. “So how did you get to know Sabera?”

“There are local agencies that greet all arriving refugees and help them settle into their new lives. I’m a volunteer with one such agency here in Tucson. In particular, I try to assist with fellow Afghans. In this case, I prepared the Ahmadi family’s apartment for their arrival—stocked it with tea, basic spices, halal meats, yogurt, that sort of thing. Enough to see them through the first week, while they’re having to learn everything all at once.”

“Are they also in this complex?” I gesture outside to the U-shaped collection of yellow-painted stucco buildings bordered by pretty blooming flowers and odd-shaped cacti.

“Oh, no.” Aliah shakes her head. “There’s money for assistance, but it only lasts a few months. Most refugees start out in a far different level of housing. I got my first apartment because the last tenant was murdered in it.”

My eyes widen. “And the police are still certain nothing bad happened to your friend? I mean, given what you’re saying about where she was living . . .”

“The police aren’t certain of anything. They would have to genuinely consider Sabera’s disappearance to reach such a conclusion, and so far, they can’t be bothered.”

“Why?”

“All refugees must immediately get a job. Money is important, yes?”

I nod.

“The resettlement agencies help with job placement, too. They have connections with employers who are open to hiring more refugees—for example, they have had success with Afghan housekeepers in the past, so are willing to hire more. Plus it’s con- venient to have their workforce living close together and speaking the same language. Means a large resort or construction company can send a single shuttle to round up all its workers in the morning.”

I nod again, having witnessed such things in other cities.

“Sabera got a job in housekeeping at a big hotel. After the first week, the police went there to ask questions. Her fellow chamber-maids reported that Sabera told them she was leaving her husband. She wanted a divorce. For the officers, that was good enough.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

A slight shrug. “It happens. Trauma, hardship, stress is very hard on marriages. Couples get here, where suddenly everything is new, they are new…It happens. But there’s no good reason for Sabera to leave her daughter behind.”

“Or she’s waiting to come back for her daughter when she has a place to stay. Could she afford an apartment on her own, given what you’re saying about limited funds?”

“It would be very difficult. Certainly, if that was her plan, she’d need to continue to work.”

“Except she hasn’t returned to work?”

“No.”

“Or her family?”

I’m beginning to see Aliah’s point. “What does her husband say?”

Aliah’s lips thin into a hard line of disapproval. “He says he’s sure she’ll be back shortly.”

“She’ll be back shortly? Like what, she went out for a walk? And the cops accept this?”

Another sniff of disdain, which is answer enough.

“Has she reached out to you?” I ask.

“No.”

“Would she? If she needed help, had decided to leave her husband, would she contact you?”

A slight pause. “I would hope so. I’m divorced. She knows that.” Back to answers that aren’t really answers. I tilt my head, study my hostess again. She’s an attractive woman with wavy black hair cut short to frame her face. There are crinkles next to her dark eyes, lines furrowing her brow. But the effect enhances her beauty, gives an overall sense of strong will and determination. She’s seen some things, lived some experiences, survived some hardships. She’s not about to break now.

Would that be comforting for a young female immigrant such as Sabera, or overwhelming?

I gotta believe the police had to be a tiny bit interested if Sabera hadn’t even returned to work. Unless her fellow chambermaids had provided additional details Aliah either doesn’t know or doesn’t want to share.

“How good is Sabera’s English?” I change tack.

“Excellent. Her mother’s people are from London. Sabera grew up speaking English as well as Dari and Pashto, which are the two most prominent languages in Afghanistan. She’s also a skilled lin- guist, fluent in many languages, not to mention dialects.”

“In other words, language is not an issue.”

“No. Nor is the culture shock as significant for her as it is for others. Her father taught at the university in Kabul, while her mother was a noted fashion designer. The household was very Westernized. Certainly, her parents were progressive enough to support Sabera pursuing her own studies. Though of course . . .”

“She grew up in a professional, affluent family.” I fill in the blanks. “Meaning it can’t be the easiest thing to now be living in a run-down apartment while working as a housekeeper.”

“This is not the end; it is the beginning,” Aliah recites.

“Of?”

“Your new life in America. I was a nurse back in Afghanistan. When I first came here, I wasn’t allowed in the medical field. I washed dishes in the back of a restaurant for pennies on the dollar. People think all refugees can do is drive taxis or scrub toilets. No, it’s generally the only thing we’re allowed to do. Do you know how many doctors, lawyers, engineers, and pilots have come over from Afghanistan in the past few years? And yet our professional degrees and licenses are not accepted here.” She shrugs. “We must adapt. It’s not easy, but it’s the only option. And Sabera was com- mitted to making life in this country work. For her daughter, if for nothing else.”

“Where was Sabera last seen?”

“Leaving work. She’d stayed late, missed the employee shuttle, so she was headed to the bus stop.”

“Did she get on?”

“You would have to ask the police that.”

I nod, thinking. “And she has a cell phone? Everyone does now.”

“Yes, with prepaid minutes.”

“Ahh, a woman after my own heart. No one’s tried pinging her GPS?”

“Again, you would have to ask the police.”

“Or her husband?”

“Sure.” Aliah’s skepticism is palpable.

I pause, looking around me at this bountiful spread in a lovely, well-tended apartment with its stunning mix of richly colored tapestries and a comfy sofa set. If Aliah had started out scrubbing pots when she’d first arrived in this country, then she had adapted well indeed.

I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I have a final question, often the most telling. “Why?” I ask, keeping my gaze upon my hostess’s face.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to find her? The police aren’t interested, her husband isn’t concerned, but you care enough to reach out to a perfect stranger to help your friend. Why?”

“You find people who can’t be found,” Aliah states.

“I find people no one else is looking for.” I don’t know why it’s important for me to make that distinction, but it is.

“Exactly.” Aliah nods. “And no one else is looking. Do you know what it’s like to be an outsider? To watch your entire country disappear? To see your sisters, mothers, daughters be erased? As if they never even existed? That’s now life in Afghanistan. For the second time. It shouldn’t be life here. Sabera deserves better. And so does her daughter.”

I stare into Aliah’s dark, somber eyes. “Okay.”

“You will look for Sabera? I’ll pay you. Just tell me how much.”

“That’s not how this works. Let me be clear up front—I work for the missing, in this case for Sabera. That’s the way I always do it. Family, friends, even the ones who invite me in.” I gesture at her. “Once I start asking questions, not everyone likes me so much anymore. That could grow to include you.”

Aliah tilts her chin defiantly. “I’m not afraid.”

“Excellent.” I set down my tea mug, rise to standing. “What do you think happened? Off the top of your head, what happened to your friend?”

“I…” A frown, that slight hesitation again. “I think maybe her husband. I can’t be sure, but then again, isn’t it always the husband?”

“Often seems that way.” But what makes her answer most interesting is the raw bravado behind it. It’s not clear to me that she believes what she’s saying as much as she wants to believe what she’s saying. Basically, I’ve no sooner said yes than my initial contact is dissembling.

A smart person would walk away now. A sane person would get a real job, maybe even an apartment, and if not a healthy and stable relationship, at least a cat.

And yet I don’t even hesitate. I hold out my phone and request Sabera’s mobile number, apartment address, recent photo, and name of her employer. Aliah gratefully provides those details, then adds the name of the family’s caseworker and housing coordinator from the resettlement agency.

Just like that, I’m back to work.

My name is Frankie Elkin, and finding missing people is what I do. When the police have given up, when the public no longer remembers, when the media has never bothered to care, I start looking. For no money, no recognition, and most of the time, no help.

My mission has taken me all over the country, from inner-city neighborhoods to the wilds of Wyoming to even a brief stint in paradise. I’ve been cursed at, shot at, and nearly killed. I’ve watched people die. I’ve assisted with some of those deaths.

Clearly, I’m not a woman who learns from her mistakes.

Recently, I took a long-deserved hiatus to recover from a particularly horrific case, spending the time with a truly amazing guy. It was so good, it was even great. Yet still, when my phone rang . . .

From the very beginning, he whispered against my neck, I knew you weren’t the staying kind.

Because that’s also who I am. A woman with an inherent separateness I’ll never be able to shake. So that no matter how hard I try, I will always be the outsider looking in. Some people understand real life. Then there’s me.

A person who searches for the missing.

And who will always be the first to disappear.