Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“One thing about all this that still bothers me,” he said, the thought rising to the surface like a bubble. “Why was Charlie fully dressed when he was shot? I mean, considering what he was supposedly there for.”

“Maybe he had, well, finished?”

“I thought that, too. But in an office? That’s where they went, as far as I could tell. There was no bed, no couch. Nothing but a desk.”

Nanette raised her eyebrows at the mention of the desk.

“A small desk,” he clarified.

“You’re blushing, Sam.”

She reached across the table to touch his hand. Then she smiled. Or had he imagined the touch? Her hand was already back on her side of the table. He was wrung out. Sauced and marinated, too. Venturing back onto the subject of the murder was making his mind pop and buzz like neon, a jazzed condition that seemed likely to persist as long as Nanette kept looking at him so intently with those vivid green eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, the way they were after her workouts at the Manhattan health club.

“I hate to admit this,” she said, “but it bothers me, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Mostly because none of the possible explanations are very flattering.”

For a briefly giddy moment he thought she was about to describe the various sexual positions that could be achieved atop a small desk. He then realized from her downcast expression that it was something more serious.

“Charlie may have been more deeply involved in this whole thing than we’d like to admit,” she said. “It’s one reason we’re not demanding an autopsy.”

“By ‘this whole thing,’ you mean prostitution?”

She nodded gravely. Sam couldn’t help but recall his conversation with Charlie as they’d waited in line at the York.

“He did seem to know a lot about how the business worked. Or at least its origins.”

“I’m afraid we have to entertain the idea that he may have been more than just a customer. It’s a thriving trade here, in case you hadn’t noticed. Gobs of money. And, well, with all the places Charlie regularly travels-traveled, sorry-he certainly would have been well positioned to help with, shall we say, manpower procurement.”

“You really think so?”

Then why the big lecture on atonement? Sam wondered. Unless Charlie had, once again, been toying with him. What a fool Sam had been.

“He mentioned something about next Monday.”

“Monday?” Nanette seemed to perk up.

“Big doings, apparently. Or maybe he was baiting me. He said he’d canceled his flight to Hong Kong and was going to stick around.”

“I suppose all this could explain why he got so upset when the police raided the Cyclone. If he was truly in the flesh trade, a crackdown would’ve been bad for business.”

Sam’s mind careened drunkenly back through everything Charlie and he had done, trying to see the events in a different light. It only made him dizzy.

“You know,” he finally said, “this Lieutenant Assad was pretty interested in Charlie’s movements. Especially his local contacts.”

“Oh, dear. This could be embarrassing. What did you tell him?”

“All that I knew. I thought we wanted to help-”

“Of course we do. And you were right to be open and honest.”

“Except about the datebook.”

“The datebook?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you. After you said to get his BlackBerry, well, it wasn’t there. But he had a datebook in his pocket, so I took it.”

“And you didn’t turn it over to the police?”

He nodded.

“You should have told me sooner, Sam. This could have created a real problem.”

“I guess it slipped my mind. And the consulate didn’t seem like the right place to bring it up, since I didn’t have it with me.”

“Where is it now?”

“In my room. I stuck it in a drawer.”

“You should get it for me, right after dinner. In case the police search your room.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Why wouldn’t they? In a place like Dubai you can never be sure who is working for whom. Especially with the police. They’re staffed by foreigners, mostly, and the pay is terrible. Another reason we should move you back to Manhattan as soon as possible. They’ll be looking for someone to pin this on. Besides, you’ll want to attend the funeral.”

“Of course.” He swallowed hard, imagining a tearful widow. “So you won’t be needing me here?”

“When I spoke with Lieutenant Assad, I gathered he had reassured himself on whatever doubts he had expressed earlier.”

Sam supposed he should feel relieved, but he was oddly disappointed. Was it the wine, or was it that part of him had begun to enjoy participating in something a little reckless and unscripted for a change? Or maybe he felt he owed it to Charlie to see things through.

“Look, Sam. From here on out, matters are only likely to get more complicated. Apart from the personal tragedy, we have to worry about competitive considerations as well. Corporate secrets may have been compromised. I’m sure some policemen are only too happy to participate in that market.”

It made him think of the second detective, the fat one called Sharaf. He’d certainly looked like the type who might try to cash in.

“Well, the datebook didn’t seem to have any information like that.”

“You looked through it?”

Was it his imagination, or did she disapprove?

“Only briefly. Last night before bed. Or this morning, I guess it was. I’ve sort of lost track of time.”

“And?”

“He’d only written on one page. Three names with local numbers, and none of them were our people. Plus a bunch of numbers and letters. Maybe a code, maybe nothing.”

“Then we’ll forward the information to the authorities, of course. The same with his BlackBerry, once we’ve removed any proprietary information.”

“You found it?”

“The consular people did, in his hotel room. I’ll tell you what, Sam. How about if you retrieve that datebook while I pay the bill? Corporate account, of course, so it’s my treat. Then you can bring it downstairs to my room. I have to take care of a few arrangements for tomorrow with the concierge, then I’ll meet you there. Room 408.”

“Now?”

“Sooner is better, don’t you think? I’d have thought you’d be relieved to get rid of it.”

“You’re right.”

He headed upstairs, tipsy in the elevator, then panicking when he couldn’t find the datebook right away. But it was still in the drawer, hiding beneath the hotel directory. He flipped it open for a final glance. It was then that the meticulous side of him, the part that always demanded thoroughness, backups, and double-checking, kicked back into gear. Given what Nanette had said about the police, he decided to write down the information, in case they lost it or, worse, never followed up. The names might be Charlie’s contacts in the flesh trade, the very people who had done him in. Even if the man was crooked, his killers deserved to be punished.

So, feeling a little sneaky, Sam took a sheet of hotel stationery and logged everything verbatim, even the gibberish Charlie had written at the bottom after the “Monday, 4/14!” reference. He folded the paper twice and stuffed it in his wallet.

He arrived at the doorway of 408 before Nanette, and had to wait for a few awkward minutes in the corridor until she rounded the corner from the elevators.

“Sorry it took me so long.”

Sam reached into his pocket.

“I’ve got the-”

“Not here. Just bring it into the room. In fact, why don’t you stay for a nightcap? I’m sure there’s something suitable in the minibar.”

“I, uh, sure.”

He flushed at the possible implications of her invitation, and as he nervously followed her through the door she stopped abruptly, causing him to bump into her from behind, just across the threshold.