blushed scarlet. She had never felt such shame. How could he do this? To me, and to himself? Today of all days.
Rafik stepped forward. “My mother is grieving. We all are. You need to leave.”
Jibril snarled. “Get out of my way!”
“You’re drunk. Nobody wants you here.”
“Your mother wants me. Your mother loves me. She’s always loved me. Tell him, Miriam.”
Miriam turned to him and said sadly, “Today I have buried two of my loves. My husband. And the boy you once were. Good-bye, Jibril.”
THAT NIGHT, JIBRIL HANGED HIMSELF FROM a tree in the Menara Gardens. He left a one-word note:
Betrayed.
THE YOUNG GIRL PUT THE BOOK down, tears welling in her eyes. She had read the story hundreds of times before, but she never grew tired of it and it never failed to move her. Sure, she lived in 1983, not 1892; and she was reading the book in a grim, freezing-cold children’s home in New York City, not some Moroccan palace. But Miriam and Jibril’s tragic love still spoke to her across the ages.
The girl knew what it felt like to be powerless. To be abandoned by one’s mother. To be treated like an object by men, a prize to be won. To be shoved through life like a lamb to the slaughter, with no say whatsoever in her own destiny.
“Are you okay, Sofia?”
The boy put a protective, brotherly arm around her. He was the only one she’d told about the book, the only one who understood her. The other kids in the home didn’t understand. They mocked her and her old, dog-eared love story. But he didn’t.
“They’re jealous,” he told her. “Because you have a family history and they don’t. You have royal blood in your veins, Sofia. That’s what makes you different. Special. They hate you for that.”
It was true. Sofia identified with Miriam’s story on another level, too. A blood level. Miriam was Sofia’s great-grandmother. Somewhere inside of her, Miriam’s genes lived on. The book Sofia held in her hands, her most prized possession, was not some fairy tale. It was true. It was her history.
“I’m fine,” she told the boy, hugging him back as she pulled the thin rayon blanket up over both of them. Even here, pressed against the radiator in the recreation room, it was bitterly cold.
I am not nobody, she told herself, breathing in the warmth of her friend’s body. I am from a noble family with a romantic, tragic history. I am Sofia Basta.
One day, far away from here, I will fulfill my destiny.
CHAPTER THREE
THE PARKER CENTER IN DOWNTOWN L.A. had been the headquarters of the United States’ third-largest law enforcement agency since the mid-1950s. Made famous by the 1960s television show Dragnet, the drab, nondescript concrete-and-glass building on 150 North Los Angeles Street housed, by 1996, some of the most expensive, state-of-the-art technology found in any police station in the nation, everything from retina recognition scanners to thermal imaging cameras. The Detective Bureau was particularly well equipped, with incident rooms lined with banks of computers and storerooms stocked with a veritable buffet of surveillance gadgetry.
Unfortunately Detective Danny McGuire was too junior in rank for his investigation to be considered worthy of one of these rooms. Instead the six-man team that made up the Jakes homicide investigation had been stuffed like bad-tempered sardines into a windowless hole in the basement, with nothing but a whiteboard and a couple of leaky pens to fire their deductive instincts.
Standing in front of a chipped whiteboard, pen in hand, Danny scrawled a few key words: Jewels. Miniatures. Insurance. Alarm. Background/Enemies.
“What have you got for me?”
Detective Henning spoke first. “I talked to five jewelers, including the two in Koreatown you suggested, sir. All said the same thing. The Jakes pieces would’ve been broken up and the stones either reset into rings or sold loose. Chances of us recovering an intact necklace or pair of earrings are nil. Unless the job was done by some random junkie who doesn’t know any better.”
“Which it wasn’t.”
“Which it wasn’t,” Henning agreed.
One of the few certainties they had established was that whoever broke into the Jakes mansion was a pro, familiar with the estate’s complex alarm system and able to disable it single-handedly. He’d also managed to subdue two victims, raping one and killing the other, with minimal disturbance and in a frighteningly short space of time. Angela Jakes was convinced she had never met her assailant before. He was masked, but she hadn’t recognized his voice or the way he moved. Nonetheless, Detective Danny McGuire was certain that the man they were looking for had inside knowledge of the family. This was no opportunistic burglary.
“The art angle’s a little more promising,” said Detective Henning.
Danny raised a hopeful eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Jakes was a dealer, as we know, so naturally enough the house was stuffed with valuable paintings, most of them contemporary.”
“Wow,” another officer chipped in sarcastically. “I don’t know how you keep coming up with these insights, Henning. You’re like gold dust, man.”
Everyone laughed. Henning’s status as McGuire’s teacher’s pet was a running joke.
Henning ignored the interruption. “If the killer really knew his art, he’d have gone for the two Basquiats hanging in the study, or the Koons in one of the guest bedrooms.”
Someone said, “Maybe they were too heavy? The guy was on his own.”
“We’re quite sure about that, are we?” asked Danny.
“Yes, sir,” said Detective Henning. “Forensics confirmed there were only one set of prints found in the house besides those of the family and staff. But in any case the paintings weren’t heavy. All three were small enough for one man to carry and they had a combined value of over thirty million dollars. But our guy chose the miniatures, just about the only antiques in Jakes’s collection.”
“Were they valuable?” asked Danny.
“It’s all relative. They were worth a couple hundred thousand each, so maybe a million bucks in total. They’re family portraits from the nineteenth century, mostly European. The market for them is pretty small, which makes them our best bet by far on the tracing-stolen-goods route. I got the name of a local expert. He lives in Venice Beach. I’m meeting him this afternoon.”
“Good,” said Danny. “Anyone else?”
The rest of the team reported their “progress,” such as it was. The climbing ropes used to bind the couple were a generic brand that could have been purchased at any camping or sporting-goods store. The knot the killer used to bind the couple together was complicated—a double half hitch—another sign, if they needed it, that they were looking for a professional criminal. But other than that there was precious little physical evidence of any worth. The blood and semen tests didn’t match any in the nationwide database.
“What about Jakes’s background? Anything circumstantial that might help us?”
The short answer to that was no. Andrew Jakes’s business dealings had been clean as a whistle. He was a prominent philanthropist, not to mention a significant donor to the LAPD’s Policemen’s Benevolent Association.
Danny thought, I knew I’d heard the name somewhere. Strange a charitable guy like that left nothing to good causes in his will.
The old man had no known enemies, and no family, close or otherwise, other than an ex-wife