Tulip Season Page 7

  Hearing footsteps, she put the letter back, without having read a single word, and returned the folder to the cabinet drawer. She shut the drawer and rushed back to her seat, heart thudding. The file cabinet didn't close completely. Adi entered, skirted the desk, and moved toward his swivel chair, shutting the file cabinet with one hand and turning to face her at the same time. Thank God, he hadn't noticed anything unusual.

  “I don't suppose you have an update for me?” Mitra said, trying to sound interested, but not too aggressive.

  “I do as a matter of fact,” Adi whispered, his eyes clouding over. “I got a ransom note in yesterday's mail. Yes, it's payment time.”

  The breath Mitra took fluttered in her throat. She sat unmoving with horror. Ransom—the stuff of violent movies or the bloody plotlines in the mystery novels Mother liked to dip into. “Ransom?” she echoed.

  Face stricken, his left eye twitching, Adi described receiving an unsigned typed letter the previous day. He read it once, twice, three times, four times, digested the implications, stared at the outrageous demand again, and quivered. He even entertained the possibility he'd lost his mind. But the note was real.

  “Who sent it? Where are they holding her? For what amount?”

  “They're demanding a million dollars.”

  “What did the cops say?”

  He squirmed in his seat. “I'm keeping them out of the loop.”

  She leaned forward in frustration, her elbows on his desk. “But why? Aren't there instructions in the note that can be traced? What about fingerprints?”

  He shook his head, glanced down at his fingers. “Now, take it easy, Mitra.”

  “Do you have the note with you?”

  He scooted his chair back and again shook his head. “Look, you're overstepping your boundaries. You're putting yourself in the path of the criminals. Go back to your garden.”

  “Why are you dealing with the criminals?”

  “The note says I should keep the police out of it, if I want—”

  Would the criminals harm Kareena? Put a gun on her throat? No!

  “How can you expect to handle all this on your own?” An icy shiver down her body nearly choked Mitra's words. “How will you live with yourself if things go wrong?”

  He lurched to his feet. “I'm handling this as delicately as I can.”

  “Delicately? When Kareena is in danger? Have you paid?”

  “I'm getting ready to pay half.”

  “Why only half?”

  “I'm not cash-flow positive right now. I have to liquidate some properties. That'll take weeks. Whoever sent this will just have to wait. I don't have a choice.”

  Mitra stared at him. “What'll happen to Kareena in the meantime? How did you exchange the money?” Seeing him stay silent, she mentioned the fund she'd raised in an auction as a reward for Kareena's safe return. “It won't be much, but I'd be happy to offer it to you. Don't you think we should get our community involved to raise more money?”

  As though in denial, as though unwilling to witness the anxiety on her face, he closed his eyes.

  “Damn,” she said.

  He opened his eyes; there was desperation in them. “Not your usual language, Mitra. Listen, if you blow the whistle on me, I'm ruined and you … you won't know what happened to you.”

  She got it. He'd make sure that she lost all her gardening clients. And worse. She waved a hand. “Go ahead, intimidate me, Chairman Guha.”

  “Look, I know you two are very close. Kareena trusts you like she trusts very few people. She calls you a bestie. You deserve a positive performance review for your dedication, but stay out of it. This is not a situation for you to butt into. It's dangerous. Bujhley? Do you read me?”

  “Bujhina. I don't follow why you're all of a sudden worried about me. I don't follow why you're not doing what's necessary to bring Kareena back safely.”

  Adi's red-ringed eyes sparked with anger, confusion, despair, and possibly even hatred. Kareena's wellbeing didn't seem uppermost in his mind. Could it be that Kareena wasn't missing at all? Mitra felt as though she'd stepped into a ghost town. She didn't know where to go, what to do next, or what to believe.

  Adi picked up his iPhone. End of conversation. Mitra scrambled to her feet. He didn't raise his eyes.

  As she stormed out of Adi's office, his blonde assistant gave her a dirty look from a nearby cubicle, as though Mitra had come to harass her boss. She strode back to the sidewalk.

  Standing there, Mitra debated whether she should call Detective Yoshihama. That little piece of ransom note had shaken things up and the detective should be informed of it. And yet the warning from Adi hung over her head, a rock about to slip down a hillside. Eventually, she retrieved the cellphone from her purse and called the detective.

  “How are you, Ms. Basu?” Yoshihama asked when he recognized her voice. He sounded pleasant, as though glad to hear from her.

  “Not too good.” Mitra shared with him the highlights of Adi's extortion story. “There's more to it. I don't think Adi's telling me everything he knows.”

  “Neither has he contacted us. Kidnapping is a federal crime. Let me speak with Mr. Guha. Stand by—I'll get back to you. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  After returning home and consulting her calendar, Mitra belatedly realized it was Veen's birthday. Of course, she wanted to celebrate. Everyone in the task force needed a break, especially Veen, who regularly worked ten-hour days. How much closer she and Veen had become since Kareena's disappearance. Veen was always there when Mitra needed her. They talked on the phone nearly every day. They'd become each other's sounding board.

  Mitra buzzed Veen and announced her intention. She could almost see Veen's eyes lighting up. She decided to withhold the ransom information for now.

  Mitra selected Tuscany, a trendy Eastlake trattoria, and arranged a birthday dinner for Veen there. With a galaxy of women friends circling her at a large table that evening, Veen smiled, her cheeks blushing, a cloud of perfume about her. She was attired in a metallic satin top, unusually dressy for her. Add to that a sinister red lipstick. This was a different Veen. Their middle-aged waiter, an earthy man of indeterminate Mediterranean origin, stole glances at her all evening and inhaled the scent of her perfume while refilling her wine glass. Later, waving his hand like a symphony conductor, he led the whole room in a serenade of Hebby Bearthday in his charming, heavily accented English. Mitra only wished Kareena was there.

  After dinner, Mitra decided to drop Veen at her place. On the way, Veen talked about having had a lunch date with a coworker that weekend. “I like him,” she said, with obvious enthusiasm. “He's a nice man, an interesting man.”

  Mitra lost her reticence and confided in Veen about Ulrich and how much she wanted to get back together with him.

  Veen's face darkened. “Get over it,” replied the ever-outspoken woman. “He wasn't interested in anything serious or he'd have called.” After a pause, she added, “My cute brother will take you out. He's the youngest and cutest of my three brothers. You met him when you came over to my apartment last February. Remember?”

  Oh, yes. Mitra recalled the intense information technology specialist with curly hair, piercing dark gaze, and a morbid air about him. He had stared at her from across the room. Ulrich's face came to her mind and wiped out that memory. Mitra casually suggested to Veen the names of a few unattached women acquaintances who might be interested in a “cute” guy.

  “What's happening with the investigation?” Veen asked, changing the topic.

  Mitra gave her the details about the ransom note and Adi's attempt to keep her out of the picture. She disclosed her fears about Kareena's safety.

  “Ransom? For real?” Veen said in a panicky voice. “Are they going to kill her?”

  They consoled each other until they reached Veen's house in Capitol Hill. After expressing appreciation for the dinner, Veen added, “I'll stop by Adi's house tomorrow. See what shitty explanation he gives me about that damn ransom not
e.”

  FIFTEEN

  MITRA HAD DROPPED BY Soirée most nights on the off-chance that she might glimpse Kareena, with no success. She had also contacted Kareena's acquaintances, visited Kareena's acupuncturist, the gas station she frequented, the blind Thai masseuse she patronized, and her Korean hair dresser. But there was no sign as yet of what might have happened to her.

  This evening, exhausted from all the running around, Mitra stopped at Sascha's Scoop, an organic ice cream parlor in Belltown. This place, with its carved lettering in terra cotta above the entrance, had caught her attention last year; a fashionable ice cream parlor meant for young moderns. It had charmed Mitra doubly when along with her order came an ivory napkin emblazoned with the owner's motto printed in black: “Straight from our very own cows.” Like most Indians, Mitra had an abiding affection for cows. Back home, they referred to them as go-mata, cow-mother.

  Scoop was also where she'd first met Ulrich. She nurtured a tender hope of running into him here again.

  An aromatic haze of milk, sugar, berries, and nuts welcomed her. She scanned the parlor, her heart palpitating. The owner had changed the décor since her last visit. The once-white walls were now painted a smart black and they sported a collection of hand fans, made of lace and bamboo and exquisitely pleated. (Were hand fans making a come back?) She saw a few patrons scattered among the tables. No Ulrich.

  Taking her gaze away from the empty chairs, Mitra approached the counter. In a monotone, the young cashier at the register asked what she wanted. The black chalkboard on the wall bore bold artful inscriptions, seducing her with superlatives such as “moon-glow” this, “passion-struck” that, or even a “blissful-sinful” combination of items. The owner was reported to be a bearded expatriate Russian poet, who lived for vodka and verses.

  Mitra's lips were rounding to pronounce “Moon-Glow Almond Parfait,” the same concoction she'd indulged in last time, when she felt a breath on her neck. She pivoted.

  Ulrich stood there, handsome in a white sweater and a new haircut, smiling slightly. Her pulse picked up. The right words didn't form in her mouth. She'd wanted to see him, obsessively even, this past week. So why did she suddenly want to edge away, without saying a word?

  “I just called you,” Ulrich said.

  And I bet you booked a trip to Paris for us. Her cheeks tingling, she glanced at him. She had the discomfiting feeling that he was peering into her soul, seeking out any stirring of a negative reaction. “Did you leave a message?”

  A twinkle stole into his eyes. “No, I thought I might see you here.”

  “Seriously?” She didn't want him to get away lying to her, even if his German accent worked its charm on her. “You don't know where usually I hang out, do you?”

  “But it worked.”

  She looked away, focusing on nothing in particular, aware of his fibbing. So what if he did fib? Maybe she'd invested too much sentiment into one intense shared night. “Small planet, similar palette, I guess.”

  Towel in hand, the cashier leaned over the counter and wiped the milk stains from stainless steel cylinders marked “Cream,” “Low fat milk,” and “An extra ten years of life.”

  “May I help you?” the cashier repeated.

  If only he understood the torment Mitra was going through. She'd forgotten what she intended to order, but was aware that another customer, a young mother, had just entered the parlor. The mother fidgeted, a baby squirming in her arms. The baby's blueberry eyes peeked out from under a navy cap. Mitra looked away from Ulrich and the new arrival and refocused on the chalkboard, her body and mind inhabiting different realms.

  “A Moon-Glow Almond Parfait,” Ulrich spoke from behind her. “A Haughty-Naughty Cherry Cone, a Rosebacher Mineral Water, and a Perrier.”

  Well done—that was a mouthful. He pulled out his billfold and deposited a twenty-dollar bill in the server's outstretched hand, despite her murmur of protest. He smiled, and she reconciled herself to accepting his peace offering. Together they walked to a table that allowed a view of the starry night sky, with Ulrich carrying the tray.

  “I must apologize to you for not calling sooner,” he said. “I've been very—how do you say it—preoccupied. Ja, preoccupied. Siegfried, my dog, died. I had back spasms from the grief and the doctor said I must stay in bed. Then I must buy a new mattress. But the store's website, In Bed We Trust, was out of stock for what in Germany we call federdecke—a down comforter. But naja, no complaining. My back is better now. And I've been coming here for the last two days looking for you, and here you are. Have you been well?”

  She hadn't been exactly well, worrying about Kareena and frustrated by her desire for him. “We're still looking for my friend, but there are days when I feel stuck and helpless. The police haven't come up with any real lead so far.”

  “She isn't back? I'm very sorry to hear that. It doesn't surprise me about the police, though. They're useless.”

  Mitra caught him up on recent events, including the fact that Kareena was last sighted at Soirée.

  “Soirée falls on the way home from the house I'm remodeling. I stop by there often. I might have seen her. Do you have a picture?”

  Mitra delved through her purse and held out a 3x5 snapshot of Kareena standing, her black hair in a sleek bob. She was dressed in a clinging white blouse and matching white pants.

  He studied the photo. “She looks a bit like you.”

  “You don't really see it in here, but anyone who knows her will tell you how cool she is. She's a kindred spirit. She was last seen with an Indian man.”

  He lifted his eyebrow, as though to share in the admiration. Examining the shot more closely, he stirred. “I recognize her. I have seen her.”

  “How recently?”

  He stayed quiet.

  “Think. How long ago? Where? Was anyone with her?”

  A flicker of annoyance passed over Ulrich's face. “I can't remember.”

  She must not press him so hard. She repositioned herself on the chair.

  He returned the photo to her. “An Indian man, you said? He'd be noticeable. We have many Indian doctors, scientists, and engineers in Germany. Fine-featured, gentle, respectful, distinctive clipped speech, either painfully reserved or chatterboxes. Am I stereotyping?”

  Teasingly, Mitra said, “Unbearably so.” She paused and added, “You'll keep an eye out for my friend?”

  “Ja. Julie, our friendly barista at Soirée, can do that for me. She always notices a good-looking guy, even if she's served him only once. I'll ask her. I vant to help you.” He sounded firm and sincere.

  “Okay, but we have to keep it quiet. Her husband doesn't want us to look for her.”

  He squeezed her hand, a stroke of playfulness as well as masculine assertion. “It's really good to see you.”

  She shifted back in her chair, hard against her back. Something bothered her, the intimate atmosphere he'd created, just like the last time. What assurance did she have that he wouldn't disappear again?

  “But it distresses me to see you so concerned,” he said, eyes fully on her. “I know what it means to lose a kindred spirit.”

  She poked at the remains of her parfait and didn't reply, hoping that he'd say more. She wanted to understand his thought processes. Otherwise, she wouldn't rest easy.

  “I didn't have friends when I was young,” he said. “There was one boy, Klaus, a bully. He was bigger than me, and mean. He would practice all the curse words he'd learned on me. I'd say schlecht, and run away. Later in high school, when we were older, he began to like me and gradually we became the best of buddies. Then one day, he broke down while studying with me. His mother had run off with another man, leaving him and his father. He said he was flawed. He said he was good for nothing. I tried to talk to him. That only made him mad. He sweated. All of a sudden, he yelled at me, slapped me, and walked out of the room. Then he also dropped out of school. I thought I'd never see him again, but a year later, he called. He'd gotten a job fixing elevators.
A month later, he lost that job. He came to see me and cried on my shoulders. Again, he lost his temper because I couldn't loan him money. His emotions seemed to climb up and down—he couldn't control them. Still, we stayed in touch. I became closer to him than my parents. Then we lost touch again.”

  She put the spoon down, wondering why he'd told her this story when he could have talked about his family. And yet she had to admit to herself she was enjoying listening to him. Wanting to stay a little longer, she asked, “Now that you're here, do you miss Klaus?”

  His foot brushed against her leg, although he made it seem casual. “Yes, very much. But a teacher of mine once said that in the broad scheme of things, everyone is disposable.”

  She felt tingling all over the leg, a kind of pleasant warning. “I disagree. I like to think that each of us counts. Our thoughts, words, actions, our very presence make a ripple somewhere, at least in people closest to us. If not, why do we bother to shop, cook, sprinkle the lawn, or even open the curtains in the morning?”

  His hand found hers and held it for a moment. “So you're saying that whatever we do, we do for the sake of love, either getting it or giving it?”

  “I'd rather not dissect love.” And yet she uttered the word love silently, wrapping her tongue around its sweet roundedness. Love: pyar, prem, muhabbat in her native country.

  He lavished her with a long warm inclusive gaze. “I had plenty of time to read this past week,” he said. “It seemed like every magazine I picked up, even the German ones, had a piece on India. Do you miss your country?”

  Mitra had been asked that question quite frequently. Sometimes happily, at other times painfully, it had reminded her of her other existence. How do you convey there was no ‘missing your country?’ Your country was always there, as integral to your existence as the pillow that cradled your head at night.