I looked at Lindsey’s black Mustang, parked up by the main house. The Las Vegas sun had not been kind to it. It still had the child’s seat in back. When I’d first heard of Lindsey’s child-custody quest, the safety seat had seemed to me more a symbol of a goal than a necessity. But she was closer to that goal now, apparently. I refolded the letter, carefully placed it in its envelope, and set it on the table.
“Lindsey, has anything unusual happened to you lately? Unsolicited visits? Weird phone calls or hang-ups? Anything out of pattern in the people you work or socialize with? Neighbors, even.”
She shook her head, but indecisively. So maybe I’d brushed up against something. To me, Lindsey had never been a full-disclosure person. There was always more, something else, another layer.
“Anything, Lindsey,” I said. “Even the great PI Roland Ford needs help against a stalker-terrorist with beheading on his mind.”
She set her elbows on the rough old table, raised and joined her fingers, nodded. She hadn’t needed to think too hard. “Well.”
2
“Two and a half weeks ago I went out with a guy,” Lindsey said. “First time. I’d met him a little over a year ago, through work. A widower, like you. He was the father of one of my new fall students. Nice guy, and nice looking. Almost formal, but just enough off-center to make me smile. Well groomed and well off. Gave me his full attention. He reminded me of someone, but I didn’t know who. I started getting this funny feeling when we were in the same room. I liked it. He’s a landscape architect. Designs golf courses all over the world. Shows horses for fun.”
“The downside?”
She watched me through her dark glasses.
“He’s Saudi by birth,” said Lindsey. “His parents both came here on student visas in ’78. Married very young. Rasha Samara. Born in Riyadh after they had graduated and returned home. He went to Saudi schools until he was six, then came here with his parents. Became a naturalized U.S. citizen. His extended family lives in Saudi Arabia. Of course.”
I thought about that.
“Roland, I spent almost a year learning how to kill violent jihadists in the Middle East, and another year and a half doing it. So when I met this guy, I didn’t know if it was morally desirable — or even possible — for me to have any kind of relationship with him. Muslims aren’t Christians and vice versa. But I also know that people of those two faiths can get along fine. On account of something that happened to me and I experienced firsthand.”
She took off her sunglasses again and leveled her chocolate-brown eyes on me. “I’ve never told you this, but my mother is an Indian Muslim. Shia. Dad’s a Methodist. They’ve been married for thirty-eight years and they’ve never said an unkind word to each other in my presence. Silences, yes. They met at Rice in Houston. Her English was very English from school in Delhi, but she took the time to learn to say ‘y’all’ perfectly. Practiced it. She became the most Texan Indian you can imagine. Loves her Cowboys. Loves her Longhorns. Loves her dancing and her turquoise and her country music. Loves Dad and his Fords. Still quietly observes the Muslim holy days, too, and she prays and believes and fasts. Observant but not devout. Hasn’t worn a headscarf since the day she was engaged, except to mosque a few times a year. Used to tell me Christmas was more fun than Ramadan but Ramadan left her feeling closer to God. So with Rasha I thought, Okay. You can look back at him. I saw some of Mom in there. And I thought he might be solid, Roland. So when he asked me if I would like to ride horses I said yes.”
I’d always been taken by Lindsey’s dark eyes and lustrous hair, her striking facial structure. “So that’s where you got your good looks.”
“Mom’s an Indian goddess with a Texas drawl.”
“I’d say I’m happy for you meeting Rasha Samara, Lindsey, but I get the feeling there’s more to this story.”
“Oh yeah. Isn’t there always? He lives outside of Las Vegas, a swanky development called Latigo. Big custom houses, pools and clubhouse, tennis courts, golf course, and landing strip. Stables and livery. And of course equestrian trails so you can ride just about anywhere you want. Guys in quads with trash cans and shovels to keep up with the horse poop. You can take the trails right out to the foothills. He’s got Arabians, of course. Mares. Very nimble. I grew up on larger mounts, so I wasn’t comfortable at first. Got over that pretty quick. We brought them to a gallop, then gave them a long cool-down. Watered them, then sat on red rocks and had salami and cheese and wine and watched the sunset. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. We talked like you do when you don’t know the person but you like them — respectfully and not too deep because you don’t know what’s there. He seemed honest and gracious and he was very much interested in me and the world around him. Not just himself. And that was about it. The Monday after the holiday he came by my school after class and asked me out again. Another ride. I declined. Two days later I got a nice thank-you card from him, with a pen-and-ink sketch on the front that he’d done. Some nice words inside.”
“Why no second date?”
A pause from Lindsey. Then, “I’d thought about him a lot. But I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted to take things any further. That I would call him when I was ready. I didn’t tell him this, but I liked him and thought that I could go further with him. That thrilled me. Scared me. And I had John to think of, and my petition before the court, and what complications might ensue if Rasha became party to that. He was hurt but... still gracious.”
Lindsey sighed and worked her sunglasses back on. “But then I was thinking about seeing him again. I turned that idea over and over. Changed my mind every hour or so. Felt like such a schoolgirl.”
She brought her purse close and pulled out a small square envelope addressed to her PO Box in Las Vegas. Postmarked Las Vegas, Monday, November 26. It was heavy for its size, and I had to worry the card out a little at a time. When I finally righted it I looked down at a skilled ink drawing of two horses cantering along together, heads high, proud. No ground, no background. Sky horses. Arabians, with their short backs and wedge-shaped heads. They were done in just a few lines and would have seemed casual and dashed off if not for the attitudes that the two animals displayed.
“His thank-you card,” she said.
Dear Lindsey Rakes,
Thank you so much for your time. I’ve never seen a more beautiful desert sunset and I hope you enjoyed those moments of splendor as much as I. The horses, of course, are insisting that they be taken out again. I understand your reluctance to consider a relationship. I have similar doubts. Not about you, in any way. But about myself. May God bless you in your life.
Sincerely,
The note looked computer-printed, a common Roman font, ten-point, maybe.
But Rasha was signed by hand and looked a lot like the writing in the death threat. It jumped at me. Not quite the same straight up-and-down posture, but close. Graceful, full-bodied letters. Similar calligraphic flourishes — the varying thickness of line, the graceful lead-ins and tails. I unfolded the death threat and held the thank-you card beside it. Lined up Rasha and Rakes. A similar marriage of English and Arabic.
Lindsey was watching me closely. “Ten days later, when I got the threat and compared the signatures, I completely freaked out.”