22. The Restaurant
The Restaurant
Nazim came to a crawl near the intersection.
It was still early in the morning, and the sun had yet to rise when they arrived.
The entrance had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, and at the front of the building stood two police cars with men inside.
Watching. And waiting. Bright lights were fixed inside the warehouse and a flurry of movement as people came and went, loading items into a waiting van just beside the side entrance.
The four men had returned to the scene of the crime, to the warehouse where they so foolishly cut their loose ends before securing the package.
Nazim understood a similar fate awaited him should they fail; he gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
The leather squeaked as it churned. The sweat on his palms left a mark whenever he removed them.
“Nazim, we can’t go inside. There’s nothing here,” Omar said.
“Silence, Omar. I decide what to do,” he replied.
“Do you really think they had it on them? Or maybe they hid it in the van?” Salim said.
“We should have checked. This could have been avoided. But I don’t think they brought it with them, Salim,” Ahmed said.
“Then, where do you think it might be, Ahmed?” Salim asked, lowering his rifle from the window.
“I would have kept it close. This item is worth a lot of money, no? Too dangerous to bring it with you, or leave it in the car,” replied Ahmed. “We need to find out where they lived.”
“No. Where they met to conduct business. A safe house. Something that wouldn’t link to them,” Omar said. “That’s what I would do. An old home with a company owner.”
“Or a motel. Cheap and you can change rooms. And motels constantly,” Salim said.
“He’s right,” Nazim said. He sped up and crossed the intersection.
“We need to go back to where we met them. To the girl and the restaurant.” Nazim changed direction toward the place where they first met the thieves.
A fusion restaurant named Le Mirage Bleu that specialized in French and Arab food.
A chance encounter that intertwined their fates.
“Did you see the girl at the restaurant, Ahmed?” Omar said. “You were with Samir that day. Do you think she knew the thief?”
“Yes, I saw her. And I believe she did; we’ll get the information we need by any means,” Ahmed replied.
“This can get messy. We should try asking her first,” Nazim said.
“We should ask her if she knows where he lived,” Salim replied.
“And you think she will tell you this willingly?” Omar asked.
“If she refuses, then we’ll see; but I won’t give her the option,” replied Nazim.
The four men soon arrived at the restaurant and parked right off the main entrance.
It was quiet outside. The restaurant was closed, given how early in the morning it was, but to their luck, she was inside.
The girl was busy scrubbing and cleaning tables and getting things ready for the day.
She was alone. The only other car in the area was hers, and the remaining shops in the strip had yet to open.
“See? She’s all alone,” Nazim said, pointing to the girl.
“Good,” Omar replied with a devilish grin.
“You three stay here. She’ll be less likely to speak to the four of us,” Nazim said. He exited the car and walked over to the entrance, knocked twice on the glass door, and smiled when their eyes met.
“We’re closed,” the girl said, her voice muffled by the glass. And by the sound of the passing cars. Nazim touched his ear and shook his head.
“I can’t understand,” Nazim said, tapping the glass once more.
The girl, frustrated by his insistence, threw the navy rag she was using to clean the tables into a bucket beside a chair.
She walked over and unfurled her hair. It was honey-colored.
Like her eyes and sun-kissed skin. Nazim was enchanted by her, so much so that when she finally opened the door, he couldn’t get the words out by any means.
“Yes? Can I help you?” the girl asked. She glanced down at his feet and then scanned him with her eyes. Clearly annoyed, she asked once more, but this time more forcefully. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Ah! Yes, I’m sorry. English is not my language. I’m a tourist in town and I’m looking for my friend, yes?” Nazim said.
“Okay? What does that have to do with me?” replied the girl.
“He told me you’re his, ah, how do you say, his partner.”
“What? Partner? Who said that?”
“The man. He worked here, no? Delivered food?” Nazim said, making hand signals like a car.
“Jason!” the girl said.
“Yes! That’s him. He told me you two —.”
“No! Why would he say that?” The girl asked.
“I don’t know. I’m looking for him. I thought you would know.”
“Uh, no! I mean, he always came over, picked up deliveries, and invited me to that crappy motel down the street. That’s it. There’s no relationship. I’m not dating him,” the girl said.
Nazim glanced down at her shirt and scanned her name tag. It said, “Jess.”
“Well, Jess. I will definitely tell him if I see him again. I’m sorry for the interruption,” Nazim replied.
She closed the door and went back to work, but Nazim remained.
He watched her with longing eyes and a desire that he’d never felt before for another woman; Nazim knew that before he left, he’d return to see her once more.
But business came first. And he knew exactly where to go next.
There was only one motel on the same street; and it fit her description perfectly.
A rundown establishment where odd men and thinly dressed women frequented.
“Nazim! Nazim!” Omar said.
“Yes, yes,” replied Nazim, his eyes still on the girl.
“Well? What did you learn? Tell us?” Ahmed said.
“There’s a motel not far from here,” Nazim said as he entered the car. “The package is there.”