Suspect Witness

“Seven o’clock.”

“It’s been a long day. I’ll leave you to it,” Josh said. “She’s obviously not the woman I was looking for.”

“Good luck!” Victor told him genially.

Josh stepped over the threshold, seemingly empty-handed. Once outside, he dialed the number that would be in service for only a few more hours.

“It’s not her,” he said. “But she was here. Whoever the bastard is that they have on her tail, he now knows her last location.”

“What’s the matter? You sound off.”

“Could be the last two years have been pretty much on the road.”

“What, you’re telling me you don’t love it?”

“Not that much. After this, Vern, I need a vacation. I need to go home.”

“To the RV? Josh you’re not a family man and you live in a trailer.”

His hand went into his pocket, his thumb smoothing the worn bead of a dime-store earring. “It’s home, Vern. And family or not, it’s time for me to take a break.”

“Okay, fine.”

He dropped the earring back into his pocket as a door slammed across the street. He walked away from the apartment building and around the corner to where an alley gave him a discreet view of the comings and goings around the apartment. “What gives with this case, Vern? There’s another body. A woman. Every bloody assignment... I’m so damned sick of seeing women dead. At least this time she wasn’t raped. Not that that is any better. Dead is dead.”

“You’re taking it personally,” Vern Ferguson, the director of Josh’s branch in the CIA said.

He turned away from the street and looked down the tight, concrete-bordered alley. Sometimes it was hard not to take it personally. He drew in a breath, held it a few seconds longer than necessary. “You said you have something new? What is it, Vern?” His gaze roamed the area—the overflowing garbage bin, the tiger-striped dog snuffling through the refuse. “I don’t think there’s much time. We could be talking hours, minutes... Who knows?”

“Intelligence has her in Georgetown, Malaysia.”

“Georgetown. Damn it, Vern. Too bad you didn’t have that for me sooner. You know the Anarchists don’t waste time. They’re not just any biker gang. As it is she’s been running for five months.”

“Yeah, I know,” Vern said with a hitch in his voice that was part wheeze, part cough. “She’s tired and with the trial going forward, they won’t stop.”

“Right, and they want her dead, and odds are they’re on their way. Fortunately, no one knows where in Georgetown yet.”

“Then quit wasting time on the damn phone.”

Josh grimaced as he clicked off and tossed the phone into a nearby garbage can.

Chapter Two (#ulink_6f6d8605-debf-5561-906a-6513b1a3e869)

Georgetown, Malaysia—Monday, October 12

“Give Respect, Get Respect.” Erin Kelley repeated the words as she wrote the phrase on the chalkboard and ended with a sweeping flourish. Her fingers shook and she had to stop. She ran her tongue along her lower lip, her back to the class. But even writing the word respect sent a slight tremor through her. The chalk dust clung uncomfortably to her sweaty palm.

The temperature was unseasonably warm and this early in the morning the heat was already unbearable in the small, cramped room. A finger of light skittered across the blackboard, briefly illuminating the words. She mentally shrank from the light as if under a searchlight, as if they’d found her after all these months. Impossible, she reminded herself as the chalk sweated in her hand, and the children shifted anxiously behind her. And as she had done so many times before, she reminded herself that she was safe, that her trail was cold. Enough time had elapsed. They’d never find her. They were no longer interested. And as she did at odd times throughout any given day, she considered the truth of those beliefs and whether she was really safe, whether these children were safe. One day, she knew, despite her hopes, the answer would have her on the run again but that wasn’t today.

She put down the chalk and turned to face the class.

“Today, we’re going to learn about respect,” she said in English. The school’s curriculum was taught in English to children who were already bilingual, fluent in both Malay and English, and who, in many cases, if they hadn’t already, would master a third or even fourth language in their lifetime.

At the back of the room a heavyset boy shifted in his seat. Beside him, a sullen-faced classmate shuffled papers across his desk. And at the front one boy whispered furtively to another. The rest of the boys eyed her uneasily. They knew what was coming. There wasn’t a boy who had missed the taunting in the schoolyard and not one who didn’t know what was going to happen as a result. She had made it all perfectly clear from her first day.

She fixed her gaze on the targets of this lecture. The two culprits dressed in crisply pressed navy pants with matching jackets, white shirts and sleek haircuts stared back without a flicker of emotion. They were both the sons of successful Malaysian businessmen, and neither lacked for pride or esteem. They were children of wealth and privilege with attitudes she had struggled to control since her arrival. Yesterday, their attitudes had threatened to harm another student. It was a scenario that played out in schoolyards across the globe and through the decades. They had taunted a slight, studious boy on the playground. She bit back the scathing words she wanted to say. Bullying aside, they were still only children. But for a second she saw another classroom a world away, and another child and a small girl pummeling another.

Leave my sister alone!

The skinny, carrot-haired girl stuck in her mind, running through reel after reel. The knobby knees, the brilliant hair, the circle of taunting children. And always she stood screaming those words, running intervention as she grabbed and punched and pulled hair, freeing her sister from the circle of tormentors—over and over again.

Her gaze went to the thin boy in the front of the class. He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he was fumbling through his backpack, which was emblazoned with a variety of action figures.

“Before we begin today’s lesson, who would like to volunteer to go tell Mr. Daniel that the air conditioner isn’t working?”

“They’ve shut it off, Miss,” Ian said. “They always do in October.”

“Besides, Mr. Daniel’s left.” Isaac waved his hand frantically in the air even as he spoke.

“On an errand,” Ian added.

“In your new car,” Isaac finished. He was fascinated by vehicles of any sort and had followed her into school last week pestering her with details of her new vehicle purchase and clearly unimpressed with what had impressed her; gas mileage.

“Right. I didn’t realize he was leaving this soon.” She pulled at the back of her cotton blouse, which was beginning to stick. She wiped the back of her hand across her damp brow as her eyes drifted to the parking lot and she thought of Daniel. Friend or not, she wasn’t apt to lend out her vehicle on a whim, but Daniel hadn’t asked. Instead, he’d planned to use public transport and lose over a half a day’s pay to attend a dental appointment. Knowing the pain the tooth was causing him and that he was too proud to ask for help, she’d offered him her car. Insisted, really.

“So, let’s begin.” She swept a hand to the blackboard. “Respect.”

The class of ten-and eleven-year-old boys in their fourth year of the six-year Malaysian primary school system should have been sweating and fidgeting. Instead, they now sat with backs straight, their eyes fixed on her.

“Anyone know what that means?” She placed her hands on the back of her chair. The sunlight seemed to shift and for a moment blinded her. She pushed the small crystal bowl to the front of her desk. The orchid and the bowl were a birthday gift from a group of teachers she’d had lunch with since she’d arrived. They’d presented the gift yesterday and even had sung a round of “Happy Birthday.” Except that her birthday wasn’t yesterday, nor was it this month. Her birthday was months past and a lifetime away.

“He’s a loser.” A boy stood up. His height and classic good looks belied his age.

The boy in question sat slouched over his desk, his untidy mop of black hair hanging forward and hiding his face from the class. She looked away and instead forced her gaze to the boy who had just spoken.

“Sit!” she snapped at Jefri. The boy was one of a small, tight-knit group who thought his family’s wealth placed him a tier above everyone else. “No one’s a loser.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flicker of motion. Something moved in the parking lot. She allowed her attention to divert momentarily. Her heart thumped.

“Miss Kelley?” Jefri’s voice was insistent and still had the high notes of childhood, despite the fact that at almost twelve, he stood tall enough to face her eye to eye.

“Just a minute.” She motioned the boy to sit down. Outside the heat rose in shimmering waves from the pavement as the shadow cast by the voluptuous canopy of an ancient rain tree fell short of cooling the overheated tar. In the parking lot, her new lemon-yellow Naza Sutera gleamed. Daniel hadn’t left yet.

Her hand curled on her desk, her nails biting into her palm. A familiar figure moved with an easy walk toward her car, and whatever or whoever had caught her attention previously was gone. She breathed out a sigh as she recognized the school custodian, Daniel.

She turned her attention back to the class as she pointed to the chalkboard. “Shall we read this together?”

“Give Respect. Get Respect,” the boys repeated, their childish voices rising solemnly to the occasion, some looking rather sullen, while others repeated dutifully as they did everything she asked.