Free Not One Clue by Lois Greiman

husband?”
    “Ahmad? He comes from a favorable family.”
    The same could be said of Ted Bundy. “Anything else?”
    “The Orsorios are a wealthy, intelligent people. We thought it a fine match when first he asked for her hand. We had no way of knowing of his cruelty.”
    I gripped my cell a little tighter as I pulled into a parking spot. “Do you happen to know if Ahmad has a passport?”
    There was a long pause fraught with a butt-load of bad vibes. “He travels a good deal.”
    “Beyond Yemen, I suppose you mean.”
    “New York City. Washington, D.C. He is an important man with Sanaa Oil.”
    “I see.” That in lieu of a bunch of bad language.
    “And is not without friends among your government, I think.”
    A little of the bad language leaked out.
    “You are worried that it is he who called. That he hopes to confront those who would assist my sister,” she guessed.
    “The thought crossed my mind.”
    She drew a carefully controlled breath. “I will find another to care for my children and travel to the airport myself.”
    It was tempting as hell to take her up on her offer, but her kids had eyes as big as softballs. They were like two-legged basset hounds at a sad movie. And besides, Ahmad wouldn’t recognize me. I hoped. The same couldn’t be said for Ramla.
    “Don’t do anything just yet,” I said, then, “Did the stranger say what flight your sister is on?”
    She told me.
    “Can you describe her for me?”
    There was a pause. “I cannot ask this of you, Christina. It is too big.”
    “Describe her,” I said. My voice sounded gravelly, but when Ramla next spoke, her own was the reverent whisper of a terrified sister.
    “She is beauty itself,” she said, “when the bruises heal.”
    The butterflies in my stomach somehow morphed into land mines. My eyes met Rivera’s. His sparked amber-colored flame. “If she’s here, we’ll find her,” I said, and clicked the phone shut.

9
In this country, if one dresses well, it matters little if her soul belongs to the devil.
— Ramla Al-Sadr, on American fashion
    A s I stepped out of the car a moment later, I tried Elaine’s phone. She answered on the first ring.
    “What’s wrong?” Laney rarely bothered with salutations. We had something of a language of our own. But most of it involved old movies and young men. As far as I knew Laney could recite every single line from all five seasons of Scarecrow and Mrs. King .
    “Did you talk to your friend about Ramla’s sister?”
    “Ghazi? Not recently. Why?”
    I skittered a worried glance to Rivera. He was still scowling. It’s nice to know some things don’t change.
    “So he doesn’t know Aalia is in trouble?”
    “Why?” The question was pointed now.
    I gave her the details in a few brief sentences as we breezed through the airport’s automatic doors and into canned air.
    “I left a message on his cell phone and his home phone after Ramla spoke to you last night,” Laney said. “But I think he may have been out of the country.”
    “Does he have the kind of clout that would enable him to get a married woman out of Yemen without her husband’s consent?”
    She paused for a moment, thinking. It never took long. “His surname is Saud.”
    “Translate.”
    “I think he may be a prince.”
    “Like ‘He’s a real prince’ or—”
    “A Saudi prince.”
    “And he works as a prop master for Amazon Queen ?”
    “I believe there are a couple thousand extra princes left in his homeland to take care of any royal duties.”
    “Really? How many are single?”
    “Can we wrap this up?” Rivera asked.
    I glanced at him and almost resisted grinning before a thought struck me. “How many times did he propose to you?” I asked.
    Laney never hesitated. “Just twice.”
    He wasn’t very serious, then. I had known men who would beg every single Sunday for most of a decade. “Does he hold out any hope?”
    “I sent him a wedding invitation,” she said.
    “Some guys aren’t easily