Free Murder on the Eightfold Path by Diana Killian Page A

apartment. A.J. followed her inside, and Elysia closed the door. The apartment smelled stale, empty.
    A.J. looked around. They stood in a long, narrow living room. The walls were dove gray, the carpet white, the furniture dark and severe and modern. The only splash of color came from the primitive abstract paintings on the wall: orange, blue, and green swirls that reminded A.J. of the sort of things a hazmat team generally dealt with. It had the signature look of a mediocre interior decorator: overpriced and impersonal.
    The entertainment system looked especially pricey. But there were only a handful of CDs: Englebert Humperdinck, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tom Jones. Music to seduce older ladies by. There were no DVDs.
    “It doesn’t look like he spent a lot of time here. Is this where you used to meet?”
    Elysia shook her head. She seemed uncharacteristically quiet.
    They wandered into the kitchen. Another long, narrow room. Pale green walls and white tile. White stove, fridge, dishwasher, microwave. A.J. opened a cupboard and there were two plates, two coffee cups, a few glasses.
    “He certainly didn’t eat here often.”
    “No. We usually ate out.”
    A.J. opened the fridge and found it empty of food beyond a jar of green olives, three bottles of champagne, and a damp looking takeout container of moldy looking koshary.
    “Whatever he was spending his ill-gotten gains on, it wasn’t the good life.”
    There was no answer. A.J. glanced around and saw that her mother had left the room. She found her in the bedroom—inside the walk-in closet to be precise—and saw that in this room spartan simplicity gave way to sybaritic luxury. The queen-sized bed had a silver brocade bedspread and was piled high with jewel-bright velvet cushions. The closet was stuffed with clothes: tailored suits, silk shirts, designer sportswear, and cashmere sweaters. There were rows and rows of expensive shoes. Dicky had possessed far more shoes than A.J. owned, even back when she’d been a rising young freelancer.
    Elysia methodically checked the pockets of the trousers and shirts and blazers. A.J. moved off to the bathroom and found the glass shelves packed with a variety of name-brand grooming products. Dicky also had more hair products than she did. A.J. counted shampoos and conditioners from L’Occitane, Calvin Klein, and The Salon.
    Returning to the bedroom, she noticed a snapshot tucked in the corner of the framed mirror over the dresser. The family grouped in front of the neutral background appeared to be Egyptian: a dignified older man, a plump, comfortable middle-aged woman, two self-conscious teenaged girls, and a little boy. Judging by clothes and haircuts, the photograph seemed quite recent. Was this Dicky’s family? She couldn’t think of another reason for such a group portrait.
    As she studied the photo, A.J. viewed Dakarai Massri for the first time as something more than a threat to her mother. She recalled how young he had been; she recognized that whatever his faults, he had been someone with hopes and fears, dreams and ambitions, disappointments and sorrows. He had a family somewhere and they had probably loved him and would soon be, if they were not already, grieving for him.
    “What about this bookie of his?” A.J. called. “Do you think Dicky might have had gambling debts he couldn’t pay?”
    “He liked to gamble,” Elysia replied absently.
    “What did he gamble on?”
    “Horses, mostly. But he spends—spent—a fair amount of time in Atlantic City.”
    A.J. sat down gingerly on the side of the bed. “I don’t begin to know how we would locate a bookie or investigate Dicky’s gambling habits.”
    “Hmm. I admit it’ll take some thought.” Elysia stepped out of the closet and looked around. “I don’t see his laptop anywhere.”
    “Did he have a laptop?” A.J. asked sharply.
    “One of those cute little notebook thingies.”
    “The police must have it. Did you write him e-mails?” A.J. braced