Date with a Sheesha (35 page)

“No, that is not true,” she said to me.

I looked at Pranav, but he seemed more interested in the phyl-lo basket filled with cream cheese, sour cherry, and capers, which had just arrived.

“Of course I have heard the stories of the Zinko. Everyone in the carpet world has. What my husband likely meant to tell you, Mr. Quant, is that I—like most people knowledgeable about carpets—do not believe in the Zinko. It is nothing more than a silly myth. A fanciful old wives’ tale. A fabrication. There is no truth to it. It is, at best, a story meant for children’s bedtime.”

This was interesting. I’d met two so-called carpet professionals who’d admitted no knowledge of the Zinko. Now there was only one left.

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Chapter 19

Ever since I stopped being one myself, I just can’t resist trying to ditch the cops whenever I can, but Darren Kirsch was tougher to shake than most. Especially when he knew I knew more about a case than he did. I’d been living with Neil Gupta’s death in Dubai for almost two weeks. Darren had become involved via Hema’s murder in Saskatoon only hours ago, but he was a smart guy. No matter how little he relished joining forces with a “meddlesome private dick who investigated more by blunder and bluster than proven professional investigative technique” (his words not mine—sometimes true, sometimes not), in this case he knew it was to his benefit to do so. So when I excused myself to get the table more wine, the big, brawny, mustachioed lug followed me.

He knew there was no way I was coming back. I hated that he knew me so well.

“You’ve got that look in your eye, Quant. You’re onto something.”

I picked up speed, making my way via circuitous route 244

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between tables of eight diners, towards the rear of the ballroom.

I led him to the bathroom doors, where he stopped me with a T-bone-sized paw on my forearm. “What is it, Quant? What do you know?”

“I’m not sure I know anything for sure yet.” For once, I wasn’t lying to him.

“Okay, what do you not know for sure?”

“It’s the Zinko,” I finally broke. “I know that damn rug has something to do with both Neil’s and Hema’s deaths.”

“So what was all that back at the table about who believes in the Zinko and who doesn’t? How can a rug that doesn’t exist have anything to do with any of this?” He sounded both frustrated and confused. He had good reason to be.

“Whether or not it’s real,” I said, “may not be what’s important.”

“Huh?” His square jaw moved from side to side, a regular habit whenever he was confounded.

“Do you believe in Santa Claus?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes, and made a move as if about to walk away in disgust. “Oh c’mon, Quant.”

“No, just answer me. Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

“No, of course not. I’m an adult, for crying out loud.”

“Okay, okay, but by that do you mean to say you
did
believe in Santa Claus when you were a kid?”

“Of course I did. All kids do.”

“But suppose you ran into a kid who told you that not only did they not believe in Santa Claus, but also they’d never even heard of the guy.”

“So what?”

“Suspicious?”

“Maybe a little odd. But I repeat, Quant, so freaking what?”

“Colin Cardinale. He’s the executive director in charge of tonight’s extravaganza
and
the entire
World
Antique Carpets Symposium. He’s about to become the curator of the University of Saskatchewan’s new permanent collection of antique rugs.”

“Uh huh. So?”

“He told me he’d never heard of the Zinko.”

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Kirsch thought about this for a second, but it wasn’t enough to keep his brain cells active for long. “Big deal. There are kids who lived in…I dunno…maybe someplace like India, but who live here now, and that’s why they’ve never heard of Santa Claus.

Mystery solved. Maybe the same can be said for Cardinale and the Zinko.”

He had a point. Colin Cardinale got his current job because of his administrative and curatorial experience, not because of his expertise with rugs. I suppose all his bluster and bravado about how much he knew about rugs when I first met him at the museum could have been covering up how much he didn’t know.

“But,” I countered, “I think Hema was pointing a finger at Cardinale.”

“Huh?” Again. Not the biggest vocabulary, this boy.

“On her palm. In her dying minutes, Hema used her ring to tear up her own skin, and write the letter ’C’ on her palm. ’C’ for Colin or ’C’ for Cardinale, you choose one.”

“Huh. Well, that could be. But it could be ’C’ for about a million other names and words too.”

This was true.

“Besides, if he did know about the Zinko, why would he lie about it?”

I had a theory. “Well, maybe he wanted to throw me off the scent. Make me believe the whole Zinko thing was unimportant in the grand scheme of things.”

“Okay, but why?”

“Maybe he found out that the Zinko was actually real.”

“What? A rug of jewels that’s really a map to finding more jewels—you think that’s real? Are you nuts?”

“Just suppose it were true, Darren.” I like to use his first name whenever I want him on my side. “It could be worth untold riches. Maybe Neil, while he was snooping around the Middle East looking for carpets to bring back for Colin’s collection, stumbled upon the real Zinko. He tells Colin. Colin, maybe jokingly at first—to test the waters—suggests they partner up, sell the Zinko, keep the bounty for themselves. They’d live like kings for the rest of their days. Neil disagrees and threatens to turn Colin in. Colin 246

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waits until Neil actually identifies where the Zinko is, then hires some thugs to spread around a few black petals. Then he has Neil killed so he can go after the rug himself. Unfortunately, Pranav sends me and Hema to follow up on Neil’s deals, complicating Colin’s plan to get the rug.”

“So then, he makes a deal with Hema to find the rug,” Kirsch took up the tale. “Things go wrong, or there’s some kind of double-cross. She ends up at the bottom of a pond. Cardinale has the rug all to himself.”

“Or maybe Hema was an unwitting accomplice all along. But, sadly,” I concluded, not sure we’d ever know the truth about that one, “the result was going to be the same for her, no matter how it went down.”

He bobbed his head in agreement.

“And, one more thing: I just saw our curator with the two scumbags who stole the Zinko right from under my nose in Saudi.

The same two who were seen with Hema at the university in Dubai.”

“You could be onto something, I suppose,” Kirsch grudgingly allowed.

“Yeah. I suppose.”

Kirsch shot me a look. “What?”

“What?” I shot right back.

“What’s wrong?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The way you just said that. Like you don’t quite believe yourself.”

Kirsch and I had obviously—and unwittingly—grown way too close over the past few years. Since when had he been able to read me so well?

“Spill it, Quant.”

We waited while a slightly inebriated diner passed us on his way to the john. Then, “Why is he still here? Why isn’t he happier?”

“What are you talking about?” Kirsch asked.

“Cardinale. If what we’ve just theorized is true, why is he still here? Why didn’t he take the rug and run?”

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seem very strange if he just disappeared on the eve of an event he’d spent months organizing.”

“Okay. But at the very least, he should be ecstatic. He’s sitting on a veritable gold mine. Instead, he seems miserable.”

“Maybe that’s just the way he is.”

I nodded, thinking. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re missing something.”

“Like what, Quant? First, you talk up a good story, you almost have me convinced, and now, what? You’re changing your mind?”

“Not totally. But something about the way he’s acting doesn’t add up.”

“We need proof, Quant, one way or the other. You do remember the day at the police academy when we talked about proof, don’t you?”

I raised my eyebrow, communicating many things that are best left unsaid in public. “I’m going to the can,” I told him. “Care to join me,
partner
?”

He shook his head. “I think I’m gonna go check on the whereabouts of our man Cardinale.”

“And bring some wine back to the table with you while you’re at it,” I told him as the bathroom door swung shut between us.

Once in the washroom, I found an empty stall, took a seat, and pulled out my cellphone. In honour of Hema’s favourite pastime, I tapped out a text. To Colin Cardinale.

Colin

I got there first

I have real Zinko

Wanna share?

Meet?

Quant

I waited.

And waited.

The text was a risk. I was taking a gamble on a few things.

First was my hunch that when Hema took the Zinko back to the 248

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University of Dubai with the thugs, she’d proved it was a fake. I was pretty certain about this, because nothing so far had led me to believe that the Zinko was anything but a myth or wishful thinking. The second was that the “C” scratched in blood on Hema’s palm was for Colin Cardinale. Kirsch was right, of course.

The “C” could stand for a million other things. But how many of those things were indelibly involved in this case?

And now, I’d just told Cardinale that the reason why Hema’s Zinko was a fake was that I’d pulled a switcheroo of sorts. I was pretending I’d actually gotten to the Bedouin camp first and purchased the
real
priceless carpet. And now, by asking to meet, I was implying I needed his help: with valuation, with selling the damn thing, with whatever. After all, I was just a lowly PI, looking for a quick carpet ride to the easy life, whereas he was the big expert with all the know-how. I was hoping Colin Cardinale was just arrogant enough to buy the scam. Assuming I was right about all this.

My phone beeped.

A message from Cardinale:
Yes – U exhibition space – now
He wanted to meet at the future home of the university’s exalted first permanent antique carpet collection. How apropos. I texted back:
On my way
.

In all my cases, I maintain what I call a Red Herrings file.

Sometimes it’s an actual paper file; sometimes it’s just in my head.

The Herrings file is where I stash all the information I gather during the course of an investigation that I’m not quite sure what to do with. Most of it turns out to be useless ancillary material, with no bearing on the case at hand. But every now and again, I find myself rifling through the file for that one, nearly forgotten, seemingly innocuous gem.

As I was nearly out of the ballroom, on my way to meet Colin Cardinale at the university, I ran smack into Pranav Gupta. The collision must have knocked something loose in my mental Red Herrings file. For one of those rare gems jumped right out and knocked me upside the head.

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“Mr. Quant, where are you going?” he asked once we pulled our bodies apart. “The evening is not yet over.”

I ignored the query and rubbed my head where the gem had—

metaphorically—hit me. “Mr. Gupta, how did you know about the surprise party?”

“Surprise party?” he responded with a quizzical look on his face. “What surprise party? This is no surprise party, Mr. Quant.

You must be confused.”

“The surprise party in Dubai. The one your son was invited to the night of his death.”

My clients face turned suddenly sober. What he told me changed everything.

I stepped through the graceful stone archway into the Museum of Carpet Antiquities. It is truly amazing what can happen in less than two weeks. The last time I had been in the room, it was a large, hollow space, overflowing with boxes and crates and the various paraphernalia required to create a public exhibition of antique rugs. Tonight it was a wonderland.

The room had been artfully sectioned off by walls of luxurious carpets hung from the ceiling by invisible wires. Some were large, some no bigger than a bath mat. Some were brightly coloured, others imbued with deep, rich hues of thread and dye. Some were square, others rectangular, circular, or octagonal. In some places the carpets were leaning in rolls against a wall, in other places laid out on the floor to best showcase their unique splendour. Each individual partitioned area was populated with artwork, small furnishings, and sculpture (likely clever replicas of originals—

which I knew the university was masterful at creating) representative of the era, culture, and geographical home for each specific grouping of carpet. There were digital slideshows flickering on the walls, brochures, pamphlets, and luscious coffee table books that described in loving detail everything the visitor saw. Here and there were small sitting areas, with potted palms and places to set your things while you sat back and took it all in. The lighting was gentle, yet bright enough to highlight the delicacy and 250

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minute detail of each component of the collection. The room even smelled wonderful, like some mix of ancient carpet, exotic spice, and greening fern leaf. It was extraordinary. Say what you will about him (and I have), but Colin Cardinale had done a fine job.