Chapter 42

Jack’s call from Andie didn’t last long. When it ended, he made a U-turn at the traffic light, picked up Theo from Cy’s Place,

and drove to Zahra’s town house.

“How we getting in?” asked Theo.

“Zahra told us she keeps the spare key in the bird feeder on the back patio. Remember?”

“Dude, she was being a smart-ass about Farid and the Republican Guard taking her hostage. There’s no spare key.”

“We’ll find out,” said Jack.

They climbed out of the car and followed the sidewalk around the building to the back of the town house.

“Did you tell Andie we’re doing this?”

“Nope.”

“Is that because this is technically breaking and entering?”

“It’s not B&E. The FBI conducted an illegal search of my client’s home, and we’re going back inside to document and photograph

the invasion of her Fourth Amendment rights.”

“B&E with attitude ,” said Theo. “Cool. What was illegal about the search?”

Jack opened the gate to Zahra’s fenced-in patio.

“Right off the bat, I knew a warrant to search for Yasmin was a pretext. My suspicion was that the FBI came to confiscate

any evidence Zahra might have that Ava is dead.”

“Part of the whole Ava Bazzi, US-Iran, you-scratch-my-back-we’ll-release-the-hostage cover-up?”

“You got it. After talking to Andie, I’m certain that’s what this was about.”

Jack went to the bird feeder, poked around, and found the spare key.

“I’ll be damned,” said Theo, eating crow.

Jack slid the key into the lock, the tumblers fell into place, and the deadbolt gave up the sweet sound of success, like the

shuck of a shotgun.

“We’re in.” Jack pushed the door open and switched on the light. Theo followed him inside.

“Shoes off,” said Jack.

“Seriously? The place is a mess.”

Theo was right. The FBI had emptied virtually every drawer and cabinet and turned furniture upside down, ostensibly in search

of a seven-year-old girl who they apparently thought might be hiding next to the loose change in the sofa cushions. The shoeprints

left by the search team seemed especially intrusive in a home where shoes were left at the door. Jack snapped photographs

of the overturned love seat in the living room, the open kitchen cabinets, the upturned mattress in the bedroom, and articles

of clothing scattered across the laundry-room floor. Then he started up the stairs to the second floor.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Theo.

“Stand right there and look intimidating in case a neighbor or somebody comes by to see what we’re doing.”

“Nice to be needed. What’d you bring me for? Break down the door if there was no key in the bird feeder?”

Jack just smiled and went upstairs. The hallway was short, and a door was open to the first bedroom. Jack reached around the

doorjamb and flipped the light switch.

The room practically screamed “Yasmin.” Just enough pink accents to appease a child’s demand for bubblegum-pink everything. White linen curtains with pom-pom fringes and a brushed-gold rod. A reading corner with a bookcase, a comfy barrel chair, and a floor lamp that was low enough for anyone to reach the switch, even if you were too short to ride Thunder Mountain. It reminded Jack of his own daughter, and it broke his heart to think of a child having to endure all that Yasmin had in her young life, only to end up on the run with her stepmother.

He took another step inside. Compared to the rest of the town house, Yasmin’s room had been largely spared by the search team.

No mess on the floor from hastily emptied dresser drawers. The bed was unmade, but it looked no worse than Righley’s bed in

the morning, probably more Yasmin’s doing than the FBI’s. The closet door had been left open, but not much was left inside.

Jack doubted the FBI had taken Yasmin’s clothing. Wherever Zahra had taken her, it wasn’t an overnight trip.

Jack’s gaze was drawn to the wastebasket beside Yasmin’s drawing table. And then to the box of crayons on the tabletop. Then

back to the papers in the wastebasket. Judge Carlton’s voice was suddenly in his head:

Do you like to draw pictures, Yasmin?

Jack crossed the room and picked up the wastebasket. It was filled with crayon drawings on looseleaf paper. Some were intact,

others torn in half. A few were crumpled into paper balls. Jack selected one at random, looked at it, and stopped cold.

Jack would never forget the drawing he’d questioned Yasmin about in Judge Carlton’s courtroom. The details were burned into

his memory. The crayon colors Yasmin had chosen. The placement of her mother and father. The little girl off to the side.

The crisscross of the blades over Ava’s head that made them, unmistakably, scissors.

It was the drawing he was staring at now.

Jack pulled another page from the trash. Same colors. Same figures. Same scissors. Jack uncrumpled one of the paper balls.

The colors and figures were the same. The scissors were a little messy, more like bent sticks. He checked one of the drawings

that was torn in half, then matched it with the other half. It was like the others, except there were no scissors at all.

Jack dug through page after page, uncrumpled one ball of paper after another. It was the same discovery over and over again.

Based on his mental comparison of Yasmin’s drawing in Judge Carlton’s chambers to these discarded drawings in her bedroom,

the conclusion was inescapable.

It was as if Yasmin had practiced her drawing.

Except for one—and it chilled him. The drawing at the bottom of the wastebasket definitely bore a resemblance to the drawing that Yasmin made for Judge Carlton. But it was not exactly like Yasmin’s drawings. This one was more precise, drawn with more skill. The scissors were especially well defined. It didn’t

look like a child’s artwork.

It looked more like a drawing by an adult.

A template.

Jack laid the drawing on the desktop and reached for his cell phone. He needed the input of a professional. Dr. Vestry took

his call.

“Sorry to call on a Saturday, but this is important,” said Jack.

“No problem.”

“I have a memory of you telling Zahra that Judge Carlton might ask Yasmin to draw pictures for him, even before the judge

brought it up. Am I remembering correctly?”

“Yes. It came up when we were weighing the pros and cons of making Yasmin a witness. I told both of you that even if we decided

against calling her to the stand, the judge could invite her into his chambers and interview her informally, maybe ask her

to draw pictures of her family or play-act with dolls. With a child of Yasmin’s age, that’s not unheard of in a Hague proceeding.”

“And you also said the judge would be very alert to make sure there was no coaching of Yasmin. You had a name for it.”

“PAS,” she said. “Parental alienation syndrome. It’s basically a constellation of symptoms caused by one parent brainwashing

the child, resulting in the child’s subsequent vilification of the target parent. What’s this all about, Jack?”

“Would you be able to meet me in the next hour or so?”

“If it’s important.”

Jack glanced again at the drawing—the one that definitely was not Yasmin’s.

“It’s very important,” said Jack. “There’s something I need to show you.”