Lost by Michael Robotham

fever. She knows the stories. I can imagine them being told after lights-out at probationer training.
    Again I notice the scraps of plastic on the floor and dusting of foam. I wrapped the packages here; four identical bundles, each lined with polystyrene and wrapped in fluorescent plastic. They were meant to float.
    Diamonds are easy to smuggle and hard to trace. They can't be picked up by sniffer dogs or tracked with serial numbers. Sel ing them isn't a problem. There are plenty of buyers in Antwerp or New York who deal in “blood” diamonds from dubious places like Angola, Sierra Leone and the Congo.
    Ali leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. “What's the ransom doing here?”
    “I don't know.” What was it that Aleksei said to me at the hospital: “I want my daughter or I want my diamonds.”
    “We have to hand them in,” insists Ali.
    The trailing silence goes on too long.
    “You can't be serious! You're not going to keep them!”
    “Of course not.”

    Ali is staring at me. I hate the way I look in her eyes—diminished, undermined. She turns her head away, as though she doesn't want to see the mess I've made of my life. Is this why Keebal wanted a search warrant and the “fireman” tried to kil me?
    The doorbel rings. Both of us jump.
    Ali is on her feet. “Quick! Hide them! Hide them!”
    “Calm down, you get the door.”
    There are certain rules in policing that I learned very early on. The first is never to search a dark warehouse with an armed cop whose nickname is “Boom-Boom.” And the second is to take your own pulse first.
    Using my forearm I scoop the bundles into the bag and notice beads of moisture left on the smooth surface of the table. The packages have been in water.
    I hear Keebal's voice! He's standing in the front hal , silhouetted against the light. Ali turns back toward me, her eyes wide with alarm.
    “I bought a cake,” he announces, holding up a shopping bag.
    “You better come in then.”
    With her back to him, Ali looks at me incredulously.
    “Wil you put the kettle on please, Ali,” I say, putting my hand on the smal of her back and guiding her across to the sink.
    “What are you doing?” she whispers, but I'm already turning back to Keebal.
    “How do you take your tea?”
    “Just a splash of milk.”
    “We have none, I'm afraid.”
    He holds up a carton of long-life milk. “I think of everything.”
    Ali sets out the cups, keeping out of the way because her hands are shaking. Keebal finds a sports bag sitting on a chair.
    “Just toss it on the floor,” I say.
    He picks up the handles and swings the bag beneath his feet. Ali's hands are suspended over the teacups, frozen there.
    “So what do you think happened, Ruiz? Even if you're tel ing the truth and you can't remember, you must have a theory.”
    “Nothing as concrete as a theory.”
    Keebal glances at his shoes, which are resting on the sports bag. He leans down and brushes a speck of dirt from one polished toe.
    “You want my theory,” I say, attracting his attention. “I think this has something to do with Mickey Carlyle.”
    “She died three years ago.”
    “We didn't find her body.”
    “A man went to prison for her murder. That makes her dead. Case closed. You resurrect her and you better be God Almighty because otherwise you're in big trouble.”
    “But what if Howard is innocent.”
    Keebal laughs at me. “Is that your theory! What do you want to do—set a pedophile free from prison? You sound like his defense lawyer. Remember what you're paid to do—
    protect and serve. You're doing just the opposite if you let Howard Wavel walk out of prison.”
    A few token rays of sunshine have settled on the paving stones in the garden. We sit in silence for a while, finishing our tea and leaving the cake uneaten. Eventual y, Keebal rises to his feet and puts the sports bag on the chair where he found it. He glances around the kitchen and then at the ceiling as if trying to penetrate the wood