Page 17 of The Expat Affair

My heart won’t stop thudding, because I feel like he did. That bit about following his voice, the art-lined hallway... An image pops in my mind of a giant box of bonbons, colorful chocolates in all shapes and sizes cushioned in shiny, pleated cups. Not a painting but a sculpture, hung on the wall at the very end of the hall. I see it, lit up with a spotlight from above, and another memory comes to me in flashes.

Getting turned around on the way back from the bathroom, taking a left when I should have taken a right. A room with a big desk parked before the window. Xander was there, and the phone call, that part was real, too. I backed out of the room before he could catch me eavesdropping on what was clearly drama because I thought it was a former girlfriend, or maybe an ex-wife.Later, when Xander joined me in the bedroom, I didn’t mention the call, and neither did he.

Still. This seems significant.

I swing my legs out of bed and push to stand, rummaging through my bag for Detective Boomsma’s business card. I find it tucked in the side pocket, and I’m looking for my phone before remembering I no longer have one. The detective confiscated it, which means it’s in an evidence drawer somewhere, along with my most important cards sitting in the holder on the back. If I don’t get them back soon, I’m going to have to start chasing down replacements.

I awaken my laptop and pull up Google Voice, plugging in the number on the card. A few seconds later, the detective’s voice crackles in my speakers.

“Arie Boomsma.”

The name pushes through an uproar of background noise, house music blaring over a loudspeaker that sounds like it’s positioned directly above his head in a room packed full of people, great swells of animated voices and laughter. If it weren’t for the hour and the delighted squeals of what can only be kids, I’d think he was in a nightclub.

I lean in to the laptop, putting my lips close to the speaker. “Hi, Detective, this is Rayna Dumont. Sorry to call on a Sunday evening, but I just remembered something that might be pertinent to the investigation. Do you have a minute?”

He pauses, but he must have caught at least some of what I said, because his next words are in English. “What? Who is this?”

“Rayna Dumont,” I shout back, overenunciating my words. “I’m calling about Xander van der Vos.”

“Hang on, give me a second. I can’t hear a thing.” He says something in rapid-fire Dutch, then he must step outside because suddenly, the racket dies away. “Okay. Say all that again.”

“This is Rayna Dumont. I just remembered something that might be pertinent to the Xander van der Vos investigation.”

“My phone didn’t recognize your number.”

“Because I’m calling on Google Voice. You still have my cellphone, remember?” I pause to give him room to respond, but he doesn’t bite. “Speaking of, when do you think I could get my cellphone back?”

“We will release it when we are done with it.”

“Do you have any idea when that will be?”

“Like I said, when we are done.”

I can’t get a read on this guy, can’t figure out if he’s being difficult on purpose, or if he’s just grumpy because I interrupted him in the middle of what’s obviously a social event.

“Okay, then. What about the cards on the back? My tram card, debit card, and residence permit. It’s illegal to just walk around this country without an ID, you know.”

A weird little tidbit I learned about this country from the lady at the IND. You must be able to show proof of identification always, at all times, or risk arrest. I could use my American driver’s license as ID, I suppose, but all those other cards in the holder—I want those back, too.

“I’ll see what I can do. Is that all?”

“No. I called to tell you—” There’s another wave of noise, music, and squealing kids, like someone opened the door. I picture him standing on a sidewalk somewhere. “Where are you, at a rave?”

A puff of air into the phone, not quite a laugh. “Close. It’s my niece’s birthday party, and they’re about to bring out the cake, so perhaps you could hurry this along.”

An order, not a request.

“I’m calling because I remembered something. I was coming back from the bathroom when I heard Xander talking to someonein the study. He was on the phone. The conversation was in Dutch, but I understood the tone. It was an argument, a pretty heated one.”

“I see. Was the call on the house line or his mobile?”

“His iPhone. I remember that part clearly.”

“Did he tell you who it was?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. I was worried he’d think I was eavesdropping, which I guess I kind of was. I thought maybe I’d stepped into some kind of past relationship drama, so I cleared out of there before he saw me. Neither of us talked about the call afterward, not that I recall.” I pause, turning over the memories in my mind. Xander returning to the bedroom and shucking his robe, crawling up the bed with a grin. “At least, I’m pretty sure. Almost positive.”

“You’re almost positive.”

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