Only the rotisserie chicken place had a long line. They were just past it when she saw him: Kamal, sitting like a lord in the mall’s food court, chewing on a straw in a milkshake.

He looked right at them.

He didn’t recognize Heather; he had never met Mourad. He glanced and turned his head. He was alone. She felt her stomach fall. “Mourad, Mourad,” she said. He stopped and looked where she was looking.

“It’s Kamal,” she said. “It’s Kamal! With the milkshake.”

“Where?”

“Straight. Straight. Then the pillar right.”

“The blue coat—”

“No. Next to the lady in yellow.”

“The Burger King milkshake.”

“That’s him.”

“Did he see you?”

“No.”

“I have an idea.”

“Kamal. How are you?” Mourad acted like a forgotten friend. In the distance he could see Heather on the escalator, off to find the bus home.

“Thanks to God I am well. And you?”

Kamal, skinny, was wearing black pants and a silver earring. He had his ponytail.

“I can’t complain,” Mourad answered. He was wider than this bony one, his arms thick.

“Who are you,” Kamal began, “if I may ask?”

They were speaking the most polite Arabic.

“My name is Mourad Arkoun. May I?” Mourad pulled back a chair.

“Of course.” Kamal tried to place Mourad Arkoun.

“You have caused many problems in my family,” Mourad said. His tone was flat, pleasant. He felt almost cheerful.

“What do you want?” Kamal said. He put on the air of someone who was too busy to chat.

“You know, of course, my brother Aziz.”

Kamal showed nothing. “What of it?”

“You fucked him. To get out of your own shit.”

“You have me mixed up with someone else.” Kamal picked at a fingernail.

“Hank Bridges?” Mourad smiled as he said the name.

“He is crazy.” Kamal’s eyes were looking around the food court. “He is gone from here,” he added. Mourad could see him realizing it was not an easy place to leave. Tables and people were bunched and blocking the way.

“He must be gone or you would not be sitting here,” Mourad said, reaching into Kamal’s pocket, taking money and credit cards. “With—let’s see—one, two, three . . . many different credit cards with many different names.”

Kamal was now uneasy. “Bridges killed someone,” he said. He spoke too fast. “They found it out. They moved him to California. Bridges is gone.”

“When?”

“Last month,” Kamal said. He scratched the back of his neck. His hair felt dirty.

“So now you will help me to find Rafik.” Mourad moved his hand as if to pull Kamal’s collar.

“I have no—” Kamal began.

Mourad was close enough to fix Kamal’s chair with his boot. He leaned into his face.

“He is here. He is with me.”

“Where is that?”

“In East Boston. Thirty-four Dorfman, apartment eight. But he is not well. I have just this morning seen him in the worst fever.”