by Joanne Pence
And then there was the issue of an autopsy.
After long moments of knocking, Salma opened the door, and frowned. “We are in mourning,” she said softly.
“We understand,” Rebecca said. “But we have questions.”
Salma led them up the stairs to the living room. The boy was playing a video game on the TV, and the daughter was nowhere to be seen. Gebran sent the boy to his room.
Rebecca and Sutter gave their condolences to Gebran over his mother’s death, and refused any of the tea Salma offered. Rebecca quickly got to the point. “We were putting together some information about the case, and we need to talk about two of your cousins, Mr. Najjar. I’m hoping you can give me information about where to find them.”
“Cousins? What cousins?” Gebran’s tone was harsh.
“Ibrahim and Mustafa. I’m told their last names are Najjar or Hariri,” Rebecca said.
Gebran looked confused. “I have no cousins with those names. Not in this country, anyway. My mother’s younger brother is named Ibrahim Bassil, but he lives in France. I have never seen him.”
Rebecca remembered what the State Department analyst said about Arab names. Maybe Shay wasn’t given the right ones. “I heard that there were a number of disagreements between you, Yussef, and these cousins.”
“No.” His voice was loud now. “I have no such cousins.”
“Would you tell me the names of any cousins who live nearby?”
Gebran glared at Salma and spoke low and quickly in Arabic, gesturing toward Rebecca and Sutter.
Salma sat up straighter and spoke. “My mother-in-law had a brother who lived in this country. He sent for Fairuz to come here when she was widowed many years ago. He and his wife—they’re both deceased—had only one child, a daughter. She now lives in Los Angeles. She has three children, but we’ve only met them once when we brought our children to Disneyland. She is the only cousin my husband knows in this country.”
“What about cousins from his father’s side?”
“They would still be in Lebanon. His father’s family never liked Fairuz. After his father died, those relatives ignored Fairuz and her two sons. That was why she was happy to leave Lebanon and come here to be with her brother.”
“I see.” Rebecca thought a moment, and remembered how Richie, at his cousin Angie’s wedding, had introduced her to several older women he called “Zia” and they weren’t really his aunts. “Were there any close friends Yussef might have called cousins, even if they weren’t related?”
“No,” Gebran said firmly. “How many times must I tell you?”
“Do you know anyone named Ibrahim or Mustafa who are not cousins?” Rebecca asked finally, growing increasingly frustrated.
“Do you have any idea how common those names are in my community?” Gebran asked. “If so, you wouldn’t insult me with such a stupid question!”
Rebecca gave him a hard look, then faced Salma. “Mrs. Najjar, what about you? Have you heard those names before?”
“Not in connection with Yussef, or as friends of this family. I mean, there are many people with those names, as my husband said, but no one stands out.” At that, she dropped her gaze to the floor.
Gebran gruffly stated, “No friends here, and no cousins. No real cousins; no fake cousins.” He folded his arms and glared at the detectives.
“Well,” Sutter said as he and Rebecca stood, “we didn’t mean to intrude. Just one last question before we go. Which nursing home was your mother in?”
“Why do you want to know?” Gebran growled.
“Just to make sure we have all necessary information. That question was left unanswered last time we were here.”
Gebran's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, but at long last he spat out, “Pacific House.”
“Thank you. And what is the doctor showing as her cause of death, Mr. Najjar?”
“As I told your partner, she had a heart attack.”
Sutter glanced at Rebecca then back at Gebran. "I assume an autopsy is being performed?"
"Of course not! She will not be defiled. Her doctor knows—knew—her condition well. He stated she had a heart attack."
"Where is your mother's body now?" Rebecca asked. Gebran gave the name of a mortuary reluctantly, angrily.
Now, with their interview of Gebran ended, Rebecca and Sutter were about to leave when Rebecca faced Gebran with one last question. “When did you last see your mother?”
Gebran stiffened. “I visited her last night.”
Two detectives eyed each other and nodded. “Thank you for your time,” Sutter said, as they left the house.
As soon as Rebecca and Sutter got back to their cars, she called Lt. Eastwood to see if he was willing to authorize an autopsy. He still believed they didn't have sufficient cause, but he was willing to holding the body as they continued the investigation.
Rebecca then called the mortuary and told them the Homicide Division of the San Francisco Police Department was now interested in Fairuz Najjar’s death, and that they were not to touch the body until given the okay to do so. Somehow, she was going to get that autopsy.
o0o
Richie could scarcely believe it when he saw Rebecca standing in his doorway. He’d been alone, moping and miserable since returning home from the visit to Dolores Russo.
“I was hoping you hadn’t left yet for Big Caesar’s,” she said with a smile.
It felt good to see Rebecca’s smiling face. “I’ve been debating if I want to go at all tonight. Come on in.”
“I wondered how you’re doing,” she said, removing her leather jacket as she walked into the living room. “It’s been a couple of days.”
“I know. I’ve been trying not to think about much. Go to work, keep my head down,” he said. Go visit sad, old friends. He felt strangely awkward having her there. “Sometimes, so much happens it gets a bit overwhelming.”
“I agree.”
He sought her gaze, and as he held it, words quickly spilled from his lips. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I” she told him.
He gestured toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink? Wine? Beer? Coffee?”
“Coffee sounds good, especially since I brought a couple of apple fritters.” She held up a small white bakery bag. “I know how much you love them.”
In the kitchen, she tore open the bag and put it on the table. Then she opened the back door and stepped out onto the deck while he used his espresso machine to make them each an Americano.
As the coffeemaker whirred, he joined her. The air was crisp, the night surprisingly warm. Behind her, the fog had lifted and the full moon was clearly visible. Rebecca by moonlight; he could stare at her that way for hours, he realized.
Right after leaving Isabella’s home, he had thought about going to see Rebecca. But what should he say? That going to his former fiancée’s home had made him sad and upset? That seemed wrong. It wasn’t her problem, after all. So, instead, he came home.
Now, he realized that keeping away from her hadn’t helped at all. In fact, the more he stayed away, the more angry he felt at himself. He was torn between some vague notion of “disloyalty” to Isabella, and wanting to see the one person who made him feel alive.
He brushed a quick kiss across her lips, tamping back his desire for more, much more. This wasn’t the time. “Coffee’s ready,” he said, taking her hand and walking back inside.
They sat at the kitchen table with their coffee, and each took a big bite of fritter. “Delicious,” Richie said. “How did you know I was hungry?”
“When aren’t you hungry?” she said with a smile. “I was, too, but I didn’t want to stop for dinner and miss seeing you.”
"I'm glad you stopped by, fritters or no fritters."
Their conversation felt stilted, not at all what he wanted, but Isabella's death kept coming between them. He wanted their relationship to get back where it had been, but it couldn't, not until he had answers.
Rebecca picked the last remaining crumb of the fritter from the plate and popped it in her mouth. Resting her arms on the table, she looked straight at Richie and asked softly, “Have you picked up the laptop yet?”
He nodded. “I dropped it off at Shay’s. He’ll figure it out.”
She continued to watch him, as if trying to read his mind. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
The word seemed to upset her. “No?” she whispered.
“No. That fritter told me how hungry I am.” He tried hard to sound upbeat. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
“No,” she said flatly.
Had he heard right? “No? Why not?”
“I’d rather stay right here with you.” Her large blue eyes captured his, and wouldn’t let go. “We need to talk. Just you and me. Here. Where it's quiet and we won't be disturbed.”
“All right,” he said, but picked up his cell phone. “I'll order takeout and have it delivered. How about Indonesian?”
“Sounds good.” He ordered the food, and the two went into the living room where he put Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony on the stereo, and then joined her on the sofa.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
He knew she was referring to his visit to Isabella’s parents. “No. Not at all. Or, at least, not yet.”
She nodded, but he knew she wouldn't give up. Eventually they'd have to talk about it. “Then why don't we talk about Shay?”
“Shay?” That got his attention.
“I’m concerned about him,” she said. “I can’t prove it, but I believe he sent me on a wild goose chase.” She told him about Shay’s visit to Homicide, and that the Najjar family denied having any cousins or even knowing anyone with the names he had given her. Also, when she and Sutter scoured California records for anyone with those names, the people they found didn’t meet the profile Shay had given her of the cousins.
As Richie took in the story, he had to admit that something seemed a bit off about Shay these days. But Shay was so reserved and close mouthed, he had hesitated to ask. “It makes no sense,” he said. “Why would Shay do such a thing?”
“Has Shay ever spoken to you about any of those people? Or any Lebanese or Arab friends?”
“Not at all, although I didn’t know him nine years ago. We only met some six years back through Vito.”
“Vito? That surprises me,” she said. “Those two couldn’t be more different.”
“That’s for damn sure,” he said with a small smile. “But Vito has a cousin who was in the Special Forces and was having some PTSD issues. He’d been a sniper. Someone had the vet talk to Shay, and that was how he and Vito met. Vito was floored by the guy—by his skills, his background, and his knowledge.”
“Shay was a sniper?” Rebecca asked. “That explains a lot.”
Richie nodded. “With the Marines. I know Shay doesn’t look or act like anyone who could talk to a vet about PTSD, but apparently, he was a big help. Normally, he doesn’t talk to anyone about his past. And that includes me. I know he had been really good with computers from a young age and got a degree in computer sciences when he was only twenty. He started working in Silicon Valley, but apparently hated it there. He quit and joined the Marines. Talk about a career change. But that, too, wasn’t right. He didn’t re-up and at twenty-five he found himself in San Francisco. Here, he saw that if he pulled his tech knowledge together with learning more about businesses, he could do all right for himself. Somehow, he managed to get himself an MBA from the Wharton School of Business. And then, he really started pulling in money. That was when I met him. It seemed he had the Midas touch. Anything he touched turned a profit, and he didn’t let rules and regulations get in his way.”
“I’ve never heard of a résumé like that,” Rebecca said.
“I know, but then, how many people are like Shay? Actually, it was Vito who filled in a lot of the blanks for me. According to Vito, Shay put what he learned in Afghanistan together with his computer knowledge, business, and finance, and ended up working for people who were willing to pay him unheard of amounts of money. Most were less-than-admirable, but in time, he was rich enough to work for whoever he wanted, and to cut out the sleaze. Whether any of Vito’s account is true, I have no idea. But I do know that Shay’s biggest problem is boredom. He claims that’s why he likes getting my calls. My cases are anything but boring.”
“No kidding,” she said, grinning. “But that still doesn’t explain why he lied to me about the Najjar family.”
“You aren’t sure he lied.”
“Well, somebody’s lying. I don’t trust Gebran, and his wife seems to go along with whatever he wants, but I can’t find any hint of the cousins Shay mentioned.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Richie said.
“No, don’t. I don’t want him to think I’m complaining to you,” Rebecca said. “But why would he tell me something like that if it wasn’t true?”
Richie shook his head. He hadn't any idea, but Rebecca's assumption, as absurd as it sounded, made him want to know the truth, and if Rebecca couldn't get it, he would.
“I wonder if the Najjar family remembers Shay,” she said. “Do you have a picture of him I can borrow?”
“He doesn’t like having his picture taken,” Richie said.
“So I’ve noticed.” Then, she flashed an all-knowing smile. “But you do a lot of things people don’t like.”
“I can probably find what you need,” he said, then grinned.
She didn't grin or laugh in return. Instead, she reached out and caressed his cheek. "I need more than that."
So did he.
He wove his fingers through her hair, drawing her ever closer. Being with Rebecca, talking with her, simply sitting close took his mind off so much that haunted him. He needed her. All of her.
Now.
He kissed her softly. But quickly, the kiss deepened. He was losing himself…
All too suddenly she tore away. "Richie," she said breathlessly. "I think I heard the doorbell ring."
It took a moment for her words to register. The bell rang again and reality set in. "Oh, hell."
Dinner had arrived.
Talk about lousy timing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next afternoon, Shay stopped by Richie’s home. “That laptop was a treasure trove,” he said. “Everything we need. I’d like to hold onto it for a while, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Richie said. The two men sat in the living room. Shay had a cup of tea, and Richie poured himself some coffee, anxious to hear what Shay had learned, even though he hated the thought of learning that Isabella's death was more than tragic—but was murder, the details of which were becoming clearer all the time. Still, he was glad he could finally think about and talk about Isabella without needing strong liquor at his side.
“It was the bank’s laptop,” Shay continued. “I’m surprised they hadn’t demanded it back, except that whoever was behind the holding company scheme probably feared asking for it would put more attention on it than it had gotten to that point. And that would have been bad.”
“Really?” Richie asked.
“Isabella not only figured out what was going on between API Holding and the bank, she had proof it was illegal. What she planned to do about it was anyone’s guess.”
“Even if she had that information, where would she be going that early with it?”
“That’s what I’m working on. The four people we already identified are the same ones I’m seeing in Isabella’s material. Three live in Marin County, where we assume she was headed: Skarzer, Yamada, and Egerton. Ethan Nolan, the data operations manager, has only lived in the city. I’m thinking Isabella was either going to Marin to confront the person behind the scheme, or to tell someone about it.”
Richie shook his head. “Amazing. See what more you can find out about those four, and I’ll also do a little personal digging. You know the routine.”
“Will do. Anything e
lse you’d like me to look into?” Shay asked.
“No, but I would like you to answer a question,” Richie said.
“Oh?”
“Rebecca told me not to say anything, but she suspects you sent her on some wild goose chase, looking for cousins of a dead man—cousins who don’t exist.” Richie stopped talking, waiting for a denial or explanation.
“She does? Why? Because she can’t find them?” Shay’s voice was as cold as Richie had ever heard it.
“What’s going on?” Richie asked. “You’re not yourself. Even Rebecca knows it. She’s looking for a killer, and you’ve been curious about the victim since I first mentioned that someone found a skeleton out in Golden Gate Park.”
“It sounds like she’s becoming as paranoid as you are,” Shay said with a smirk. “You’re having a bad influence on her.”
“Funny guy. Look, I don’t want to be caught between the two of you,” Richie said. “But if you do anything that hurts Rebecca or her investigation, you’ll answer to me.”
“I’m not trying to hurt her.” Shay rose to his feet and his eyes were sadder than Richie had ever seen them. “I’m trying to help someone else.”
o0o
Rebecca drove to the Pacific House nursing home. It was a place with mostly Medi-Cal patients, California’s version of welfare with medical costs. Rebecca went to the front office, showed her badge, and asked to speak to the head of the facility.
She didn’t have to wait long. An older woman with frizzy gray hair held off her face by a couple of bobby pins on each side stepped out of an office. “I’m Ruth Willis, Pacific House’s director,” she said. “May I help you?”
“Yes.” Rebecca introduced herself. “I’d like to speak to you about one of your former patients, Fairuz Najjar.”
“Surely. But you’re in homicide? Why—?”
“Just routine, for now,” Rebecca said.
Willis looked surprisingly nervous. “Oh, I see. Well, poor woman just passed a couple of days ago. Please come into my office.”
