by Zoë Ferraris
Five minutes later there was a tap on the door, and Ayman came in looking exasperated. “You’d better come in. Abu-monkey is out.”
“What did you call him?”
Ayman looked sheepish. “Abu-monkey.”
Nayir stood up, saying as he did so, “You shouldn’t speak ill of your uncle.”
“Well, actually, it’s not my uncle who’s the monkey,” Ayman replied. Nayir was in no mood to debate the finer points of the name. “Abu-monkey. Father of the monkey,” Ayman said. “Katya’s the monkey. She’s being a grouch.”
Nayir paused. “Perhaps I’d better come back later.”
“Perhaps you’d better not.” Ayman’s look of warning said Don’t you dare leave me alone with that woman.
“I just wanted to give her something,” Nayir said, feeling more anxious. “It’s about a case.”
“Oh. Sure.”
And before he could hand it to Ayman, the boy was off down the hallway. Nayir followed with growing dread. He hadn’t come this far into Katya’s house the last time he was here, and entering now, when she had no warning, seemed the height of rudeness.
She was sitting at a computer in the living room. It was right off the kitchen, and the smell of coffee wafted out of the pass-through. She wasn’t wearing a headscarf and her hair, a deep silky brown, glittered in the light of the table lamp. She was so engrossed in her work that she didn’t turn around, and when she did, he realized why she had hesitated: she was wearing headphones. On the computer screen behind her, a video interview was playing out.
For a moment her expression wavered. “Oh!” She stood up quickly, taking off her headphones and grabbing a red scarf from the desk. She fastened it around her hair, shooting an unpleasant look at Ayman, who was already scurrying out of the room. Obviously, he hadn’t told Katya that he’d be bringing Nayir back with him.
“It’s nice to see you,” she said. “Ahlan. Have a seat.” She motioned to a pair of sofas behind him. Despite the hospitable sweep of her arm, he sensed a coldness in her. He didn’t sit down.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” he said.
“You’re not.” But the words were formal, stiff. She was wearing a modest, light gray robe and a pair of old house slippers with fuzzy leopard stripes that somehow delighted him and also managed to make him feel more invasive.
“Please sit,” she said. “Let me get you some coffee.”
“No, thank you,” he said, perhaps too abruptly.
She stood staring at him. Behind her, the computer screen flickered with images of the inside of someone’s home.
“Leila’s video footage,” she said by way of explanation. It was eight o’clock at night but here she was, still working. At any moment her father could walk in.
“I’m glad to see you made it back from the desert,” she said.
He wasn’t sure what to say. It occurred to him that she probably knew why he’d gone out there and what he’d done to save Miriam. She seemed to be expecting an apology of some sort.
“I needed to get away,” he said. She appeared to find this answer inadequate, because her face darkened. “And I was worried about Miriam,” he added.
She didn’t reply.
“I wanted to show you something,” he said quickly. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a computer disc and handed it to her. She took it with an odd expression on her face.
“I got a phone call yesterday from SynTech,” he explained, “the company that Eric Walker used to work for. Do you remember they accused him of stealing surveillance equipment?”
“Yes.”
“They finally managed to track down the missing items,” he said. “They had been stored in a box in the equipment room, but it was hidden behind a bunch of other boxes, so they didn’t see it at first. All the equipment was still inside, and it was working properly. They found this disc wedged beneath one of the flaps at the bottom of the box.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“The supplies disappeared when Eric went on leave. That’s why they suspected him. Obviously anyone could have taken the equipment, but whoever did it also brought everything back. They just stuffed it in a box and hid it so that if anyone noticed it was missing, they would later think they had misplaced it and simply overlooked it.
“When Eric’s boss, Mr. Shaw, found the disc, he figured it was a clue to the thief’s identity, and he started asking questions of his staff. He showed them what was on the disc. Nobody knew the slightest thing about it, so he called me, hoping I could shed some light on the subject.”
“And did you?”
“I’m not sure.” He motioned to the computer and they both sat down. Her smell wafted over him and set a hammer banging around in his chest. He stole a glance at her face and saw the excitement in it. However disgruntled she might be at him for running off to the desert after Miriam, he hoped that now she might forgive him.
“Where’s your father?” he asked.
“Having dinner with friends.” She took Leila’s DVD out and slid the new disc into the drive. He noticed that she wasn’t wearing the engagement ring, and it gave him an involuntary flutter of hope.
“Don’t worry,” she added a little coolly. “My father trusts you.”
He was spared having to reply when footage from a video surveillance camera appeared on the computer screen. It showed the inside of what looked like a department store, but it was nighttime and most of the lights were out. Only a few dim lamps at the cash register illuminated the scene. They watched as a man walked into view. Katya clapped a hand to her mouth.
“Do you recognize him?” Nayir asked.
She nodded. The man walked to the cash register, opened it, and removed the cash, stuffing it hastily into a brown zippered bag. Then he went around the store. Because he moved out of the light, it took them a while to see what he was doing, but when he came back toward the register, they saw him snatch a number of clothes items from a rack. He stuffed these into a large trash bag that was already bulging.
“I think it’s lingerie,” Nayir said, trying not to look too flustered. Katya nodded gravely.
“It is,” she said. “That’s the inside of Abdulrahman’s store. He owns a lingerie boutique.”
“I remember,” he said.
She looked at him. “You do?”
It was the kind of detail he wouldn’t be likely to forget, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
“That’s Fuad,” Katya said. “He’s Abdulrahman’s assistant.”
“And he works at the store?”
“Yes.” She looked at Nayir. He could tell she was on the verge of a realization, but her complete and sudden lack of self-consciousness made her startlingly beautiful. Unadorned, sitting here in her house robe, excited by the imminent discovery—she couldn’t have been more glamorous. He fought an insane urge to lean forward and kiss her.
“So Eric must have stolen the equipment for Leila,” she said. “They set up surveillance of Leila’s brother’s store. She must have suspected that someone who worked there was stealing. But then how did this disc end up in the box that Eric returned to his office?”
Nayir had thought of this already. “She probably made a backup copy,” he said. “I think it’s possible she wasn’t going to tell her brother about it, but she was going to take the problem directly to Fuad. That would explain why she would have hidden the disc.”
“You’re saying she was going to blackmail Fuad?”
“What if she confronted him?” Nayir asked. “Do you think Leila’s knowledge of his crimes would be enough motive for him to murder her?”
Slowly, Katya nodded. “It’s possible. Fuad takes his job very seriously. And Abdulrahman is a tyrant. If he’d discovered Fuad stealing, he wouldn’t just have fired him, he would have made sure he was punished…” She trailed off, thinking. “But if Eric knew about this, then why didn’t he do something when Leila went missing? He would have suspected Fuad.”
“He must not have kno
wn,” Nayir said. “The disc was in the box, and it was hidden at the bottom. He probably didn’t even look at it.”
“Which means that Leila didn’t tell him about it. She just put the disc in the box for safekeeping?”
“Probably. Let’s say she was going to use it to blackmail Fuad. If Eric knew about the theft and realized later that Abdulrahman hadn’t fired Fuad, he might have suspected her of blackmail.”
“Sure. She didn’t want anyone to know.” Katya fell silent. “And here everyone thought Leila was killed because she was filming prostitutes and interacting with strange men.”
The imam’s words came back to Nayir. Many women expose themselves to strange men because they are looking for a husband. However much she had softened toward him in the past five minutes, one thing remained obvious: Katya was devoted to her job. And the thought of asking her to give that up in order to raise children suddenly seemed like the most selfish thing he had ever conceived. But now that he was facing it, now that it was plain she couldn’t be happy in the role of wife, why wasn’t he walking away? Why didn’t he finish the conversation and take his leave?
“Will you have dinner with me?” he asked instead, shocking them both.
“Oh.” She looked startled and embarrassed. “I already ate, but…”
“No, not tonight. But soon.”
Was it fear in her eyes? “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I’d like that.”
He stood up, feeling as if he had suddenly been endowed with thirteen hands. “I’d better go.”
“Nayir, thank you.” She motioned to the computer.
“It’s no problem.”
“One more thing,” she said.
About to turn and leave, he froze. “Yes?”
“I lied about being married,” she said.
He held his breath. Her face colored brightly, but she didn’t turn away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t tell them that you were my husband, it’s just… they had to think I was married or they wouldn’t have hired me. They just assumed you…” She waved her hand. When he didn’t reply, she went on. “Osama knows the truth now.”
“Ah.”
“And I’m sorry to have involved you in this.”
He nodded. “It’s all right.” After a moment of awkwardness, he said, “Will you be keeping your job?”
“Yes,” she replied carefully. “For now.”
He never thought the day would come when he would be relieved to hear that news. “That’s good,” he said.
She seemed surprised by this, and gave a nervous smile.
“Well,” he said, “tisbah al-khayr.” Good night. And he was heading down the hallway before she could say anything more that might prompt him to kiss her—or realize what a fool he’d been.
He left the building without waiting for her to reach the door, turning only once to give a polite wave and then noticing, with a jolt like adrenaline, that the street was wet, the windows glimmering in the lamplight, while a soft dewy rain touched his face and hands. As he walked, the rain fell harder, splashing up at his feet, crackling around him like electric pulses, whipping against him until his shirt was plastered to his chest and he began to smile. Rain! People were coming out of their homes, children rushing into it with squeals of delight, women and men leaning from balconies and staring up at the miraculous sky as if to ask Allah why He had waited so long, so very, very long, to bless them.
48
Katya watched Fuad’s thin, drawn face through the interrogation room’s one-way glass. She had arrived early and planted herself at the very edge of the window, taking a chair to be less conspicuous.
Fuad had been sitting there for a few hours now, waiting for Osama, but she knew that the detective was drawing it out. She only hoped that she could remain where she was, and that none of the male techs or officers would come in and begin acting ruffled by the presence of a woman. Or worse, they might tell her to get back to the lab to begin processing the evidence they’d collected from Fuad’s kitchen. This could be a very big finale to a gruesome case, and she was sure everyone would want to see it. She remained, however, determined to keep her place.
Early that morning, she had shown the video from SynTech to Osama, and he had immediately gone to arrest Fuad. The forensics team swept in and quickly found evidence that someone had been injured in Fuad’s kitchen. There was blood spatter on the floor that had been hastily cleaned with detergent and traces of blood on one of his cooking knives. The most damning discovery was a trace of blood on an old ‘iqal. Katya had spent the whole day waiting restlessly in the lab, but there was so much evidence to collect—blood samples, clothing fibers, knives and bottles of cooking oil, fingerprints and hairs—that forensics was no doubt still at the house and would be there most of the night.
Half an hour later Osama poked his head in and smiled at her. A few lab techs trailed in behind him. Before she could say anything Osama swooped back out.
When he returned, he was holding two cups of coffee. He handed one to her. “I expected to see you here. You’ve done a lot on this case.”
She took that as a compliment and smiled.
“And it’s all thanks to you that we have the video footage,” he said.
“That was Nayir,” she replied.
“I know, but without you, we wouldn’t have Nayir.”
He left a minute later and she looked down at her coffee to hide her face from the techs. She was sure she was beaming, and the slightest hint of indiscretion between her and Osama could still jeopardize her career.
As Osama entered the interrogation room Fuad looked up with disgust. A television had been set up in the corner, hooked up to a DVD player. Other than that, they had made the room as unwelcoming as possible. Nothing but a table, two chairs, and a linoleum floor. No one had offered coffee or chips. There wasn’t even a wastebasket. Overhead, fluorescent lights cast an ugly white light directly onto the table, making Fuad’s face look hollow and gray. The air vent was wide open, but the air conditioner was clearly off. Katya could feel the room’s sticky heat through the glass.
Fuad looked worn out. His shirt was rumpled, and a few strands of his neatly slicked-back hair were dangling in his face. He sat in a kind of rigid stupor.
Osama switched on the television. The surveillance video appeared on the screen. Fuad watched it with an impassive face. When it was over, Osama switched it off and turned to Fuad.
“Obviously, you’ve stolen from Abdulrahman more than this one time. Leila suspected you, and that’s why she set up the surveillance.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Fuad said. His voice was mechanical.
Two men came into the room behind Katya. She didn’t turn around, but when they came to stand in front of the viewing window, she recognized the detective they called Abu-Haitham, who was reputed to be so deeply conservative that he had once refused to take a female killer into custody because she would have to ride in the car with him alone. The other man was young and had followed Abu-Haitham into the room in a deferential way. Katya couldn’t be sure, but he looked like one of the floaters. She didn’t lower her burqa. The men ignored her completely.
“How do you think he’s going to handle it?” the floater asked. His voice indicated that he was referring to Osama’s tactic for extracting a confession.
“Not sure,” Abu-Haitham grunted. “He’ll have figured out what he can about this guy. It doesn’t hurt to make him wait, either.”
“He’s been in there for what, six hours?” the floater asked. Abu-Haitham nodded.
Katya’s attention returned to the interrogation room. Osama was saying, “It’s also obvious that Leila didn’t tell her brother what you’d done, because if she had, you wouldn’t still be working for him.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Fuad replied in that same monotone.
“This one’s going to need some convincing,” Abu-Haitham remarked. Katya felt her shoulders tingle, and a cold sensation slid through her chest. He was talking about torture. The float
er was quiet, staring resolutely at the window.
“I don’t get the feeling Abdulrahman is a very forgiving man,” Osama said.
But before Osama could finish, Fuad interjected: “I didn’t kill her.”
Katya’s nerves were beginning to fray. There was still some doubt that Fuad was the killer—after all, anyone could have killed Leila in his house—but he was an accessory at the very least, not to mention a thief. She wanted to march into the room and wring his neck, or maybe wrap an ‘iqal around it and strangle him until the fear bulged in his eyes and he could barely spit out a confession. He had them at an impasse. He knew—they all knew—that the evidence might not be enough. It would depend entirely on which judge heard the case. All that really mattered was a confession, and who in his right mind was going to give that up when the penalty for murder was death?
There was always the chance that Leila’s family—in this case Abdulrahman and his brothers—would agree to pardon the killer in exchange for blood money, but given that Abdulrahman was so stingy and that he would have learned by now that Fuad had been stealing from him, there was little prospect of his taking the high road and pardoning Fuad for murder as well. No doubt Fuad was asking himself now whether blood money could get him out of this. Could he, who was probably rich only by virtue of having stolen from his boss in the first place, come up with enough money to tempt Abdulrahman into pardoning him? Given Fuad’s current recalcitrance, the answer seemed to be no.
Abruptly, Osama left the interrogation room. Abu-Haitham and the floater walked out of the observation room to meet him. Katya waited until they were almost outside before rising, heading for the door, and reaching it just in time to slip her toe into the gap to keep it from closing. She listened to the conversation in the hall.
“I’m going to wait a few more hours,” Osama said.
“He’s going to say those same four words all night if you don’t do something more drastic,” Abu-Haitham said.
“I think in a few hours we’ll have enough evidence to throw in his face,” Osama went on. “Given the amount of stuff that forensics has got on him and the condition he’ll be in if we don’t go in there for a while, we shouldn’t have to work too hard to get a confession from the guy.”
