by Zoë Ferraris
She sat in the lab for three hours before an urgency to leave the building finally got the better of her. Using the cab fare Ibrahim had given her, she went back to Chamelle Plaza, convinced that she would come to another dead end. It surprised her, then, that the barista Amal came around the counter to greet Katya and point her to a corner table where a woman was sitting completely cloaked and veiled, holding her shoulders in a dejected way, with a cup of coffee in front of her.
“That’s the girl,” Amal whispered. “She came back this morning.”
Katya went immediately to the table. “Excuse me,” she said. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
The woman looked up at her, a pair of eyes barely visible in the shadows of her veil. She didn’t speak.
Katya sat down. The woman tensed.
“I’m here about Sabria,” Katya said.
The woman sat up. Her eyes showed alarm. “Why isn’t she here?”
“I don’t know. I’m looking for her.”
“You know her?”
“No,” Katya said. “I’m doing this for a friend.”
“What friend?”
Katya sighed. “Someone she loved.”
The girl’s eyes showed skepticism. “What do you want?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Sabria,” Katya said. “She went missing from her apartment.”
“Are you with the police?”
“I told you, I’m working with a friend. Why were you meeting her here?”
The girl didn’t reply.
“Was she giving you something?” Katya asked.
The girl looked as if she might get up.
“Look,” Katya said, “this may be the only way we can find out what happened to her.”
“I don’t know where she is,” the girl said.
“I know.” Katya was feeling exasperated now. “But if you can tell me what she was doing here, it might help us find her.”
The girl stood up, put her fingertips on the table. Her hand was shaking. “You people put an innocent girl in jail,” she said. “Her name is Carmelita Rizal. If you want more information, go and talk to her.” She strode off. Katya got up and followed her.
“Who is Carmelita Rizal?” she asked.
The woman spun on her and screamed, “Don’t touch me!” Nearby shoppers turned to stare at Katya, and she backed away. The girl ran off, disappearing into the crowd.
A quick database search revealed that a woman named Carmelita Rizal was currently being held at Briman Women’s Prison in Jeddah. Katya went back to Ibrahim’s office but the door was locked and the light was off. She didn’t even see Daher at his usual spot near the coffeemaker in the hall.
She was ready to go to the women’s prison right now. She felt the same urgency she had all day, but Ayman wasn’t answering his phone, and she didn’t have enough money left for a taxi. Besides, she wasn’t even sure that she could get into the prison. She needed to talk to Ibrahim. He was the only person who could facilitate the meeting discreetly.
Annoyed, she went back upstairs to the lab.
31
Two plainclothes officers finally caught Hajar on Saturday morning, when he came to the dispatch office to pick up his “bonus.”
In person, Hajar was even more disturbing than his photograph suggested. During Ibrahim’s previous stint in Homicide, a senior officer once told him that you could always spot a psychopath because they had too much white showing in the upper part of their eyes. It wasn’t an affectation, more of a permanent, even genetic trait. If that was true, Ibrahim reflected, it was probably because psychopaths spent so much time staring aggressively at other people. That stare made him feel as if he were being eaten.
They’d brought Hajar into the station while the police searched his apartment. He said he rented a small basement room in a building in Kandara, not far from the Sitteen Street Bridge.
Ibrahim began speaking to him.
“How long have you lived in Kandara?” Ibrahim asked.
Hajar didn’t blink.
“Is that where you prefer to pick your women up?” Ibrahim waited.
Hajar didn’t move.
“You might as well answer. We’ve got you for murder.”
“It’s not right to kill people.” Although the tone had a careful neutrality, he kept that unblinking, sharklike gaze locked on Ibrahim, and he appeared to be harboring a quiet, deadly rage. Ibrahim understood why Imam Arsheedy had been so unsettled by the man.
He opened a folder and took out two photographs of May Lozano, one showing her alive, the other dead. He laid another photo beneath that. It showed Amina al-Fouad.
“May Lozano,” he said, pointing to the photo, “was kidnapped by a man driving a Red Crescent emergency vehicle. Exactly like the one parked in front of your apartment building. We found the keys to it in your living room. I find it very odd that you even own a van like that.”
Hajar looked unimpressed.
“Amina al-Fouad,” Ibrahim went on, “was kidnapped in a taxi in front of the Jamjoom Center. We know you drive a regular route to Jamjoom.”
Then Ibrahim laid a photo of Maria Reyes on the table. Watching Hajar for a reaction, he was disturbed to see none. “All of these women were kidnapped from the area around the Sitteen Street Bridge, which is not very far from your apartment.” This wasn’t true, but he wanted to see how Hajar responded. Again, there was nothing. “And of course, there’s this.” He pushed another folder across the table, flipped it open. Hajar’s criminal record was inside. “You have a history of assaulting women.”
Hajar didn’t bother glancing at the folder.
“Where were you three weeks ago on Sunday afternoon?” Ibrahim asked.
“I don’t know. Probably working.” Hajar’s voice was monotone.
“Do you remember any of your fares? Could anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”
When Hajar didn’t reply, Ibrahim went on, “So you don’t have an alibi either?”
A light rap on the door and Majdi came in, holding another folder. He bent and whispered something to Ibrahim before leaving. Ibrahim opened the new folder.
“It looks like forensics has already found blood and hair in the back of your van.”
For the first time, Hajar looked smug. “It’s a Red Crescent van.”
“They found it on the inside wall in the back of the van,” Ibrahim said. “Most victims get put into vans on a stretcher. This blood was nowhere near the stretcher, but it was in the place you might expect to find blood if you bashed a woman’s face against the van’s wall. It was close to the roof, so she was probably standing. Maybe even fighting back.”
He felt it then, the first tremor of fear coming from Hajar.
There was another noise outside the door. This time Chief Riyadh came in. Ibrahim saw immediately that something was wrong. When Ubaid and two men from Undercover showed their faces in the hallway behind Riyadh, Ibrahim went numb.
With a tilt of his chin, Riyadh motioned him out the door. Ibrahim got up.
In the hallway, Chief Riyadh said, “Why don’t we go up to my office.” It wasn’t a question. They followed him silently. Two long minutes of dread formed a strange parallel of disbelief and acceptance around Ibrahim. He knew they’d come for him, that they’d found something. He knew, from the expression on Chief Riyadh’s face, that he was no longer in charge of the Angel case. But he couldn’t believe it. It seemed ludicrous when they sat across from Riyadh’s desk and Ubaid said, in his delicate, almost seductive voice, “We’ve found evidence, Inspector Zahrani, that your relations with Miss Sabria Gampon were much more intimate than you described in our previous conversation.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Ibrahim replied. His voice sounded a thousand miles away.
“Well, I’d rather not be specific, but we found ample biological evidence that you were in her apartment within the past month and that you were in fact sharing her bed.” Ubaid seemed angry when he said it, as if having to make a st
atement like this—even in the privacy of an office—was an offense that Ibrahim should have spared him. Sharing her bed. If he weren’t so numb, so helpless in his own shock, Ibrahim might have said, Actually, I shared more than her bed, just to see what it would do to Ubaid’s grotesque face.
Riyadh’s expression showed disappointment and a touch of its own anger. Riyadh was justified in that, at least. He was about to lose the chief investigator of his most important case.
“I think that, as a police officer,” Ubaid went on, “you understand that it is incumbent upon us to uphold standards of decency—perhaps even more so than other citizens, for we are the law.
“I’ve arranged for these officers to bring you into custody. Discreetly, of course. And in the name of discretion, we’ll be taking you to one of the private facilities near the central office to answer some questions.”
They were trying to avoid putting him in the same building as his brother. Clearly Omar didn’t know about this yet.
Riyadh looked as if he might protest, but what could he have said? I need this man—he’s the only one who can solve the Angel case? There were other men, probably more suitable than him, if less pliable. A stronger chief might have slammed down his fist and said with great passion that virtue crimes didn’t matter when the greater danger to the city was the fact that a serial killer was on the loose. In God’s name, could they not wait? But Riyadh was not that man. And who could blame him? What he would have had to go up against was too big for a single person to tackle.
Ubaid stood quickly and motioned to his men. They circled Ibrahim, who stood politely. He considered, very briefly, making a run for it, but the idea seemed ludicrous. He’d been running this whole time, from his wife, from Undercover and its restrictions, from his brother’s prestige and what it had done to his career, and finally from the responsibility of finding Sabria. As the men led him out the door, he realized that he wasn’t tired of running; it was just that his gut, his trusted instincts, were telling him that the game was up.
32
Sunday morning, Katya walked into the situation room and saw that her desk was gone. The black curtains had been taken down and the poles leaned against the wall. The numerous file boxes and all of the materials she’d arranged on the desk had disappeared completely. She stared in shock.
Gathering herself, she went back into the hall, feeling flushed and vulnerable and angry. She saw a few officers outside Ibrahim’s door, but behind her someone called her name. It was Adara.
“I have something in the lab for you,” she said.
“Oh,” Katya replied. “I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Why don’t you come down now?”
Mindlessly, she followed Adara to the elevator. When they were inside it and the doors had closed, Adara said, “Ibrahim Zahrani was arrested last night. He’s being charged with adultery.” Katya felt dizzy. “Apparently he was sleeping with one of his former workers from Undercover, a woman who has since gone missing. Chief Riyadh turned the Angel investigation over to Mu’tazz.”
“I can’t—” Katya was almost speechless. “What?”
The elevator doors opened and they walked out. As they passed by the men’s autopsy room, Katya saw Abu-Musa sitting quietly at his desk reading a book and enjoying a cup of tea.
“Who did this?” she whispered.
“Some men from Undercover,” Adara replied.
“Are you sure it wasn’t someone in Homicide?”
Adara didn’t reply until they’d entered the women’s autopsy room and shut the door.
“Abu-Musa has no reason to turn him in, if that’s what you mean,” Adara said.
“Abu-Musa hasn’t done any work on this case, has he?”
“No, he hasn’t,” Adara said. “All of the bodies were women’s, and of course he won’t touch them. He stands guard to make sure that nobody else touches them either, so I suppose we should be grateful.”
Katya sat down in the room’s only chair. “I just can’t believe it.”
“You mean about Zahrani?”
“Yes. He’s in charge of this investigation!”
“I know.” Adara leaned against the counter.
“Damn it!” Katya felt herself choking up. “So that’s why they removed my workspace in the situation room. Mu’tazz doesn’t want a woman on the case.” She looked up at Adara, expecting to see strength in her expression, the kind of look her mother used to give her when she felt sorry for herself. Instead, she saw sympathy.
“I know about Zahrani’s girlfriend and that she went missing,” Katya said. “He had nothing to do with it. He was looking for her, and I was helping him.”
Adara didn’t look surprised, just curious.
“We still don’t know what happened to her. I managed to track down a woman she was meeting at the Chamelle shopping mall, and the woman gave me the name of another woman, who is currently in prison, saying she could explain everything. I was waiting for Zahrani to help me get into the prison. I still haven’t told him about this other woman.”
“Well, you can’t tell him now. He’s in an interrogation facility somewhere.”
“What’s going to happen?” Katya asked.
“Apparently they have enough evidence to convict him of adultery. Majdi heard from Osama that the men who are charging him are ultra-religious types who are on a crusade. They’re looking for someone to make an example of. He knew them in Undercover and it seems there’s some bad history there.”
“Will they really take him to court?”
“That’s what everyone thinks.”
“This is crazy!” Katya put her head in her hands. “Allah, I’m not sure I can do this anymore. I’ve been pulling ten-hour shifts, taking files home with me. I know I’m not supposed to, but it’s the only way I can get all the work done. I’m trying to take care of the house, my father, and my cousin…. I get about four hours of sleep a night. And on top of it all—” She looked up at Adara. “On top of that, I’m getting married next month. I know I haven’t told you this, and I’m sorry, it’s just… I still haven’t found a dress.”
She began to cry. It was so mortifying that she buried her face in her hands. Adara squeezed her shoulder.
“La hawla walla kuwata illa billa,” Adara said. There is no strength or power but Allah.
Katya nodded, too overcome to speak.
“And you have His strength.” Adara released her. “I’m glad you were helping Zahrani.”
Katya forced a smile. “I’m sorry about this. I shouldn’t be crying.”
“Don’t worry.”
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“Of course not,” Adara said. “But I do expect an invitation to the wedding.”
Katya smiled. “Done.”
Adara handed her a tissue. She wiped her eyes.
“I have to get to the Briman women’s prison,” she said. “I know that this woman knows something about Sabria. It might be important for Zahrani that I find out. I just don’t know how to get in there.”
“I’m sure you’ll need clearance,” Adara said. She turned to the counter and began unpacking a box of supplies. “I can think of one person who would be willing to give you that right now. But you’d have to tell him what you know.”
“Who?”
“Waseem Daher.”
“You must be joking.” Katya stood up. “He’d report me as an adulteress just for talking to him. What do you think he would do to Zahrani?”
Adara gave her a reprimanding look. “What do you know about Waseem Daher?”
“He’s a jerk.”
“When Daher was six years old, his father died in a car accident because Daher was in the backseat making too much noise.” She grimaced. “I think the lieutenant would be willing to make a phone call on your behalf, especially if it meant doing something that might help exonerate his favorite father figure.”
Katya sat back down. This didn’t remove the sting of her anger. She could already see the
smug look on Daher’s face when he learned that she’d been booted from the situation room.
“Did you really have something to show me?” she asked.
“Inspector Zahrani wasn’t enough?”
The interrogation room was cold, which would have been a luxury if he hadn’t felt so cold himself. A coldness to match the stone defiance in his heart. He wasn’t going to tell them anything. And frankly, it would be an insult for them to ask. Adultery suspects never confessed. They all knew the state needed four witnesses to prove anything. Four witnesses who actually saw the act. Even now, with photographs and DNA evidence, a judge wasn’t going to sentence him without witnesses. That’s what Sharia said. He could probably weasel his way out of the rest.
At first it was inconceivable that this could actually go to court, but as the hours crept by and the room grew colder, Ibrahim began to realize that they weren’t going to question him because they already had everything they needed. They must have bribed or threatened the other tenants of Sabria’s building to testify against him. Because Ubaid was determined.
That evening, the guards took him to a holding cell, where he was fed a warm meal and given a copy of the Quran and a remote handset that would control the AC. He grew angry then. They had promised him an interrogation. Where the hell were they? The next morning, the guards came back at the first call to prayer to offer him a prayer mat and water for ablutions, which he took. Afterward, they led him back to the interrogation room, where he waited alone.
The fears grew magnificent; he couldn’t seem to control them. He knew they’d found Sabria. She was dead. Strangled, beaten, shot. And they believed he had killed her. They were now assembling the case against him. They would say he’d known about her liaisons with other men. That he stumbled upon her in bed with a john and that he’d killed her in a jealous rage, then hid the body. Afterward, he’d lied to the police and, most crucially, failed to report her disappearance. But surely they could see that he didn’t report her missing because he was afraid of being accused of adultery?
