Transgressions

by Ed McBain

“The Boulevard and a Hundred Twelfth.”

  “Raleigh Boulevard?”

  “Yes.”

  Abbas knew the neighborhood. It was residential and safe, even at this hour. He would not drive anyone to neighborhoods that he knew to be dangerous. He would not pick up black men, even if they were accompanied by women. Nowadays, he would not pick up anyone who looked Jewish. If you asked him how he knew whether a person was Jewish or not, he would tell you he just knew. This man dressed all in black did not look Jewish.

  “Let me open it,” he said, and took his keys from the right-hand pocket of his trousers. He turned the key in the door lock and was opening the door when, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of metal. Without turning, he reached for the bread knife tucked into the door’s pouch.

  He was too late.

  The man in black fired two shots directly into his face, killing him at once.

  Then he ran off into the night.

  “Changed his MO,” Byrnes said. “The others were shot from the back seat, single bullet to the base of the skull . . .”

  “Not the one Tuesday night,” Parker said.

  “Tuesday was a copycat,” Genero said.

  “Maybe this one was, too,” Willis suggested.

  “Not if Ballistics comes back with a match,” Meyer said.

  The detectives fell silent.

  They were each and separately hoping this newest murder would not trigger another suicide bombing someplace. The Task Force downtown still hadn’t been able to get a positive ID from the smoldering remains of the Merrie Coffee Bean bomber.

  “Anybody see anything?” Byrnes asked.

  “Patrons in the diner heard shots, but didn’t see the shooter.”

  “Didn’t see him painting that blue star again?”

  “I think they were afraid to go outside,” Carella said. “Nobody wants to get shot, Pete.”

  “Gee, no kidding?” Byrnes said sourly.

  “Also, the cab was parked all the way up the street, near the corner, some six cars back from the diner, on the same side of the street. The killer had to be standing on the passenger side . . .”

  “Where he could see the driver’s hack license . . .” Eileen said.

  “Arab name on it,” Kling said.

  “Bingo, he had his victim.”

  “Point is,” Carella said, “standing where he was, the people in the diner couldn’t have seen him.”

  “Or just didn’t want to see him.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “Cause they could’ve seen him while he was painting the star,” Parker said.

  “That’s right,” Byrnes said. “He had to’ve come around to the windshield.”

  “They could’ve at least seen his back.”

  “Tell us whether he was short, tall, what he was wearing . . .”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “Talk to them again.”

  “We talked them deaf, dumb, and blind,” Meyer said.

  “Talk to them again” Byrnes said. “And talk to anybody who was in those coffee shops, diners, delis, whatever, at the scenes of the other murders. These cabbies stop for coffee breaks, two, three in the morning, they go back to their cabs and get shot. That’s no coincidence. Our man knows their habits. And he’s a night-crawler. What’s with the Inverni kid? Did his alibi stand up?”

  “Yeah, he was in bed with her,” Carella said.

  “In bed with who?” Parker asked, interested.

  “Judy Manzetti. It checked out.”

  “Okay, so talk to everybody else again,” Byrnes said. “See who might’ve been lurking about, hanging around, casing these various sites before the murders were committed.”

  “We did talk to everybody again,” Genero said.

  “Talk to them again again!”

  “They all say the same thing,” Meyer said. “It was a Jew who killed those drivers, all we have to do is look for a goddamn Jew.”

  “You’re too fucking sensitive,” Parker said.

  “I’m telling you what we’re getting. Anybody we talk to thinks it’s an open-and-shut case. All we have to do is round up every Jew in the city . . .”

  “Take forever,” Parker said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means there are millions of Jews in this city.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means you’re too fucking sensitive.”

  “Knock it off,” Byrnes said.

  “Anyway, Meyer’s right,” Genero said. “That’s what we got, too. You know that, Andy.”

  “What do I know?” Parker said, glaring at Meyer.

  “They keep telling us all we have to do is find the Jew who shot those guys in the head.”

  “Who told you that?” Carella said at once.

  Genero looked startled.

  “Who told you they got shot in the head?”

  “Well. . . they all did.”

  “No,” Parker said. “It was just the cousin, whatever the fuck his name was.”

  “What cousin?”

  “The second vie. His cousin.”

  “Salim Nazir? His cousin?”

  “Yeah, Ozzie something.”

  “Osman,” Carella said. “Osman Kiraz.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And he said these cabbies were shot in the head?”

  “Said his cousin was.”

  “Told us to stop looking for zebras.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Byrnes asked.

  “Told us to just find the Jew who shot his cousin in the head.”

  “The fucking Jew,” Parker said.

  Meyer looked at him.

  “Were his exact words,” Parker said, and shrugged.

  “How did he know?” Carella asked.

  “Go get him,” Byrnes said.

  Ozzie Kariz was asleep when they knocked on his door at nine-fifteen that Wednesday morning. Bleary-eyed and unshaven, he came to the door in pajamas over which he had thrown a shaggy blue robe, and explained that he worked at the pharmacy until midnight each night and did not get home until one, one-thirty, so he normally slept late each morning.

  “May we come in?” Carella asked.

  “Yes, sure,” Kariz said, “but we’ll have to be quiet, please. My wife is still asleep.”

  They went into a small kitchen and sat at a wooden table painted green.

  “So what’s up?” Kariz asked.

  “Few more questions we’d like to ask you.”

  “Again?” Kariz said. “I told those other two . . . what were their names?”

  “Genero and Parker.”

  “I told them I didn’t know any of my cousin’s girlfriends. Or even their names.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with his girlfriends,” Carella said.

  “Oh? Something new then? Is there some new development?”

  “Yes. Another cab driver was killed last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “You didn’t know that.”

  “No.”

  “It’s already on television.”

  “I’ve been asleep.”

  “Of course.”

  “Was he a Muslim?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was there another. . . ?”

  “Yes, another Jewish star on the windshield.”

  “This is bad,” Kiraz said. “These killings, the bombings . . .”

  “Mr. Kiraz,” Meyer said, “can you tell us where you were at three o’clock this morning?”

  “Is that when it happened?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly when it happened.”

  “Where?”

  “You tell us,” Carella said.

  Kiraz looked at them.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “How’d you know your cousin was shot in the head?” Meyer asked.

  “Was he?”

  “That’s what you told Genero and Parker. You told them a Jew shot your cousin in th
e head. How did you . . . ?”

  “And did a Jew also shoot this man last night?” Kiraz asked. “In the head?”

  “Twice in the face,” Carella said.

  “I asked you a question,” Meyer said. “How’d you know . . .?”

  “I saw his body.”

  “You saw your cousin’s . . .”

  “I went with my aunt to pick up Salim’s corpse at the morgue. After the people there were finished with him.”

  “When was this?” Meyer asked.

  “The day after he was killed.”

  “That would’ve been . . .”

  “Whenever. I accompanied my aunt to the morgue, and an ambulance took us to the mosque where they bathed the body according to Islamic law . . . they have rules, you know. Religious Muslims. They have many rules.”

  “I take it you’re not religious.”

  “I’m American now,” Kiraz said. “I don’t believe in the old ways anymore.”

  “Then what were you doing in a mosque, washing your cousin’s . . .?”

  “My aunt asked me to come. You saw her. You saw how distraught she was. I went as a family duty.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in the old ways anymore,” Carella said.

  “I don’t believe in any of the religious bullshit,” Kiraz said. “I went with her to help her. She’s an old woman. She’s alone now that her only son was killed. I went to help her.”

  “So you washed the body . . .”

  “No, the imam washed the body.”

  “But you were there when he washed the body.”

  “I was there. He washed it three times. That’s because it’s written that when the daughter of Muhammad died, he instructed his followers to wash her three times, or more than that if necessary. Five times, seven, whatever. But always an odd number of times. Never an even number. That’s what I mean about all the religious bullshit. Like having to wrap the body in three white sheets. That’s because when Muhammad died, he himself was wrapped in three white sheets. From Yemen. That’s what’s written. So God forbid you should wrap a Muslim corpse in four sheets! Oh no! It has to be three. But you have to use four ropes to tie the sheets, not three, it has to be four. And the ropes each have to be seven feet long. Not three, or four, but seven! Do you see what I mean? All mumbo-jumbo bullshit.”

  “So you’re saying you saw your cousin’s body . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “. . . while he was being washed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s how you knew he was shot in the head.”

  “Yes. I saw the bullet wound at the base of his skull. Anyway, where else would he have been shot? If his murderer was sitting behind him in the taxi. . .”

  “How do you know that?”

  “What?”

  “How do you know his murderer was inside the taxi?”

  “Well, if Salim was shot at the back of the head, his murderer had to be sitting . . .”

  “Oz?”

  She was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a diminutive woman with large brown eyes, her long ebony hair trailing down the back of the yellow silk robe she wore over a long white nightgown.

  “Badria, good morning,” Kiraz said. “My wife, gentlemen. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names.”

  “Detective Carella.”

  “Detective Meyer.”

  “How do you do?” Badria said. “Have you offered them coffee?” she asked her husband.

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Gentlemen? Some coffee?”

  “None for me, thanks,” Carella said.

  Meyer shook his head.

  “Oz? Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please,” he said. There was a faint amused smile on his face now. “As an illustration,” he said, “witness my wife.”

  The detectives didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “The wearing of silk is expressly forbidden in Islamic law,” he said. “‘Do not wear silk, for one who wears it in the world will not wear it in the Hereafter.’ That’s what’s written. You’re not allowed to wear yellow clothing, either, because ‘these are the clothes usually worn by nonbelievers,’ quote unquote. But here’s my beautiful wife wearing a yellow silk robe, oh shame unto her,” Kiraz said, and suddenly began laughing.

  Badria did not laugh with him.

  Her back to the detectives, she stood before a four-burner stove, preparing her husband’s coffee in a small brass pot with a tin lining.

  “ ‘A man was wearing clothes dyed in saffron,’ ” Kiraz said, apparently quoting again, his laughter trailing, his face becoming serious again. “ ‘And finding that Muhammad disapproved of them, he promised to wash them. But the Prophet said, Burn them!’ ” That’s written, too. So tell me, Badria. Should we burn your pretty yellow silk robe? What do you think, Badria?”

  Badria said nothing.

  The aroma of strong Turkish coffee filled the small kitchen.

  “You haven’t answered our very first question,” Meyer said.

  “And what was that? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Where were you at three o’clock this morning?”

  “I was here,” Kiraz said. “Asleep. In bed with my beautiful wife. Isn’t that so, Badria?”

  Standing at the stove in her yellow silk robe, Badria said nothing.

  “Badria? Tell the gentlemen where I was at three o’clock this morning.”

  She did not turn from the stove.

  Her back still to them, her voice very low, Badria Kiraz said, “I don’t know where you were, Oz.”

  The aroma of the coffee was overpowering now.

  “But you weren’t here in bed with me,” she said.

  Nellie Brand left the District Attorney’s Office at eleven that Wednesday morning and was uptown at the Eight-Seven by a little before noon. She had cancelled an important lunch date, and even before the detectives filled her in, she warned them that this better be real meat here.

  Osman Kiraz had already been read his rights and had insisted on an attorney before he answered any questions. Nellie wasn’t familiar with the man he chose. Gulbuddin Amin was wearing a dark-brown business suit, with a tie and vest. Nellie was wearing a suit, too. Hers was a Versace, and it was a deep shade of green that complimented her blue eyes and sand-colored hair. Amin had a tidy little mustache and he wore eyeglasses. His English was impeccable, with a faint Middle-Eastern accent. Nellie guessed he might originally have come from Afghanistan, as had his client. She guessed he was somewhere in his mid fifties. She herself was thirty-two.

  The police clerk’s fingers were poised over the stenotab machine. Nellie was about to begin the questioning when Amin said, “I hope this was not a frivolous arrest, Mrs. Brand.”

  “No, counselor. . .”

  “. . . because that would be a serious mistake in a city already fraught with Jewish-Arab tensions.”

  “I would not use the word frivolous to describe this arrest,” Nellie said.

  “In any case, I’ve already advised my client to remain silent.”

  “Then we have nothing more to do here,” Nellie said, briskly dusting the palm of one hand against the other. “Easy come, easy go. Take him away, boys, he’s all yours.”

  “Why are you afraid of her?” Kiraz asked his lawyer.

  Amin responded in what Nellie assumed was Arabic.

  “Let’s stick to English, shall we?” she said. “What’d you just say, counselor?”

  “My comment was privileged.”

  “Not while your man’s under oath, it isn’t.”

  Amin sighed heavily.

  “I told him I’m afraid of no woman.”

  “Bravo!” Nellie said, applauding, and then looked Kiraz dead in the eye. “How about you?” she asked. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Of course not!”

  “So would you like to answer some questions?”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Yes or no? It’s your
call. I haven’t got all day here.”

  “I would like to answer her questions,” Kiraz told his lawyer.

  Amin said something else in Arabic.

  “Let us in on it,” Nellie said.

  “I told him it’s his own funeral,” Amin said.

  Q: Mr. Kiraz, would you like to tell us where you were at three this morning?

  A: I was at home in bed with my wife.

  Q: You wife seems to think otherwise.

  A: My wife is mistaken.

  Q: Well, she’ll be subpoenaed before the grand jury, you know, and she’ll have to tell them under oath whether you were in bed with her or somewhere else.

  A: I was home. She was in bed with me.

  Q: You yourself are under oath right this minute, you realize that, don’t you?

  A: I realize it.

  Q: You swore on the Koran, did you not? You placed your left hand on the Koran and raised your right hand . . .

  A: I know what I did.

  Q: Or does that mean anything to you?

  Q: Mr. Kiraz?

  Q: Mr. Kiraz, does that mean anything to you? Placing your hand on the Islamic holy book . . .

  A: I heard you.

  Q: May I have your answer, please?

  A: My word is my bond. It doesn’t matter whether I swore on the Koran or not.

  Q: Well, good, I’m happy to hear that. So tell me, Mr. Kiraz, where were you on these other dates at around two in the morning? Friday, May second . . . Saturday, May third . . . and Monday, May fifth. All at around two in the morning, where were you, Mr. Kiraz?

  A: Home asleep. I work late. I get home around one, one-fifteen. I go directly to bed.

  Q: Do you know what those dates signify?

  A: I have no idea.

  Q: You don’t read the papers, is that it?

  A: I read the papers. But those dates . . .

  Q: Or watch television? You don’t watch television?

  A: I work from four to midnight. I rarely watch television.

  Q: Then you don’t know about these Muslim cab drivers who were shot and killed, is that it?

  A: I know about them. Is that what those dates are? Is that when they were killed?

  Q: How about Saturday, May third? Does that date hold any particular significance for you?

  A: Not any more than the other dates.

  Q: Do you know who was killed on that date?

  A: No.

  Q: Your cousin. Salil Nazir.

  A: Yes.

  Q: Yes what?