City of Veils (26 page)

“Well,” Majdi said, “the victim’s blood test came back negative for drugs. It doesn’t really change Adara’s report, though. She still thinks that the victim was killed before she was dumped in the ocean and that she died from a broken neck. Meanwhile, I’ve been looking at the ocean current reports from the coast guard, and it’s going to be impossible to figure out where the body was dumped. The problem is, we don’t know the victim’s time of death, and the currents vary so much on this part of the shore that we really do need to narrow it down. I’ve put that aside for now.”

“What about the documents we found in the victim’s dresser?” Osama asked.

Majdi motioned to a computer on a corner desk. “We had a specialist in yesterday afternoon, a friend of Katya’s named Nayir Sharqi. He noticed a few errors in the text that made him think that these documents were possibly early copies of the Quran that had been written down incorrectly, in which case they should have been burned. Apparently, early versions with mistakes in them were also buried, so I’m thinking it’s possible that if these documents are genuinely antique, they could be from one of those poorly copied Qurans that were buried instead of burned. We also had an archaeologist in this morning. He said it would be difficult to determine just how old the documents really are without seeing them. As you know, all we have are the photographs. Preliminarily, however, he thought there was a good chance they were authentic texts from early Islam. But none of this explains what the documents were doing taped under Leila’s dresser drawer.”

Osama nodded.

“So I switched tactics,” Majdi said, “and decided to scan them for fingerprints.”

“Did you find anything?” Katya asked.

Osama, who had opened his mouth to ask the very same question, snapped it shut.

“Only the victim’s prints,” Majdi told her glumly. “But I think I may have a partial print that isn’t hers. I’m running it right now.”

Osama watched them converse, knowing he ought to add something but feeling unable to rouse the spirit.

Majdi sat down at the computer and then, on second thought, turned back to Osama. “Katya has something. Maybe.”

She looked embarrassed. “Majdi gave me the discs of Leila’s work to look over. At the very end of one, there was a segment with a friend of hers. At least I think she was a friend.” Katya took a small piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Osama. “That’s the girl’s name and address.”

Osama received it with some embarrassment. “Yes,” he said. “Majdi told me about this. I’m sorry I haven’t followed up on it yet.”

“Well, this girl’s face was showing on the film,” Katya said nonchalantly. “And I double-checked it with the ID photo, so I’m sure it’s her.”

Osama nodded and tucked the paper in his shirt pocket. “Good work. I’ll check it out.”

Katya nodded.

Majdi said over his shoulder, “Did you hear what happened to Faiza?”

“Yes,” Osama said.

Majdi frowned, clearly disgruntled by the news. “That new woman they hired last month only works on Wednesday and Thursdays. I think Maddawi may come on Monday.” Osama knew the women’s schedules, for the most part. He had the feeling that Majdi was attempting to drop a hint—not to him, but to Katya. Osama glanced at her and saw that she was squeezing her hands together.

“I’ll go look for someone,” Osama said. He was preparing to leave when Katya blurted, “If you can’t find anyone, I could go with you.”

Osama stopped. Angry as he was at everything else, he made an effort not to sound too harsh. He didn’t want to crush her. “I’m afraid we really need someone who has experience interviewing people.”

Katya kept her eyes on the tabletop, and he saw a slight blush creep its way up her cheeks. In an instant he loathed himself.

“I have experience,” she said. Her voice was calm and even. “I helped solve a murder case a while ago.”

It was a good thing she kept her eyes on the table. He didn’t want to see her face when he said no again. But as if she knew his thoughts, she looked up at him. “I know a lot about this case. I saw the body, I’ve watched two whole discs of the victim’s work, and I’ve gone over all the evidence. I might be able to help.”

He got the message:
I might know more about this case than you
. It should have ticked him off but for some reason it completely deflated his anger.

“And I’m pretty sure Maddawi won’t come in until Tuesday,” she said.

He recognized the first flicker of rebelliousness in himself, and very quickly it blossomed into an outright determination. If the department wouldn’t give him Faiza, then he’d do what he damn well pleased.

“All right,” he said to Katya, “come on.”

“Now?”

“Too early for you?”

Her face broke into a smile, and she followed him out the door.

W
ith some effort, Katya calmed her breathing. After months of trying so desperately to prove herself, she had finally been given an opportunity. It wasn’t hard effort and determination that had brought her here, it was a lucky break, but she’d take whatever she could get.

At first, she had attempted to get into the backseat, but Osama had motioned her into the front, pointing out that, even though it wasn’t a patrol car, he had grown accustomed to a world in which only criminals sat in the back. She knew that the other women who went out on these interviews sat in the backseat—she’d seen them getting out of the cars in the parking garage—but now that she thought about it, she’d never seen them with Osama.

She kept her burqa up because she felt that he could handle it and because she didn’t want to put it down. She liked being out in the world and being able to see things. More discomfiting was the engagement ring on her finger. It seemed to loom large in her peripheral vision, an invitation to an unpleasant conversation.

She glanced at Osama. He was sunk in his thoughts. The women in the lab discussed him with such giggly, unabashed infatuation that it had provoked in Katya a perverse dislike of him. But now, feeling more generous, she could admit that he was a well-built, well-groomed man, unselfconscious, a bit reserved but not arrogant. He had soulful brown eyes, the kind that teenage girls swoon for, but Katya suspected that he would find such reactions annoying. There was a small scar on his temple that he made no effort to hide. He kept his hair short, his cheeks shaven but slightly shadowed, and he didn’t wear a headscarf. His look was that of a typical professional, slightly on the Western side—she couldn’t picture him in a white robe—and she guessed that he wasn’t religious at all but rather the kind of man who didn’t pray except during Ramadan, and who thought that piety and devotion were slightly backward concepts, quaint, dangerous in a certain kind of person, but ultimately irrelevant.

The silence in the car, although broken now and then by a crackle from the radio, was beginning to make her anxious. She knew she shouldn’t say anything. He might think she was nervous and change his mind. And who knew how he would interpret an effort at conversation? He didn’t seem like the sort who would perceive communication from a woman as an act of flirtation, but you never could tell. You didn’t have to be pious to have opinions about how women should act. She decided to play it safe and keep her mouth shut, her eyes on the window, and her hands folded to the side where he wouldn’t see them.

“Did you get anything else from the DVDs?” he asked.

She felt a small explosion of relief. “No. Most of it was B-roll, probably for the news station she worked for.”

He nodded and fell silent. She glanced in his direction and saw that, despite his cold silence, there was a sadness in his eyes. She had the urge to tell him what she’d discovered with Nayir the previous day, but she refused to let her excitement get the better of her. Now was definitely not the time. Not only would Nayir be angry if he ever found out, but in his current mood, Osama might decide that it was presumptuous of her, perhaps even harmful to the investigation. She had, after all, been doing his job without his permission.

The neighborhood was north of the city. It was a boxy place, newly built and austere, an ever-expanding grid lined with look-alike homes. Each house was white stucco, two stories high, with a garage in front and wood-screened windows. Some of the neighbors displayed potted lemon trees by their doors or an arbor of jasmine struggling in the sun, but otherwise the street was unadorned.

They parked in the driveway and quickly determined that there were separate entrances. A small sign indicated that the women’s entrance was around the side.

“Stay with me,” Osama said, a sudden gruffness in his voice that made Katya think he was annoyed by the two entrances.

A woman answered the door, keeping the chain latched. She wore a burqa, and all they could see was one eye.

“Police,” Osama said, showing her his badge. “We need to speak to Farooha Abdel Ali.”

“About what?” the woman asked.

“A friend of hers is missing,” Osama said carefully. “We’d like to ask her some questions.” He stepped aside so that the woman could see Katya, and when she did, that single eye went wide. “I’ve brought a female officer along,” Osama said, “to speak with Miss Abdel Ali, if we could.”

The woman gave Katya an up and down, taking in her newish
abaaya
and hijab, the plain black shoes, and, lastly, Katya’s face, which seemed to put the woman at ease somewhat, because she opened the door and said “
Ahlan Wa’sahlan
” and then, out of modesty, made a race for the interior of the house, motioning them into the men’s sitting room with a wave of the arm. “Please make yourselves at home,” she said. “That’s the
majlis,
and the women’s sitting room is over there.” She waved to the opposite side of the hall before disappearing through a doorway.

“Stay with me,” Osama said.

Katya followed him into the sitting room and glanced around. The place was clean and elegantly furnished with a pair of ivory sofas and plush white carpets overlaid with brilliant red and orange rugs. There was a massive TV, an equally pretentious stereo system, and an entire shelf of CDs. Osama went straight to the shelf to read the spines of the CDs.

A moment later, there was a tap on the door, and Katya went to answer it. The woman was standing in the hallway, her face still covered.

“You can speak to my daughter,” she said, motioning for Katya to follow her. Katya glanced back long enough to catch Osama’s look of concern.

F
arooha was waiting in her bedroom, sitting atop a stack of books on a chair. Beside her was a desk pushed against the wall. She’d been at her computer, but the moment Katya came in, Farooha quickly darkened the screen and turned to face her inquisitor. There was ink on her thumb, and she snapped up a tissue from a mother-of-pearl-encrusted Kleenex dispenser on the desk. Katya saw that she had been writing notes in a binder.

The girl stood up, nearly toppling the books in her clumsy descent from the chair. She was very small, perhaps even a dwarf. When standing, she barely reached Katya’s chest, and her body had a stocky, smashed-together quality that one associated with achondroplasia. The surprise must have shown on Katya’s face, because Farooha gave a wry grin. “Yes,” she said, “I’m short. Have a seat on the bed and the difference between us won’t feel so dramatic.” She pushed aside a stack of CDs and books to make room for Katya on the rumpled sheets.

“Thank you,” Katya said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Everyone stares. I’m used to it.” Farooha leaned back against the desk, crossing her arms and gazing churlishly at her guest. “I take it this is about Leila.”

Instantly, Katya regretted coming. In all her excitement, she’d forgotten that Farooha probably didn’t know that her friend was dead and that the job of delivering the news would fall to her. Osama’s parting look suddenly made sense.

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” Katya began. Farooha reacted immediately. Her arms seemed to freeze, and that strange frozen quality spread to the rest of her body. “But I’m afraid that Leila is dead.”

Farooha unfroze a bit, looking as if it took some effort to shake herself free. With some awkwardness she climbed back onto her desk chair, situating herself carefully on her stack of books—among them, Katya noticed, was the Holy Quran—and sat there awkwardly, staring at the ground. Katya had the feeling that Farooha had already suspected the worst, already run through the most gruesome possibilities in her mind to prepare herself for a moment like this. When Farooha looked up again, her eyes were clear and sharp. “How did it happen?”

“Her neck was broken. She died instantly.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Katya felt a strong wave of unease. “She was also beaten,” she said, willing only to give that much. She wouldn’t be drawn into telling her about the
‘iqal
and the knife wounds or the hot oil. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have wanted to do something like this to Leila?”

Farooha looked momentarily taken aback by the abruptness of the question. “I can think of a dozen people,” she said, “but I don’t know their names.”

“What do you mean?” Katya said.

“You do know that Leila was a filmmaker?” Farooha asked.

Katya explained what she knew about Leila’s work, and how she’d found Farooha.

“Ah, then you only know the sterilized version,” Farooha said with a certain grim set of the mouth.