Kingdom of Strangers (29 page)

“Why did you leave Undercover?” Daher asked.

Ibrahim turned to him. “They let me go.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t follow the rules.”

“What rules?”

Ibrahim sighed. “I thought it was okay to hire women. I pushed to keep them on the force. I fought with my boss about it all the time. And there were just too many people in the department who didn’t like it and who thought I was improper.”

Daher looked skeptical, as if he knew there were more to it than that.

“It’s ridiculous,” Ibrahim went on. “All this arguing about what women can and can’t do is a waste of time.”

Daher nodded. “Yeah, I just don’t think it’s entirely comfortable for women to be working so closely with men. It’s not that I mind it so much, it’s just—”

Ibrahim raised his hand. “I don’t care what anyone’s personal feelings are about women, and you shouldn’t either. If a preoccupation with virtue starts to get in the way of you doing your job, then something is wrong. And trust me, even in this city, something is always wrong.”

Nayir has a lot of family,” Samir was saying. “For example, my cousins and their families will be here for a few months visiting. And there is Imam Hadi’s family to think of. I do feel that it would be rather unpleasant, considering that Nayir is their favorite and he’s never been married before, to exclude them from the ceremonies.”

So that’s it
, Katya thought. The reason she found herself eating an endless dinner at Uncle Samir’s house with Nayir and Ayman on a quiet Friday evening. Her father was at home fighting off a cold.

They had finished the meal an hour before and now sat on the patio overlooking a large garden of lemon trees and potted palms. Three of them sat in a row, and Samir sat opposite, like a judge holding court, albeit a casual, backyard one. He was leaning back, a cup of tea in one hand, a hookah rope in the other.

“I am sure that you have family and friends of your own who would be delighted to come. So I took the liberty of speaking to your father, who assured me that he has plenty of friends who would deeply disapprove if you two were to have a private wedding without even a reception at which they could celebrate your success.”

Katya was beginning to think that her father had developed a “cold” to avoid facing this conversation. He knew Katya would be angry that he and Samir had been scheming behind her back. Beside her, Nayir and Ayman sat frozen.

“And of course your friends from work,” Samir went on, “will want to share in the happy occasion.”

“Of course,” Katya blurted, hoping not to look terrified at the very thought. The people at work were the last ones who could ever find out about her wedding. She was afraid to look at Nayir, who knew all about the situation.

“We’re going to have a small wedding,” Nayir said firmly. “But you are right that a modest reception afterward would be a good idea. For the sake of our family and close friends. I’ll consider it.”

His tone was meant to end the conversation, but Samir, unaffected by his nephew’s stern manner, said cheerfully, “Well, Katya’s father and I have already discussed details, and it is all agreed. We will pay for the banquet, and Katya’s father will take care of the invitations and phone calls.” Katya knew immediately that this meant
she
would take care of these things. “We have drawn up a preliminary list of invitees and only need to know if anyone is missing from the list, which is something you must tell us.”

“How many people are on the list?” Nayir asked, looking more ragged now.

“Two hundred twenty-one.”

“What?”

“We didn’t want to leave anyone out,” Samir said. “You can make an enemy for life by forgetting to send a wedding invitation, remember that.”

Nayir looked exasperated and glanced guiltily at Katya. Ayman looked amused. “I know a good rock band if you want one,” he said. “Some friends of mine have a band called Silk Slave. They’re here in Jeddah.”

Nayir shook his head.

“Don’t you worry,” Samir said, “we’ve already arranged the music. All you have to do is sit back and relax.”

Katya went home, took a cold shower, and tried to kick her mind into gear. She was numb and exhausted. She climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling with the realization that she’d just committed to marriage. Not just to Nayir. This was much more complete. She’d committed to two hundred-odd people. And somehow that sealed it.

She drifted into a dream of swimming in the sea. The lightness. The floating. She swam among the bright coral and fish and admired the beauty of the water, the light pouring down, the smoothness of her skin. It thrilled her to be naked. Naked and outdoors. She thought of all the things she admired about herself: the lovely curve of her hip, the protrusion of her ass, the biceps that were both firm and delicate. It felt as if all her life she had wanted to be seen in her entirety, wearing skin-tight clothing or nothing at all, every curve of her not just showing but
seen
, admired. It was the worst of sins, this vain pride, but she allowed herself to revel in every moment of it. She woke up happy and embarrassed.

S
he ran the fingerprints of the Osiris victim without any hope of finding a match. Indeed, there were no hits. More than anything, she would have liked to be able to go down to Mu’tazz’s office and ask him what he’d learned in all his interviews with the boys from the fishing trip. Surely something, no matter how frail, would come up in that sort of investigation, some tiny lead worth pursuing. But she was absolutely certain that an impenetrable barrier existed between Inspector Mu’tazz and herself, a lowly lab worker. A woman trying to nose her way into a man’s case.

She had given Ibrahim a copy of the Osiris file and kept Sa’ud’s copy for herself. The file contained the names of all the boys who’d been on the boat when the box had been dredged up. It occurred to her that she could interview them herself, but there were eight names on the list. A task like that seemed too big. She would have to devote all her free time to it, assuming the men even agreed to talk to her, and was it worth it when Mu’tazz had done it already?

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.

T
wo 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 statement 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.