Kingdom of Strangers (30 page)

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.

S
unday 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?

It would all be making perfect sense to them right now. If you were an adulterer, then why not a murderer as well? His imaginings became so vast that it surprised him to realize, shortly after lunch, that he had absolutely no proof Sabria was dead. That was the problem with fear—it clouded everything. He could never tell if it was the result of something he knew in his gut or if it was simply paranoia, lodging in the same place from which his instincts spoke. He shut his eyes, tried to relax. Impossible. Was she dead, or was he just in a panic?

He smoked two whole packs and was just gearing up to request a third when the door opened. A guard stood in the hallway. Voices were hushed.

His sister Hamida walked in. He had never seen her at a police station before, which now struck him as odd. She was the type who would go anywhere as boldly as she liked.

She was older by twelve years and more like a mother than his own mother had ever been. She spent her winters in Saudi, usually arriving in October and staying until March. Hamida had married a Palestinian man, who had fathered six children before running off with a younger woman, leaving her to rely on the generosity of her family. So she did, migrating every winter among two dozen homes, staying in each for a week and minding her own business. By imposing herself in short, innocuous doses she had managed to vaccinate everyone against her presence and extend the family’s charity for nearly twenty years.

Whenever Hamida stayed at Ibrahim’s house, Jamila found something to complain about. But Ibrahim loved her. She was the only woman he knew who didn’t give a crap about men or burqas or prayer times or propriety. “I don’t care which direction Mecca is in,” she would say. “We live on a globe. No matter where I put my head, I’m facing Mecca!”

He stood to greet her, too emotional to speak.

She looked at him with a hint of scorn and said: “They’re letting you go home. You’ll be under house arrest, but at least you won’t be stuck here. Omar arranged it.”

He knew that, no matter what happened, Hamida was the one person in the world who would always be on his side. He felt tears in his eyes.

“I told them I’d drive you home,” she said.

He choked out a laugh and hugged her so that she wouldn’t see him cry.

The guard came in and made him sign for his belongings,
which were only his cell phone and his wallet. They’d taken away his badge back at the station. The guard escorted them out by the route least likely to bring them into contact with anyone else.

Hamida pretended not to notice his tears.

“I thought you were in Gaza,” he said.

“I just got back today.”

“You’re staying with us, yes?”

“Omar first,” she said. “You know how he gets.”

It hadn’t surprised him that Omar had arranged his release, but a knot of dread was forming. He couldn’t see how Omar would remain unaffected by all of this. In fact, it seemed possible that the scandal would cost him his job—or at least his position in Undercover. Balancing loyalty to his brother with the need to uphold the standards of virtue in a department increasingly controlled by men like Ubaid would be nearly impossible.

An unmarked patrol car was waiting by the curb at the front of the building. They climbed into the back. Two uniformed officers sat in the front and refused to look at him.

“Take us to Kilo Seven,” Hamida said haughtily. He almost kissed her.

He didn’t dare think of what was waiting for him at home; he simply thanked God for his sister. When her husband left her, she had embarked on the nomad’s liberated life. It was sloppy and unstable but enormously satisfying for everyone in the family. If they ran out of things to talk about, there was always Hamida. Who was she staying with now? Did they give her and the children beds or mats? Were they feeding her? Why on earth did she go back to Palestine? She had a cottage in Gaza on a sprawling orchard, although when they asked her about it, she said she never actually slept in the house. She preferred to unroll a mat beneath the lemon trees. It was safer that way. (“Who ever heard of an Israeli bombing a tree?”)

The house was a large part of Hamida’s mystique. Any woman
who could retain a home in Palestine and manage to live there was automatically ennobled. Every time she went back to Gaza, the women’s chatter went wild:
Allah, she’ll die! She’ll get shot and die! They’ll be bombing trees next, you just watch
! Pity and concern were the perfect balms to the inadmissible fact that they envied her like hell.
That Hamida
, they’d say,
always moving about. Rootless! And now that her sons are grown, she doesn’t even have a man in the house;
mash’allah,
she must be lonely
! Yet the life pleased Hamida most of all. Ibrahim could think of no better shield to protect him from his family than her shining, thunderous dignity.