City of Veils (16 page)

His nephew Ra’id was short and scrawny, probably in his teens; his pointed face had a scurrilous look. Right now he was bent forward, shaking slightly, hands gripping his knees. A lock of greasy hair fell onto his face. The assistant, Fuad, was probably in his late twenties, tall and well built with sharp edges on his jaw, cheekbones, shoulders. He looked like the sort of man who paid attention to detail. His suit was crisp, his cufflinks shiny, and every time someone moved, he glanced automatically in their direction with a look that indicated he was prepared to come to their aid, or tell them what they were doing wrong, or otherwise assist in perfecting the universe.

Abdulrahman faced Osama. “Tell me what happened.” When Fuad went to protest, Abdulrahman raised a hand and interrupted sharply. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’m afraid it looks as if she was murdered,” Osama said, watching the men’s reactions carefully. Fuad shook his head.

“What did they do to her?” Abdulrahman asked heavily, shooting a warning look at Fuad. “Tell me.
What did they do to her?
”

“Her neck was broken,” Osama said carefully, avoiding a glance at Faiza. “She died very quickly.”
And before that she was brutally stabbed and beaten, and her hands and face were dunked in burning oil
. He would never tell them the truth, but he didn’t have to. Abdulrahman’s face conveyed that he didn’t believe a word Osama said. At least he was smart enough not to ask for more detail.

“It sounds as if you have some idea of who killed her,” Faiza said. Fuad looked insulted, but Faiza kept her attention on the brother. “You said, ‘What did they do to her?’ If there’s anything you can tell us—any suspicions you may —”

Abdulrahman was still pretending there was not a woman in the room. It was Ra’id who let out a derisive snort. “You think we had something to do with it?”

Faiza didn’t respond.

“She was attacked once before,” Fuad intervened.

“When was this?” Osama asked.

“Six months ago,” Fuad replied.

Osama didn’t look over. “What were the circumstances, Mr. Nawar?”

“He’s right,” Abdulrahman said, but from the firm set of his mouth, he clearly wasn’t saying anything else.

“Occasionally, she worked for a local news station,” Fuad said. “She did freelance work filming B-roll for their news segments. All the boring bits. You know what B-roll is?” Osama nodded. “She was filming birds down at the Corniche one afternoon, and some woman noticed that Leila was filming her and she sent her husband to take care of it. The husband came after her and beat her up. He destroyed her camera
and
the film.”

“He broke her leg!” Ra’id interjected. He was livid now, gripping his knees.

“According to Leila, the woman was only in the background of the shot,” Fuad said. “And she was wearing a burqa anyway.”

Ra’id shook his head. Osama could perfectly well imagine someone becoming upset at being filmed in public without their permission. Incidents like this happened more often now that cell phone cameras were everywhere. But they seldom resulted in physical violence, especially of the sort that had killed Leila.

“Did you find out who attacked her?” he asked.

“No,” Fuad said. “He was gone before the police arrived.”

“What happened to the camera?”

“That monkey threw it in the ocean,” Fuad said.

Osama nodded. “Was she alone when this happened?”

“Yes.”

Osama nodded, at the same time thinking what an easy target Leila must have made for someone looking for trouble. Not only a young woman walking around unescorted, but carrying a video camera, too.

“I’d like you to tell me what happened on the morning she disappeared,” Osama said, keeping a steady gaze on Leila’s brother.

Abdulrahman looked menacingly at Osama, but it was Ra’id who spoke. “You really think we had something to do with this?” His voice cracked at the end, betraying his anxiety.

“These questions are necessary,” Osama said bluntly. “And I’m sure you’re as eager as we are to help find her killer.” That shut him up. Osama turned to Abdulrahman. “First I’d like to know how she disappeared.”

Abdulrahman let out his breath. “I left for work at the usual time that morning. Leila was at home with my wife and kids.”

“She was living with you?” Osama asked.

“Yes. My wife and children went out shopping around nine o’clock. Leila left sometime after that. She didn’t tell anyone where she was going. In fact, before my wife left the house, she asked Leila if she wanted to come shopping, and Leila said no. It was very hot that day, and she said she didn’t feel like facing the heat. She was going to stay home and watch TV. At least that’s what she told my wife, but when my wife got home, Leila was gone. This was around noon. Where she went was anybody’s guess.”

“And she didn’t have a driver?” Osama asked.

“No. My wife uses a taxi service, but we already checked with them. They only sent one car to the house that day, and that was to pick up my wife.”

“Had this ever happened before—Leila sneaking out like this?”

“She went out, of course, but she would always tell us where she was going. This time, she didn’t even leave a note. She was simply gone. Normally, she goes out with Ra’id here. She always arranges things with him, respecting his schedule.”

Osama turned to Ra’id. “And did she tell you she was going out that day?”

Ra’id shook his head uncertainly.

“We tried reaching her on her cell phone,” Abdulrahman went on, “but it wasn’t ringing, and she didn’t come back at all that night. That’s when we knew something was wrong.”

“And did you call any of her friends?”

“No. I don’t have their numbers. They were in Leila’s phone. I presume she had it with her.”

Osama turned to the uncomfortable question he’d been avoiding until now. “And what did you do that day?”

“I was out most of the morning,” Abdulrahman said, looking warningly at Ra’id. “I go out once a week to shop for fabrics.”

“Anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?”

He paused, thinking. “The vendors at the fabric souq might remember. Fuad stayed here. The store was open, of course.”

Osama took down the names of the vendors. Then he glanced at Ra’id, who glared back at him. “I was here, too,” the boy said.

“When?”

“Ahh…” Ra’id struggled to remember. “From about ten o’clock until five.”

Osama turned to Fuad, who was sitting at the desk in a strangely still pose. “I presume the sales clerks can account for your presence here?” he asked.

“Yes, if this new batch has half a brain between them.” Fuad let out his breath. “But that morning, I was out. Our air conditioner in the workshop was broken, and I had to go to the repair shop.”

Osama gazed at him, waiting for more. When Fuad didn’t supply it, Osama was forced to ask, “They didn’t come here to fix the air conditioner?”

“No. I only needed to pick up a part.”

“How long were you gone?”

Fuad began to bristle. “Probably an hour. After I got the part, I went and had coffee with a friend. I didn’t get back here until around noon.”

That seemed a long time to be gone. Osama wrote down the names and addresses of the friend and the repair store. Faiza was sitting beside him, arms crossed defiantly, looking for all the world as if she would have arrested the three of them right then. It gave Osama an uneasy feeling.

“Was your sister married?” Osama asked.

Annoyingly, Fuad answered. “Yes. For two and a half months.”

Osama was beginning to think it odd and intrusive that Fuad had such easy recall of all the details of Leila’s life, but the whole conversation had been punctuated by nervous glances at his boss. Fuad was searching for approval, and he looked fearful of rebuke. Abdulrahman sat as still as a dry stone fountain.

“And when did the marriage end?”

“Eight months ago.”

Ra’id pressed his lips together, clearly holding back a nasty remark about Leila’s ex-husband. Osama made notes of it all. “I’m going to need the name and address of her ex-husband.”

While Fuad went to the computer to get the information, Abdulrahman remained on the sofa, gripping his knees, looking much like a boxer sitting in the corner of the ring. Osama noticed for the first time that he had a meaty build and very intimidating shoulders.

“What kind of relationship did she have with her ex-husband?” Faiza asked.

“None,” Fuad said from across the room, preempting the angry remark Ra’id was about to make. “They hadn’t spoken in months.”

Abdulrahman blinked furiously. “After her divorce, she moved in with me.”

“Your sister was”—Osama checked his notepad—“twenty-three years old?”

“Yes,” Abdulrahman said. “That marriage was a bad decision from the start.”

“Why?” Osama asked.

“It was arranged. He was a cousin of ours. She didn’t know him at all. Once she realized what he was really like, she divorced him. It was my mother’s fault,
Allah yarhamha
.”

Faiza planted a hand on her chin.

Ra’id gave a soft snort; Osama almost missed it, but he could see that the men wouldn’t say anything more on the subject. “What about the rest of your family?” he asked.

“My parents are dead,” Abdulrahman replied. “I have four other brothers, but they live in Syria now. My mother was from Syria, but my father was from Jeddah. We grew up here. When my father died, our brothers returned to Damascus. Leila stayed here.”

“And how often did she do work for the news station?”

“About once every three weeks or so.”

“Did she usually wear modest clothing when she went out?”

“She didn’t
usually
go out,” he said. “But yes, when she did, she always wore a cloak, a headscarf, and a burqa.”

“I presume she kept copies of all her footage,” Osama said, hopefully. Fuad nodded yes. “Would it be possible to see it?”

Fuad began rummaging through a desk drawer, and Ra’id’s eyes followed him nervously.

“How much money did she earn freelancing?” Osama asked.

Abdulrahman’s face darkened. “I’m not sure. It wasn’t much. Certainly not enough for her to support herself.”

“Your business does well,” Osama said.

“Yes,” Fuad said bluntly.

Ra’id stood up abruptly and left the room. The phone rang, and although nobody answered, Osama could tell that the men were ready for them to leave. “One last thing,” he said. “Was there anyone who harassed her regularly? Anyone she talked about repeatedly or whom she might have known on sight?”

Abdulrahman glared at him. “If someone had been stalking Leila, we would have known about it.” His voice was hostile now. “We would have hired a driver for her, or asked her to find another job. We would never have let her get into trouble.”

Fuad stood up from the computer and gave Osama a pair of discs and a small slip of paper on which he’d written the address of the news station Leila worked for.

Osama glanced at the door. Ra’id had disappeared.

“Was your nephew close to your sister?” Osama asked.

Abdulrahman shot a menacing look at the doorway. “Yes, he was.”

“I’d like you to bring him back here. We’re going to have some more questions for him.”

With a flick of the hand, Abdulrahman motioned for Fuad to go after him.

Then began the tedious business of confirming the alibis. Abdulrahman remained on the sofa, staring furiously at the floor. When he made no protest that the police were about to take over his store, Osama thought that they might be getting off easy, and indeed, with a couple of phone calls he was able to confirm that Abdulrahman had been at the fabric souq shopping that morning. They also checked his business records and found receipts of his purchases. Fuad’s alibi held up as well. He had in fact visited the air-conditioner repair store and then gone for coffee with a friend. But everything from there on took a bad turn. Talking to the sales staff and the workers in the studio, Osama learned that Abdulrahman had come to work late; that he had spent the entire day there; that he hadn’t been there at all; and that he had come and gone frequently most of the morning. To make matters worse, when Fuad finally returned, it was to announce that Ra’id had left the premises. His car was gone from the lot in back, and he wasn’t answering his cell phone.

“I’m sorry,” Fuad said, looking angry. “He’s an impulsive boy.”

Abdulrahman looked grimly satisfied.

When Osama questioned the rest of the staff about Ra’id, he got an even bigger jumble of contradictory stories than the ones he’d heard about Abdulrahman. One of the fabric workers said, “Ra’id is always in and out. No one ever knows where he is, even when he’s here.”

Only Fuad’s alibi seemed to hold up. All the workers could recall him having been gone that morning, and they knew precisely when he had returned—just before their noon break. Fuad was apparently a taskmaster, and when he was at the shop, he made his presence felt. He had refused to let two of the fabric workers take a lunch break that afternoon because he wasn’t satisfied with the work they’d done in his absence. Equally, the sales staff recalled him harassing them about a lock on the bathroom door that had been broken the night before when someone had handled it carelessly. Fuad had made one of the salesmen spend his lunch hour hunting down a locksmith.