Behind her, the doorway filled with the heavy shoulders of a tall Arab man. His features seemed familiar to Omar Yussef. Bulky and jowly above a thick neck, his head tapered to a small crown, the hair shaved almost away. His lower lip drooped, and he breathed through his mouth. He wore a trim black goatee, and his eyes were dark, languid, and hard.
“They sent the token Arab cop to handle the dead Arab,” Ala said.
Omar Yussef looked at the boy, appalled by his disrespect and hostility. He’s had a terrible shock, he thought, but there’s something more that’s eating him. He’s covering it with a shield of aggression.
“Not just an Arab cop,” the big man said in a voice that was low and rasping. “I’m Palestinian, and I’m not here to handle the dead Arab, as you put it. We have specialists in the dead, Arab or not. I’m here to handle you.”
He’ll understand our language and recognize the nuances in our statements, Omar Yussef thought. I hope that’ll make him forgiving of my son’s anger.
“What’re we looking at?” the woman called to the nearest uniformed officer. Her voice was high-pitched and sharp.
“The victim is back in the bedroom there, Lieutenant,” the officer said. “Should we, you know, inform the FBI?”
“The Feds?” She stared at him.
“The victim’s Arab,” the big detective said. “That’s what he means.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” The patrolman nodded.
“You think he’s some kind of suicide terrorist?” The Arab detective fixed him with the mirthless sneer of an imam at an orgy. “Did he cut off his head and throw it at someone? Maybe he kept a stockpile of illegal hand-grenades in his cheeks and one of them went off by accident.”
The patrolman scraped his foot back and forth on the linoleum in the entrance to the kitchen. “Ah, Jesus, Lieutenant,” he muttered, appealing to the other detective.
She shook her head and beckoned to the Arab detective. “Come on. Let’s see what we’ve got back there.”
The big detective followed her into the bedroom. As he went, he let his eyes linger on Ala. They had a drowsy intensity that made him look like a wrestler gathering strength between bouts.
Through the open door, Omar Yussef heard the Arab carry on a low conversation with someone already in the room. The other detective’s sharp voice described the location and condition of the body. She came into the doorway and glanced at Omar Yussef, still talking into a small voice recorder.
As he listened to her catalogue of Nizar’s visible features, Omar Yussef wondered how the detective might have described him, had he been the subject of her investigation. Victim appears to be over the age of seventy, though identity documents show him to be fifty-eight. Hair: white, combed over liver-spotted bald scalp. Eyes: brown. White mustache. Gold-rimmed glasses, Gucci brand. Shoulders and chest show general lack of physical activity. Clothing expensive and good quality. Blue shirt, monogrammed OYS; fawn cardigan and windbreaker; brown pants, bloodstained. As he mused, Omar Yussef looked up. The lieutenant was still in the doorway. She held her recorder to her chin, but she had stopped speaking. He saw that she had noticed the blood on his knees.
The Arab detective moved past the woman and stood above Omar Yussef.
“Greetings, ustaz,” he said, in Arabic. His voice was lighter than it had been, as though he were greeting a friend.
“Double greetings.” Omar Yussef stood.
“The other officers tell me you’re visiting from Bethlehem. That’s my hometown.”
Omar Yussef smiled and looked at Ala. “Did you hear that, my boy?” His son twitched his cheek and sneered at his hands.
“I’m Hamza Abayat. I grew up just down the hill from the Nativity Church.”
“I know the Abayats,” Omar Yussef said. “You’re from the Ta’amra clan.”
Hamza grinned broadly. “Welcome, welcome to New York.”
“Unfortunately, this is quite an unwelcome welcome.” Omar Yussef choked out a bitter laugh. He was surprised at how warmly he felt toward the policeman, simply because they shared a hometown. I must be feeling even more lost in this city than I suspected, he thought.
The lieutenant came out of the doorway and looked at Omar Yussef. “The victim’s Palestinian?”
“That’s correct,” Omar Yussef said.
She addressed herself to the Arab detective. “Here’s what we found in the victim’s pockets.” She held up a transparent plastic evidence bag containing a blue passport. “Jordanian passport, identifies holder as Nizar Fayez Khaled Jado, born Bethlehem, West Bank, April 18, 1984. How does this guy have a Jordanian passport if he’s Palestinian?”
“Palestinians don’t have a state, so they don’t have passports of their own,” Hamza said. “Not the kind that’re worth anything, at least.”
The lieutenant waved the Jordanian passport. “You were born in Bethlehem, Hamza. Do you have this kind of passport?”
“I have an American passport, Lieutenant.”
“Right, right.” The woman smiled and brandished another clear bag. “Wallet containing New York State driver’s license, bank card, Social Security card, all in the name of the said Nizar Fayez Khaled Jado, resident at this address. A couple of ticket stubs from the Cyclone at Coney Island and some paintball thing out that way, too-a thrill-seeker, this guy. Then there’s this one other bag. What does this say, Hamza? It’s in Arabic, right?”
“What’s paintball?” Omar Yussef asked.
“Killing for fun,” Hamza mumbled, reaching for the last plastic bag. Spread inside it was a sheet of pink writing paper covered in delicate script. Omar Yussef noticed Ala look up, as the detective read.
“It’s a letter from someone named Rania. She’s writing to this Nizar,” Hamza said.
“What does it say?” the lieutenant asked again.
Hamza cleared his throat. “It’s a love letter.”
“Come on, bashful. Translate.”
“‘I want to be with you again, to feel you close-’” The big detective stopped. “It’s not decent to read it here. It’s very-detailed.”
Ala sucked in his breath.
The lieutenant took the letter. “Okay, fine, we’ll go back to the precinct house and dim the lights, and you’ll read me Romantic Rania’s letter over a nice bubbly flute of Chateau Budweiser.” She turned to the bedroom, halted, and pointed at the smaller room. “Whose room is this?”
Ala mumbled, “My roommate, Rashid.”
“Rashid? Get his full details, Hamza.” She went back to the corpse.
The Arab detective took out a narrow notebook, small in his thick hand. He rubbed his chin and lifted his eyebrows at Ala.
The boy dropped his eyes to Hamza’s tan boots. His lip rose as though he felt nauseous. “His name is Rashid Takrouri,” he said.
“Where is he?”
“Perhaps he’s working. He drives a taxi. So did Nizar. They were like brothers.”
“That’d make him a prime suspect-it’s a specialty of us Palestinians to kill our brothers.” Hamza wiggled his fingers. “His description?”
Ala shrugged like a surly teenager. “Rashid’s about my height, a bit shorter. All three of us used to share clothes, except for some of Nizar’s better items; he was very particular about them. Anyway, Rashid’s slim and has dark hair that he wears brushed back. He’s clean-shaven. He smokes all the time, and he’s very jumpy.”
“Does he have a black coat?” Omar Yussef asked.
“Yeah,” Ala said.
The detective stared at Omar Yussef, even as he posed his next question to Ala. “When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday evening, when I went out to do my night shift in the taxi.”
“Anything unusual? Did he seem especially nervous or excited?”
Ala folded his arms. “Especially nervous? Since he came to New York, Rashid has always behaved like there was someone around the next corner who might want to kill him. He’s constantly terrified of being mugged or shot or stabbed or pushed under a subway train.”