It took no more than an hour and a half before all of the cable channels were demanding immediate arrests in what was now perceived as a single case. On the six-thirty network news broadcasts, the movie-theater bombing was the headline story, and without fail the bombing was linked to the cab-driver killings, the blue Star of David on the windshields televised over and over again as the unifying leitmotif.
Ali Al-Barak, the third Muslim victim, had worked for a company that called itself simply Cabco. Its garage was located in the shadow of the Calm’s Point Bridge, not too distant from the market under the massive stone supporting pillars on the Isola side of the bridge. The market was closed and shuttered when Meyer and Carella drove past it at a quarter to seven that evening. They had trouble finding Cabco’s garage and drove around the block several times, getting entangled in bridge traffic. At one point, Carella suggested that they hit the hammer, but Meyer felt use of the siren might be excessive.
They finally located the garage tucked between two massive apartment buildings. It could have been the underground garage for either of them, but a discreet sign identified it as Cabco. They drove down the ramp, found the dispatcher’s office, identified themselves, and explained why they were there.
“Yeah,” the dispatcher said, and nodded. His name was Hazhir Demirkol. He explained that like Al-Barak, he too was a Muslim, though not a Saudi. “I’m a Kurd,” he told them. “I came to this country ten years ago.”
“What can you tell us about Al-Barak?” Meyer asked.
“I knew someone would kill him sooner or later,” Demirkol said. “The way he was shooting up his mouth all the time.”
Shooting off, Carella thought, but didn’t correct him.
“In what way?” he asked.
“He kept complaining that Israel was responsible for all the trouble in the Arab world. If there was no Israel, there would have been no Iraqi war. There would be no terrorism. There would be no 9/11. Well, he’s a Saudi, you know. His countrymen were the ones who bombed the World Trade Center! But he was being foolish. It doesn’t matter how you feel about Jews. I feel the same way. But in this city, I have learned to keep my thoughts to myself.”
“Why’s that?” Meyer asked.
Demirkol turned to him, looked him over. One eyebrow arched. Sudden recognition crossed his face. This man was a Jew. This detective was a Jew.
“It doesn’t matter why,” he said. “Look what happened to Ali. That is why.”
“You think a Jew killed him, is that it?”
“No, an angel from Paradise painted that blue star on his windshield.”
“Who might’ve heard him when he was airing all these complaints?” Carella asked.
“Who knows? Ali talked freely, too freely, you ask me. This is a democracy, no? Like the one America brought to Iraq, no?” Demirkol asked sarcastically. “He talked everywhere. He talked here in the garage with his friends, he talked to his passengers, I’m sure he talked at the mosque, too, when he went to prayer. Freedom of speech, correct? Even if it gets you killed.”
“You think he expressed his views to the wrong person, is that it?” Meyer asked. “The wrong Jew.”
“The same Jew who killed the other drivers,” Demirkol said, and nodded emphatically, looking Meyer dead in the eye, challenging him.
“This mosque you mentioned,” Carella said. “Would you know...?”
“Majid At-Abu,” Demirkol said at once. “Close by here,” he said, and gestured vaguely uptown.
Now this was a mosque.
This was what one conjured when the very word was uttered. This was straight out of Arabian Nights, minarets and domes, blue tile and gold leaf. This was the real McCoy.
Opulent and imposing, Majid At-Abu was not as “close by” as Demirkol had suggested, it was in fact a good mile and a half uptown. When the detectives got there at a little past eight that night, the faithful were already gathered inside for the sunset prayer. The sky beyond the mosque’s single glittering dome was streaked with the last red-purple streaks of a dying sun. The minaret from which the muezzin called worshippers to prayer stood tall and stately to the right of the arched entrance doors. Meyer and Carella stood on the sidewalk outside, listening to the prayers intoned within, waiting for an opportune time to enter.
Across the street, some Arabic-looking boys in T-shirts and jeans were cracking themselves up. Meyer wondered what they were saying. Carella wondered why they weren’t inside praying.
“Ivan Sikimiavuçlyor!” one of the kids shouted, and the others all burst out laughing.
“How about Alexandr Siksallandr?” one of the other kids suggested, and again they all laughed.
“Or Madame Döllemer,” another boy said.
More laughter. Carella was surprised they didn’t all fall to the sidewalk clutching their bellies. It took both of the detectives a moment to realize that these were names the boys were bandying about. They had no idea that in Turkish “Ivan Sikimiavuçlyor” meant “Ivan Holding My Cock,” or that “Alexandr Siksallandr” meant “Alexander Who Swings a Cock,” or that poor “Madame Döllemer” was just a lady “Sucking Sperm.” Like the dirty names Meyer and Carella had attached to fictitious book titles when they themselves were kids...
The Open Robe by Seymour Hare.
The Russian Revenge by Ivana Kutchakokoff.
The Chinese Curse by Wan Hong Lo.
Hawaiian Paradise by A’wana Leia Oo’aa.
...these Arab teenagers growing up here in America were now making puns on their parents’ native tongue.
“Fenasi Kerim!” one of the boys shouted finally and triumphantly, and whereas neither of the detectives knew that this invented name meant “I Fuck You Bad,” the boys’ ensuing exuberant laughter caused them to laugh as well.
The sunset prayer had ended.
They took off their shoes and placed them outside in the foyer — alongside the loafers and sandals and jogging shoes and boots and laced brogans parked there like autos in a used-car lot — and went inside to find the imam.
“I never heard Ali Al-Barak utter a single threatening word about the Jewish people, or the Jewish state, or any Jew in particular,” Mohammad Talal Awad said.
They were standing in the vast open hall of the mosque proper, a white space the size of a ballroom, with arched windows and tiled floors and an overhead clerestory through which the detectives could see the beginnings of a starry night. The imam was wearing white baggy trousers and a flowing white tunic and a little while pillbox hat. He had a long black beard, a narrow nose and eyes almost black, and he directed his every word to Meyer.
“Nor is there anything in the Koran that directs Muslims to kill anyone,” he said. “Not Jews, not anyone. There is nothing there. Search the Koran. You will find not a word about murdering in the name of Allah.”
“We understand Al-Barak made remarks some people might have found inflammatory,” Carella said.
“Political observations. They had nothing to do with Islam. He was young, he was brash, perhaps he was foolish to express his opinions so openly. But this is America, and one may speak freely, isn’t that so? Isn’t that what democracy is all about?”
Here we go again, Meyer thought.
“But if you think Ali’s murder had anything to do with the bombing downtown...”