“And did a Jew also shoot this man last night?” Kiraz asked. “In the head?”
“Twice in the face,” Carella said.
“I asked you a question,” Meyer said. “How’d you know...?”
“I saw his body.”
“You saw your cousin’s...”
“I went with my aunt to pick up Salim’s corpse at the morgue. After the people there were finished with him.”
“When was this?” Meyer asked.
“The day after he was killed.”
“That would’ve been...”
“Whenever. I accompanied my aunt to the morgue, and an ambulance took us to the mosque where they bathed the body according to Islamic law... they have rules, you know. Religious Muslims. They have many rules.”
“I take it you’re not religious.”
“I’m American now,” Kiraz said. “I don’t believe in the old ways anymore.”
“Then what were you doing in a mosque, washing your cousin’s...?”
“My aunt asked me to come. You saw her. You saw how distraught she was. I went as a family duty.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in the old ways anymore,” Carella said.
“I don’t believe in any of the religious bullshit,” Kiraz said. “I went with her to help her. She’s an old woman. She’s alone now that her only son was killed. I went to help her.”
“So you washed the body...”
“No, the imam washed the body.”
“But you were there when he washed the body.”
“I was there. He washed it three times. That’s because it’s written that when the daughter of Muhammad died, he instructed his followers to wash her three times, or more than that if necessary. Five times, seven, whatever. But always an odd number of times. Never an even number. That’s what I mean about all the religious bullshit. Like having to wrap the body in three white sheets. That’s because when Muhammad died, he himself was wrapped in three white sheets. From Yemen. That’s what’s written. So God forbid you should wrap a Muslim corpse in four sheets! Oh no! It has to be three. But you have to use four ropes to tie the sheets, not three, it has to be four. And the ropes each have to be seven feet long. Not three, or four, but seven! Do you see what I mean? All mumbo-jumbo bullshit.”
“So you’re saying you saw your cousin’s body...”
“Yes.”
“...while he was being washed.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s how you knew he was shot in the head.”
“Yes. I saw the bullet wound at the base of his skull. Anyway, where else would he have been shot? If his murderer was sitting behind him in the taxi...”
“How do you know that?”
“What?”
“How do you know his murderer was inside the taxi?”
“Well, if Salim was shot at the back of the head, his murderer had to be sitting...”
“Oz?”
She was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a diminutive woman with large brown eyes, her long ebony hair trailing down the back of the yellow silk robe she wore over a long white nightgown.
“Badria, good morning,” Kiraz said. “My wife, gentlemen. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names.”
“Detective Carella.”
“Detective Meyer.”
“How do you do?” Badria said. “Have you offered them coffee?” she asked her husband.
“I’m sorry, no.”
“Gentlemen? Some coffee?”
“None for me, thanks,” Carella said.
Meyer shook his head.
“Oz? Would you like some coffee?”
“Please,” he said. There was a faint amused smile on his face now. “As an illustration,” he said, “witness my wife.”
The detectives didn’t know what he was talking about.
“The wearing of silk is expressly forbidden in Islamic law,” he said. “‘Do not wear silk, for one who wears it in the world will not wear it in the Hereafter.’ That’s what’s written. You’re not allowed to wear yellow clothing, either, because ‘these are the clothes usually worn by nonbelievers,’ quote unquote. But here’s my beautiful wife wearing a yellow silk robe, oh shame unto her,” Kiraz said, and suddenly began laughing.
Badria did not laugh with him.
Her back to the detectives, she stood before a four-burner stove, preparing her husband’s coffee in a small brass pot with a tin lining.
“ ‘A man was wearing clothes dyed in saffron,’ ” Kiraz said, apparently quoting again, his laughter trailing, his face becoming serious again. “ ‘And finding that Muhammad disapproved of them, he promised to wash them. But the Prophet said, Burn them!’ ” That’s written, too. So tell me, Badria. Should we burn your pretty yellow silk robe? What do you think, Badria?”
Badria said nothing.
The aroma of strong Turkish coffee filled the small kitchen.
“You haven’t answered our very first question,” Meyer said.
“And what was that? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.”
“Where were you at three o’clock this morning?”
“I was here,” Kiraz said. “Asleep. In bed with my beautiful wife. Isn’t that so, Badria?”
Standing at the stove in her yellow silk robe, Badria said nothing.
“Badria? Tell the gentlemen where I was at three o’clock this morning.”
She did not turn from the stove.
Her back still to them, her voice very low, Badria Kiraz said, “I don’t know where you were, Oz.”
The aroma of the coffee was overpowering now.
“But you weren’t here in bed with me,” she said.
Nellie Brand left the District Attorney’s Office at eleven that Wednesday morning and was uptown at the Eight-Seven by a little before noon. She had cancelled an important lunch date, and even before the detectives filled her in, she warned them that this better be real meat here.
Osman Kiraz had already been read his rights and had insisted on an attorney before he answered any questions. Nellie wasn’t familiar with the man he chose. Gulbuddin Amin was wearing a dark-brown business suit, with a tie and vest. Nellie was wearing a suit, too. Hers was a Versace, and it was a deep shade of green that complimented her blue eyes and sand-colored hair. Amin had a tidy little mustache and he wore eyeglasses. His English was impeccable, with a faint Middle-Eastern accent. Nellie guessed he might originally have come from Afghanistan, as had his client. She guessed he was somewhere in his mid fifties. She herself was thirty-two.
The police clerk’s fingers were poised over the stenotab machine. Nellie was about to begin the questioning when Amin said, “I hope this was not a frivolous arrest, Mrs. Brand.”
“No, counselor...”
“...because that would be a serious mistake in a city already fraught with Jewish-Arab tensions.”
“I would not use the word frivolous to describe this arrest,” Nellie said.
“In any case, I’ve already advised my client to remain silent.”
“Then we have nothing more to do here,” Nellie said, briskly dusting the palm of one hand against the other. “Easy come, easy go. Take him away, boys, he’s all yours.”
“Why are you afraid of her?” Kiraz asked his lawyer.
Amin responded in what Nellie assumed was Arabic.
“Let’s stick to English, shall we?” she said. “What’d you just say, counselor?”
“My comment was privileged.”
“Not while your man’s under oath, it isn’t.”
Amin sighed heavily.
“I told him I’m afraid of no woman.”
“Bravo!” Nellie said, applauding, and then looked Kiraz dead in the eye. “How about you?” she asked. “Are you afraid of me?”