The Final Bet

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  Othman’s eyes widened.

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “The truth.”

  Othman nodded his head approvingly. She then stared at him with a doubtful look.

  “Othman, you’ve got to be honest with me.”

  The question scared him.

  “I swear to you, Naeema,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t kill her. You know we both wanted her gone. But if I was planning on killing her, I’d have taken every precaution. . . .”

  “Who killed her then?” she asked, cutting him off sharply in a way he hadn’t experienced before.

  His eyes strayed and he felt weak. He found himself thinking about the fingerprints.

  “If you’re afraid for yourself,” he yelled out, agitated, “you can be sure I’ll clear you of any charges. Even if they frame me for her murder, they’ll be putting me to death, not you.”

  Despite this, her scowl didn’t go away.

  “Did you eat?” she asked, opening the fridge to see what was inside. “I normally only have cheese and fruit for dinner.”

  He took her firmly in his arms and gave her a long kiss on the mouth but she didn’t react. Finally, she pushed him away.

  “You reek of alcohol. How can you drink at a time like this?”

  He threw himself down on the chair again.

  “I left the police needing some time alone to think about what happened. I went into a bar and had one beer and then another. I was there all day. I couldn’t go back to the villa or my parents’ house. My father’s reaction to the news was disgusting.”

  “What happened when you told them?”

  “They cursed at me for marrying her. How quickly they forget all the help she gave them.”

  Naeema put some plates on the table.

  “After that cop visited me tonight,” she said, trying to hide her suspicions, “I’ll tell you the truth. I started to get scared. When I think about tomorrow, I feel like I won’t be able to sleep tonight. But what bothers me the most is that I feel you’re hiding something from me.”

  “Don’t you believe I didn’t kill her?” asked Othman bitterly.

  “I was angry when I left you at the park. I admit I acted harshly, so I’m afraid the way I treated you made you do something crazy.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it firmly.

  “I didn’t kill her, Naeema. What I told the police and what I’m telling you is the truth. But whenever I think about the real killer, I feel dizzy. I can’t think of anyone who has a reason to kill Sofia but me. Because of how much I hated her and how often I imagined killing her, I feel like I’m the one who did it. Her death was exactly what we both wanted. But I didn’t do it. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Naeema let out a deep sigh of relief and pressed down on his hand gently.

  “Thank God,” she said. “You didn’t do anything crazy.”

  “I’m innocent, even if the whole world’s against me,” blurted out Othman.

  They went into the bedroom, took off their clothes, and got under the covers. The soft light from the bedside lamp illuminated the room. Othman now had all the time he wanted and didn’t have to make love quickly, like he used to when he’d rush home to Sofia full of dread. He breathed in the scent of youth emanating from his love’s body. What a difference there was between her and the old lady who’d crumble in his arms like a bag of rotten potatoes. His soul was filled with disgust at his past life and he thought about how he’d spend this night without any kind of deception.

  Even though they weren’t talking about Sofia’s death anymore, he couldn’t stop himself from obsessing about the fingerprints. He lay in bed afterward, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

  “There’s something weighing on me, Naeema,” he said in a voice full of tension, letting out a sigh and pulling her to him forcefully. “I have to confess it to you, but I beg you, I beg you to keep trusting me. When I left you and went back to the villa, I didn’t find Sofia dead. She was dying and pleading with me with her eyes to pull the knife from her stomach. I didn’t have to, but I did it. The situation was stronger than me. I pulled out the knife and put it on the bed. I then rushed to the phone to call an ambulance and the police. I thought she was still alive and would tell me who attacked her. But she died a few seconds later. In all the confusion and agitation, I forgot to wipe my fingerprints from the knife handle. Or maybe I did. I just can’t remember. And that’s what terrifies me. If the police find my prints on the knife, that’ll be hard evidence of my guilt and I’ll face many problems, especially if the police haven’t found the real killer yet.”

  He pressed his chest against hers.

  “All I want from you, Naeema, is that you don’t ever doubt my innocence. I didn’t kill Sofia.”

  Her tears wet his chest. She didn’t utter a single word.

  It was ten thirty at night when the commissioner called in Detective Alwaar and Inspector Boukrisha urgently. He went over the latest developments in the case with them and read aloud the most important parts of the medical examiner’s report, which he’d just been faxed.

  “She received two deep stab wounds,” he read, proceeding slowly with the key information, skipping through lines that weren’t important. “The first was in the kidney and stomach, and the second pierced the heart deeply. There isn’t any evidence of resistance on the part of the victim. . . .”

  “That means she wasn’t surprised when she saw the killer,” Alwaar said, cutting him off. “He’s someone she knows.”

  “Her husband,” said Boukrisha, trying to make his voice less hoarse. His comment didn’t garner the least bit of attention.

  The commissioner continued reading the rest of the report and then put it down in front of him on the desk.

  “From your report on the crime scene,” he said, addressing the detective, “the furniture wasn’t overturned and nothing was broken. There’s not even any evidence the killer tried to flee the crime scene. It’s as if the victim surrendered completely and the killer knew exactly what he was doing.”

  “What’s the time of death?” Alwaar asked in his tired voice.

  “About quarter after midnight,” said the commissioner, scanning the report.

  “And what about the lab report?” asked Alwaar, shaking his head.

  The commissioner waved his hand in a way that revealed his annoyance.

  “I don’t know how they work at that lab,” he said, losing his patience. “We still haven’t gotten anything from them.”

  Boukrisha’s cell phone rang in his pocket. He rushed to get up and scurry over to the farthest part of the office. He was afraid it was a personal call but he relaxed when he heard the voice of one of his inspectors assigned to watch Othman.

  “Okay, all the lights are on?” he said, trying to raise his voice so the others could hear him. “Then he’ll probably spend the night with her. No, don’t move from your spot. Wait for my orders.”

  “The target’s still at his girlfriend’s,” he told the commissioner directly, putting the cell phone back in his pocket. “Looks like he’ll sleep there.”

  The commissioner leaned back in his chair, rubbing his fingers under his chin.

  “Excellent, excellent,” he said spontaneously. “I think our theory’s solid: Othman’s the killer and his girlfriend’s an accomplice, if not in carrying out the crime then in planning it. She won’t be of any use to him as an alibi since they were together near the villa at the time of the crime.”

  “Why don’t we go arrest them right now on the charge of perversion and carrying on an illegal sexual relationship,” blurted out Boukrisha. “That way, we can take our time grilling them about the murder.”

  The commissioner liked the idea and then looked over at the detective.

  “What do you think?” he asked, double-checking with Alwaar.

  “Why dirty our work with some marginal charge?” he said, after a moment of hesitation. “We’d look like we’re bumbling around and reaching for
evidence. One more day and our man will break down and start singing like a sparrow.”

  The chief laughed out loud, his white teeth flashing.

  “You’re right,” he said gratefully, “especially since the French embassy and the press are following the case.”

  8

  The next morning around nine o’clock, the commissioner’s office was full of people. Besides the commissioner and Alwaar, Michel Bernard—an advisor at the French Cultural Center—was there, together with Jacques.

  “Let me introduce you to Sofia’s son, Monsieur Beaumarché,” Bernard said in a tone full of grief. “He just got in from Paris.”

  The commissioner shook his hand warmly and then extended his condolences with all the feeling he could muster. Alwaar and Boukrisha did the same thing. The commissioner asked them all to sit down and mumbled again some expressions of consolation. Looking back and forth between Alwaar and Boukrisha, he was talking in an official style as if he was giving a television interview. Between one expression and another, he repeated his regret for the painful incident. He reassured the two visitors that the entire police force was working day and night to arrest the killer.

  Jacques played with the black sunglasses he was holding in his hands.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but please, monsieur, do you have a suspect?” he asked.

  The commissioner exchanged a glance with the detective as though consulting him. He seemed to hesitate. In matters like this, there were a number of points crucial to the investigation that should not be revealed to the public.

  “And you, Monsieur Beaumarché,” said the detective to save the commissioner from answering the question, “do you suspect anyone?”

  Jacques leaned forward a bit as if the question shook him from his grief. Alwaar seized the opportunity to look closely at him and was struck by his elegance: Jacques had on an expensive black suit, a silk tie, and well-polished black shoes. Traces of the tragedy were clear in his eyes, which were surrounded by black rings, and his face was pale. He was obviously exhausted from the trip to Casablanca.

  “It’s difficult to respond to your question,” he said, stammering without moving his head. “I don’t know exactly who my mother knew and who she did business with. I visit her once or twice a year at the most.”

  “He was here last week,” Bernard cut in as if he wanted to protect Jacques from talking. His eyes were full of grief. “He spent a number of days with us. I still remember when we said goodbye to you at the airport, Jacques. Your poor mother was so active and full of life. Who could have expected that she would be murdered a few days later?”

  Jacques’s eyes welled up. He took a tissue out of his pocket and wiped his eyes with it.

  “I want to see her,” he said, struggling to control his grief.

  “Yes, yes,” said the commissioner getting up. “I’ll accompany you myself.”

  Once they were outside, Bernard suggested they take his car, a new Mercedes with diplomatic plates. The commissioner got in next to Bernard and Jacques sat in the back for the trip to the morgue. Alwaar waved goodbye to them and then went over to his meager Fiat Uno. He found Boukrisha already in the driver’s seat, waiting for him.

  As they drove off, Alwaar told Boukrisha to avoid the main roads, which were full of traffic at this time of day. He then asked the inspector about the latest reports from the surveillance team.

  “Naeema left the building at about eight thirty wearing a jalbab,” Boukrisha replied, turning off onto a nearly empty side street. “She put a bag of trash in the dumpster. One of our men searched it and found fruit peels and a lot of cigarette butts,” he continued, smiling at this unnecessary bit of detail. “She then went to the local bakery and bought two hilaliya. She also got a container of milk from the grocer and a pack of Marlboro Lights from the cigarette seller.”

  “Who’s on surveillance today?”

  “Assou and Khouribgui.”

  Alwaar looked at his watch and remembered that in an hour, he had to cook up that sports trainer over high heat. He stopped the car on Abd al-Mumin Boulevard, which was full of high-rise office buildings and bank and insurance company headquarters. The detective asked Boukrisha to wait for him in the car. He went to the door of the building, which had a number of square brass signs for doctors, lawyers, and engineers on both sides. The detective noticed a sign with the name of the accountant Shafiq Sahili written on it.

  He took the elevator up and stepped out onto a dark hallway that was covered with red rugs. He took a deep breath and rang the bell. A girl with short hair dyed light blond opened the door for him. She was wearing clothes similar to those of a flight attendant and had on high heels. She gave him an exaggerated secretary’s smile.

  “Excuse me,” said Alwaar. “I have an appointment with Shafiq Sahili.”

  “Please, monsieur, come in,” she said in a welcoming tone.

  She closed the door and asked him to sit down on an elegant leather couch.

  “Who shall I say is here?”

  “Detective Alwaar.”

  The accountant’s office had a large reception area, which became silent for a moment after the secretary walked off. Alwaar looked around the room and saw fine paintings on the walls. The secretary’s office was luxurious, despite being quite small. She had a nice computer with a flat screen and a PDA. Alwaar had never seen Shafiq Sahili but he guessed that if he was a reckless man, he would’ve already rolled around on these red rugs with his beautiful secretary.

  “Please go ahead,” said the secretary, hurrying back to her office.

  The accountant stood up as the detective walked in. Sahili was about forty-five and the hair above his temples was going gray. He had on fine gold-rimmed reading glasses. He gave the detective a full look, shook his hand, and asked him to sit down. He then sat back in his own chair.

  Alwaar looked around the office and found that the reception area was much more plush. He gestured over toward the open door, and the accountant immediately understood what Alwaar was getting at.

  “Selwa!” he yelled out.

  With the detective’s back to her, she stuck her head into the room and then closed the door quietly. Alwaar wondered if she was eavesdropping.

  “You’re entrusted with the estate of Madame Sofia Beaumarché?” asked the detective sluggishly.

  The accountant sat back and stuck his lips out in relief, clearly expecting something else.

  “Of course.”

  He continued watching him closely.

  “Don’t you know what happened to her?”

  The accountant’s eyes widened.

  “No. What happened?”

  Alwaar took a deep breath, taking his time as if he was about to let out a sneeze.

  “She was killed in her home the day before yesterday.”

  The accountant took off his glasses and put them down in front of him on the desk. He leaned forward in disbelief.

  “Killed or died?”

  “She was stabbed to death in her bedroom.”

  The accountant put his head between his hands, as his face went pale.

  “Who killed her?” he said before the detective could ask him another question.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it thieves?”

  The detective got annoyed with the accountant’s questions.

  “We didn’t find any evidence of that,” he said, clearly irritated. “Please, I’ve got some questions for you,” he said as he took out his notebook. “When did Sofia become your client?”

  “Years ago,” the accountant replied absentmindedly.

  “What kind of work did you do for her?”

  The accountant shook his head, looking at the detective with disapproval of how quickly he was going. Alwaar remained firm, waiting for a reply.

  “I’m responsible for her estate.”

  “What does it consist of?”

 
The accountant got up and opened a drawer in his filing cabinet. He flipped through a number of files and then pulled one out. He came back to his desk and opened it in front of the detective.

  “There’s the restaurant—Sofia’s in Ain Diab—the villa in Anfa, and bank accounts in both dirhams and euros,” said the accountant.

  Alwaar wrote down the information. He took his time before raising his head from his notebook. The accountant noticed from the detective’s eyes how interested he was.

  “Is there a will or something like that?”

  The accountant leaned back in his chair and thought for a while before answering.

  “Yes, there’s a will.”

  “When did she deposit it with you?”

  They exchanged a long glance. From behind the door, Selwa’s heart began pounding.

  “That’s confidential. I think talking about it requires some time.”

  Alwaar put his notebook and pen down on the desk. He put his hand in his jacket pocket, took out his police ID, and showed it to the accountant.

  “The person before you is a judicial police detective who has been charged with investigating the murder of Sofia Beaumarché. I’m asking you to provide me with all the information I need.”

  “Okay, okay,” said the accountant, his face going pale. “I want to help. Forgive me. I just can’t believe what happened.”

  “Excuse me,” said the detective, “but I’ve got to do my job.”

  The accountant flipped through the papers in the file as the detective picked up his notebook and pen.

  “Sofia,” said the accountant looking closely at a sheet of paper, “was my dear friend for years. As for the will, she set it about seven months ago.”

  “Who’s the beneficiary?”

  “Her husband, Othman Latlabi,” he said after a brief hesitation, as if feeling guilty for letting out a secret.

  “What did she leave him?” said the detective, trying to remain calm.

  “Her entire estate: the restaurant, villa, and bank accounts.”

  “Didn’t she leave anything to her son?” Alwaar asked, moving his head with a sense of satisfaction.

  “I asked her this same question when she deposited the will with me. She said she already gave her son half her money right after the death of her first husband.”