Six O'Clock Silence

by Joanne Pence

  “Cat’s already out of the bag on that one, Richie,” Haynes said with a sly grin. “I already heard something about you causing some big real estate investors grief.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Haynes smirked. “I also know our beloved mayor is doing all he can to make it easy for foreigners to buy property here.”

  “What do you mean by ‘making it easy’?” Richie asked.

  “Changing rules about certain types of property ownership. The beauty of a holding company is that the company buys the property, and the participants don’t have to make their names public—especially if the holding company is headquartered in another country—like the Cayman Islands.”

  “So that’s it,” Richie said. “A way to hide wealth.”

  “It’s one possibility,” Haynes said. “But there are others. Whoever is behind crafting those new real estate rules would have a lot of power—and a lot of people indebted to him, or her. In politics, it’s all about tit-for-tat.”

  “Who has the authority to make such rules in the city?” Richie asked.

  Haynes rubbed his chin. “I suspect it would have to be the mayor or a supervisor. I don’t see anyone lower being able to pull it off.”

  “Interesting,” Richie said. Once again, he realized Rebecca’s difficulties didn’t stem from what she had been investigating when she looked into Audrey Poole’s murder, but where it might lead.

  “Our mayor is quite ambitious, you know,” Haynes said. “Sacramento is most likely his next step.”

  “The governorship?” Richie asked.

  “You got it. And I suggest you don’t do anything that might put you in the way of him reaching that goal. Anyone in the way will find life has suddenly become very unhealthy.”

  o0o

  Now that Rebecca and Sutter knew something about Yussef Najjar and his family, Rebecca started the morning tracking down phone records, credit cards, bank statements, emails, and any social media accounts she could find. What emerged was a man who had a small group of male friends and an ever changing set of one- or two-time dates with women. He even spent some time on match.com, but third dates appeared to be non-existent. Rebecca couldn’t tell why. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but his features weren’t awful. His job wasn’t exciting, but at least he had one.

  The only worrisome point was that his Facebook posts grew increasingly bitter, especially about women, lambasting them for deceitfulness and lies.

  Rebecca was staring at her computer when Homicide’s secretary, Elizabeth Havlin, buzzed her phone. “A gentleman is here to see you. He says his name is Henry Tate.”

  It took a moment for the name to register: Shay. “Yes, send him in.”

  She should have known that Elizabeth wouldn’t just “send” Shay anywhere. She led him into the Homicide bureau. Since she was trying to head toward Rebecca’s desk and at the same time to stare at the handsome, well-dressed man at her side, she ended up walking right into Luis Calderon’s desk.

  “Hey!” Calderon shouted, then abruptly shut his mouth as Shay cast an icy glare his way.

  “Sorry,” Elizabeth murmured, then looked at Shay and smiled. “Right this way, Mr. Tate.”

  Calderon gawked, and even Rebecca could hear the slight tremolo in Elizabeth’s voice. When she reached Rebecca’s desk, she continued to stand there smiling at Shay.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth,” Rebecca said by way of dismissal, and then to Shay. “This is a surprise.”

  “Rebecca,” he said, with a curt nod.

  Elizabeth continued to gape at the two of them until Rebecca met her eye. “Oh!” she murmured, then rushed back to the front office.

  Shay took the guest chair by Rebecca’s desk.

  “So, what brings you here?” she asked. “Did Richie send you?”

  “No. I’m here on my own.” Shay gave a dismissive glance at Calderon, the only detective besides Rebecca in the bureau at the moment. “I have to talk to you about your case.”

  “The skeleton?”

  “Yes.” He drew in his breath. “You’ve noticed I’ve been interested in this case. It turns out I knew the dead man.”

  “You knew Yussef Najjar.” Her words were more a confirmation than a question.

  “From the time I heard you’d found bones that had been buried for some years, I couldn’t help but wonder if they belonged to Yussef. He disappeared nine years ago, and it was all very strange. Word went out that he went back to Lebanon, but I never believed that.”

  “Why not?”

  “From things Yussef had told me. The family was split. Yussef on one side, his brother, Gebran, on the other. You’ve met Gebran, I imagine?”

  “Yes.”

  “It all had to do with money and politics and old, old family feuds in the way of many Arab households—even Christian ones.” He gave a slight grin, as if to say, what could be more natural than family members fighting amongst themselves? “The trouble was, a couple of the cousins didn’t take anything lightly. They were serious and, I believe, deadly. I think many in the family suspected they killed Yussef. That was why no one went to the police. If they told about the cousins, it could have set off a series of deadly consequences for the family. If the cousins were accused, and the police arrested them, or even worse, if they were executed or deported and killed in Lebanon because of Yussef’s murder, there would have been more killings—revenge killings.”

  “Did you meet these cousins?” she asked.

  “No. But Yussef clearly was afraid of them.”

  “Why did you keep all that quiet?” she asked.

  “How could I go to the police when his own family refused to? And I had no proof of anything. Frankly, I hoped he had simply left the Bay Area for some place safe.”

  His explanation made no sense to her. “I find it hard to believe that you, with all your knowledge of computer hacking and how to find out just about anything, didn’t look more closely into what had become of your friend.”

  “It happened years ago. Back then, my life wasn’t at all the way it is now. I had just left the military and was … troubled, let’s say.” Shay paused, as if not sure how much to tell her. “It was clear to me Yussef wouldn’t have wanted the family to go to war because of his death. Maybe I was wrong, but I felt it wasn’t my place to interfere.”

  She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “But now you’ve changed your mind.”

  “Yes.” He gave her another of his cold stares, and yet, she sensed a strangeness to his eyes--a fierce intensity not usually visible in their strange blue depths.

  She felt uncomfortable looking at him, and reached for her notepad, flipping it open to a blank page. Something felt wrong about this entire story. “Do you know the names of these cousins?”

  “He called them Ibrahim and Mustafa. I think their last name was also Najjar, but some of the family had the name Hariri. I’m not sure which was theirs.”

  “Do they live in the city?”

  “They did at the time. That was the problem. Yussef took a job in San Mateo and moved there to get away from them. He kept saying he wished they’d go back to Los Angeles where they had been living, and stop using his mother and wealthy brother to live off of. I don’t know if they returned to LA or not.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about them? Age? Occupation?”

  “They were around Yussef’s age, so I guess they’re in their late thirties or early forties now. As to occupation, no. But they weren’t exactly Mensa material. That’s as much as I know.”

  “Okay. Thanks for telling me all this.” Rebecca shut the notebook. “Since you’re here, I want to ask you about a very different situation. I’m wondering if you have any feel yet, as you look into Isabella’s death, what might have happened to her that night?”

  His eyes lost their coldness, and she actually saw concern and humanity in them. “All I can say is, I hope it was an accident. A true accident.”

  She understood why he said t
hat. “Yes,” she murmured. “So do I.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Soon after Shay left, Rebecca received a phone call from Gebran Najjar. He made it a point to tell her that he was only talking to her, a woman, because Sutter wasn’t in the office.

  “Fine,” was her clipped, cold response.

  “I called to tell you,” Gebran said, “my mother passed away last night.”

  Rebecca was stunned…at first. His mother wasn’t that old, and Rebecca's normal inclination was to suspect most anything and everything. His mother might have had dementia, but no one indicated she was close to death. It all sounded too opportune. Still, she couldn't come right out and accuse him of anything, especially something as nefarious as killing his own mother just to avoid questioning. For now, she'd take his story at face value. “I’m sorry to hear it. What happened to her?”

  “She died during her sleep. I’m only glad we did not trouble her last hours on this earth with news of my brother’s death.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s a relief.”

  “Now, I hope you will allow my family to grieve, and leave our relatives unbothered by your questions. There is nothing more we can tell you.”

  “We’ll do what we can to respect your family in this difficult time,” she said, but was now even more inclined to believe there was more to the story.

  He hung up without another word.

  At almost that same moment, Sutter returned to Homicide and dropped into his office chair. Before he could get comfortable, Rebecca filled him in on the conversation. “They said she had dementia, not that she was at death’s door. Doesn’t her passing, now, just when we want to question her, seem convenient?”

  “Hard to know,” Sutter said. “That family isn’t exactly forthcoming. By the way, the two friends of Yussef that I found were no help. He was an okay guy. That’s it. Sounded like they hardly knew him or didn’t much care about him. But they gave me a few other names and phone numbers.”

  “And? Any luck?” she asked.

  “Same thing. He was likable, but stern, quiet, and close-mouthed about anything outside work, including family and friends. Most assumed his family lived far from him, and that he only had one or two close friends, but who they were, no one could say. They also said he was bitter about women, and that women didn’t seem to like him. In fact, a couple of his female coworkers admitted that he made them nervous, but they couldn’t point to any specific reason why, except that he ‘stared’ at them a lot.”

  “Sounds kind of creepy,” Rebecca said.

  “Maybe.” Sutter shrugged. End of report.

  But there had to be more. They just needed to dig deeper.

  “I’ve got an idea.” With that, Rebecca phoned the Medical Examiner’s office and spoke to Dr. Ramirez. She asked if the ME had been contacted about a woman named Fairuz Najjar who had died in a nursing home.

  “I haven’t heard a word. It’s been years since I’ve gotten an autopsy request for a nursing home patient,” Evelyn said.

  “That’s what I expected to hear.” Rebecca thanked her, and hung up.

  “No dice,” she said to Sutter. “Still, I’d love to request an autopsy of Fairuz. I’ve got questions, such as why did Fairuz die right when we were about to ask question her about Yussef’s disappearance.”

  “Eastwood will never approve it,” Sutter warned. “We have no cause.”

  “We need to find one,” Rebecca said.

  Sutter agreed. “That family, her son in particular, didn't want us to have any information. He didn’t even want to tell us where his mother was living.”

  “Let’s pay him another visit and press harder.” Rebecca folded her arms, her expression unforgiving. “One way or another, I'm getting an autopsy even if I have to do it myself.”

  o0o

  Before heading to the Najjar home, they needed to get all their ducks in a row, in particular, getting more background on the cousins Shay had told her about. Pouring cups of coffee for herself and Sutter, Rebecca quickly filled her partner in on her visit from Shay, giving only the briefest explanation—one that didn’t mention Richie—of how she knew him. It seemed a long shot that a couple of cousins murdered Yussef, but right now, it was the only lead they had.

  The two began pouring over California records for any mention of an Ibrahim and Mustafa Najjar or Hariri. Rebecca had thought the names were rare, but she soon discovered they were fairly common in California since the state housed about a third of all the Middle Eastern people in the U.S.

  They found a good number of people with those names, as well as another large group with only slight variations in the spelling.

  It was a daunting task. Sutter soon began grousing that Shay’s information might not be legitimate. “Just who is this guy you call Shay?” he asked at one point. “You hardly said. I hope he’s not a friend of Richie’s.”

  Rebecca ignored her partner's grumbling. He'd never warmed up to Richie, and she didn't need him going off on a tangent about Richie being involved with people with questionable reputations. Instead, she picked up the phone and contacted her source in the State Department, but Patti Flynn said it would be impossible to search all the records, especially since a lot of Arab names had a variety of spellings caused by changing from Arab script to Roman letters.

  Flynn added that if the cousins left the US for Lebanon, they would be impossible to track down. A bit of news she hadn't wanted to hear.

  Rebecca decided it was best not to relay any of this news to Sutter as he continued to search through names, dates of birth, and residences. She didn’t want to give him an excuse to stop.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Richie couldn’t put it off any longer.

  He drove to the house on Telegraph Hill that he once thought of as a second home. Over a year had passed since he last dropped in for a quick visit, and guilt swept over him as he approached. The building, like almost all in this neighborhood, consisted of two flats. The bottom one shared ground level with the garage, and the upper flat was larger, taking up the entire floor.

  After ringing the doorbell, he heard a buzz and pushed open the door. “Hello,” he called as he climbed the long staircase to the top floor.

  “Richie! Can it be?” Dolores Russo had come down a few steps and leaned over the banister to see who had walked in. “It’s so good to see you.”

  He all but ran up the rest of the stairs to greet her with a kiss on the cheek and a long hug. She hugged him back, then studied his face. “You’re looking good, Richie. A little too thin, but that’s because you don’t come here anymore to eat my ravioli.”

  He grinned. “I will, Dolores, I promise.”

  “I know, I know.” The way she said it, she knew he wouldn’t be going there to eat. Some things were impossible to go back to. “Come have some vino with me. I have some braciole left over from last night. A little bite, okay?”

  “Sure. That sounds great.”

  He sat at the kitchen table while she poured him some Italian red and heated the braciole, thinly sliced beef smeared with minced garlic and parsley, then rolled up and cooked in a red sauce until the meat could be cut with a fork. With it, she put out sourdough bread. Between the aroma of her cooking, the taste of the food, and sitting in her kitchen, memories flooded him. He didn’t know if he wanted to smile from how great those memories were, or cry because, while they would always be part of his past, no new ones would be made again in this house.

  “It’s good to see you, Dolores,” he said softly.

  “Yes, for me, too,” she murmured. Her voice was husky and she gave a little cough to hide it, then reached for her wine. She squeezed his hand, and he knew she was having similar thoughts.

  They both finished the wine a little too quickly, and she poured second glasses. Before long, they were talking the way they used to. She was filled with curiosity about Big Caesar’s, and Richie regaled her with stories of crazy musicians, singers, and customers he had to deal with. One thing
about Richie, he always had stories that could make people laugh. Some people told him it was a gift. If so, right now, he was glad he had it.

  When the food and wine were gone, he said, “I actually had a reason for stopping by—a reason besides wanting to see you again.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she admitted. “So, what is it?”

  “I recently heard that the police gave you a laptop that Isabella had with her on the night…. Anyway, I was wondering if you still have it.”

  “A laptop?” she said. “Oh, from the police, you said. I probably still have it. The stuff they gave us, I didn’t even want to look at it. I had Ray put everything in the basement. Let’s go down there. I’ll find it for you. But why do you want to see it?”

  “It’s probably nothing,” he said. “I’m just curious. You know me.”

  She gave him a strange look. “Yes, I do know you. Okay, you won’t say. That’s all right. I don’t think I really want to know. Andiamo.”

  In the basement of the building, Dolores found the box the police had given her and her husband. She stepped outside as Richie opened it. He realized someone, probably Isabella’s father, Ray, had gone through it to remove Isabella’s wallet and her jewelry, including her engagement ring. He had insisted that the diamond ring be buried with her. Bloodied clothes, her handbag, shoes, and a laptop were still in the box.

  He took out the laptop, and then shut the box once more, folding its flaps back down. He felt his entire body shake as he did it—almost as if he were burying her again.

  Then he took a deep breath. With the laptop under his arm, he said goodbye to Dolores and left the house as quickly as he could.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rebecca and Sutter returned to the Najjar home that evening to see Gebran.

  Rebecca would have preferred not to let anyone in the family know that she was trying to find the two cousins Shay had told her about, but since she was having no luck whatsoever locating them, she had no choice but to ask for help.