"So I understand, Imam Abd ar-Razzaq. We have avenues of investigation yet to explore. We're hopeful of presenting sufficient evidence to change your mind."
The old man coughed hoarsely a few times. "For your sakes, I hope you do. But be assured that my primary motive will be to see that justice is done."
"Yes, O Wise One."
"To that end, I wish to know what your immediate plans are, as far as investigating this sad event."
This was it. If the imam was too shocked by my intention, he could very well veto it, and then I'd be up the proverbial dune without a sunshade. "O Wise One," I began slowly, "it has come to our attention that no proper autopsy was performed on the corpse of Khalid Maxwell. I wish your permission to exhume the body, and have a thorough study done by the city's coroner."
I could not see the man's expression, but I could hear his sharp intake of breath. "You know that it is a commandment from Allah that burial follow death immediately."
I nodded.
"And exhumation is permitted only in the most extreme and urgent situations."
I shrugged. "May I remind you, O Wise One, that my life and the life of Friedlander Bey may depend on the results of an autopsy. And I'm sure that Shaykh Mahali would agree, even if you don't."
The imam slammed his wrinkled hand down on the desk. "Watch your words, boy!" he whispered. "You threaten to go over my head on this matter? Well, there is no need. I will grant permission for the exhumation. But in return, I will say that your proof must be gathered in two weeks, not the month you were given previously. The people of the city cannot tolerate a longer delay for justice to be done." He bent over his desk and found a clean sheet of paper. I watched him write out a short paragraph and sign it.
Abd ar-Razzaq was making it almost impossible for us to clear our names. Two weeks! I didn't like that at all. We could have used twelve. I merely stood, bowed my head slightly, and said, "Then if you will excuse me, O Wise One, I will go directly to the coroner's office in the Budayeen. I do not wish to take up any more of your time."
I could not see him, and he said nothing more to me. He just handed me the sheet of paper. I glanced at it; it was an official order for Khalid Maxwell's autopsy, to be performed within the next two weeks.
I stood there in his darkened office for a few seconds, feeling more and more uncomfortable. Finally, I thought to myself, "Fuck him," and turned around. I hurried back through the sprawling mosque, regained my shoes, and got back in the car behind Kmuzu.
"Do you wish to go home now, yaa Sidi?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I need to go to the Budayeen."
He nodded and started the car. I sat back in the seat and thought about what I'd learned. Hajjar was claiming to be an eyewitness, huh? Well, I suspected I could shake his testimony. All in all, I wasn't feeling too bad. I was even congratulating myself for the way I'd handled myself with Abd ar-Razzaq.
Then I got two phone calls that tracked mud across my nice, fresh mood.
The first one was about money. My phone rang and I undipped it. "Hello," I said.
"Mr. Marîd Audran? This is Kirk Adwan from the Bank of the Dunes."
That's the bank where I kept my own accounts. "Yes?" I said warily.
"We have a check here made out to a Farouk Hussein in the amount of twenty-four hundred kiam. It has your endorsement on the back, as well as Mr. Hussein's in what appears to be your handwriting."
Uh huh. The check that poor Fuad had given to Jacques. Jacques had waited for the check to clear, then he'd withdrawn the twenty-four hundred kiam and given it to Fuad.
"Yes?" I said.
"Mr. Audran, Mr. Hussein has reported that check as stolen. Now, we're not eager to prosecute, but unless you can cover the twenty-four hundred kiam by five o'clock tomorrow, we'll be forced to call the police on this matter. You can visit any of our branches for your convenience."
"Uh, just a minute—" Too late. Adwan had hung up.
I closed my eyes and cursed silently. What was this, some kind of sting? Fuad was too dumb to pull off anything this complicated. Was Jacques in it, too? I didn't care. I was going to get to the bottom of it, and whoever was responsible was going to be sorry. He'd better get used to breathing fine yellow sand.
I was furious. The situation even had me muttering to myself. Maybe an hour passed. Kmuzu and I were getting something to eat at the Cafe Solace when the phone rang again. "Yeah?" I said impatiently.
"Yeah, yourself, Audran." It was Lieutenant Hajjar, the expert eyewitness himself.
"I got something I need to go over with you, Hajjar," I said gruffly.
"Take your turn, noraf. Tell me, didn't you have an appointment to see Imam Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq this afternoon?"
My eyes narrowed. "How did you know that?"
Hajjar snorted. "I know lots. Anyway, I was wondering if you could tell me how, less than an hour after your visit, the next time his secretary went in to see him, the holy man ended up dead, sprawled all over his floor with half a dozen poisoned needle-gun flechettes in his chest?"
I just stared at Kmuzu's face.
"Hello?" said Hajjar sweetly. "Mr. Suspect? Would you mind dropping by the office here at your earliest convenience?"
I just clipped the phone back on my belt. Now that I had only two weeks instead of a month to establish our innocence, I had more trouble to take care of than ever. I reached into my suit jacket for my pillcase—after all, this was another one of those moments when illicit drugs were definitely indicated— but I had left it behind in my gallebeya.
I asked myself, What would Shaykh Hassanein do in a situation like this? Unfortunately, the only answer was Hightail it back into the untrackable wastes of the Rub al-Khali.
Say, maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. . . .
14
I took care of both the major problems that very afternoon, which is further proof of how much I've matured. In the olden days, I would've hidden in my bedroom, deep within a fog of Sonneine, and put off thinking about my troubles for a day or two, until the matters became critical. I'd since learned that it was much easier to deal with hassles while they're still in the yellow-alert stage.
I had to decide, first of all, which crisis was the more pressing. Was it more important to save my life, or my credit rating? Well, I've always been on good terms with my banker—especially since I'd become Papa's junior executive, and the beneficiary of frequent fat envelopes stuffed with money. I supposed that the Bank of the Dunes could wait an hour or two, but that Lieutenant Hajjar might not have the same patience.
It was still raining as Kmuzu drove me to the police station on Walid al-Akbar Street. As usual, I had to pass through a crowd of dirty-faced young boys, all of whom were pressing against me and loudly clamoring for baksheesh. I wondered why the kids hung out here at the copshop, instead of, say, the Hotel Palazzo di Marco Aurelio, where the rich tourists were. Maybe they thought people going in and out of the police station had other things on their minds, and might be more generous. I don't know; I just flung a few kiam down the block, and they all chased after the money. As I climbed the stairs, I heard one boy whistle the familiar children's tune.
I found my way upstairs to Lieutenant Hajjar's glassed-in office in the middle of the detective division. He was on the phone, so I just let myself in and sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair beside his desk. I picked up a stack of Hajjar's mail and began sorting through it, until he grabbed it back with an angry scowl. Then he barked a few words into the phone and slammed it down. "Audran," he said in a loud, greedy voice.
"Lieutenant," I said. "What's happening?"
He stood up and paced a little. "I know you're gonna get shortened by one head-length even sooner than you thought."
I shrugged. "You mean because Abd ar-Razzaq cut two weeks off the time we had to clear our names."
Hajjar stopped pacing, turned to face me, and let his face widen slowly in an evil grin. "No, you stupid motherfucker," he said, "the whole city's gonna come aft
er you and hang you by your heels for the murder of the holy man. With blazing torches, they'll drag you out of bed and separate you into little piles of internal organs. You and Friedlander Bey both. And it's about time, too."
I closed my eyes and sighed wearily. "I didn't kill the imam, Hajjar."
He sat down again behind his desk. "Let's look at this scientifically. You had an appointment with the imam at two o'clock. The secretary said you went in to see him about quarter past the hour. You were in Abd ar-Razzaq's office a little more than fifteen minutes. There were no more appointments until half past three. When the secretary looked in on the imam at three-thirty, Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq was dead."
"There's a solid hour there when someone else could've gotten by the secretary and killed the son of a bitch," I said calmly.
Hajjar shook his head. "It's an open-and-shut case," he said. "You won't live long enough to find out anything about Khalid Maxwell."
I was starting to get annoyed. Not frightened or worried— just annoyed. "Did you ask the secretary if he left his desk anytime during that hour? Did you ask him if he saw anyone else during that time?"
Hajjar shook his head. "No need," he said. "Open-and-shut case."
I stood up. "What you're telling me is that I have to prove myself innocent of two murders now."
"In a hell of a hurry, too. We're not going to release the news about the imam until morning, because the amir wants us to get ready for the riots and demonstrations first. There are going to be terrible riots and demonstrations, you know. You're going to get to witness them from the very middle, from inside an iron cage, is my prediction. If Friedlander Bey wants to clear his name as far as Maxwell is concerned, he's gonna have to do it without you. You're gonna be a stiff in a few days, unless you skip town. And believe me, you're gonna have a tough time doing that, 'cause we're watching you every minute."
"I know," I said. "The fat black guy."
Hajjar looked embarrassed. "Well," he said, "he's not one of my best."
I headed for the door. These visits with Hajjar were never very rewarding. "See you later," I called over my shoulder.
"I wouldn't be in your shoes for nothin'. Been waiting a long time for this, Audran. Where you going now?"
I turned and faced him. "Oh, I was planning to drop by the medical examiner's office in the Budayeen. I got permission from the imam to have Khalid Maxwell exhumed."
He turned red and blew up like a balloon. "What?" he cried. "No such thing! Not in my jurisdiction! I won't allow it!"
I smiled. "Life is hard, Lieutenant," I said, letting him look at the official okay I'd gotten from Abd ar-Razzaq. I didn't trust Hajjar enough to let him touch it, though. "This is all I need. If worse comes to worst, I can get Shaykh Mahali to hold your leash if I have to."
"Maxwell? Exhumed? What the hell for?" shouted Hajjar.
"They say a murder victim keeps an imprint of his murderer's face on his retinas, even after death. Ever hear that before? Maybe I'll find out who killed the patrolman. Inshallah."
Hajjar slammed his fist on his desk. 'That's just superstition!"
I shrugged. "I don't know. I thought it was worth a peek. See ya." I escaped from the lieutenant's office, leaving him fuming and sucking in air and blowing it out.
I climbed into the car, and Kmuzu turned to look at me. "Are you all right, yaa Sidi?" he asked.
"More trouble," I grunted. "There's a branch of the Bank of the Dunes around the corner on the boulevard, about ten blocks down. I need to see someone there."
"Yes, yaa Sidi."
As we made our way through the congested traffic, I wondered if Hajjar really could pin the imam's murder on me. After all, I did have the opportunity, as well as a kind of bent motive. Was that enough to build a legal case? Just the fact that, except for the murderer himself, I was probably the last to see Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq alive?
My next thought was sobering. Hajjar didn't need to build a tight legal case. Starting tomorrow, there were going to be two hundred thousand anguished Muslims mourning the brutal murder of their religious leader. All somebody had to do was whisper in enough ears that I was responsible, and I'd pay for the crime without ever standing before an Islamic judge. And I wouldn't even be given a chance to speak in my own defense.
I'd stopped caring about the rain. With this latest development of Hajjar's, I'd even stopped caring about the twenty-four hundred kiam. I stepped into the bank and looked around. There was soft music playing, and the faint fragrance of roses on the air. The lobby of the bank was all glass and stainless steel. To the far right was a row of human tellers, and then a row of automatic teller machines. Across from me were the desks of several bank officers. I went to the receptionist and waited for her to acknowledge my presence.
"Can I help you, sir?" she said in a bored tone of voice.
"I got a call earlier today from a Mr. Kirk Adwan—"
"Mr. Adwan's with a customer right now. Take a seat and he'll be right with you."
"Uh huh," I said. I slouched on a sofa and rested my chin on my chest. I wished again that I had my pillcase with me, or my rack of moddies. It would've been good to escape into somebody else's personality for a while.
Finally, the customer with Adwan got up and left, and I stood and crossed the carpet. Adwan was busy signing papers. "I'll be right with you," he said. "Take a seat."
I sat. I just wanted to get this stupid business over with.
Adwan finished his busywork, looked up blankly, let my face register for a split second, then flashed me his official smile. "Now," he said in a charming voice, "how may I help you?"
"You called me earlier today. My name is Marîd Audran. Some confusion over a twenty-four-hundred-kiam check."
Adwan's smile vanished. "Yes, I remember," he said. His voice was very cold. Mr. Adwan didn't like me, I'm afraid. "Mr. Farouk Hussein reported the cashier's check stolen. When it came through the bank, there was only his name on the front, and yours on the back."
"I didn't steal the check, Mr. Adwan. I didn't deposit it."
He nodded. "Certainly, sir. If you say so. Nevertheless, as I mentioned on the phone, if you're unwilling to repay the money, we'll have to turn this matter over for prosecution. I'm afraid that in the city, this sort of grand theft is punished harshly. Very harshly."
"I fully intend to repay the bank," I said. I reached inside my suit coat and took out my wallet. I had about five thousand kiam in cash with me. I sorted out twenty-four hundred and slid the money across the desk.
Adwan scooped it up, counted it, and excused himself. He got up and went through a door marked No Admittance.
I waited. I wondered what was going to happen next. Would Adwan come back with a troop of armed bank guards? Would he strip me of my ATM and credit cards? Would he lead all the other bank employees in a chorus of public denunciation? I didn't fuckin' care.
When Adwan did return to his desk, he sat down and folded his hands in front of him. "There," he said, "we're glad you chose to take care of this matter promptly."
There was an awkward silence for a moment. "Say," I said, "how do I know that there was ever a stolen check? I mean, you called me up, you told me the check was stolen, I came in here and handed you twenty-four hundred kiam, you got up and disappeared, and when you came back the money was gone. How do I know you just didn't deposit it in your own account?"
He blinked at me for a few seconds. Then he opened a desk drawer, removed a thin file in a cardboard cover, and glanced through it. He looked me straight in the eye and murmured a commcode into his telephone. "Here," he said. "Talk to Hussein yourself."
I waited until the man answered. "Hello?" I said.
"Hello. Who is this?"
"My name is . . . well, never mind. I'm sitting here in a branch of the Bank of the Dunes. Somehow, a check with your name on it ended up in my possession."
"You stole it," said Hussein gruffly.
"I wasn't the one who stole it," I said. "One of my business associat
es was trying to do a favor for a friend, and asked me to endorse the check and cover it."
"You're not even lying good, mister."
I was getting annoyed again. "Listen, pal," I said in a patient voice, "I've got this friend named Fuad. He said he wanted to buy a van from you, but you sold it to—"
"Fuad?" Hussein said suspiciously. And then he described Fuad il-Manhous from the greasy hair down to the worn-out shoes.
"How do you know him?" I asked, astonished.
"He's my brother-in-law," said Hussein. "Sometimes he stays by me and his sister. I must've left that check laying around, and Fuad thought he could get away with something. I'll break his fuckin' arms, the scrawny bastard."
"Huh," I said, still amazed that Fuad could come up with such a plausible story. It was a better scam than I thought he was capable of. "It looks like he tried to swindle both of us."
"Well, I'm getting my money back from the bank. Did you cover the check?"
I knew what was coming. "Yeah," I said.
Hussein laughed. "Then good luck trying to recover your money from Fuad. He never has two kiam to rub together. If he's blown that twenty-four hundred, you can just sing in the moonlight for it. And he's probably left town already."
"Yeah, you right. I'm glad we got this all sorted out." I hung up the phone. Later, when I'd cleared up all my major troubles, Fuad would have to pay.
Although, in a way, I half-ass admired him for pulling it off. He used my own prejudice against me—me and Jacques both. We trusted him because we thought he was too stupid to pull a fast one. Weeks ago, I'd been taken by Bedu con men, and now by Fuad. I still had plenty to be humble about.
"Sir?" said Adwan.
I gave him back his phone. "All right, I understand it all now," I told him. "Mr. Hussein and I have a mutual friend who tried to play both ends against the middle."
"Yes, sir," said Adwan. "The bank only cared that it was properly repaid."
I stood up. "Fuck the bank," I said. I even toyed with the idea of withdrawing all my money from the Bank of the Dunes. The only thing was, they were just too convenient. I would've liked to have slugged that snotty Kirk Adwan just once, too.
The Exile Kiss Page 23