City of Veils (18 page)

“She was taking pictures of a religious-art collection.”

“Was this for a museum?” Osama asked.

“No, a person. His name was Wahhab Nabih. He lived here in Jeddah, I’m not sure exactly where, so don’t ask.”

“Is that all she told you about the job?”

“Yes.”

Abdulrahman was making to leave again, but before he could turn away completely, Osama said, “If you remember anything about the computer, you’ll let me know.”

K
atya was trying not to fall asleep from boredom. Her eyes were fixed on the computer screen. The second of Leila’s discs was in the drive, and the dead woman’s film footage was playing out—silent but for the typical background noises of a city street.

Majdi had already gone over the first disc but he hadn’t had time for the rest of it, so he’d given it to her. Katya had imagined, after her coup with the Bluetooth burqa, that they might start giving her the really interesting evidence. Perhaps this was interesting and she just didn’t know it. The footage was long and uncut, and the past forty minutes had been nothing but B-roll. Scenes of black-cloaked women walking through shopping malls, cars driving at night down a busy, nameless street, men praying at a mosque, the kinds of mind-numbing images that one could see every night on the local news.

This filler was not even part of Leila’s last assignment filming B-roll for the local news station. It was dated five months ago, but Katya watched it anyway, just in case.

This morning, however, she’d had a small victory. She had managed to analyze some of the fibers that the coroner had pulled from Leila’s wounds. They were goat hair dyed black, the sort that was typically found in a man’s
‘iqal
. The black goat-hair cord the Bedouin used to hobble camels was the same cord men wore to fasten scarves to their heads. Unfortunately, every man in Saudi owned an
‘iqal
, and the chances of being able to match the fibers to one
‘iqal
in particular were extremely low. However, if they could find the
‘iqal,
they might find traces of blood and skin on it.

She stopped fifteen minutes later and stood up to stretch her legs. The air outside was sticky and wet, and it left a filmy coating on the windows. The reflected sunlight danced in watery patterns on the opposite wall. She took a bottle of orange juice from the little fridge by her desk and sat back down.

Finally, the B-roll came to an end. There was one more segment on the disc. It was shorter than the rest and titled
Games
. She opened it.

A woman’s face appeared on the screen. She was in her twenties with a small pointed chin and almost grotesquely large eyes, a comic mixture that she used to wonderful effect.

“On the subject of game cards,” the woman said in formal speech, noting every short vowel with a tilt of the head, “scientific researchers have finally proven that in fact the famous children’s game Pokemon is indeed representative of evolutionary principles.” At the bottom of the screen a text box popped up.
Farooha Abdel Ali, Pokemon Specialist
.

Katya chuckled. “Being of the generation of children who were briefly exposed to Pokemon in Saudi Arabia before the religious authorities banned it, I can attest to their claim that the game is a” —here Farooha checked a notecard in her hand —“ ‘a Jewish-Darwinist theory that conflicts with the truth about humans,’ as they say. I can also confirm that it is a ‘front for Israel’ that ‘possesses the minds of Saudi children.’ However, that is not to say that children don’t enjoy trading the game cards and, in effect, learning the basic principles of gambling.”

Offscreen, Leila laughed, a loud, staccato burst that carried top notes of contagious glee.

Katya sat up. She stopped the disc and went back to listen to it again. It was such a beautiful laugh, and its effect was odd. Aside from the occasional exclamation, so far there was a conspicuous absence of Leila herself on the DVD. That short, unguarded laughter had charged the room with her presence.

Katya flipped open the file and looked at the Bluetooth photo again, but the look on Leila’s face was self-consciously seductive.
Hi there, gorgeous,
it seemed to say. It was the same generic expression worn by models in fashion magazines.

Watching the segment on Pokemon again, Katya wrote
Farooha Abdel Ali
on a sheet of paper and turned to the other computer. She did a quick people search on the police database for Farooha and found her immediately. The girl had registered with an ID card in Jeddah.
Thank Allah for ID cards
, Katya thought, quickly gathering up the disc and leaving the room.

M
ajdi was sitting in his lab as usual, a cup of Starbucks in one hand, the other hand adeptly clicking the computer mouse. Katya stood behind him, dizzied by his quick scroll through a series of digitized documents. They were photographs of old manuscripts.

“They found these in the victim’s bedroom,” he said. “They were taped to the underside of a dresser drawer.”

“What are they?” Katya asked.

He shook his head. “I’ve just scanned them into the computer and have been trying to figure them out. From the looks of it, they’re Quranic, but I have to double-check. I don’t know the Quran very well,” he added, casting a quick glance at her, checking for a reaction.

“You mean you haven’t memorized the holy book?” she asked.

He gave her an appreciative smile. “Unfortunately, I’m lacking in that area. But I am seeing references to prayers in these texts.”

The manuscripts were yellowing. The script was neat and loopy, the ink smudged in places. Katya struggled to read it, but Majdi was flipping so quickly through the pages that she only caught a word here and there.

Majdi skimmed through a few more documents before forcing himself to stop and turn to Katya. “Anyway, what’s going on upstairs?”

She told him about her discovery of Farooha. Majdi was not the sort of person who could express enthusiasm when his mind was obsessively focused on something else, but he gave a quick nod.

“Osama’s out this morning,” he said, “but I’ll tell him when he gets in. Or you could tell him yourself.”

“Where is he?”

“Out looking for the victim’s cousin. And the ex-husband. There’s no telling when he’ll be back.” Majdi finished the last of his coffee and threw the cup in the trash.

“What’s the story with the ex-husband?” she asked.

“Leila hadn’t seen him in months.”

It seemed a waste of resources to hunt down someone the victim hadn’t seen in months. “And her cousin?”

“A person of interest who disappeared when they were questioning the family at the lingerie store.”

“Ah. What about her last assignment?” she said. “There was something on the missing persons report about a photography job.”

“Yeah,” Majdi said, motioning to the computer screen. “I’ve been toying with the idea that this is it. Leila’s brother said she had done some film work for a man named Wahhab Nabih. The brother had no idea what kind of work Leila had done for the guy. She just told him it was a private religious-art collection.”

“These documents could be considered an art collection, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but the only problem is that I can’t find anyone named Wahhab Nabih.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no Wahhab Nabih in Saudi Arabia, and if there is, the guy has no passport, no ID card, no bank accounts, and no immigration records. The only thing I could find was a property here in Jeddah owned by a W. Nabih. So if it is the same guy, he owns a home but no ID card.”

“Maybe he’s a Bedouin?”

“Believe it or not,” Majdi said, “most male Bedouin have at least registered with the government.” He turned back to the screen. “And anyway, Nabih isn’t a Bedouin name. You don’t happen to know anyone with expertise in analyzing old Quranic documents, do you?”

Katya shook her head slowly. “If this really was the last job she did, then wouldn’t it be wise to send someone to find Mr. Nabih?”

Majdi gave her a wry look. “Yes, wouldn’t it?”

“Will Osama —”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll get on it once he tracks down the cousin.”

“What about floaters?” she asked.

“I’m not sure he has any left,” Majdi said.

“Why would these be taped to Leila’s dresser drawer?” she asked.

He shook his head. “According to her brother, Leila preferred video, but occasionally she did photography jobs on the side. Her brother had some Quranic art in the house, but he didn’t recognize the photos when we showed him these this morning.”

“I don’t understand why she would hide them,” Katya said. “Especially if they’re pages from an old Quran. Her brother isn’t opposed to religion, is he?”

“No,” Majdi said. “I get the impression he’s very religious. Aside from the fact that he runs a lingerie store. But you’re right, it is weird that she’d hide them. Maybe she did a job her brother had forbidden her to do for some reason. Or maybe she took the photos for someone who wanted them to stay secret, but if that’s the case, then why hide them at her house?”

“I don’t know,” Katya said. “Maybe she wasn’t supposed to have kept any copies of the work?”

“Perhaps.” Majdi’s attention turned back to the screen. “So do you want to tell Osama about this friend of Leila’s that you found, or should I?”

“You’d better do it,” Katya said. “I don’t want to bother him if he’s busy.” She felt foolish for saying it. The truth was, she just didn’t have the nerve to face Osama. She knew little about him and about how direct contact with him might be received. “But I trust you’ll give me a glowing recommendation,” she added, smirking.

Majdi turned to her in surprise. “Of course,” he said. “I already told him you found the picture in the burqa.”

She smiled, although his earnestness had deflated the moment. Thanking him, she went back to her lab.

I
n the hallway in front of her apartment, Katya struggled to unlock the door before Ayman dropped the six grocery bags he’d managed to balance in his arms.

“What would I do without you?” she said.

“I don’t know.” He grunted. “What did you do before?”

“We didn’t eat this much food.”

Ayman lurched into the apartment and made straight for the kitchen.

“Hello!” Katya called to her father. The savory smell of
biryani
spices greeted her a moment before Abu poked his head around the kitchen door. He was wearing an apron and there was curry on his cheek. Seeing Ayman about to collapse, he set down his ladle and helped him with the bags.

“What on earth did you buy?” Abu asked in amazement.

“A cake. Perrier and orange juice. Mangoes, in case he wants fruit.”

Abu shook his head and went back into the kitchen. Katya followed.

“Ayman,” her father said, “I’m sending you out again. We need one more thing for dinner.”

“Oh, what?”

“Another refrigerator.” Abu eyed Katya with scorn. “How big is this friend of yours?”

Katya smiled. “Thank you for cooking,” she said, getting herself a glass of water. “I’m going to change my clothes. Baba, remember, please be good to him. He can be awkward.”

“You’ve told me a dozen times.” He picked up the ladle and waved her out of the room, exchanging a glance with Ayman as she left. She knew what they were thinking: that she obviously had a crush on Nayir, and he obviously didn’t deserve it.

Sweaty and sticky and hot, she took a cool shower but it did nothing to relax her. Her thoughts skipped through a silent list of worries: Would Nayir like her father? What would he think of Ayman? Was he going to be silent and judgmental all through dinner, and would she have to do the talking? What could she talk about that wouldn’t land her in a potential minefield?

She couldn’t decide what to wear. Nayir had never seen her in regular clothes before; he’d only ever seen her in a black cloak. But she wasn’t going to wear a cloak in the house. That was one of her rules for the evening. She would dress as she always did. She’d wear a headscarf but not a burqa. Looking into her closet, everything suddenly seemed too risqué. Jeans? They were form-fitting. The only house robe she had would make her feel as if she were wearing her pajamas. She settled for a pair of loose black pants and a blue silk tunic with delicate lace trim. It was a little dressy, but she figured it was all right.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she tried to decide if she needed makeup. Perhaps a little blush? She didn’t wear makeup during the day, only on special occasions, and this felt like one of those. Except that Nayir was going to see her face, and he probably wouldn’t approve of makeup. She could still remember his reaction when she had accidentally pulled a bottle of nail polish from her purse.
“You paint your nails?”

She dabbed on some lip gloss and left it at that.

There was a knock on the door. She was surprised to find her friend Donia standing in the hallway outside her room. Her three little girls were lined up behind her like nesting dolls, dressed in matching blue frocks, each one as timid as the next.