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.”
Alwaar took his time before asking the next question.
“And Othman Latlabi, did he know about the will?”
“No,” replied the accountant in a firm voice. “She was extremely vigilant on that point.”
Alwaar closed his notebook and paused for a moment, wondering if there was anything else worth asking Sahili about. He then got up with his customary sluggishness and shook the accountant’s hand.
“Thank you for the information.”
“Is there some connection between Sofia’s murder and the will?” asked the accountant, confused.
“The investigation’s still at the initial stages,” said Alwaar.
Behind the door, Selwa jumped over to her office, her chest heaving. She sat down, pretending to be typing at her computer as Alwaar left the accountant’s office, hoping he’d go straight out the door.
“Goodbye, Mademoiselle,” she heard him say.
She lifted her head in a jerky motion and stood up nervously. She walked Alwaar to the door and opened it, mumbling something, wishing she could hide her face.
“Goodbye.”
She closed the door as soon as Alwaar set foot outside.
He went over to his car, threw himself down into the passenger seat, and slapped Boukrisha on the back of his neck.
“Our man’s still in the arms of his lover?” he asked in a speed he only needed once or twice a year.
“I haven’t gotten any new reports. That means he’s still there with her.”
Alwaar looked at his watch and saw it was nine forty. He had to make a final call on Othman.
“In the name of God, the boat’s anchor and course,” he said, smiling and slapped Boukrisha on the nape again.
Boukrisha knew exactly what he meant by this expression from the Quran. The car set off once again with a rattle. Alwaar took out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Who’s this? Assou? Is the target still in place? Good. Wake up and go arrest him and his gazelle. We’ll be there as soon as you get out of the building with him.”
He flipped shut his cell and put it back in his pocket, looking out on the wide road.
“What’s new?” asked Boukrisha, impatience eating him up.
“The victim,” said Alwaar, as if he was giving a report, “willed her entire estate to Othman.”
Boukrisha immediately looked away from the road and turned completely toward the detective.
“And there’s the motive for murder.”
“A golden motive,” said Alwaar, laughing.
The car was doing fifty as they sped down Zerktouni Boulevard.
Naeema’s cell phone rang. Othman was in the bathroom, while she was getting ready to go to the police station. She looked for her cell and found it on the table in the bedroom. Before getting the chance to say hello, she heard Selwa’s voice, choked and whispering as if she was standing in a tunnel.
“Naeema, be careful, be careful! Don’t give the cops my name. They know about your relationship with Othman. A detective was just here at the office and I listened from behind the door. He came asking about the will. Whatever you do, don’t give them my name!”
“Where are you calling from?” Naeema shouted, her voice trembling with fear.
“From the office bathroom.”
The call was suddenly cut off. Naeema stood there staring at the cell phone, not knowing what to do. Othman came out of the bathroom wearing shorts and a v-neck tee shirt that showed off his thick chest hair. He saw Naeema frozen in her spot in a state of shock.
“Who called?” he asked, expecting some bad news.
She tossed the cell on the bed and broke down in tears.
“We’re in a trap, we’re in a trap!”
He took her by the arms.
“Who called? What happened?” he yelled out forcefully.
“Selwa,” she said, sobbing. “The police were just at her office.”
Othman swallowed with difficulty.
“Do they suspect her?”
“Not yet, but she’s afraid.”
Othman’s sense of helplessness doubled. He took her violently by the arm and sat her down on the bed, making her look him in the eye.
“Listen to me carefully,” he said gently, trying to calm her down. “Once the police know I’m the beneficiary of the will, they’ll think it’s a good enough motive for committing the crime. But the will’s confidential and until now, they don’t know Selwa told us what’s in it. Calm down and get a hold of yourself. When you’re at the police station, whatever you do, don’t give them Selwa’s name.”
He hurried to get dressed, trying to calm down. He looked over at Naeema on the bed. She was burying her head under the blankets, crying.
“You can’t go to the station crying like that. Please, don’t tell them anything about Selwa. If you do, they’ll burn us both together.”
She didn’t lift her head from the blankets. Othman felt it was no use talking to her. He picked up his pack of cigarettes, went out the front door, and closed it gently behind him, as if he was trying to sneak out. Before he could head down the stairs, he heard the sounds of men moving quickly up toward Naeema’s apartment. He didn’t have any doubt it was the police.
He backed up quietly but instead of going into the apartment, he ran up the stairs, only stopping once he found himself on the roof. He spun around and, for a moment, the idea of jumping to his death was tempting. He then looked around in every direction and climbed a short wall separating the roof from the next building. He looked down as he went and was struck by vertigo. The street below seemed bottomless to him. He heard someone scream out nearby and saw a maid carrying a laundry basket staring at him in fear. He ran past her to the stairs. He almost tripped as he raced down them, three steps or more at a time.
He got down to the building door and pulled at it but it was locked. He turned to a narrow flight of stairs next to the concierge’s apartment and went down them, not knowing where they’d lead. At the bottom, he found a small iron door, pulled it open and all of a sudden, he found himself in the building’s garage. He looked over at the gate leading to the back alley and saw it was open. He ran to it like a sprinter with only a few feet to the finish line.
After the bell kept ringing, Naeema finally opened the door. She was extremely weak and didn’t know Othman was gone. A crowd of police immediately pounced on her. If Inspector Assou hadn’t grabbed her by the arms, she would’ve collapsed onto the ground. He held onto her longer than he should have, seizing the opportunity to have this soft, beautiful woman between his arms.
“Put her on the chair,” barked Boukrisha, knowing what was on Assou’s mind.
Alwaar came into the apartment with his deathly slowness and immediately knew Othman was gone. He shot the cops in charge of the surveillance a furious look. He then went over to Naeema, who was slouched on a chair in the kitchen. Alwaar asked for a glass of water, poured some of it on the palm of his hand, and splashed it in her face. She let out a sigh and her head fell forward toward her chest. Alwaar grabbed a chair and sat down in front of her. He gently lifted her head with his hand under her chin.
“Othman was here with you?” he asked in a calm voice, looking into her eyes.
She nodded.
Alwaar turned around, scanning the apartment.
“Where is he?” he asked, feigning surprise and holding her chin tenderly.
“He’s not here?” she asked slowly.
“You didn’t hear him leave?” The detective jumped up suddenly and screamed in the faces of his men. “Search the building and the surrounding streets. Everywhere!”