5 “He’s a practicing Catholic,” Detective Tom Radnovich said when the waitress asked Detective Pete Orsini if he wanted bacon, ham or sausage with his eggs and Orsini said, “No, thanks.” “He’s still practicing?” the waitress, a woman of about fifty with hair dyed red, asked rhetorically. “I would’ve thought he’d have the knack by now.” It was a setup, and Detective Orsini smiled. He had heard some variant of the joke many times and felt that enduring it was a small price to pay for proclaiming his faith, or having it proclaimed. It was nothing, compared to what the martyred saints of the Church had to bear. Though baptized, he had grown up in a lapsed household, and it was only when he met the girl who was to be his wife that he sought out the welcoming maternal arms of the Church. But being an adherent of an ecumenical organized religion, rigid, paternalistic, woman-denigrating, made him sympathetic to other such religions, and so he did not feel altogether like a stranger when he visited the Dawat-ul-Islam Mosque in order to talk to Imam Becker. Becker, too, came from a nonpracticing Catholic family and, like Orsini, found religion when he fell in love with a devout girl. But Marilyn Reilly, now Marilyn Orsini, had only brought Pete back to the church of his ancestors. Marrying Emine Kardeş, on the other hand, required that Othmar Becker – who, having majored in what in Central Europe is called Orientalistics, already knew Arabic, Persian and Turkish – convert to Islam. Their honeymoon in Turkey turned into two years of study at a seminary, followed by a call to serve as imam at a mosque newly formed by a small Turkish community in the Bronx and richly endowed by a Turkish multimillionaire. True to the Ottoman spirit, the community invited fellow Muslims of all nationalities that had once been in the Empire to join. Preaching was in English. Orsini had given Radnovich this information at their first meeting, in the course of introducing him to the Begović case. Now he had some new information: a couple of girls who had known Lejla at BCC had come to the station to report that back in March they had seen her on campus holding hands with a guy. Definitely not Bosnian, they said with a giggle. A black guy. Why had they not reported it sooner? Because they hadn’t thought of it, but they had recently come across the guy, with another white girl, and one of the girls said to the other, Hey, maybe we ought to tell the police about him and Lejla, poor girl. “Have you ID’d the guy?” Radnovich asked. “Yeah. Delmar Franklin, twenty-eight, a part-time student, works at the bookstore.” “So what do you think? That he might be a suspect?” “Can’t rule it out,” Pete answered with a shrug between sips of black coffee. “But he could also be a motive. I know how racist my fellow Slavs can be. Girl dating a black guy – a good pretext for an honor killing.” “But I thought the family members all had alibis, don’t they? I mean, the same alibi.” “I’ve got a new theory.” Detective Orsini ate his meatless breakfast in silence while his partner explained his theory, between forkfuls of sausage, eggs and hashed browns. “That’s interesting,” Orsini said as he gulped the last of his coffee. “So now we have two leads. Of course, if Lejla wakes up one of them will be moot.” “Not necessarily. She may have been grabbed around the neck without ever seeing her assailant.” “Good point.” “But are you serious about the boyfriend?” Radnovich asked. “Any history of violence?” “Ambiguous. A couple of years ago there was a call from a neighbor with regard to a girl who was visiting him, but the girl denied any violence and said it was just noisy sex. There was also suspicion of drug-dealing, but no solid evidence.” “Let’s pay him a visit. And also the imam, to see if any of the suspected Gremnik Boys belong to the mosque.” “Do you have a list?” “Yeah.” “So finish your breakfast and let’s go.” “Would you care for some eggs?” Betty heard Megan ask her while coming out of the shower. “Sure,” Betty said, stepping into the kitchen. At home she almost never ate eggs, because of Paul’s concern over his, and by extension her, cholesterol. Not that their lipid panels had ever given cause for concern, but Paul said that he liked to be careful. “How?” Megan asked. “You mean, how would I care for them? I would coddle them,” Betty said with a giggle, sitting down at the dinette table. Megan laughed, but quickly stopped. “That was Daniel’s joke,” she said. “So it was,” Betty said. There was no point in telling Megan that she and Daniel had both heard it from their mother’s friend Mark. “How many? Megan asked, taking the egg carton out of the refrigerator. “Just one,” Betty said. “As an old boyfriend of my mother’s used to say, one egg is un œuf.” She giggled again, and this time Megan laughed unrestrainedly. “As long as we’re into egg jokes,” she said when she stopped laughing, “which came first, the chicken or the egg?” “I don’t know,” Betty said dutifully. “The egg,” Megan said. “The chicken faked it.” Betty burst into a gale of laughter, spates of which lasted all through breakfast. She had recently been thinking about faking it, and wondering if her orgasms with Paul had always been the real thing. Most of them were, she was sure of that, but there had been times... “I forgot to tell you,” Megan said while she was rinsing the breakfast dishes as Betty was drying them. “I have a client coming at ten.” “Client?” “Yeah, I have a few clients, local business owners, that I do tax returns for. June fifteenth is the filing deadline for self-employed persons.” “Not April thirtieth?” “That’s for everyone else! I don’t actually like to wait till the last day, and I’ve already filed all the others. This is the last one. It’s a restaurant, and it’s where we’re going to have dinner tonight.” “So, does that mean I get to take Sam to the park?” “Yes, you lucky woman!” It was commencement day at Bronx Community College. The streets crossing Sedgwick Avenue, where the detectives were slowly making their way to the campus in heavy traffic, were swarming with cars looking for parking spaces. Detective Orsini had foreseen the problem and had arranged for the bookstore’s loading zone to be free for them to park in. He had also checked if Delmar Franklin would be working that morning and was assured that all available employees would be at work, since the store would be exceptionally busy, between the commencement attendees shopping for souvenirs and the students preparing for the summer session (summer module, they had called it) that was to begin the following Monday. “That’s him,” Orsini said, pointing at a good-looking young man behind one of the registers. The bookstore was indeed crowded. The young man reminded Radnovich of an actor he had recently seen in a television show (Cosby, maybe?). Four people were in the line before his register, and the one he was attending was a very pretty Asian girl who appeared to be flirting with him. They were bantering softly, and as the girl got her wallet out of her purse, he stroked the back of her hand. She smiled at him. “Delmar Franklin?” Orsini said as the detectives approached the register. “NYPD. May we talk to you?” “Sure,” he said, seeming a little surprised but not too much so, “but do you mind if I finish with this lovely lady?” “Go ahead,” Radnovich said to him, and then, to the other customers in the line, “Maybe you folks ought to get into another line.” “There’s no need for that,” a blond woman in her forties, probably the manager, said as she appeared from nowhere to sidle behind the counter. “I can take over. Go on, Delmar.” Delmar seemed reluctant to have his transaction with the lovely Asian girl interrupted. He smiled at her wistfully and stroked her hand one more time before stepping out from behind the register to join the detectives. “Friend of yours?” Orsini asked him. “Just a customer. I like to be attentive.” Delmar Franklin smiled, showing dazzling white teeth. They moved away from the counter to a relatively quiet area of the store, where books called GENERAL LITERATURE were shelved. “I’m Detective Orsini. This is Detective Radnovich. We’re here to ask you about Lejla Begović.” “Bega-who? Oh, Lejla, the girl that’s in a coma. I heard about that. Too bad. Lovely girl. Yeah, she used to come in here.” “We were told that you had a relationship with her,” Orsini went on. “Relationship? I had no more of a relationship with her than with the pretty Miss Kim here.” At that moment the pretty Miss Kim was filing out of the store, bagful of books in hand, and gave Delmar a final flirtatious look. “So far, anyway,” he added with a smile. “Are you sure?” Radnovich asked. “Well, actually, we did have coffee a couple of times. She liked to flirt with me. Lots of girls do.” “You never had sex with her?” Radnovich insisted. “What? You gotta be kiddin’ me.” Delmar Franklin’s accent made a sudden shift. “Why,” Orsini asked, “are you a monk or something?” Delmar laughed. “No, I sure ain’t no monk. I like girls...” “Well,” Radnovich said, “there’s evidence that Lejla had sex shortly before she was assaulted. We’re trying to figure out with whom.” “Evidence?” Delmar said with a chuckle. “You mean, like sperm?” “No,” Orsini said, “spermicide.” “Then it couldn’t have been me. I don’t use no rubbers. I was usin’ ‘em when I was eighteen, see, and somehow I managed to get me two kids, with two different girls, that I’m supportin’. So I got me a vasectomy. But anyway, I wouldn’t try nothin’ with Lejla once I seen her with that scary guy.” “What scary guy?” Radnovich asked. “One of them East European types, Yugoslavian or whatever, except he wasn’t the same as Lejla, ‘cause they was speakin’ English. He was walkin’ her to campus, then he kissed her and turned back.” Radnovich had a sudden flash. “Would you be able to identify him if I showed you some pictures?” “Yeah, sure, as long as the picture showed that big scar on his left cheek.” “Could you come with us to the car?” Radnovich said. “I’ve got some pictures there.” “Hey, detectives, that’s gonna look like you’re arrestin’ me!” Delmar said with another chuckle. His relief at turning from suspect to informant was gleefully evident. “I’m kiddin’,” he added. “I’m glad to be of service to New York’s finest.” Delmar Franklin kept up his banter during the walk to the car. Once there, Radnovich got his attaché case from the backseat and extracted the Gremnik Boys file, which contained one sheet for each of the eight suspected members. When he saw the third one, Delmar said unhesitatingly, “That’s him.” As she was pushing the stroller, with Sam happily and unintelligibly chatting with an imaginary friend, Betty thought once again about Paul’s exchange with Dick about “Mrs. Berman.” She was sure that if Paul really had made the comment about her keeping her name, he would have mentioned it at the time. Maybe he had intended to say it and now believed that he had done so. Or maybe he now felt that he should have said it at the time and needed to correct the account. But that would be dishonest! Was she suspecting Paul of dishonesty? After the repeated vows they had made, that they always would be honest with each other? Even in his remarks to her at the wedding ceremony, in which he glossed, lawyerlike, the words love, honor and obey, Paul had said, “Honor is related to honesty, and I shall honor you by being honest with you.” “What the fuck’s going on with me?” she asked herself sotto voce, and was immediately was startled by the possibility that Sam might have overheard her and that before long he would be saying “what the fuck.” At least there were, at the moment, no passers-by within earshot. The thought that she might no longer be in love with Paul, so flippantly expressed to her mother in the aftermath of a dream but promptly forgotten, made a return visit. She tried to dismiss it by focusing on Sam, whom she was taking out of the stroller, now that they had arrived at the playground. But the maneuver didn’t work. Sam made her think of Daniel, and the extent to which she missed her brother was now like an open chasm in her heart. If only she had spent more time with him. If only she had, at least once, gone to New York to visit him. If only she had made time to be with him, just the two of them, during one of his Montreal visits. She didn’t want to blame Paul for her failure, but she couldn’t help it. Paul’s antipathy toward Daniel, manifested not by anything he said but by avoidance, had infected her. Sam was happy in the sandbox, pouring sand with his red shovel into the blue pail and promptly pouring it right back out. She found the process fascinating to watch from the bench where she was seated along with a few other young adults. No one spoke. The Toronto reserve, she thought. Why had Paul never mentioned to her what he knew of Daniel’s paternity? He had assumed that she knew, but why not ask her how she felt about it? Sam’s face suddenly took on a look of discomfort. Betty knew that he was almost toilet-trained, but not quite. Megan had told her that for the hour or so that she would spend with him in the park she had nothing to worry about, but she wondered what might be going on. “What’s the matter, Sam?” she asked when she went to crouch beside him. “Potty?” Sam shook his head. “Potty home,” he said. “Do you want to go home?” He shook his head again. “Park,” he said. “You want to stay in the park?” He nodded. “Park,” he said again. When she got back to the bench, a man who was sitting closest to her – though still a good two hip spans away – finally broke the silence. “How old is he?” he asked. “Twenty-one months,” she said. “He’s my nephew,” she added. “He’s lucky to have a beautiful aunt like you,” the man said. He was an ordinary-looking guy of about thirty-five. What was he doing at the playground on a Friday morning? She was about to ask him which of the children was his, but decided that she didn’t want to get into a conversation with him. And what if he was there just to pick up women? She remembered seeing someone like that on a television crime show, NYPD Blue or Law & Order or one of those. But that was New York. She was in Toronto, and she wasn’t feeling the least bit threatened. “Thank you,” she said to the man as she smiled and returned to her thoughts. “We understand, Reverend,” Detective Radnovich began, “that you know all the members of your mosque.” They were in his study, in the house next door to the mosque. The second session of Friday morning prayers had just ended. “Oh, yes,” Becker said. “We are not a very big community. And I have a very good memory.” No doubt, Radnovich thought, with all the languages he had learned. “We have a list of certain Albanian names. We would like you to tell us which of them belong.” Radnovich put the list in front of the imam. “This one, and this one, and this one,” Becker said as he pointed to three names on the list. One of them was Omar Murova, the younger brother of Safet Murova, the man that Delmar Franklin had placed with Lejla Begović. “What about this one?” Radnovich asked, putting his finger on Safet’s name. Becker smiled. “No,” he said. “He’s married to an Albanian woman, but she’s Christian. I’m not sure if Catholic or Orthodox. Maybe Greek Catholic.” “He’s married?” The two detectives said in unison. “Yes. Omar used to talk about his sister-in-law sometimes. They don’t seem to get along.” Becker smiled diplomatically. Radnovich and Orsini looked at each other. “Used to?” Radnovich asked. “He hasn’t been coming to mosque lately.” “So he wasn’t at prayers today?” Orsini asked. “No. But the other two were.” “How long has it been,” Radnovich asked, “that Omar hasn’t been coming to mosque?” “A few weeks – no, perhaps more. He was here on Eid ul-Adha, but since then I’m not sure. The detectives looked at each other again. “Thank you for your help, Reverend,” Radnovich said. “Salaam 'alaykum.” “Wa’alaykum as-salaam,” Becker said, reaching his hand out to the two detectives. “How about that,” Orsini said after the door had closed behind them. “In one day we go from no suspects to three.” “Right now I have only one,” Radnovich said. “Let’s find out more about Safet Murova.”. “And his wife,” Orsini said. “We should also look for any connection the Murovas might have with the Begovićes. Omar is the same age as their sons.” “What kind of scenario do you see?” Orsini asked as he sat behind the wheel of his car while Radnovich was getting into the passenger seat. “Let’s try this. Suppose Omar Murova and one or both of the Begović brothers are buddies. Omar meets the pretty younger sister. He’s interested in her, tells his big brother about it. The brother decides to make a play for her and succeeds, maybe telling her that he will leave his wife for her. Lejla gets impatient, maybe threatens to tell his wife. Safet decides to silence her. Maybe he didn’t mean to kill her.” “He didn’t!” “May as well have. He, or whoever did it, didn’t know that she was alive.” They were headed south on the Grand Concourse, toward the tire shop where both Murovas worked, intending to get there before lunchtime. “You like it that it’s one of the Albanians,” Orsini said, “don’t you?” “Why? Because I’m a Serb?” Radnovich wasn’t sure whether to be indignant at the suggestion of prejudice or to take it as a joke. “No, that never crossed my mind. It’s just that it would tie this case to the other one, the accidental death of a journalist.” Accidental Death of an Anarchist had been produced the year before by a community theater group in the Bronx, with the action transposed from Italy to an unnamed Latin American country. “I mean, it’s good police work. I’m not saying you’re obsessed like a Javert.” “You’ve seen Les Miz?” Tom had seen it with Karen when she was pregnant with Brian. “Actually, no, but I read the book. In high school. An abridged edition, though.” Both men laughed. “Actually, as novels about police work go, it’s not bad.” They parked a block away and walked to the tire shop as surreptitiously as they could. There was no sight of Omar, but Safet was carrying two huge truck tires, one on each shoulder, into the covered shed. Radnovich thought that it might have been better to question Omar first, but if Safet was whom they had, so be it. They approached him from behind till they were flanking him, unseen by him because of the tires. They walked alongside him silently till he put the tires down and was startled to find a plainclothes cop on either side of him. He made a quick turn as though exploring the possibility of running away but immediately gave up. “Safet Murova?” Orsini said. “NYPD. We’d like to talk to you.” Safet said nothing. He looked around him, trying to make eye contact with a coworker, but none looked his way. “Would you take a little walk with us?” Radnovich asked rhetorically. “You arrest me?” Safet finally said. “Not if you cooperate,” Orsini said. For the time being they were good cop/good cop. They walked in silence until they were some twenty paces from the shop, on a relatively quiet side street. “What can you tell us about Lejla Begović?” “What I can tell about Lejla Begović? I can tell plenty about that little whore.” He spat on the ground behind him. “My brother Omar he in love with her. Become good Muslim so can marry her. But she want make sex before they married. First he say no, but she very pretty girl so he say yes. And he find she no virgin. Broke his heart.” He spat behind himself again and muttered an Albanian curse. Safet’s outspoken outburst caught the detectives by surprise. Given Omar’s possible alibi, it was almost self-incriminating. But Radnovich was wary of a rash accusation. “What was your relationship with Lejla?” he asked. “Relationship? Hah! Little whore! Omar no want her. I make sex with her.” He laughed. “She say I am better from Omar,” he added with more laughter, which gave his scar a dancelike movement. “Did your wife know?” The expression of laughter vanished instantly from Safet’s face. “My wife? Please, no.” His voice was almost trembling. It was unclear if he was worried about hurting his wife or afraid of her. “But you were seen with her, walking her to campus, kissing her,” Orsini said. “Please,” Safet said, lifting his index finger, “One time. Just one time we make sex.” “Where?” “In... in the van,” Safet said, pointing in the general direction of the shop, where the van was presumably parked. “On top of truck tire,” he added with a smile. “So what did you do with her?” Radnovich asked, his voice suddenly several decibels louder than up to then. “Do with her?” “Yes,” Orsini said, matching Radnovich’s volume, “how did she end up strangled?” “Not me,” Safet said. “Not you? Then who else?” “You had two good reasons,” Radnovich added, this time in a sympathetic tone. “She broke your brother’s heart, and you were afraid of your wife. Two good reasons to keep her quiet. Isn’t that so, tough guy?” “No... not me.” “Then who? One of the other Gremnik Boys? Emrush? Haris?” The code of silence had set in. Safet was going to say no more. “We’re going to have to book you,” Orsini said. “I’m going to tell your boss,” Radnovich said. He walked back to the shop while Orsini handcuffed Safet and read him his rights. To the announcement that the police were taking Mr. Safet Murova with them to the station, the two men in the office of the tire shop responded with silent nods, as if the matter were routine. When Tom returned, Orsini was getting Safet into the car, while Safet was turning his cell phone on. “I gave him the option of making his phone calls now,” Orsini said, “and he accepted.” Safet reached his first contact quickly, and spoke softly and rapidly in Albanian, with the word police audible a few times, and with okay as the last word. With his second call he had to wait a while and evidently ended up with voice mail or an answering machine. He began his message with “Silvana” – probably his wife’s name – and continued it, slowly and deliberately, in a stilted sort of Albanian, quite unlike that of his first call, as well as devoid of the nasal sounds that had marked it. When he finished the message he pressed Off and handed the phone to Orsini, who was already in the driver’s seat, without a word. Apparently Orsini had told Safet that his call log would need to be examined at the station. “Is that your wife, Silvana?” Radnovich asked him. Safet remained silent, but after they had been driving for about three minutes decided to break his silence. “Yes,” he said, “my wife. Silvana DiMaggio.” “DiMaggio?” Orsini said. “I thought she was Albanian.” “Not Albania. Arbëresh. Albanese from Italy. Sicilia. Chiana Arbanisi.” After this succinct lecture on cultural geography they drove in silence to the 51st Precinct. Radnovich thought that once he got back to his own he would ask DePalma, who was of Sicilian origin, what he knew about ethnic Albanians in Sicily. Their dialect was probably quite different from what Kosovar Albanians spoke, and Safet Murova had to use some kind of formal Albanian in order to communicate with his wife. It had been a long morning. The two detectives decided to have lunch while their suspect lingered in the station lockup, under the watchful eye of the desk sergeant, waiting for his wife or anyone else to show up. Orsini had already contacted the DA’s office and faxed a summary of the evidence to the ADA, who would decide whether a charge of assault one or attempted murder would be filed. An arraignment hearing was scheduled for three o’clock. Other than the 514 area code, Betty did not recognize the number that appeared on the screen of the cell phone that she had forgotten to turn off. Its insistent ring – maybe Megan would help her install a more pleasing ringtone – had startled her. Who, she wondered, might have her number, aside from Paul? It was Marcia, her mother-in-law. “Hi, sweetie,” she said, “how are you doing, eh?” Thirty years in Montreal, and she still spoke like a Torontonian. “I’m fine,” Betty said without thinking, “couldn’t be better.” Was she telling the truth? Could things really not be better? With Paul, at least? “That’s good. I always thought that a break once in a while is good for a marriage. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Paul...” A break good for a marriage? Her mother’s friend Tina Leblanc – the blabbermouth doctor who was Mireille’s oldest and closest friend, though Betty had not met her till she was twenty – had once alluded quite casually, in Betty’s presence, to a fling that Mireille had had with Greg Berman one summer when Marcia was in Israel with the boys. Mireille had later told Betty that it was something she felt ashamed of. Now there were at least two things that maman was ashamed of. “... but he isn’t taking it so well. You know how it is.” “I guess so. But I think Paul understands me.” “Oh, he’s very understanding, Paul is.” Marcia laughed. “Sometimes he understands what you’re saying before you’ve said it.” Betty joined her in laughter. “Anyway,” Marcia continued, “I was thinking of coming to Toronto to see my family” – Marcia had a brother and a sister living there, besides cousins – “and as long as you’re there, may be we could get together. Back here in Montreal we almost never get a chance to talk, just you and me.” “When were you thinking of coming?” “Well, I was thinking of coming Sunday, but Paul told me that you’re going to New York that day, so maybe I’ll come tomorrow. Would that be okay?” “Why, sure...” “We could meet tomorrow afternoon for tea, in my favorite teashop in the Annex. I’ll call you when I get in tomorrow. Okay, sweetie?” “Okay, Marcia. See you tomorrow.” Megan, who had come into the study unbeknownst to Betty, was looking at her with an inquisitive gaze. “That was Paul’s mom,” Betty said. “She’s coming here tomorrow. She’s from here originally, you know.” “Yeah, I think Daniel told me. To him, of course, she was Harvey’s mom.” “I guess so.” “You know what Daniel once told me? That maybe Paul hated him because he was Harvey’s best friend...” “Hated him? Paul never hated Daniel! That’s ridiculous!” “Think about it, Betty: little Paul is having fun with his big brother, then Daniel comes over, and Harvey leaves Paul stranded and goes off with his friend. Wouldn’t you hate someone if it happened to you? I know I would.” “But Paul isn’t like that! He... he understands people!” “So I’ve just heard!” “So you’ve been listening in on me!” Betty pretended to throw the cell phone at Megan, and it slipped out of her hand and landed on the floor. “Accident!” Betty shouted. Both women laughed. “By the way, can you help me get a nice ringtone on my phone?” “Sure. But think about what I said, or rather what Daniel said. And he said more: that maybe Paul went after you to get back at him. If he took Paul’s brother away from him, then Paul would take Daniel’s sister away from him.” “That’s more than ridiculous. That’s insane. Around the time we were teenagers I began to suspect that my brother might be a little crazy. His obsession with his father... I mean with his quote father unquote... and that whole DNA business – look where that got him. That weekend that we spent here in Toronto, I told him I thought he was crazy. And then going off to report on murderous civil wars, in the middle of the action... wasn’t that crazy? But now, to hear what he had to say about Paul, that really tops it.” “You’ve got some strong feelings on this, girl,” Megan said, bemused. “Just give yourself a chance to think about it a little. And maybe ask your mother-in-law what she thinks about it. Now, hand me that phone. Let’s see what kind of music it holds in its brain.” Yes, Rick DePalma told him, there were Albanian-speaking people in some villages around Palermo. They were called Arbanisi, and they had their own mafias, with the tremendous advantage of having a language that other Italians couldn’t understand. Of course they weren’t all mafiosi, and they weren’t only in Sicily, but also on the mainland, in the south. The former congressman DioGuardi was one of them; that was the reason that he had lately been traveling to Albania and Kosovo. “I was wondering what an Italian like him was doing there,” Radnovich said with a chuckle. “Yeah, there are all different kinds of Albanians, including Italian ones. So, are you going to quiz this Safet guy about any connections with the KLA?” “Do you think I should? Already?” “Maybe we can get the DA to go easy on the charges if he talks.” “That’s a thought. So do you think I should go there now, before the arraignment?” “Why not? And if you get some results, let me know, and you can take off for the weekend. You’ve got your kids to pick up.” “Actually, there’s a change. Karen had to take Lindsey to the dentist and wants her to stay home this evening, so I’m not picking them up till tomorrow.” “So what do you plan to do tonight?” “I thought I might to out to a bar. Specifically, to the one where Daniel Wilner got hit.” “So, will that be work or play?” “Both, I guess.” “That’s the spirit,” Rick said. “Have a good weekend!” “You too!” It was time to get back to the 51st. He didn’t feel like checking out a car, and a patrolman drove him there. When he got there no lawyer, or anyone else, had arrived yet, but Safet did not seem impatient or anxious. He was alone in the holding cell, except for a fly whose flight he was following with his eyes while drinking a Pepsi. “Hi, Safet. Remember me?” “I remember you good. You Detective Radnovich. You Serb.” “I’m a Serb-American, Safet. My father was born in Serbia, but he came to this country a long time ago, in the days of Tito. He was anti-Communist. My mother’s family came a very long time ago, seventy years. I have nothing to do with Milošević. You understand?” “Understand.” “I have some questions for you, and how you answer may help you with the charges about Lejla Begović. Help you. Do you understand?” “Understand.” “Okay. I want to know about some of your friends back in Kosovo.” “Friends in Kosova? Me?” “Yes, your friends. Some of them may be in the KLA.” “Oo chuh kuh,” Safet corrected emphatically. “Not kay ell ay.” “Okay, UÇK. Take a look at this list of people.” He put in front of Safet the list of twelve Albanian names from Megan Kenner’s notes. Safet scanned the list, slowly, one name at a time. Must be a slow reader, Radnovich thought. A few times there was a barely suppressed smile. When he was done, Safet looked up at Radnovich. “Okay,” he said, “I look.” “Do you know any of them?” “How I know them? They are in Kosova, I am here in New York.” “But you were there only two years ago. Were you in UÇK?” Safet shrugged his shoulders. “How about your brother Omar? Emrush Thelu? Haris Karimaj?” Safet suddenly seemed to lose his cool. “Yes!” he shouted. “Everybody UÇK! Okay?” He muttered a phrase in which the detective thought he heard the word Serbe. But Safet’s loss of self-control was only apparent. Suddenly he was smiling while looking past Radnovich’s shoulder. The detective turned around and saw through the grate of the cell door that the desk sergeant was bringing two visitors to the holding cell, along with Pete Orsini. The two were women, both striking-looking without being actually pretty, one a brunette around thirty and the other a dirty blonde some five or ten years older. One of them must be Silvana, Safet’s wife, he concluded. Radnovich stood up as the cell door was opened. Orsini gave him a sheepish smile. “Detective Radnovich,” he said, “I’d like to present Silvana DiMaggio, Mr. Murova’s wife.” It was the brunette. She was dark-complexioned, as befitted her Sicilian origin, full-figured and short, but gracefully balanced on extremely high stiletto heels, in a form-fitting short-sleeved summer dress whose green color matched her eyes. “I’m Rita Clementi,” the tall, bony blonde said in a pure New York accent. “I’ll be acting as Mr. Murova’s attorney.” Before Radnovich had a chance to say anything clever she turned to Safet and spoke a few sentences to him in carefully enunciated Albanian, to which he responded with nods. “I’m not a criminal lawyer,” she said to Radnovich, “so my position is just temporary.” “She’s my cousin,” Silvana DiMaggio said with a smile. If so, Radnovich thought, then they must be distant. Her accent sounded Italian. She sat down, in the chair where Radnovich had sat, opposite her husband and reached out for his hands before realizing that they were cuffed behind his back. They began speaking softly in Albanian. Radnovich began to give Rita Clementi a brief summary of the possible charges – assault one or attempted murder – when Orsini interrupted him. “I’ve just heard from Lincoln Hospital, and Lejla may not last the night. So the charge may be murder.” Safet Murova’s expression did not change. “And what, exactly,” the lawyer asked, “have you got to link my client to this unfortunate girl?” “Let’s talk privately for a moment,” Radnovich said, and began to move to the corner of the cell that was farthest from Safet’s chair. Rita Clementi followed him with some reluctance. “Your cousin may not want to know this,” he began, “but he admitted to us that he’d had sex with her. And there’s the business of his brother Omar’s previous involvement with her. That gives us a double motive right there.” “Motive shmotive,” Rita said. “How about evidence? From what I hear that girl was a piece of work. Her own family seems to have disowned her. If you look hard enough you can find any number of people who had no use for her. I mean, I’m sorry for her and all that, after what happened to her. But...” “After what happened to her? It just happened?” “I don’t mean here. I mean back in Sarajevo, when she was thirteen, and she was raped by Serb militia. You didn’t know?” “Her family never told me. How did you know?” “Of course they wouldn’t. It’s too shameful. She told Omar, and Omar told Safet, and Safet told Silvana, and Silvana told me. Now I’m telling you. And before you accuse me of blaming the victim...” “I wouldn’t dream of it...” “Good. Nothing excuses what was done to that girl, but pinning it on Safet...” “As you said, Counselor, you’re not a criminal lawyer. We’ve gotten convictions with much less. What kind of lawyer are you, by the way?” “I’m an entertainment lawyer, if you have to know. And if you’re going to make a joke about it, chances are I’ve heard it.” Orsini came over. “Time for court,” he said.