Knot on Her Life, page 11
Poppy said she heard the shooter say, “It’s nothing personal” right before killing Rachel and her unborn child. I didn’t need an FBI profiler to tell me the murder was either a cool, professional hit or a deliberate act of revenge by someone with a grudge.
The interviewer indicated he’d spoken to Rachel’s sister Leah and her husband, Daniel; Leah’s parents; and Benjamin Katzenozen, the grandfather and patriarch of the Rashi dynasty. They all claimed to have lost touch with Rachel years before. But I knew better.
The notes made no mention of Leah having helped her sister or of maintaining a relationship through the years. I didn’t find that surprising, given she obviously didn’t want her grandfather to know.
The Halaby interviews were more revealing. Ali’s father owned a business on Ventura Boulevard selling Oriental rugs. That’s the rug connection Poppy talked about. Was the murder connected to the father’s business? Did Ali stay in contact with his father after all?
The father stated he’d helped his son through law school and believed Ali enjoyed a thriving law practice with Steven Abbas. The interviewer noted that the parents appeared not to know what their son actually did for a living.
So Ali Halaby really was a lawyer! The FBI probably thought they hit the trifecta when they recruited him as an undercover agent with a respected profession for cover, a close connection to the Muslim world, and the ability to speak fluent Arabic.
I continued to read. When questioned about Ali’s marriage to a Jewish woman, the father merely stated, “America is a free country. In this country you can choose to marry anyone you want.” When asked about the last time he saw his son, the father replied, “What difference does it make? He’s gone now.”
The interviewer observed that the wife seemed upset and anxious to say something but deferred to her husband. When asked the same questions directly, Mrs. Halaby replied she didn’t remember.
What did Ali’s mother want to say? Did she hold very different feelings about losing her son? I wondered if she’d talk to me.
There was nothing in the guy’s notes about Halaby’s current undercover assignment or whether he’d been pulled from the case, as Leah remembered.
By the time I’d finished reading, my tamales had cooled to room temperature. I ate them anyway. When you’re hungry, hot food is highly overrated. I savored the green Ortega chili and cheese mixture inside the sweet masa. Only a dollop of guacamole and one of sour cream would’ve made them better.
As I rinsed off my empty plate in the sink, Crusher walked through the front door. “You still up?”
I looked at the clock, surprised to see it read eleven. I dried my hands and hugged him. “Thanks for getting the information on the Halaby murders. Have I ever told you how much I appreciate the way you help me?”
“How much is that?”
I took his hand and led him toward the bedroom. Halfway down the hall, the cell phone in my hand chirped. Who would text this late?
I spoke to the Halabys. Call me anytime.
A little chill tickled my spine as I remembered his lips on my hand.
CHAPTER 17
As soon as Crusher left for work the next morning, I called the flirtatious Steven Abbas. “In the message you sent last night, you indicated you received an answer from Ali’s family.”
“Why didn’t you call me back last night?” he crooned. “I waited up for you.”
Dear God. “My fiancé and I were asleep. In bed. Together. Will the Halabys talk to me?”
“Ali’s father, Marwan Halaby, agreed to listen to you. But I doubt you’ll change his mind. We’re scheduled to meet him at his house at three thirty.”
The FBI report stated the wife seemed upset and anxious. She appeared to have something to say but deferred to her husband. “What about Mrs. Halaby? Will she be there? Can I talk to her, too?”
“I can’t predict whether or not she’ll be there. Meet me at my office at three. We’ll drive together in my car.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to risk being a passenger in Abbas’s car. Especially after Crusher’s warning. “I’m quite capable of driving myself.”
“Marwan and Amina Halaby are a very traditional couple. If you insist on going by yourself, you’ll risk being seen as an adversary. It’s better if you come as my guest and treat this as a social call.”
I had done a little research on the Halaby rug business. Apparently the family opened the store twenty-five years ago. After years in this country, why would the Halabys insist on such formalities? Still, who was I to judge their culture or custom? “Okay. I’ll see you this afternoon. Is it okay to wear slacks?”
He laughed. “We Muslims are similar to you in many ways. Dress as you would for a visit to an Orthodox Jewish home.”
For the rest of the morning, I sat in the living room with the pink and muslin basket quilt for my granddaughter and stitched graceful arcs in the Bishop’s Fan design. Each stitch I laid down contained a prayer for her protection, health, and happiness. She’d be the first grandchild on either side of the family. I smiled when I thought of all the love waiting to surround her when she entered this world two months from now. If only I could find someone who would respond the same way about Poppy.
The one other time I’d been this besotted about a baby was when Quincy came into this world. She’d taken my breath away the moment I first cradled her in my arms—so vulnerable, so perfect. Basking in the glow of those sweet memories, I called her.
“Oh. Hi, Mom.” She sniffed.
Something’s wrong. She sounds like she’s been crying. I tried to put a smile in my voice. “I’ve been working on the baby’s quilt and thought I’d call to see how the two of you were doing.”
“I’m miserable!” She moaned. “Noah is being such a . . . such a . . .”
I wanted to provide her with a nasty word to complete the sentence, a word arising from previous run-ins with my arrogant, new son-in-law. “Tell me what’s wrong, honey.”
She began to sob. “He hates the name Madison. He says no daughter of his is going to be named after a dead president.”
“And you’re crying about a name?”
“No! I’m crying because he’s insisting on the naming the baby Serafinah. With an h. He says it’s dignified. I said it sounds like a dog’s name.”
I tried to hide my laughter. “So then what happened?”
“He stormed out of the house without kissing me good-bye. He always kisses me before leaving for work.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. Thank goodness her problem appeared to be no more serious than a case of pregnancy hormones. “Quincy, honey, relax. It’s the mother who gets to fill out the birth certificate. You’re the one with the final say about her name.”
“Really?” She hiccupped.
“Yes. But let’s keep it between you and me. Let him bluster. We know where the true power lies. What are the names you like?”
“Actually, the more I think about it, the more I love the name Daisy. You know, the one Poppy suggested. By the way, how is she?”
I hesitated to upset my daughter any further. “She’s fine. Malo took her and Sonia for a little vacation. You know, to get away from everything.”
“Can he take her away? In the middle of a school year?”
“He got permission from the, uh, authorities. Meanwhile, I’ve been talking to some of her relatives. I’m determined to find a permanent home for her.”
Later in the afternoon, I changed into my black Eileen Fisher outfit of loose-fitting slacks and long-sleeved tunic. I added turquoise and silver jewelry and a spritz of Olene, a flowery French perfume. It took thirty minutes to drive from Encino to North Hollywood because the traffic crawled bumper to bumper on the Ventura Freeway heading east at that time of day. I arrived at Steven Abbas’s pink building at three.
The receptionist stood as soon as I walked in the door. “He’s expecting you.” She came around the desk and escorted me back to his office.
Walking down the hallway, my pulse began beating in my throat. How hard would Abbas try to charm me today? I took a deep yoga breath to calm my nerves just as she opened the double doors to his inner sanctum.
The lawyer smiled warmly and came around the desk. He took my hand in both of his and gazed at me with his sultry dark eyes. “So good to see you again, Martha.”
A voice in my head warned, Keep it professional. I pulled my hand away and took a step backward. “Thank you for arranging this, Steven. Where do the Halabys live?”
“Studio City. In the hills.”
I looked around the room and noticed for the first time a framed photo of a younger Abbas on a sailboat, sitting next to a gorgeous blonde in a red halter top. “My wife. Mariska. She was Hungarian.”
“Was?”
“She died five years ago.”
“I’m sorry . . .” I blinked and blew out my breath.
“So am I. Are you ready to go?”
The inside of his black Mercedes smelled a lot like the inside of Giselle’s Jaguar—leathery and expensive. The engine quietly took the ascent up Laurel Canyon Boulevard. We turned right on Fryman Road and followed it up the hill until almost to the end.
“I want to let you know what to expect.” He slowed the car. “They will serve us refreshments. You’d be wise to accept, even if you only taste a little. Otherwise, they’ll be insulted if you decline what is offered to you.”
I chuckled. “My bubbie—my grandmother—used to be the same way. If you were a guest in our house, she wanted to feed you. No matter how many times you politely refused, she’d heckle you until you gave in.”
Abbas pulled into the circular driveway of a large, white Mediterranean-style home with stuccoed arches, iron grills over the windows, and a red tiled roof. He cut off the engine and turned to me. “A little warning. Marwan Halaby can be quite domineering and dismissive of women. Are you ready for that?”
This time I didn’t avoid his gaze but looked straight into his eyes. “I’ve handled worse. I’ve been threatened by knives and guns and was even poisoned once. It takes more than mere attitude to make me back down.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “I believe you!”
“Good. Let’s go.” I opened the passenger door and climbed out before he reached my side of the car.
A flash of amusement played on his lips. “This will be worth seeing.”
According to one Middle Eastern tradition, the front door was painted blue, a protective color believed to keep evil spirits from entering the house. He lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall three times.
An older man in a black suit with a white shirt open at the neck answered the door. He carried dignity in his straight spine. A carefully trimmed white beard and mustache added a somber note of authority to his face. Deep creases divided his forehead, and his eyebrows pushed together.
The men exchanged greetings in Arabic.
Halaby said, “As salaam alaykum.”
The language sounded so similar to Hebrew, I understood Halaby. Peace be upon you.
Abbas answered, “Wa alaykum al salaam.” And upon you be peace. He pointed toward me and said in English, “This is Martha Rose, Marwan.”
Marwan Halaby assessed me with the quickest glance. “Welcome.” He gestured for us to follow him as he padded softly on leather slippers toward a living room filled with low sofas and floor pillows.
An older woman in a long, dark green dress and gray hijab carried a tray loaded with a teapot, four glasses, and a plate containing a pile of dried apricots surrounded by a ring of cookies and some sticky sweets covered in honey.
The old man spoke to her in Arabic. The only thing I understood was “Martha Rose.”
She looked at me with that silent acknowledgment women give each other, and I knew at once she was Amina Halaby, Poppy’s grandmother. “Welcome.”
The men switched to English and spoke of the weather as Mrs. Halaby poured tea. An offering of sweets went first to the men and next to me. I put a small plate with two cookies on my lap and added sugar to my tea. I knew enough to sit quietly until I was invited to speak.
With only the slightest accent, Marwan Halaby finally spoke to me. “Mrs. Rose, Steven tells me you wish to chat with us about a certain young girl. Unfortunately, she is no relation of ours.”
I looked him straight in the eye, smiled, and said in Hebrew, “Shalom Aleichem, Adon Halaby.” Peace be unto you, Mr. Halaby.
Abbas glanced at me and the corner of his mouth quivered.
“First of all, let me say how sorry I am at the loss of your son and daughter-in-law.”
Halaby’s expression remained stony, but a shadow rippled across Amina’s face and her eyes filled.
I continued. “I understand how complicated families can be, but I’m grateful for the opportunity to speak to you and your wife about your granddaughter, Poppy.” I explained how I’d come to know the girl and how the foster system would surely fail her in the end. I reminded them of the terrible trauma she suffered after seeing her parents’ bodies, and possibly witnessing their murder. “She even caught a glimpse of the killer and drew his picture. He wore a beard. I am trying to help this incredibly bright and gifted child. She’s an innocent victim who deserves a permanent home with loving relatives.” I stopped to take a sip of strong, dark tea.
“And you assume those relatives should be us? I’m sorry, but our son made such a thing impossible when he chose to marry a . . .” He cleared his throat. “Outside his faith.”
“Mr. Halaby, with all due respect, whatever your feelings about your son’s marriage, please remember Poppy isn’t responsible for the choices her parents made. From my conversations with the girl, it became obvious to me Ali and Rachel loved each other and taught their only child to respect both religions and both cultures. We could all learn a lesson from them.”
Halaby seemed unmoved. “Why don’t you ask the other family to take her?”
I didn’t want him to know the Katzenozens were unlikely to take Poppy at this point. “In Judaism, a child of a mixed marriage is considered to be Jewish only if the mother is Jewish. So, according to halacha, Jewish law, Poppy is Jewish. But as I understand Islam, a child born of even one Muslim parent is automatically considered to be a Muslim, especially if the child hasn’t yet hit puberty. Am I correct?”
He nodded once.
“Poppy is only eight. If you choose mercy and accept her as your own, you can raise her the way you would raise any daughter.”
Amina Halaby put her hand on her husband’s arm and spoke softly in Arabic.
He studied her face, frowned, and responded in Arabic.
She shook her head with each word. “Laa. Laa.” No. No.
They exchanged a few more words. He finally turned to me and said in English, “Perhaps we could meet her.”
Wow! So much for the submissive wife. This quiet woman clearly exercised great influence over her husband. It was too late for me, but was there a lesson for Quincy here?
I smiled. “That is very good news. But there’s a second part you should hear.” I told them about the attempt on Sonia’s life. “They’re both in witness protection until the killer is caught. To be fair, you need to know if Poppy comes to you now, she’d be giving up federal protection and possibly be putting you in danger.”
Halaby shrugged. “Before we came to this country, we survived wars and bombs.”
“Okay. It’s not up to me, but I’ll see what I can do to arrange a visit. Meanwhile, do you have any information that might help the authorities in their investigation?”
“I told them everything I knew.” Halaby bit into a sweet cookie.
“Maybe something else has come to mind since then? Even some small detail?”
“I spoke to a woman.” Mrs. Halaby suddenly spoke up.
Her husband coughed in surprise.
She ignored him. “She called the house a week after Ali’s murder.”
Now here was something new. I hoped it would lead the FBI closer to finding the killer. “Did she mention her name?
“Yes. Leah Katzenozen.”
CHAPTER 18
Why did Poppy’s aunt Leah call the Halaby home a week after the murders? And why didn’t Leah mention the conversation to me?
I leaned toward Amina Halaby, who perched next to her husband on a green sofa. “What did she want?”
Marwan Halaby put his tea glass down on a small table with black and white inlay and glared at his wife. “Amina. You never mentioned this before now. Why would that family call us?”
Amina Halaby spoke softly, patting her husband’s arm and never taking her warm, dark gaze off his face. “She was devastated by their deaths, Marwan. Same as us. She asked if we knew why they were killed.”
“What made her assume we would know more than the police? Did she accuse us of being involved?” His jaw tensed under his white goatee, and he growled. “Jews! Always making trouble.”
The woman glanced nervously at me and spoke to her husband in Arabic. His angry expression didn’t change, and he refused to look at me.
How dare he! I wouldn’t let him get away with an anti-Semitic slur. My cheeks began to burn, and I opened my mouth to blast him. But something on Steven Abbas’s face transmitted a clear warning: Do not reply!
Before I could respond to either one of them, Abbas jumped in. “Surely, Marwan, you have forgotten our guest, Mrs. Rose, is trying her best to help you.”
Amina once again prompted the older man in Arabic. He seemed to deflate a little and glanced briefly at me. “Perhaps this conversation is finished.”
He couldn’t dismiss me so easily. I swallowed my anger and ignored him. “Mrs. Halaby, how did you answer Leah?”
She folded her hands and closed her eyes as if trying to conjure the memory out of the darkness behind her lids. “I told her we knew nothing and asked her the same question. She said she thought the shooting might be connected to Ali’s work.”
This certainly corroborated Leah’s account of her last conversation with her sister Rachel. Something went sideways with Ali’s latest assignment—whatever that was. “Did she say why she thought that? Did she mention anything specific?”
