The Final Bet Read online

  Othman leaned close to give her a passionate kiss, but Naeema didn’t respond. She pushed him away, and all he could do was give her a quick peck on the cheek.

  Was she crying while waiting for him? He understood how difficult her situation was. A single girl in an empty street at such a late hour. Not only was it dangerous, it was a matter of respect and honor. She looked like a prostitute sitting in her car like that.

  They sat there without looking at each other, silent for some time, melancholic. He knew she didn’t want to be the one to start talking.

  “Was I . . . late?” he stammered.

  “No, but I almost died waiting here for you all alone,” she replied in a soft voice, trying to hide her emotions.

  He reached out and put his arm around the edge of her seat.

  “No one would touch you in this neighborhood.”

  “Is the old lady asleep?” she asked, raising her voice a bit.

  “Can she fall asleep without me next to her?” Othman said with a slight smile.

  She suddenly smacked her hand on the steering wheel in rage.

  “Sorry,” she said insincerely.

  Othman knew how tense she was. He laughed cheerfully, hoping to melt her icy demeanor.

  “I didn’t come to joke with you,” she said. “I’m here to resolve this situation. My patience has run out.”

  Othman pulled his arm away.

  “How long have you been waiting?” he said, trying hard to speak calmly. “Two years? I’m the one who’s had to endure it for more than five.”

  “I wasn’t in your life five years ago,” she said, looking at him resolutely. “I’d bet everything I have that old lady won’t die until she’s a hundred. You’ve got to see her at the club. She’s got the health of a mule. The young girls can barely finish my class but when she’s done, she goes straight on to the next one. If you’re counting on her dying soon, God help us!”

  Othman smiled coldly and turned away from her. He watched Yuki for a few seconds as he chased a torn ball around. He knew what was on Naeema’s mind. He was usually lucky enough to make her forget the details. He hadn’t ever felt the possibility of a breakup like he did right now. He was blind with love for Naeema. She was incredibly beautiful. And she loved him too.

  “We have to embellish reality,” he said. “If you want, I’ll divorce her tomorrow, but then everything would be lost. You want an unemployed lawyer as a husband?”

  “If this whore stays alive for another twenty years,” she said, “I’ll wind up waiting for you until I become an old hag like her!”

  Even though Naeema always told him not to smoke in her car, he suddenly realized he had a cigarette in his hand.

  “We’ve talked about this a thousand times. I thought we agreed to put it off.”

  “My patience has run out!” she screamed in his face, tears welling up in her eyes. “I can’t bear it anymore.”

  She began sobbing. Othman felt like he might lose her altogether. Looking at her crying like this, he thought she was about to end it. He wondered how he could sacrifice the love of his life for a shriveled up seventy-three-year-old woman who acted like a child. He felt sick to his stomach and suddenly lost his desire to hold and kiss Naeema.

  “I’ve got to go,” he mumbled without looking to her.

  “You want granny? Then go.”

  She turned on the ignition before he got out of the car and took off with a screech as soon as he shut the door.

  Othman lit a cigarette. He crushed the empty pack in his hand and tossed it away. His heart began beating sharply and his throat became dry. His lips quivered like he was about to break out in tears. He thought he’d go crazy as he asked himself over and over again why he had married Sofia. He remembered how she had saved him from miserable poverty. But wasn’t it his right to live with the woman he loved? Didn’t he deserve happiness? He felt his world being ripped apart. Sofia was old and worn-out; she’d been sucking his blood for over five years. She controlled everything about him and made him live in isolation. Because of the way he felt about being seen with her, he avoided his friends, family, and everyone else. Othman was terrified of the ridicule in their eyes and their looks of pity. He hated Sofia. Every night, as he held her lying in bed, he imagined himself putting an end to it and killing her.

  2

  When the phone rang, Detective Alwaar was on the verge of nodding off. He stayed in the other room studying horse betting numbers and chain-smoking until he slipped into bed next to his wife after midnight. He hadn’t yet picked the numbers he’d bet on. He happened to be dreaming of his favorite horse losing the race when the phone rang.

  Who’s Alwaar? If he got the chance to introduce himself, he’d probably just say he’s been a criminal detective for thirty years, but was never lucky enough to get promoted to commissioner. His real name was Allal ben Alawaam. The inspectors under his command called him Alwaar, “rough guy,” but this nickname soon went beyond work and took on another meaning, one with a political connotation. That’s because Alwaar and a group of cops like him rejected the recent reforms curbing police violence. Times were changing quickly in Morocco and the government was now calling for the end of torture-related deaths in police custody, opening up investigations into police misconduct, and arresting cops implicated in human rights violations.

  The response of some on the force, at first, was to stop taking crime-fighting initiatives, show indifference, and watch things from a distance. This led to increased crime on the street and soon left its trace on public opinion. People were beginning to lose faith in the police reforms, linking the sharp rise in violence and continuing human rights abuses to what they saw as the inability of Moroccans to respect the rule of law.

  This difficult transitional period made Alwaar feel out of place. His work became confusing; it was hard for him to get confessions without slapping or kicking a suspect or sending them down to the torture room in the basement of the police station before interrogation. Alwaar didn’t know how to do his job without brutality. He just couldn’t get used to sitting in front of a suspect without being aggressive or insulting, talking to them like they were in some smoke-filled café. He had to crack the whip.

  For a whole year he didn’t do much of anything. He simply put in his time, dreaming of days past. It was in this difficult period that he discovered racehorse betting and got addicted to it. Yet little by little he started getting used to the new situation in Morocco, especially when he cracked a few cases. He had to obey the winds of change, even if with little faith or slack enthusiasm.

  On this night, as he was finally about to fall asleep, the phone saved him from seeing his favorite horse lose the race. Alwaar waited to pick up, hoping it would stop ringing on its own. But when the phone kept at it, he knew the call was work-related. He leaned on his pillow and turned on the bedside lamp. He watched his wife as she turned to the other side of the bed, pulling the covers over her head so the light wouldn’t bother her. Alwaar picked up the receiver but didn’t say anything. The voice on the other end shook him awake as if he was facing some sudden danger.

  “Sir,” the voice said without the usual greetings, “this is Inspector Assou from the nightshift. We just got news a foreign woman was murdered in her home.”

  Alwaar grimaced as he got out of the warm bed.

  “Who reported the crime?” he snapped, almost chastising the inspector for what happened.

  “Her husband.”

  “The address?” said Alwaar coldly.

  “Villa Sofia, number twenty-three, Zuhour Street, Anfa.”

  “Tell the DA,” he said in total resignation. “And tell Inspector Boukrisha to make sure no one touches the body until I get there.”

  Alwaar put the receiver down, breathing heavily. He used to smoke more than two packs a day of cheap Moroccan cigarettes and now had problems breathing. He had a chest exam recently, and the doctor told him to quit smoking immediately. The only thing Alwaar could do was get by on a
pack and a half a day instead of two or even more.

  He walked, exhausted, across the bedroom and opened the closet. When he was undressed, Alwaar looked like a retired boxer. He had a puffy face and bags under his eyes. His features made him look feeble and his lifeless eyes never seemed to focus on much of anything.

  As he put on his suit, his wife stirred in bed.

  “What’s so important they had to wake you up?”

  “A woman . . . foreign . . . was murdered,” he replied, out of breath, as he knotted his faded necktie.

  With a mechanical movement, Fatima sat straight up as if she hadn’t just been deeply asleep. She was maternal, the mistress of the house in the strictest sense. She was skilled at cooking, washing clothes, and cleaning. Her favorite pastime, however, was gossiping with the other women in the building. For years she’d been the official spokesperson on everything concerning Casablanca’s security. Tomorrow morning, before even preparing breakfast, she’d spread the news of this shocking crime among the women of the building, promising them details on the next installment.

  Alwaar finished putting on his suit and adjusting his pale red tie. He then took his gun from its hiding spot in the middle of the folded clothes in the closet and tucked it into his belt. Fatima looked at him closely with a hint of compassion.

  “What happened to the commissioner’s promise of giving you a desk job until you retire?” she said, getting up.

  Alwaar waved his hand in a motion of resignation.

  “They always do this when something big happens. They make the rounds and call everyone. In the end, I’m the only guy they find. The young detectives don’t have enough experience for them.”

  “All this trouble,” she grumbled, helping him put on his coat, “and they haven’t even promoted you to commissioner.”

  Did she mean to strike at his most vulnerable spot? Alwaar took a few steps back, narrowly avoiding her foot. He just couldn’t hide his anger whenever the subject of his promotion came up. He seemed confused and irritable to her.

  “What good would being commissioner do me?” he asked, searching for something in the pockets of his thick coat. “My days at work are numbered. At my age, people only ask for health and well-being.”

  That was his way of easing his grief and hiding his bitterness. But, in truth, even the mention of not getting promoted incensed him and made him feel as though all his dreams had gone up in smoke. Old age seemed like a poisoned coldness slowly creeping toward him.

  He continued rummaging in the bottom of his pockets.

  “If you’re looking for your notebook, it’s in front of you on the table,” said Fatima, as if settling something obvious.

  She followed him to the door and after he left, she turned the locks, reconciling herself to being alone.

  She never guessed her children would grow up so fast, get married, and vanish into thin air. Their oldest son lived in France, while his brother was a cop—like his father—in Meknes. As for their daughter, Samiya, she had also gone into the same line of work as her father. Last year she passed the academy’s entrance exam on the first try and was now training at the police academy in Kenitra.

  Alwaar stopped his Fiat Uno directly in front of the police car opposite the villa gate. He looked at his watch before heading in. It was quarter after one in the morning. He stopped to breathe in the clean air of this high-class neighborhood and then walked toward the gate where a uniformed cop was standing. The cop greeted the detective with an official salute but Alwaar didn’t even look at him.

  The first thing that struck Alwaar was the vast size of the villa’s garden, which was illuminated with powerful lights that made it look like the middle of the day. The grass was bright green and perfectly trimmed like the artificial turf on a sports field. The edges were lined with multicolored flowers and in the distance there was a deep blue swimming pool just like one in a luxury hotel. The non-stop barking put Alwaar on edge so he rushed toward the house. Once inside, he felt like he was in a castle. A magnificent crystal chandelier adorned with traditional designs hung from the ceiling. There was a marble fountain in the middle of the entryway, and the ground shone with polished marble that made you feel sorry for walking on it, no matter how expensive your shoes were. All the furniture was refined and revealed a foreign taste with Moroccan touches.

  Inspector Boukrisha hurried over to him with his round belly sticking out. He appeared older than his age, though he was twenty years younger than Alwaar. He had a brown face and curly hair, but it was difficult to pin down the exact color of his eyes. He constantly exaggerated his gestures to reinforce his naturally hoarse voice.

  “The crime took place in the bedroom,” he said excitedly.

  The detective started walking toward the stairs, but was stopped in his tracks by the sight of a man hunched over on a leather couch with his face between his hands and his chest trembling.

  “Who’s that guy?” said Alwaar, winking at Boukrisha. The inspector cracked a smile that confused the detective.

  “The victim’s husband.”

  Down the second floor was a wide hallway with a number of doors, all of which were well-lit. On each side of them were tables with antiques and vases, together with more decorative chairs than quite fit the space. The bedroom was at the end of the hallway. It was a wide room with two wardrobes and a vanity. There was another door inside leading to the ensuite bathroom. As for Sofia’s body, it was lying on the bed drenched in blood. Her nightgown was open at the waist. Her right arm was extended as if she wanted to grab something. The left hung down to the ground. She was lying on the edge of the bed and looked like she was about to fall off, but death had frozen her in this position. Alwaar stared at her pale aged face and understood the meaning of the inspector’s ambiguous smile. He looked for Boukrisha among the other cops in the room.

  “The young guy downstairs, that’s her husband?”

  Boukrisha nodded his head with a stunned look on his face.

  “He’s the one who called in the crime?” asked Alwaar.

  “Yeah, he’s the one,” said Boukrisha, trying to clear his voice.

  The detective’s eyes widened and he moved his head slowly. He asked one of the cops—an enthusiastic young man who’d joined the force only two years ago—to stop taking photos. Alwaar moved back and examined the body from the different corners of the bedroom.

  His first step was to verify that the crime scene hadn’t been tampered with. He especially wanted to make sure the murder weapon, a knife covered in blood next to the corpse, was in the same position they found it in. The detective had the forensics officer take a close-up of the knife. Alwaar then scanned the bedroom floor, which was covered with a beautiful Moroccan carpet. He saw a framed picture near the bedside table. He bent over and examined the photo without touching it, so as not to compromise any potential fingerprints.

  When he straightened up, he felt a light dizziness. He pressed his hands on his temples and took a deep breath. The room was swarming with men: Boukrisha, the forensics agent, three inspectors, and a team of ambulance men who were crowded at the door, ready to take the body away.

  Alwaar moved to the window and opened it. He looked out onto the calm, beautiful street, trying to get a hold of himself. Whenever he carried out the initial stages of a murder investigation, he felt a strange heaviness, a kind of distraction impeding his determination.

  For Alwaar, this was the most difficult stage of any investigation. He’d look for what the evidence was telling him and read it from every angle before moving to the next step. This made Alwaar move slowly, testing the patience of his assistants, who were always standing around, awaiting orders.

  He finally got down to business. He walked toward the bedside table and, with a cloth wrapped around his hand, opened the top drawer, taking out a box lined with silk. He opened the lid and found it full of jewelry: gold earrings, a diamond necklace, and a ring with a sparkling jewel. He immediately ruled out theft as a motive for the
murder. This sped things up. He then looked into the bathroom and was transfixed. He wasn’t searching for clues, as much as he was dazzled by its splendor: there was a wide bathtub big enough for a giant, gleaming white towels in an elegant arrangement, a bunch of nightgowns hanging on hooks, and dozens of creams, combs, oils, perfumes, soaps, and shampoos.

  Near the entryway downstairs, Othman was still sitting in shock. His eyes were red from weeping and his lips were taut. He was sighing deeply and having trouble breathing. Soon, he managed to get a hold of his trembling.

  Alwaar walked down to Othman and sat in front of him, taking out his notebook. Alwaar gave him the once-over before introducing himself.

  “I’m the homicide detective in charge here and this is my assistant,” he said, pointing to Inspector Boukrisha. “You’re the victim’s husband?”

  Othman nodded without having the strength to look into Alwaar’s eyes.

  “Name?”

  “Othman Latlabi.”

  “Your wife’s name?”

  “Sofia Beaumarché.”

  “Her nationality?”

  “French.”

  The detective took his time writing down the information in his notebook. This gave him the chance to check out Othman again.

  “Fine,” said the detective in an irritated tone. “Tell us what happened.”

  Othman closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He stammered more than once before finally starting talking.

  “We got home from the restaurant around eleven. Sofia went up to the bedroom ahead of me. I took the dog out for a walk. When I came back,” he said, breaking out in a fit of tears, “I found her like that.”