Chapter 30 Kobe
Kobe
By half past six, Fatemeh Kordestani sat across from me in an interview room, the fires of hell burning from her eyes. She had not lawyered up—yet—but she was not happy. The animosity she carried toward me had amplified tenfold. I was not her most favorite person.
She had agreed to allow me to video the interview, and I’d gone through the preliminaries as required by law. Now, we were in a stare-off. I sat in a position of power, and she knew it, but she was not going to make it easy for me.
“How was your Christmas?” I asked with a wry smile.
“I have no interest in exchanging pleasantries, Detective. Get on with the interview so I can go home.”
“Did you celebrate with family? Friends?”
Silence. Fatemeh crossed her arms, leaning back with a petulant chin lift that matched my own.
“I can leave you here and come back if you aren’t feeling cooperative. Legally, I have cause to hold you for forty-eight hours. Would you like me to escort you to a cell until you’re ready to chat?”
“I came willingly. You did not arrest me. You need a warrant for that.”
“I have four dead men, and one of them is your husband. How hard do you think that might be to obtain?”
“Ex-husband.”
“Oh, that’s right. Apologies. Ex-husband.
That would look even better on a warrant.
Any judge worth their salt wouldn’t bat an eye at that request. Up to you, though.
Cooperate or don’t. Either way, you will answer my questions.
Be it today or tomorrow. You’ve already come this far. Why make things difficult?”
I’d picked up Fatemeh at her house over an hour ago. She had been alone, reading and enjoying a glass of merlot in solitude with candlelight and Beethoven. Her house was not decorated for the holiday.
After learning the purpose of my visit and arguing profusely, she had relented and agreed to come in, insisting she change into something more appropriate than the lounge pants and the baggy T-shirt she had been wearing.
More appropriate, apparently, meant trendy skinny jeans that showed off her voluptuous curves, a near-see-through blouse that accentuated her bosom, and pumps that put her at a greater height than my six feet.
The top few buttons of the shirt were undone, showing ample cleavage and the top of a lace brassiere.
The air stank of recently applied perfume.
I suspected the ensemble and delicately applied makeup were intentional choices. Fatemeh considered me a horny sleazeball of a man whose attention was easily diverted by his uncontrollable animalistic tendencies.
Fatemeh was a cunning viper, but she would not distract me with sexual appeal.
Her preconceived assumptions irritated me.
If she understood my true feelings, we might get along, but I couldn’t expose myself.
Especially while on camera. Regardless, I exercised caution, sensing Fatemeh could easily outmaneuver me, and I wanted to control all the pieces in this game.
I asked my original question again. “How was your Christmas?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t celebrate.”
“At all? No dinner with friends or family?”
“No.”
“No getaway to the Caribbean?”
“Do I look like I’m in the Caribbean?”
“Were you home on the twenty-fifth?”
“Yes. Not much open that day.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“All day?”
“For god’s sake. Yes. I was home alone all… day.” Her angular brows sank deeper with the hiccupped reply.
“All… day?” I parroted, emphasizing the pause.
Her cheeks flushed. “No. I was out for an hour and a half in the early morning. I forgot.”
I paused, but when she didn’t elaborate, I pushed. “Where were you?”
“Working out.”
“Working out? Like at a gym?”
“Yes. Like at the gym.”
I unintentionally took in her honed physique and earned another eye roll. My thoughts skated to Dominique and his dedication to early morning workout sessions. How many gyms could there be in the city that offered members twenty-four-hour access year-round?
I straightened, feigning disbelief. “You went to the gym on Christmas morning?”
“Yes.” Her tone was clipped and angry.
“What facility?”
“Iron Pumphouse.”
The hair on my arms stood on end. It was Dominique’s gym. Did he know her? Had he seen her? “What time were you there?”
“Early.”
I rolled a hand, wanting specifics.
“Around four.”
“Can anyone corroborate?”
“There were a handful of other members present. I don’t know them personally. The facility would have a record that I swiped in, and there are cameras in the weight room.”
Getting a hold of anyone at this time of year would be a bitch, and convincing the owner to confirm those details without a warrant would present another challenge.
I jotted a note to look into it later but privately planned to ask Dominique if he could confirm her story.
I wasn’t sure what time he’d left the house on Christmas morning, but by his own admission, he worked out disgustingly early.
None of it would matter if the time of death for Malik Quinn didn’t match. Dominique had yet to report those findings, but considering the frozen state of the body, my amateur brain assumed Malik was killed on or before Christmas Day.
“How about the twenty-fourth? What were you up to?”
“I had lunch with a friend at eleven, then spent the remainder of the day at home. Alone. By myself. No witnesses, Detective. Is that a crime?”
Pushing this line of questioning would get me nowhere. The timeline was too broad and unknown. I needed facts before I could proceed with confirming alibis.
Instead, I laid three photographs on the table. One of Jesse, one of Ford, and one of Malik. “Do you know these men?”
Fatemeh spared them a fleeting glance. “We’ve discussed Jesse.”
“We have. Briefly. How do you know him again?”
“I don’t. Not personally. I work with a woman whose daughter went to school with him. I’ve heard plenty of stories. Enough to know he was a huge problem.”
I made a note and sized her up. “The last time we spoke, you implied that you knew your husband was on the committee that was formed to decide Jesse’s fate at the university after he was charged with drug possession and distribution.”
“Yes.”
“You also claimed you were unaware of how he voted.”
I watched her closely for a reaction but got none.
“And?” she eventually said.
“And that was a lie. According to your husband’s TA, you made quite a scene on campus when you found out.”
Fatemeh shrugged noncommittally. “Navid was an idiot. Jesse should have been shown the door long before the drug issue came to light.”
“You recognize Jesse, but you didn’t know him personally.”
“He had a reputation. We’ve covered that.”
It didn’t answer my question, but I moved on. “Would you say he was popular?”
“Yes, but for all the wrong reasons.”
I pushed the photographs of Ford and Malik closer. “And these two?”
Fatemeh seemed reluctant to break eye contact but looked down for a longer inspection than the first time. “They aren’t familiar.”
“Are you sure you don’t recognize them? They were friends of Jesse’s. I’m led to believe they hung out together a few years back.”
“I’m not a professor, Detective. I don’t spend regular time on campus.”
“Did Navid talk about Jesse?”
“On occasion.”
“Did they spend time together?”
“I have no idea. I wasn’t Navid’s keeper.”
I tapped Malik’s picture. “Shortly before Jesse was expelled, this guy was on trial for sexual assault against a minor. Landed an acquittal. Lucky bastard. Did you hear about any of that?”
Something dark flashed in Fatemeh’s eyes. A quiet rage I felt reflected in my core. “I didn’t,” she spat.
“Funny how these things get buried. He was a law student. No recourse. Yeah, fine, he was acquitted, but still. Why didn’t the rumors tarnish his reputation? Why are guys like this left unpunished? I have a hard time believing he’s innocent.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. Who knows?”
Fatemeh wouldn’t look at the pictures and seemed to be hanging onto control by a thread, nostrils flaring, hands balled into fists.
I held her hot stare, silently coaxing her to say what was on her mind—wishing I could tell her what was on mine. She didn’t speak, so I gave a little push.
“It’s hard to feel sorry for men like Jesse and Malik, isn’t it?”
Nothing.
“Feels like they got what they deserved.”
No response.
“Whoever killed them was burning on the inside, don’t you think? Suffering from an inhumane pain they could no longer control or contain. Their deaths reek of revenge.”
Fatemeh stared straight ahead, no longer meeting my gaze, jaw tight, hands tighter. She didn’t speak.
“You know what I think? I think Jesse, Ford, and Malik got a little too power hungry one night, drank a little too much, ganged up on an unsuspecting woman at a party, and raped her.”
I let the word hang in the air for a moment.
Thick and ugly. “I think this woman, whoever she is, walked away shattered. Stripped of humanity. She will never be whole again. Someone out there knows who she is. Someone finally had enough and decided to do something about the toxic stain on the university. The police didn’t help.
The administration practically ignored the issue. But someone needed to stop them.”
“If I’m right,” I added. “I don’t blame this girl. In fact…” I clapped, slow and methodical. “Bravo to them for having the balls to take down the monsters of this world.”
When Rue or Golding listened to the interview, my words and actions would be taken into consideration and evaluated.
I had a poor reputation, and they might decide disciplinary measures were required, but no one could accuse me of not doing my job.
I could fight tooth and nail that this line of inquiry was necessary.
Empathy was a tactic often used to draw out a confession, and that was all I was doing.
Empathizing with a potential killer. Luring them into a safety net with praise and respect.
No one had to know how honestly I felt those emotions in my core.
Empathy wasn’t working with Fatemeh. Her refusal to speak was both suspicious and expected. She was cunning and smart enough to know when to stop talking. I held her gaze for a long time, pondering my approach. I needed to shift the interview, throw her off her guard.
Straightening, altering my tone of voice to something lighter and friendlier, I asked, “Do you color your hair?”
Fatemeh blinked, her gaze coming into focus. Her brow creased. “Excuse me? What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re in your forties. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I imagine your age is catching up to you, and those pesky grays are making an appearance.”
She pressed her lips together. Her hostility had returned.
I quirked a brow. “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” she spat. “Are we almost finished? I’ve wasted enough of my day on this nonsense.”
“One more question. What size shoes do you wear?”