Moonlight murder, p.10
Moonlight Murder, page 10
“My name is Kausar Khan. My granddaughter, Maleeha, was Qasim’s girlfriend. I called because I wanted to learn more about him.”
Kristi obviously didn’t believe Kausar, but she also didn’t hang up. “I barely knew the kid myself.”
“The other students in the poetry club said you offered to represent him because he was talented.”
Something in Kristi’s voice softened at this. “Talent is just a starting place, really. Not that it mattered. He didn’t sign the contract. He’s a minor and needed his parent or guardian’s permission. I guess he didn’t get it. That’s the way it goes sometimes.”
Kausar mulled this over. “Were the parents scared by your fees?” she asked. She wasn’t sure how agenting worked and was curious.
Another sigh. “Agents get paid on commission. That means if my client doesn’t eat, neither do I. Jeff Walters said he had potential, so I arranged a meeting, and I was impressed with what I saw. I’ve had some luck with Goldenview, as I’m sure you know.”
“Damien Mackenzie,” Kausar said. “My granddaughter mentioned that Qasim was a fan. As was Joquiem.”
Kristi huffed. “All those kids have stars in their eyes. At least Qasim had it.”
“It?” Kausar repeated.
“It,” Kristi said, and her voice took on an almost reverent quality. “Charisma, showmanship, a little bit of magic. That sort of raw talent is elusive. It needs to be nurtured, and even then, you have to be incredibly lucky for it to blossom. That’s my job—I pan for gold. And deal with a few unsavory people along the way,” she added pointedly. Kausar ignored her.
“May I ask, did Joquiem also have ‘it’?” she asked.
Kristi hummed, thinking. “Walters recommended them both, and I watched their tapes. In the beginning, I wasn’t sure which boy to approach. Qasim has more stage presence, but Joquiem has a quiet intensity that seemed promising. They were also both technically proficient, good-looking kids, and plenty passionate. But it’s hard enough to get one poet’s career off the ground, and I didn’t think I could take on two clients working in such a similar space. In the end, I told Walters I was offering Qasim representation. The boy seemed delighted, but then I never heard back. Next thing I knew, he had died. Quite a shock, actually.”
“It has been a difficult time,” Kausar agreed. Kristi had let her guard down now; she clearly did not view Kausar as a threat and as a result was more willing to talk. Her voice took on a confiding tone.
“Funny thing, a couple days after I let Joquiem know I was going to pass, his mother got in touch. Boy, was she mad. Accused me of incompetence and racism. And that was just the nicer things she said. Never more happy with my choice, I can tell you. Life is too short to work with crazy parents.”
“I’m surprised to hear that she called you. I have heard Joquiem is quite private about his personal life,” Kausar said. This disproved her theory that Joquiem might have approached Kristi following Qasim’s death, in any case.
“With a mother like that, I’m not surprised. Mind you, some parents really lose it where their kids are concerned. They could be sweet as pie otherwise, but you cross their kid, and the claws come out.”
“What about Joquiem? I am sure he was not happy with the rejection, either. Did you sense any bad blood between him and Qasim? I’m told they were great friends, but I wonder if a life-changing offer like this might have come between them.”
“Never met them together, so I can’t say, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Back when Damien’s star was on the rise, he had some friends who were just as talented. A few of them started hanging around, going with him to shows, interviews, like an entourage, you know. I warned him, but he let one of them work on some of his early stuff, said he wanted to help his brother out. Last I heard, that kid now works at Best Buy and has been trying to sue his ‘brother’ for copyright infringement for years. He’d kill Damien, if he ever got close enough,” Kristi finished. Then, realizing what she had said, she added, “I mean that metaphorically, of course.”
“Except that Qasim is dead,” Kausar said, and Kristi hummed an acknowledgment. “How do you know Mr. Walters?” she asked, and Kristi laughed.
“It’s strange to hear him called that. We went to undergrad together. I could tell you stories. Dated briefly, but decided we were better off as friends. I wish I’d had a teacher like him growing up. You can tell he cares about every kid he teaches, you know? Never lets his own troubles ruin his sense of decency.”
Kausar wanted to ask what Kristi meant about Mr. Walters’s “own troubles,” but she was afraid of pushing too hard. In any case, the talent agent was right—Mr. Walters didn’t seem indifferent or mean, like Nicole Blake with her criticism and focus on winning.
“You got enough to satisfy your granddaughter, Mrs. Khan?” Kristi asked. “I was sorry to hear about Qasim. It’s a shame, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Kid like that, controlling parents, his creative spirit stifled. No wonder he snapped one day. Everyone wants to live this superstar life, find fame and fortune and adoring fans who love them. Take it from someone whose job it is to nurture and launch that sort of talent—it can be a curse more often than a blessing.”
Nasir picked her up promptly at seven p.m., and they set off for the perennially jam-packed and always frustrating Highway 401. “Thank you for accompanying me,” Kausar said to Nasir, after she had climbed into his comfortable dark Mercedes S-Class sedan. The brown leather was buttery soft, and she sank into the plush seat.
“I should be thanking you,” Nasir said. “I have not been able to stop thinking about that pistachio latte all day. They also have delicious desserts.”
“You always had a sweet tooth,” Kausar teased.
“Less so when you are around,” Nasir said. “You are sweet enough.”
Even as her cheeks flushed, Kausar laughed at his words, which Maleeha would have labeled a “dad joke.” Nasir was a natural flirt, as Kausar knew well. Still, she couldn’t help but enjoy his attention.
Her late husband Hassan had many fine qualities: He was kind, generous, and gave her complete control over the running of their household—and was not too proud to let her handle their finances, too. Theirs had been a sober, serious marriage, full of love, respect, and care. Yet Nasir had a way of making everything feel light and fun, something she had never experienced with anyone else before. You could have this every day, a voice whispered, but she pushed it away. Nasir had shared his admiration for Kausar repeatedly, had even asked if she was interested in turning their relationship into something more serious, and her answer had so far been a gentle refusal. She was not willing to give up the freedom of living life for herself, on her own terms, no matter how delightful Nasir was.
Their conversation moved on to other things as they progressed through stop-and-go highway traffic. Kausar shared what she had learned about Qasim and his family, as well as her recent encounter with Cynthia and her suspicions about her son. Nasir raised an eyebrow at that. “Teenage pregnancies happen, even in our community,” he observed. “Still, I would be quite surprised to learn if that was the situation here.”
“I was too shocked to ask Cynthia outright, and who’s to say whether she would be truthful. This might be a secret she has kept for some time,” Kausar said. “I hope Dawud might be able to shed some light on the subject. Perhaps he will know what Qasim was doing on Red Hill Lane.”
Nasir’s brows furrowed. “That street name sounds familiar but I can’t place it,” he said thoughtfully. He changed the subject, entertaining Kausar with a funny story about one of his commercial real estate clients who had grown so upset at being constantly outbid on properties that he had decided to invest in construction himself and now owned one of the largest private companies in the province. Nasir’s impersonation was amusing, and Kausar found herself laughing out loud for the first time in what felt like weeks. It felt good to laugh.
Finally, they entered the outskirts of Mississauga, a sprawling city to the west of Toronto with a large South Asian and Arab population and one of the largest mosques in the Greater Toronto Area: ISNA Canada. As a nondriver, Kausar had not traveled to Mississauga since her return to the city, but she used to visit frequently when her children were young, and they often made the trek to visit friends in the west end. She was amazed at how much the city had changed, with construction cranes and roadwork everywhere.
When Nasir eased his car into a spot at Ridgeway Plaza, Kausar got out and stared in awe. “Plaza” was a misnomer: Ridgeway was a series of large units grouped together in an area the size of a neighborhood, each containing dozens of restaurants, cafés, dessert shops, and clothing and jewelry boutiques, stretching out as far as she could see. The selection was overwhelming, far beyond anything she had seen anywhere else in the city. It made the Golden Crescent Plaza seem like a doll’s house in comparison. At this time of night, the parking lot was packed, with drivers circling the lot in search of a good spot, and she noticed families and groups of chatting young people, most South Asian and Arab, many of them sporting colourful hijabs, salwar kameez, and white thowbs. Beside her, Nasir seemed delighted by her reaction and the opportunity to play tour guide.
“There are so many . . . restaurants,” Kausar said in a hushed whisper.
“The plaza opened in 2022, and it’s become a popular spot for locals and tourists alike,” Nasir explained.
“Are all the restaurants halal?” she asked. It was hard to believe.
“Many of them,” he confirmed. “More than one hundred places to eat, with cuisines from all around the world. I come here often with my children, and sometimes for client meetings.”
Kausar shook her head. That there could be such a large plaza located just forty-five minutes away from Toronto, devoted to food from around the world, with so many halal options, would have been inconceivable even five years ago.
“The neighborhood isn’t thrilled by the traffic and noise,” Nasir added. “In the summer, many of the restaurants stay open until the early morning hours, and the plaza attracts a much younger clientele who don’t always take their sleeping neighbors into account.” He nodded across the street, where suburban homes were located.
Together, they walked towards Jabal, the Yemeni coffee shop where Dawud had agreed to meet. When they entered the bright space, with its white and blond wood furniture accented with gold, complete with stylized Middle Eastern-inspired art on the walls, she immediately spotted Ali’s old friend at a corner table.
Dawud was a smiling, handsome young man, no taller than five foot eight, but broad in the chest and across the shoulders. His face was round and smooth, but he had a weak chin and large forehead, all of which made him appear younger than his thirty-three years. He stood up to greet Kausar, eyes traveling from her to Nasir, where his gaze rested for a long moment. For his part, Nasir also seemed to be studying the young man.
“Ah! I know your father,” Nasir said, snapping his fingers and smiling. “How is Javed?”
For a moment, the smile faltered on Dawud’s face. “He’s doing well, Alhamdulillah,” he replied in a more subdued tone, before turning to Kausar and offering to fetch her a drink. Nasir waved him away and went up to the counter, leaving her alone with Dawud.
They were both silent, taking the measure of each other. He broke first. “I was surprised when I saw your message, Kausar Aunty, especially after all these years.”
Kausar and Nasir had discussed their strategy on the ride over and agreed that the direct approach was probably best. “I’m sure you know that the person responsible for Ali’s death was never found,” she started. “It has taken me a long time, but I finally feel strong enough to do something about that. I have been speaking with Ali’s old friends, hoping to piece together his last few weeks and days, trying to paint a picture of how he spent his time.”
Dawud nodded in sympathy. “I can understand that, and I’m sure I would do the same. But if you don’t mind my asking, didn’t the police look into all of this?”
Kausar shrugged. “They certainly tried their best. However, they were working on the assumption that a random driver struck Ali. I am not.”
This seemed to take Dawud aback, just as the suggestion that Ali’s death might have been deliberate had shocked Cynthia. “You think someone intentionally wanted to hurt Ali?”
Kausar shook her head. “I do not know what to think. I only know that my son has been dead for nearly twenty years, and I cannot spend another day on this earth not looking for the person responsible.”
The young man seemed moved by her words, and he leaned forward. “I’ve thought about Ali a lot over the years. I was in a dark place after his death.”
“Cynthia said something similar,” Kausar said.
Dawud looked sharply at Kausar. “You know about Cynthia?” he asked. “Forgive me. I didn’t know Ali had . . .” he trailed off meaningfully, but Kausar didn’t elaborate, only waited for him to go on. Dawud sighed. “I’m not in touch with Cyn now. I haven’t seen her in over ten years. But when we were in high school, she was sort of a mess. Major problems at home. She didn’t get along with her parents. I heard that her teachers called CAS a few times,” Dawud said.
What kind of abuse or neglect had warranted a call to the Children’s Aid Society? Kausar wondered. “Did Ali ever express concern about her brother, Jimmy?” Kausar pressed. “Cynthia told me he was protective and that he wouldn’t have approved of Ali.”
“It’s possible. Jimmy was older; he wouldn’t have talked to us, but it was a long time ago, Aunty. Some of the details are fuzzy,” Dawud said. “After Ali passed, my father sent me to stay with family in Pakistan. He thought I would be safer there, but the truth is, I was only more lonely.”
Kausar clocked the word choice. Safer from what? Even if Dawud’s father had the best of intentions, banishing one’s child to another country was an extreme reaction, one that likely caused a rift between father and son. Perhaps that explained his strange reaction when Nasir brought up Javed, Kausar thought. “How long did you live overseas?” Kausar asked.
“On and off, about seven years. I came back to Toronto for university, then returned to Pakistan again for a few more years. I’m back now. Permanently.” The way he said that last word gave Kausar pause. He sounded determined, and there was a steely glint in his eyes.
Nasir joined them, passing Kausar a pot of Adeni chai, a milky black tea infused with cardamom and nutmeg. Kausar took a sip, savoring the subtle flavors and rich taste. Nasir had a large bright green iced drink in front of him and he looked happy. Kausar couldn’t help but smile; Nasir was so easy to please and found joy wherever he could. “What did I miss?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink, after first offering it to Kausar.
“Dawud was just sharing that he lived in Pakistan for many years. His father sent him there after Ali’s death,” Kausar said.
“I didn’t know Javed sent you to study overseas,” Nasir said.
Kausar turned back to Dawud. “One of the things I’ve always wondered about was what Ali was doing on that street. Would you happen to—”
“Red Hill Lane!” Nasir interrupted, snapping his fingers. “Now I remember why it sounded familiar.” His gaze narrowed on Dawud now, and the young man turned pale.
Dawud turned to Kausar, shoulders slumped. “Nasir Uncle is right. I’m the reason Ali died that night, Kausar Aunty. You see, I lived on Red Hill Lane. Ali was there to see me.”
Chapter 13
Kausar took a sip of her Adeni tea, more to calm her nerves than because she was thirsty. “Perhaps you should tell me the story from the start.”
Dawud’s color was alarming now, and Kausar urged him to take a sip of his own drink, a bright purple frozen concoction. The sugar restored some of the color to his face, and he started to speak, not daring to make eye contact with either her or Nasir.
“I met Ali in grade six, and we immediately hit it off. Ali is—was—the funniest person I knew. He made everyone feel like they were fine exactly as they were. I didn’t get a lot of that at home, to be honest. But Ali could silence the voices in my head, the ones that said I was too dumb, too useless, that I would never amount to anything.” Dawud smiled sadly. “He was my brother. Even more than my actual brothers.”
Kausar and Nasir exchanged a glance at this. Despite her calm exterior, she was itching for him to relay this story, desperate to hear more. Except she didn’t want to spook Dawud and was terrified he would stop talking.
“Me, Ali, and Ethan. It was just the three of us. Then Ali met Cynthia in grade ten, and suddenly it was like no one else existed,” Dawud said, and even now, decades after the fact, his tone sounded bitter. “We got into a fight,” he admitted. “I told him he was whipped, that Cynthia had him wrapped around her finger. He didn’t like that and yelled back. But the thing is, Ali hated fighting with anyone.”
It was true, Kausar remembered. The times she or Hassan were annoyed with him, or when his siblings teased him, Ali was quick to make peace. He hated conflict and was always the first person to put his hand out in apology.
She also remembered what Adam said about finding Ali in the school stairwell a few weeks before his death, upset about something. Adam had assumed that one of Ali’s friends had made a move on his girl. Perhaps he had been angry about Cynthia, just not in the way Adam had thought.
“What happened that night?” Kausar asked.
Dawud shifted in his seat. “This is the part I hate thinking about,” he said, his voice low. “The part I keep replaying in my head again and again. Ali came to my door that night. It was around nine thirty. I remember because I was at work until eight—I had a co-op placement at an auto shop nearby—and he arrived a little after I’d gotten home. My dad answered and told me Ali was there, and I—” He covered his eyes in a reflexive movement, the words an anguished whisper. “I refused to come down. He was there to see me, but I was still upset with him, and I sent him away. I didn’t realize what had happened until I heard sirens outside our house. By then, it was too late.”
