Moonlight murder, p.8
Moonlight Murder, page 8
Instead, she called Ilyas. He picked up on the second ring again.
“Officer Marjani here,” his clipped voice answered. “Am I speaking with Detective Aunty herself?”
His teasing voice brought a smile to her lips. “The one and only,” she said.
“Thank God for that,” he said, and they laughed. “Actually, I’m glad you called.”
“That is a first,” Kausar said.
“I have an update on those text messages you received when you were helping Sana, though I don’t know if it’ll be of any use to you,” Ilyas said, and instantly the smile was wiped from her face.
During Kausar’s investigation into Imran Thakur’s death, she had received two messages from an unknown number, threatening harm to her and Sana if she continued her line of questioning. They had only served to motivate her further, but she had shared the number they had been sent from with Ilyas, who had it traced. The messages had been sent from Imran Thakur’s phone, which wasn’t found at the scene and had never been recovered.
“Did you find out who sent them?” Kausar asked now. She had no doubt the police had the right killer in custody, but she also knew she’d feel more at peace if there were no more outstanding questions about the case.
“No, but we managed to track down where they were sent by tracing it to the nearest cell tower. It was the one located across the street from the Toronto Muslim Assembly,” Ilyas said.
Kausar was surprised. “Are you telling me that whoever sent those messages did so from the mosque?”
“Yes, or somewhere near the mosque,” Ilyas confirmed. “We can’t pin it down more accurately than that. It’s also entirely likely that they were walking somewhere and just passing by. Unfortunately, our tech isn’t quite as sophisticated as movies would have you believe, so we can’t get an exact location.”
Kausar considered this. “Thank you for looking into this for me.”
“I’m sorry it took so long,” Ilyas said. “I guess it wasn’t a high priority, after . . .” he trailed off.
After they arrested Sana, Kausar added silently. It became even less of a priority after Kausar unmasked the real killer and embarrassed the Toronto police in the process, she thought with some satisfaction. Still, Ilyas had done her a favor, and she expressed her appreciation. She also hoped any lingering guilt he might feel about the situation would come in handy now, because she had a favor to request.
“I had another reason for my call today,” she started, and she could practically hear him brace himself on the other end of the line. “I was wondering if you could send me any old files you might have come across related to Ali’s death.”
There was a moment of silence as Ilyas absorbed this. “Details about Ali’s hit and run?” he asked slowly. “Surely, you have copies of everything already.”
“We do. But perhaps there were additional notes or theories that the police did not share with us at the time, and which you might be able to find in the records,” Kausar suggested. “Perhaps relating to Ali’s friends. Or his girlfriend.”
This silenced Ilyas. “I didn’t know you knew about her,” he said carefully.
“I found a message Cynthia wrote in Ali’s yearbook,” Kausar said. “Adam confirmed my suspicions.”
“I should have told you about her back then. I don’t know why I didn’t, other than that I was just a kid and still afraid to get my friend in trouble,” Ilyas said. It wasn’t an apology, but rather an acknowledgment of the very real reticence in their community to discuss or even acknowledge the romantic lives of young, unmarried Muslims. Or older widows and divorcées, for that matter, she thought.
“He was your friend. If Ali wanted to keep Cynthia a secret, it would have felt like a betrayal for you to reveal it, even after his death.” She might be struggling to accept that her younger son had had a life separate from her own perception of him, but she didn’t want to put that burden on Ilyas.
“It wasn’t just Ali,” Ilyas said. “Cynthia wanted to keep their status on the down-low, too. I think her brother was really protective and controlling or something. And to answer your question, Ali’s friends weren’t ever questioned. It was a hit and run, and the driver failed to stay on the scene. It wasn’t considered a suspicious death.” Ilyas’s voice was cautious when he asked, “Have you learned something different?”
“No,” Kausar admitted. “However, after all this time, I think it would not hurt to have a conversation with his close friends, and with Cynthia, too. To see if they remember anything.”
Ilyas hummed, thinking. “I’m not sure it would do any good. People’s memories aren’t the best when recalling events that happened a few days ago, and they don’t improve with time.” He sighed. “Ali died nearly eighteen years ago. Before CCTV was everywhere, before everyone had a camera in their pocket and attached to doorbells, and dash cams in their cars. He died before smartphones were invented, before someone could take footage of a car speeding off on a dimly lit street. If Ali had died now, the culprits would have been caught on camera a dozen times, with eyewitnesses beside. I reconciled myself a long time ago to the truth: Ali will not find justice in this life.”
“I cannot accept that,” Kausar said.
Again, Ilyas sighed. “It’s out of our hands at this point, Kausar Aunty. I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear.”
Kausar stared at her phone for a long time after she hung up. Ilyas’s lack of encouragement was expected, of course, but instead of it being discouraging, it only served to make her angry. If he refused to help her, she would have to continue on her own. Possessed with a new fervor, she pulled up the Cynthia Yu social media accounts that May had identified as being most likely Ali’s long-ago girlfriend. She studied the three profiles carefully. One of the women seemed to be biracial, with warm brown skin and curly hair, slanted eyes smiling at the camera. She scrolled through the pictures, picking out details. In the background of one picture, she saw a sweatshirt on the back of a chair, UTM embroidered across the front. UTM was the acronym for the University of Toronto at Mississauga. It was unlikely that a young woman who lived in the east end suburb of Scarborough would attend a University of Toronto campus in the west end of the city.
She opened the second profile, this time of a young woman who could have been a skin-care influencer, her face perfectly lit and practically poreless, the filter she used making her eyes glow in a faintly alarming way. Once more, she scrolled through the young woman’s feed, trying to gather clues or glimpses of her life that might provide further details, but it was too blandly curated to be helpful. Finally, after interminable scrolling and reading, Kausar found a reference to a high school reunion, held at a school downtown. Definitely not the Cynthia Yu she was looking for, though May had done a good job finding these three candidates. Heartened now, Kausar pulled up the last one.
The third profile only had one picture in the feed, but it was brightly lit with an eclectic background, taken in a café of some sort. Kausar studied Cynthia’s face: East Asian with wide-spaced eyes, light brown complexion, straight black hair. She was pretty, but the picture was not overly filtered and modified, like the second Cynthia Yu. This Cynthia’s smile was friendly but guarded, her hair shoulder length and falling softly around her face, highlighted with electric blue streaks. Unlike the young men, her description was simple. Coffee and treats are my thing, followed by a link.
When Kausar clicked on it, she was taken to the Instagram page for Coffee for Yu, a café that served single origin, organic coffee and fresh-baked pastries. Kausar looked up the address for the café. It was in the east end of the city, on the border between Scarborough and the eastern suburb of Pickering, a half-hour journey on public transportation. Her heart started to pound. This was Ali’s Cynthia; Kausar was sure of it.
Kausar was a lifelong chai drinker, but she would make an exception this one time—assuming Ali’s old girlfriend agreed to talk to her over a cup of coffee. Inshallah—God willing, she thought grimly.
Chapter 10
Coffee for Yu was a tiny storefront wedged between a fast-food restaurant and a nail salon, the interior more spacious than the entrance would suggest, with a counter at the end of a long corridor lined with tables that could seat one, two, or four people. Currently, the café was empty, which Kausar assumed was due to her timing: It was early evening by the time she arrived. The decor was a mix of mismatched styles, from wrought iron chairs to wooden picnic tables, with pop art prints on the wall and miniature chandeliers spray-painted a flat gold. The walls were painted in warm, earthy tones, and there was a display case with a variety of tempting baked goods: croissants, turnovers, Danishes, and cookies. Beside the cash register, in pride of place, stood a complicated-looking industrial espresso machine in baby blue, and behind the counter, Kausar spotted a large contraption that looked like a giant hand mixer.
“We use it to roast our own beans,” the woman at the front explained, smiling at Kausar. “A new obsession of mine.” In person, Cynthia Yu was petite, dressed in a white T-shirt and wide-legged jeans, a bright blue apron wrapped around her tiny waist. She seemed competent and happy with her life, and looking at her now, Kausar felt a wave of emotion hit her. This young woman had known her son, perhaps had even loved him. She seemed to have found the sort of peace in her life that Ali never had the chance to discover.
“My name is Kausar Khan,” she said around the lump in her throat. “You knew my son, Ali Abdullah Khan, in high school.”
A look of shock, followed by alarm, appeared on Cynthia’s face, and she stuttered. “I-I . . . I don’t know . . . you must have me confused with someone else . . .”
“It is all right, Cynthia,” Kausar said gently, trying not to spook her. “I know you and Ali were together. Can we talk?”
Cynthia burst into tears.
The two women were seated at a corner table, two steaming cups of coffee in front of them, courtesy of Cynthia’s part-time help, a gruff teenage boy with an eyebrow piercing and a sullen attitude who was currently shooting Kausar suspicious looks. She couldn’t blame him; she realized now that she should have reached out to Cynthia before showing up unannounced at her place of business, though another part of her was glad to witness this genuine reaction.
The young woman had calmed down, her red-rimmed eyes the only indication of her emotional outburst. “Sorry about that,” she said, sniffing. “Jimmy always says I cry way too easily. My older brother,” she explained. “And the co-owner of this place. My tears make him uncomfortable.”
“A common male complaint,” Kausar agreed. The two women stared at each other.
“You look like him,” Cynthia said. “Ali has . . . had your eyes.”
Another long moment of silence, and Kausar tried her coffee. The taste was sharp, but surprisingly smooth, with a caramel-like aftertaste.
“That one is from Oaxaca. It’s grown by smallholder Indigenous farmers in Mexico,” Cynthia said proudly, wiping her eyes.
“Very tasty,” Kausar said.
“I’ve become a bit of a coffee nerd,” Cynthia explained. “Even back in high school, I was picky about my caffeine. Ali used to laugh when I refused to step inside Tim Hortons.”
“Sacrilege,” Kausar said, smiling.
Cynthia looked away. “Ali had your smile, too,” she said in a quiet voice.
“I only recently learned of your . . . involvement with my son,” Kausar said. “Can you tell me about it?”
To her credit, the young woman didn’t refuse. “Ali was my first real boyfriend. Looking back, we were such kids, but at the time, it felt so serious. When he died, I was a mess for a long time. I couldn’t even attend the funeral. Though you wouldn’t have known who I was,” she amended ruefully.
“The person responsible for his death was never caught,” Kausar said. “It has been nearly eighteen years. I have been trying to figure out what happened that night, to see if I can revive the investigation. I know my visit today is a shock, but I hoped you might be able to help.” When Cynthia nodded, Kausar continued. “One of the things that always bothered me about the night Ali was killed was his location. I never discovered what he was doing on that street. He told me he was going to play basketball at the community center, which was nowhere near Red Hill Lane.”
Cynthia shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe his friends would have an idea. Have you tried talking to Ethan or D-Dawud?”
Kausar noted the way the young woman’s voice stumbled as she said the second name, the way she kept her eyes averted. There was something here, something Cynthia was not willing to share just yet. “I have contacted both,” Kausar said briskly, trying another tactic. “I understand you kept your relationship a secret from your family as well. I know Ali was afraid we would not approve. May I ask your reason?” Ilyas had told her the reason when they spoke, but she wanted to hear what Cynthia would say.
Now Cynthia seemed embarrassed. “Because of my brother,” she admitted. “He wasn’t . . . Jimmy has always been overprotective, and he’s never liked my boyfriends, not even now. He sort of . . . went after another boy I dated a few times before Ali. Really freaked out. But he’s sweet, really, he’s always looked out for me.”
Kausar considered this. Perhaps she should add Jimmy to her list of people to question. “Did you like Ali’s friends?” she asked now.
This time, Cynthia’s discomfort was obvious. “Ethan was okay,” she said. “Dawud was . . . I guess an acquired taste. Like coffee that has been sitting for too long.”
“Stale?” Kausar guessed.
Cynthia smiled. “And bitter,” she added. Her expression changed, as if regretting her words. “We were just kids, Mrs. Khan. Fifteen years old. Playing at being grown, but that’s all it was—playacting. I haven’t kept in touch with most people from high school. I was pretty messed up after Ali’s death, like I said before. I had to drop out for a while, check into a facility while I recovered.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kausar said. She glanced around the shop. “It appears you have done well for yourself.”
“Jimmy didn’t let me give up. He always wanted to shield me from things, even when it was impossible,” she said, her fondness for her older brother evident in her voice. Then a shadow seemed to cross her face, and she stood up abruptly. “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to work. If there’s nothing else?”
The dismissal was clear, but Kausar didn’t move, wondering what sort of things Cynthia needed to be protected from, and whether any of those things had found her son instead. “Did you ever wonder if Ali might have been deliberately killed?” Kausar asked. Cynthia looked surprised, then vehemently shook her head.
“It was an accident,” Cynthia said. “A senseless, stupid mistake. Whoever did it panicked and left, which is a tragedy, but nobody wanted Ali dead. He was too good.” The young woman took a deep breath, and Kausar could practically see the customer service mask slip over her face. “Can I offer you a fresh-baked pastry before you leave?”
Kausar accepted an almond croissant to go, the fragrant dessert small consolation for everything she had failed to learn from Cynthia. Just as she pushed open the door, she heard the grumpy teen ask in a stage whisper that carried across the empty shop: “Who’s that, Mom?”
Blood roared in Kausar’s ears as she turned back to stare at the young server, who was at that indeterminate age between fifteen and twenty. Cynthia was only thirty-three, which meant . . .
Kausar tried to recall if there had been something familiar in the gruff teen’s eyes and smile. Was that why Cynthia had remarked on Kausar’s resemblance to Ali, after all these years? Because she had stared at that same smile, those same eyes, in the face of her child? She sank onto a bench near the bus stop, mind whirling.
Had she just met another grandchild, one whose existence she had known nothing about?
It’s possible, but I doubt it,” May said, uncertainty warring with her need to comfort her friend. “Do you know if Ali was sexually active?”
Kausar winced. She did not want to think about the intimate lives of any of her children, especially not her deceased son. She was seated on the bus, heading to the Golden Crescent neighborhood, and her mind felt as if it were on an automatic spin cycle. “I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend. I would hardly be aware if they were being . . . intimate, as well,” Kausar said.
May hummed. “There are signs. Kids can get a bit loopy after they start doing the deed. Do you remember if Ali was behaving strangely? And I bet he would have told one of his friends. Did Ethan or Dawud get back to you yet?”
Kausar hadn’t thought of that. Putting May on speaker, she quickly checked her Instagram, and sure enough, two new messages waited for her.
“Ethan expressed his condolences for Ali, but as I suspected, will not be back in Toronto anytime soon,” Kausar said, reading quickly. “He gave me his number and said I could call anytime.”
“What about Dawud?” May said. Her voice sounded tinny, and Kausar looked around. She had elected to sit in her usual spot, near the bus driver. At this time of day, late afternoon but before rush hour, the bus was nearly empty, with only an elderly woman sitting towards the middle and a sleeping man spread out across the back seats. The bus driver didn’t pay her any mind. She read the message aloud to May.
“Salaams, Kausar Aunty. What a surprise to hear from you. I’ve often thought of reaching out, especially after I read about your involvement with the Thakur case recently. I am glad to hear you are back in the Crescent. Regarding your questions, that is a conversation best done in person. Are you free tomorrow? I live in Mississauga now. We could meet at the Ridgeway Plaza. It is epic.”
May chuckled. “He certainly sounds enthusiastic. This is progress, Kausar. I know Cynthia’s child might have been a surprise, but you don’t know if he’s Ali’s, and don’t let it distract you from the real news here.”
