Fatal Convictions by Randy Singer Page B

stop the questioning if I sense that you’re trying to set him up.”
    “Time is of the essence, Mr. Madison. We really need to talk with him right away.”
    “What do you want to ask him?”
    “I’d rather not say over the phone.”
    “Half an hour, then,” Alex said. “It’s the best I can do. And wait outside. I don’t want you talking to him until I get there.”
    “We’ll be in our squad car.”
    Alex pulled a pen out of his desk drawer and addressed the manila envelopes by hand. He would leave the documents on Sylvia’s desk and call a courier service on his way to Khalid’s house. He had a bad feeling about Khalid’s “interview.” In a kidnapping, the cops didn’t usually question a family’s spiritual advisor. They had something. And there was only one way to find out what it was.

24
    Alex sat down next to his client on a soft leather couch with old cushions that sagged under his weight. Alex felt like he was sitting on the floor, knees in the air. Unlike the detectives, Alex had removed his shoes out of respect. The officers took the two chairs in the room, the same ones Alex and Shannon had occupied last week.
    The seating arrangement put Alex and Khalid at a definite psychological disadvantage. The officers were erect in their chairs, looking down at Alex and Khalid, who slouched into the couch like two schoolboys in the principal’s office.
    The female officer sat across from Khalid and leaned forward, a clear posture of aggression. She was thin and intense, midforties, with curly blonde hair, small blue eyes that seemed too close together, and a narrow face that looked like somebody had placed it in a vise and squeezed. Age wrinkles spread from the corners of her eyes and mouth, and her left eye was bloodshot. When Alex first shook her hand outside, she had introduced herself as Detective Brown.
    “I’m Alex.” He flashed a disarming smile. “Do you have a first name?”
    “Yes.”
    Alex waited. . . . “O-kay . . . then,” Alex said. Guess I’ve discovered which one’s the bad cop.
    Detective Sanderson sat directly across from Alex. He was a pleasant guy with clipped brown hair and a linebacker’s build. He had a pug nose that made Alex think he might have been a boxer in his younger days. He placed a recorder on the table. “Mind if we record this?”
    Alex put his own digital recorder next to it and turned it on. “I was going to ask the same thing.”
    Sanderson gave his partner a look that wasn’t hard to read— this guy’s going to be a jerk —and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
    Detective Sanderson stated the names of everyone in attendance and the time and place of the interview, then assured Khalid that he could terminate the interview whenever he wanted.
    “Is my client a suspect or a person of interest?” Alex asked. It was the same question he had asked over the phone, but he wanted a response on the record.
    Brown gave him a sharp look, but Sanderson responded with a calm tone. “Right now, this is still a missing-person investigation. But to the extent we determine a crime has been committed, everyone who knows Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi will be a person of interest. So yes, that would include your client.”
    “Fair enough,” Alex said.
    The questions began innocently, mostly background questions about Khalid’s relationship with Ja’dah and Fatih Mahdi. The two families had been part of the same mosque in Beirut and had resettled in the United States within six months of each other. The husband of the missing woman was a friend of Khalid’s and a respected leader in the Islamic Learning Center. Ja’dah, a second wife, was fifteen years younger than her husband.
    “When was the last time you spoke with either Fatih or Ja’dah?”
    “I spoke with Fatih yesterday.”
    “Did he mention that his wife was missing?”
    “Of course. He was distraught beyond words. He does not show emotion easily, but he was nearly beyond . . .” Khalid searched for the