If he decided Fatemeh Kordestani sought revenge against monstrous men who raped women, would he put her behind bars? Did I care?
I thought of Cosette, the woman she had yet to become, and how unsafe the world we lived in was.
I considered the trust Kobe had in me, sharing his musings.
Did I trust him with the decision he had to make?
What would I do if I was in his shoes?
What would he do in mine?
Still unsure of the answer, I located his number in my contact list and connected a call.
30
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-eighthours. 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?”
