“Like what?”
“If there’s some sort of accident or altercation. It’s a liability issue, so they keep the footage just in case.”
“I guess I’m out of luck if you don’t work there anymore.”
“It’s still a sister property. A friend of mine is the banquet manager over there. Let me call him. Tell me the date again?”
I was in luck. Hamza’s friend, Mahmoud, was willing to help. Hamza arranged for me to meet the man the following evening, when Mahmoud would be the manager on duty. He was waiting for me in the lobby when I arrived at the agreed-upon time.
“Salam alaykum,” Mahmoud said.
“Alaykum a-salam,” I responded. “I’m sorry to impose on you.”
“Ma-a-lish.It is nothing,” he said graciously. “It is always my pleasure to help a sister.” Mahmoud was an Egyptian immigrant, a fellow Arab, so there was an immediate unspoken fellowship between us.
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband.Allah yerhamo.May God have mercy on him.”
“Ameen.Thank you so much.”
“The luck is with us,” he told me in a tangled mix of English and Arabic as he led me past the security room where several black-and-white monitors showed various parts of the hotel. “We did keep the tape from July twenty-third.”
“You did?” Excitement strummed through me. “I thought you recycled the tapes.”
“We do unless there’s some sort of incident.”
“There was an incident?” My pulse beat faster. “What happened?”
“You’ll see it on the footage. A man had a run-in with a very agitated young woman.”
We came to an office. A windowless, compact space with just enough room for a desk and chair. He set up a laptop on the desk. A grainy black-and-white image popped up.
“Here you go. That’s the video. Just press the arrow.” He showed me how to hit play, freeze the video, and rewind. “I’ll give you some privacy. Take your time.”
I waited until he was gone. And then, with anticipation zipping through my veins, I pushed play.
I was instantly mesmerized by the moving images on the screen. Emotion roiled through me the minute I spotted Ali. He paced across the lobby in his dark work suit, the images too distant and grainy to reveal the expression on his face. But I recognized that walk—the no-nonsense stride, the determined set of his shoulders. He was agitated. But why?
“What are you doing there?” I whispered at the screen. The setting abruptly switched to the hotel bar, where Ali approached a small round table. A woman was seated with her back to the camera, with deep shadows further obscuring her from view. I couldn’t tell what she looked like, who she was. Ali halted abruptly, staring down at the woman with his hands planted on his hips. I distinguished that stance too. This was no romantic assignation. Ali was furious.
The woman shook her head in frantic side-to-side motions. She gestured with her hands, palms down, trying to calm him. Why? What was Ali so upset about on what would be his last night on earth? He paused before taking a seat at the woman’s table.
He sat spine straight, shoulders back, still on alert, almost as if he was humoring her while waiting for her to get to the point. She started to cry. Ali got up and went to the bar. The woman watched him leave and then turned to reach for her purse. She retrieved a bunched tissue from a leopard-print handbag and fumbled with it for a moment before dabbing her eyes.
I watched as Ali returned with two glasses. The woman sipped from hers while Ali looked on. He removed his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair. He sat again, arms crossed over his chest, and said something with a sharp tilt of his head. I could imagine him saying, “Well?” His body language suggested he was waiting for an answer.
She started talking. Ali listened for a few minutes, his body posture stiff. He abruptly leaned forward with a sharp wave of his hand. He was doing the talking now. The woman leaned away from him, as if his words stung.
But then another woman entered the frame. This one was young, with wild dark curls. Ali immediately jumped to his feet, his body language now compliant, rather than hostile. He forgot about the woman at the table. His complete focus was on the young woman who was gesturing wildly, obviously upset.
The back of my neck tingled because I recognized the new arrival.
It was Ayla.
Disbelief rippled through me. What was my daughter doing there? Ayla had never mentioned seeing Ali on the night he died.
Turning my attention back to the monitor, I watched my baby girl storm out of the bar. The tape switched back to the lobby, where Ali followed his daughter. He reached for Ayla’s arm, but she jerked it away.
Frustration slammed through me because it was impossible to know what they’d said to each other.
