I nodded and followed him into his office. Again I was surprised. It was in complete contrast to the traditional and classical feel of the store. Bleached wooden floors, a glass and chrome desk and two modern cream leather sofas created a loft interior finish. The seating area was arranged on a large Persian carpet, so light in colour it looked like it had been left in the desert sun for years. The only bold flash of colour was an abstract painting of geometric shapes on the wall behind his desk.
Hassan waved us to the sofas as his assistant placed the tray on the glass coffee table in the centre. He sat down in the only wingback chair and made a show of pouring tea from a beaten silver teapot into the glass cups. He waited until Vinnie, Colin and Daniel took their tea, then raised an eyebrow and looked at me. “You’re rejecting my hospitality?”
“No. I’m merely not accepting the tea. It should not be viewed as a personal affront.” I so deeply loathed the rituals of social niceties.
“Personal affront.” Hassan stared at me for a few seconds then turned to Vinnie. “These people are your friends?”
Vinnie nodded. “And I trust them with my life.”
“Even the cop?” Hassan’s risorius muscle contracted slightly to form a small sneer as he glanced at Daniel.
“These are people who care deeply about those who can’t protect themselves.” Vinnie’s micro-expressions and his tone indicated that there was history behind his statement. “These are good people, Hassan. We’re not looking to jam you up.”
Hassan stared at Vinnie, then turned to me. “How can I trust you won’t jam me up if you won’t show me enough respect to drink my tea?”
“I don’t have any jam.” I knew this was some euphemism, but I didn’t care to figure out its ridiculousness. Nor did I feel the need to justify myself. “You’re not showing me respect by accepting my decision to forego the tea you offered.”
Hassan blinked a few times, then leaned back in his chair. “You know, I never thought about it like that. Huh.” He turned to Vinnie. “You keep strange company, Vinnie.”
“Good company.” Vinnie winked at me. “Jen-girl here is the best in the world when it comes to reading people’s body language. She uses her superpowers to help people.”
Hassan glanced at me, his expression softening slightly. “So what do you need from me?”
Colin got up and showed the screen of his smartphone to Hassan. “We think this might be yours.”
His eyes widened in a typical display of recognition, but he quickly schooled his features. He made a show of narrowing his eyes as he took the phone from Colin. He stared at it for six seconds before looking at Vinnie. His reluctance to admit to anything and assist us was clear on his face.
I thought about his nonverbal cues and the show of pride he’d exhibited when talking about helping people. I moved to the edge of the sofa. “Somebody is killing young people.”
“Genevieve.” Daniel’s soft warning was accompanied by an expression I’d come to recognise when he was trying to convey censure.
I ignored him and turned back to Hassan. “We found those receipts in the home of the first victim. The other victim is part of a small community for people usually on the fringes of society. They did nothing to deserve the brutality they suffered before they were murdered.”
“We fear for the lives of the other people in this community.” Colin took my hand. “That’s why we’re here. We’re trying to prevent anyone else from being murdered.”
“The motherfucker tortured them, Hassan.” Vinnie’s soft words didn’t hide his anger.
Hassan swallowed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he pointed at Daniel. “What about him?”
“Dan is good people.”
“I’m not here for any other reason than to find this killer and stop him.” Daniel looked straight at Hassan. “Anything else happening in this space is for another day.”
Hassan looked down at the phone in his hand. He shook his head, sadness pulling the corners of his mouth down. “Ellie is dead?”
“élodie?” Daniel had been quick to remember Adèle’s pseudonym for her drug business. “Yes.”
“What a loss.” Hassan’s grief was genuine. “She was such a smart young woman.”
“How long did you know her?” Colin asked.
“Do you mean how long did I do business with her?” Hassan pushed himself out of his chair and walked to a wooden filing cabinet, the same bleached colour as the floors. It took him less than twenty seconds to find what he was looking for. He walked back with a blue folder and handed it to Daniel. “She first came to me about four years ago.”
“To send money?” Daniel looked up from the folder, one eyebrow raised.
Hassan smiled. “Look, I knew she wasn’t sending money to family or friends. That girl was as Arabic as Vinnie.”
“It says here the first time you sent money for her was four years and five months ago.”
“Sounds about right.” He reached for his cup of tea and took a sip. “I never asked who she was sending it to. It was enough money to make me wonder, but in the beginning not enough to make me worried.”
“And then she started sending a lot.” Daniel blinked at the folder. “Three hundred thousand euros?”
“You’ll see that’s only the last six months or so.” Hassan put his cup back on the coffee table. “By then, Ellie had been here once a month, every month and I’d grown to like her. She was funny and had wonderful positive energy. She was also very respectful of my culture.” He looked at me. “She always drank my tea.”
I studied his expression. “You were suspicious of something.”
“I was.” He nodded. “A few months ago, she sent money to Brussels. The first and only time she sent money in the EU.”
“Brussels.” Colin looked at me. “Belgium. Johan Klein.”
The artist who’d painted the Roubaud painting in Jace’s flat.
Hassan was watching us closely. “This is bad. Really bad, right?”
“You know or suspect something.” I nodded when I registered his expression. “What do you suspect?”
He put his cup on the coffee table, his lips pulled in a tight line. “After the first three hundred thousand, she kept sending similar amounts, but not once a month. It became more infrequent and didn’t have a pattern. Not like the monthly amounts she’d sent before. Then last month she sent—”
Daniel whistled softly. “Nine hundred and seventy-five thousand euros.”
“I wanted to ask her, but she begged me not to. She looked scared and excited. Like something good was going to happen, but with a lot of risk.” He pressed his lips tightly together. “But this made me very suspicious. I did a bit of research and discovered that she sent this money the day after a big heist in Iran. Thieves raided a museum of our cultural heritage and sold it to Ellie. That was it. I was going to tell her that I wouldn’t send any more money for her again. Not for stolen art.”
“But drugs are okay?”
Hassan ignored Daniel, but I’d seen his micro-expression of distaste. I wondered what motivation was strong enough for a successful businessman who was proud of helping his people to be a part—albeit indirectly—of drug trafficking. Especially if he viewed it with such contempt.
“Well, then.” Daniel smiled. “Can you at least tell us to whom or where she sent the money? The receipts we found don’t have any of that information.”
“I don’t know the recipient.” Hassan pointed at the file. “The only information I have in there is how much was sent and to which hawala broker. The senders and receivers can keep their identities secret if they choose.”
“I suppose the broker is one of the numbers on the receipt.” I had looked at each one and hadn’t seen any names, only numbers.
“Correct.” Hassan glanced at the folder. “I don’t have to look to know that she sent the money to Tehran.”
“Iran.” Colin narrowed his eyes. “Vin didn’t tell us. Are you from Iran?”
Memories immediately softened Hassan’s expression. “I was born in Shiraz.”
“Ah, the city with the most amazing museum.” Colin looked at me. “The Pars Museum is an octagonal building where royal guests were hosted during the”—he looked back at Hassan—“the Zand dynasty, right?”
Hassan’s pleasure at Colin’s knowledge was evident in his genuine smile. “Indeed. It also has a display of almost thirty handwritten Qurans and many magnificent paintings by our most famous Persian artists.”