“Nizar was always the funniest boy.” Omar Yussef’s gaze was distant, lost in enchanted memories.

“When Father Michel was sick one time, Nizar took him a pot of his mother’s mouloukhiyeh to warm him,” Ala said.

“Yes, his mockery was always loving.”

Their laughter subsided, both of them drifting through their reminiscences of the man whose body lay in the next room.

A short, dark-skinned woman with straight black hair spraying across her narrow shoulders hurried through the front door. She pushed a headband back from her forehead and adjusted her round glasses before she unbuttoned her long blue overcoat.

Behind her, the doorway filled with the heavy shoulders of a tall Arab man. His features seemed familiar to Omar Yussef. Bulky and jowly above a thick neck, his head tapered to a small crown, the hair shaved almost away. His lower lip drooped, and he breathed through his mouth. He wore a trim black goatee, and his eyes were dark, languid, and hard.

“They sent the token Arab cop to handle the dead Arab,” Ala said.

Omar Yussef looked at the boy, appalled by his disrespect and hostility. He’s had a terrible shock, he thought, but there’s something more that’s eating him. He’s covering it with a shield of aggression.

“Not just an Arab cop,” the big man said in a voice that was low and rasping. “I’m Palestinian, and I’m not here to handle the dead Arab, as you put it. We have specialists in the dead, Arab or not. I’m here to handle you.”

He’ll understand our language and recognize the nuances in our statements, Omar Yussef thought. I hope that’ll make him forgiving of my son’s anger.