Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

Daniel and Laura looked at each other. Laura burst out laughing.

"Geed means penis," explained Daniel, struggling to remain straight-faced. "It's prepared like kirshe-sliced and fried with vegetables and onions."

"Ouch," said Gene.

"Some of the old people order it," said Laura, "but it's pretty obsolete. They put it on the menu but I doubt they have it."

"Penis shortage, huh?" said Gene.

"Honey!"

The black man grinned.

"Get the recipe, Lu. We get back home you can cook it for Reverend Chambers."

"Oh, Gene," said Luanne, but she was stifling a giggle herself.

"Can't you just see it, Lu? We're sitting around at the church supper, with all your tight-girdled bridge buddies jabbering on and tearing people down, and I turn to them and say, 'Now, girls, stop gossiping and eat your penis!' What kind of animal they use?"

"Ram, or bull," said Daniel.

"For the church supper, we'd definitely need bull."

"I think," said Luanne, "that I'd like to go powder my nose."

"I'll join you," said Laura.

"Ever notice that?" said Gene, after the women had left. "Put two females together and they have this instinctive urge to go to the bathroom at the same time. Just let two fellows do that and people start to figure there's something funny about them."

Daniel laughed. "Maybe it's hormones," he said.

"Gotta be, Danny Boy."

"How are you enjoying your visit?"

Gene rolled his eyes and picked a crumb out of his mustache. He leaned closer, pressing his palms together prayerfully.

"Rescue me, Danny Boy. I love that woman to death, but she's got this religious thing-always has. At home I don't mind it because she raises Gloria and Andrea straight and narrow-she certainly gets the credit for what they are. But what I'm fast finding out is that Israel's one big religious candy store-everywhere you go there's some sort of church or shrine or Jesus Slept Here whoozis. And Lu can't bear to miss one of them. I'm a profane person, start seeing double after a while."

"There's a lot more to Israel than shrines," said Daniel. "We've got the same problems as anyone else."

"Tell me quick. I need a shot of reality."

"What do you want to hear about?"

"The job, guy, what do you think? What kind of stuff you've been working on."

"We just finished a homicide-"

"This one?" asked Gene, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a newspaper clipping. He handed it to Daniel.

Yesterday's Jerusalem Post. Laufer's press release had been used verbatim-just like in the Hebrew papers-with the conspicuous addition of a tag line:

.. LED BY CHIEF INSPECTOR DANIEL SHARAVI. SHARAVI ALSO HEADED THE TEAM THAT INVESTIGATED THE ASSASSINATION OF RAMLE PRISON WARDEN ELAZAR LIPPMANN LAST AUTUMN.

AN INQUIRY THAT LED TO THE RESIGNATION AND PROSECUTION OF SEVERAL SENIOR PRISON OFFICIALS ON CHARGES OF CORRUPTION AND

He put the clipping down.

"You're a star, Danny Boy," said Gene. "Only time I ever received that kind of coverage was when I got shot."

"If I could wrap up the publicity and give it to you, I would, Gene. Tied with a ribbon."

"What's the problem, threatening the brass?"

"How'd you know?"

Gene's smile was as clean as a paper cut. Pure white against umber, like a slice out of a coconut.

"Ace detective, remember?" He picked up the clipping, put his half-glasses on again. "All that good stuff about you and then they just throw in the other guy-Laufer-at the end. No matter that the other guy is probably a Mickey Mouse pencil-pusher who didn't do a thing to deserve having his name in there in the first place. Executive types don't like being preempted. How'm I doing?"

"A-plus," said Daniel and thought of telling Gene about his protekzia with Gavrieli, how he'd lost it and now had to deal with Laufer, then reconsidered and talked about the Rashmawi case instead. All the loose ends, the things he didn't like about it.

Gene listened and nodded. Starting, finally, to enjoy the vacation.

They broke off the discussion when the women returned. The conversation shifted to children, schools. Then the entrees came-a heaping mixed grill-and all conversation died.

Daniel watched, with awe, as Gene consumed lamb chops, sausage, shishlik, kebab, grilled chicken, serving after serving of saffron rice and bulghur salad. Washing it down with beer and water. Not wolfing-on the contrary, eating slowly, with an almost dainty finesse. But steadily and efficiently, avoiding distraction, concentrating on the food.

The first time he'd seen Gene eat had been in a Mexican restaurant near Parker Center. Nothing kosher there-he'd nursed a soft drink and eaten a salad, watching the black detective attack an assortment of tasty-looking dishes. He'd learned the names since Tio Tuvia had come to Jerusalem: burritos and tostadas, enchiladas and chile rellenos. Beans, pancakes, spicy meat-except for the cheese, not all that different from Yemenite food.

His first thought had been that if the man ate like that all the time, he would weigh two hundred kilos. Learning, over the course of the summer, that Gene did eat like that all the time, had no use for exercise, and managed to stay normal-looking. About a meter nine tall, maybe ninety kilos, a bit of a belly but not bad for a guy in his late forties.

They'd met at Parker Center-a bigger, shinier version of French Hill Headquarters. In orientation, listening to an FBI agent talk about terrorism and counterterrorism, the logistics of keeping things safe with that many people around.

The Olympics job had been a real plum, the last one Gavrieli had handed him before the Lippmann case. The opportunity to go to Los Angeles, all expenses paid, gave Laura a chance to see her parents and visit old friends. The kids had been talking about Disneyland since Grandpa Al and Grandma Estelle had told them about it.

The assignment had turned out to be a quiet one-he and eleven other officers tagging along with the Israeli athletes. Nine in Los Angeles, two with the rowing team in Santa Barbara, ten-hour shifts, rotation schedules. There had been a couple of weak rumors that had to be taken seriously anyway. Some hate mail signed by the Palestine Solidarity Army and traced, the day before the Games, to an inmate of the state mental hospital in Camarillo.

But mostly it was watching, hours of inactivity, eyes always on the lookout for anything that didn't fit: heavy coats in hot weather, strange contours under garments, furtive movements, the look of hatred on a jumpy, terrified face– probably young, probably dark, but you never could be sure. The look imprinted on Daniel's brain: an aura, a storm warning, before the seizure of stunning, stomach-churning violence.

A quiet assignment, no Munich in L.A. He'd ended each shift with a tension headache.

He'd sat in the front of the room during the orientation lecture and grown aware, before long, that someone was looking at him. A few backward glances located the source of scrutiny: a very dark black man in a light-blue summer suit, a SUPERVISOR identification badge clipped to his lapel. Local police.

The man was heavily built, older-late forties to early fifties, Daniel figured. Bald on top with gray hair at the side, the hairless crown resembling gift candy-a mound of bittersweet chocolate nestled in silver foil. A thick gray mustache flared out from under a broad, flat nose.

He wondered why the man was looking at him, tried smiling and received a curt nod in response. Later, after the lecture, the man remained behind after the others had left, chewed on his pen for a few seconds, then pocketed it and walked toward him. When he got close enough, Daniel read the badge: lt. EUGENE brooker, lapd.

Putting on a pair of half-glasses, Brooker looked down at Daniel's badge.

"Israel, huh. I've been trying to figure out what you are."

"Pardon me?"

"We've got all types in town. It's a job to sort out who's who. When I first saw you I figured you for some sort of West Indian. Then I saw the skullcap and wondered if it was a yarmuike or some type of costume."

"It's a yarmuike."

"Yeah, I can see that. Where are you from?"

"Israel." Was the man stupid?

"Before Israel."

"I was born in Israel. My ancestors came from Yemen. It's in Arabia."

"You related to the Ethiopians?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"My wife's always been interested in Jews and Israel," said Brooker. "Thinks you guys are the chosen people and reads a lot of books on you. She told me there are some black Jews in Ethiopia. Starving along with the rest of them."

"There are twenty thousand Ethiopian Jews," said Daniel. "A few have immigrated to Israel. We'd like to get the others out. They're darker than me-more like you."

Brooker smiled. "You're no Swede, yourself," he said. "You've also got some Black Hebrews over in Israel. Came over from America."

A delicate topic. Daniel decided to be direct.

"The Black Hebrews are a criminal cult," he said. "They steal credit cards and abuse their children."

Brooker nodded. "I know it. Busted a bunch of them a couple of years ago. Con artists and worse-what we American law-enforcement personnel call sleazeballs. It's a technical term."

"I like that," said Daniel. "I'll remember it."

"Do that," said Brooker. "Sure to come in handy." Pause. "Anyway, now I know all about you."

He stopped talking and seemed embarrassed, as if not knowing where to go with the conversation. Or how to end it. "How'd you like the lecture?"

"Good," said Daniel, wanting to be tactful. The lecture had seemed elementary to him. As if the agent were talking down to the policemen.

"I thought it was Mickey Mouse," said Brooker.

Daniel was confused.

"The Mickey Mouse of Disneyland?"

"Yeah," said Brooker. "It's an expression for something that's too easy, a waste of time." Suddenly he looked puzzled himself. "I don't know how it came to mean that, but it does."

"A mouse is a small animal," suggested Daniel. "Insignificant."

"Could be."

"I thought the lecture was Mickey Mouse, too, Lieutenant Brooker. Very elementary."

"Gene."

"Daniel."

They shook hands. Gene's was large and padded, with a solid core of muscle underneath. He smoothed his mustache and said, "Anyway, welcome to L.A., and it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure to meet you too, Gene."

"Let me ask you one more thing," said the black man. "Those Ethiopians, what's going to happen to them?"

"If they stay in Ethiopia, they'll starve with everyone else. If they're allowed out, Israel will take them in."

"Just like that?"

"Of course. They're our brothers."

Gene thought about that. Fingered his mustache and looked at his watch.

"This is interesting," he said. "We've got some time-how about lunch?"

They drove to the Mexican place in Gene's unmarked Plymouth, talked about work, the similarities and differences between street scenes half a world apart. Daniel had always conceived of America as an efficient place, where initiative and will could break through the bureaucracy. But listening to Gene complain-about paperwork, useless regulations handed down by the brass, the procedural calisthenics American cops had to perform in order to satisfy the courts-changed his mind, and he was struck by the universality of it all. The policeman's burden.

He nodded in empathy, then said, "In Israel there's another problem. We are a nation of immigrants-people who grew up persecuted by police states. Because of that, Israelis resent authority. There's a joke we tell: Half the country doesn't believe there's such a thing as a Jewish criminal; the other half doesn't believe there's such a thing as a Jewish policeman. We're caught in the middle."

"Know the feeling," said Gene. He wiped his mouth, took a drink of beer. "You ever been to America before?"

"Never."

"Your English is darned good."

"We learn English in school and my wife is American-she grew up here in Los Angeles."

"That right? Whereabouts?"

"Beverlywood."

"Nice neighborhood."

"Her parents still live there. We're staying with them."

"Having a good time?"

Interrogating him, like a true detective.

"They're very nice people," said Daniel.

"So are my in-laws." Gene smiled. "Long as they stay in Georgia. How long have you been married?"

"Sixteen years."

Gene was surprised. "You look too young. What was it, a high school romance?"

"I was twenty; my wife was nineteen."

Gene calculated mentally. "You look younger than that. I did the same kind of thing-got out of the army at twenty-one and married the first woman who came along. It lasted seven months-burned me good and made me careful. For the next couple of years I took my time, played the field. Even after I met Luanne, we had a long engagement, working all the bugs out. Must have been the right thing to do, 'cause we've been together for twenty-five years."

Up until then, the black: detective had come across as tough and dour, full of the cynical humor and world-weariness that Daniel had seen in so many older policemen. But when he talked about his wife, his face creased in a wide smile and Daniel thought to himself: He loves her intensely. He found that depth of feeling something he could relate to, causing him to like the man more than he had in the beginning.

The smile remained as Gene pulled out a bruised-looking wallet, stuffed with credit card slips and fuzzy-edged scraps of paper. He unfolded it, pulled out snapshots of his daughters and showed them to Daniel. "That's Gloria-she's a teacher, like her mother. Andrea's in college, studying to be an accountant. I told her to go all the way, become a lawyer and make a lot more money, but she's got her own mind."

"That's good," said Daniel, producing snapshots of his own. "Having your own mind."

"Yeah, I suppose so, long as the mind's in the right place." Gene looked at the pictures of the Sharavi children. "Very cute-husky little guys. Aha, now she's a beauty-looks like you, except for the hair."

"My wife is blond."

Gene gave the pictures back. "Very nice. You got a nice family." The smile continued to linger, then faded. "Raising kids is no picnic, Daniel. The whole time my girls were growing up I was watching for danger signs, probably drove them a little crazy. Too many temptations, they see stuff on TV and want it without having to wait for it. Instant highs, which is why they get onto dope-you've got that, too, don't you, being close to the poppy fields?"

"Not like in America, but more than we ever had before. It's a problem."

"There are two ways to solve it," said Gene. "One, make all of it legal so there's no incentive to deal, and forget all about morality. Or two, execute all the dealers and the users." He made a gun with his fingers. "Bang, you're dead, every one of them. Anything short of that doesn't stand a chance."

Daniel smiled noncommittally, not knowing what to say.

"Think I'm joking?" asked Gene, calling for the check. "I'm not. Twenty-four years on the force and I've seen too many kacked-out junkies and dope-related crimes to think there's any other way."

"We don't have capital punishment in Israel."

"You hung that German-Eichmann."

"We make an exception for Nazis."

"Then start thinking of dope scum as Nazis-they'll kill you the same way." Gene lowered his voice. "Don't let what's happened here happen over there-my wife would be very disillusioned. She's a serious Baptist, teaches in a Baptist school, been talking about seeing the Holy Land for years. Like it's some kind of Garden of Eden. Be terrible for her to learn any different."

Luanne was back on the subject of churches. The Holy Sepulchre, in particular. Daniel knew the history of the place, the infighting for control that went on constantly between the different Christian groups-the Greeks battling the Armenians, who battled the Roman Catholics, who battled the Syrians. The Copts and the Ethiopians banished to tiny chapels on the roof.

And the orgies that had taken place during the Ottoman era-Christian pilgrims fornicating in the main chapel because they believed a child conceived near Christ's burial place would be destined for greatness.

It didn't shock him. All it proved was that Christians were humans, too, but he knew Luanne would be appalled.

She was an impressive woman, so wholehearted in her faith. One of those people who seem to know where they're going, make those around them feel secure. He and Laura listened attentively as she talked about the feelings that came from standing in the presence of the Holy Spirit. How much she'd grown after three days in the Holy Land. He didn't share her beliefs, but he related to her fervor.

He promised himself to give her a special tour, Jewish and Christian places, as many as time would allow. An insider's visit to Bethlehem, to the Greek Patriarchate and the Ethiopian chapel. A look at the Saint Saviour's library-he'd call Father Bernardo in the morning.

The waitress-this one was Galia, he was almost certain-served Turkish coffee, melon, and a plate of pastries: Bavarian creams, napoleons, rum-soaked Savannas. They all sipped coffee and Gene went to work on a napoleon.

Afterward, logy from food and wine, they walked down Keren Hayesod, hand in hand like double-daters, enjoying the freshness of the night, the silence of the boulevard.

"Umm," said Luanne, "smells like out in the country."

"Jerusalem pines," said Laura. "They set their roots in three feet of soil. Beneath that, everything is solid rock."

"A strong foundation," said Luanne. "Has to be."

The next day was Friday and Daniel stayed home. He allowed the children to skip school and spent the morning with them, in Liberty Bell Park, Kicking a soccer ball around with the boys, watching Shoshi skate around the roller rink, buying them blue ices and eating a chocolate cassata himself.

Just after noon an Arab on a camel came riding through the parking lot adjacent to the park. Pulling the animal to a halt just outside the south gate of the park, he dismounted and rang a brass bell hanging around its neck. Children queued up for rides and Daniel allowed the boys to have turns each.

"How about you?" he asked Shoshi as she untied her skates.

She stood, put her hands on her lips, and let him know the question was ridiculous.

"I'm no baby, Abba! And besides, it smells."

"Rather drive a car, eh?"

"Rather ride while my husband drives."

"Husband? Do you have someone in mind?"

"Not yet," she said, leaning against him and putting her arm around him. "But I'll know him when I meet him."

After the rides were over, the Arab helped Benny off the camel and handed him to Daniel, kicking and giggling. Daniel said, "Sack of potatoes," and slung the little boy over his shoulder.

"Me too! Me too!" demanded Mikey, pulling at Daniel's trousers until he relented and hoisted him up on the other shoulder. Carrying both of them, his back aching, he began the walk home, past the Train Theater, through the field that separated the park from their apartment building.

A man was walking toward them, and when he got close enough Daniel saw that it was Nahum Shmeltzer. He shouted a greeting and Shmeltzer gave a small wave. As he approached, Daniel saw the look on his face. He put the boys down, told the three of them to run up ahead.

"Time us, Abba!"

"Okay." He looked at his watch. "On your mark, get set, go."

When the children were gone he said, "What is it, Nahum?"

Shmeltzer righted his eyeglasses. "We've got another body, in the forest near Ein Qerem. A repeat of the Rashmawi girl, so close it could be a photocopy."

BOOK TWO

As a small child, the Grinning Man had been a poor sleeper. Fidgety during the day and afraid of the dark, he went as rigid as hardwood during slumber, easily startled by the faintest night sound. The type of youngster who could have benefited from warm milk and bedtime stories, consistency and calm. Instead, he was yanked awake regularly by a raging of voices: the bad-machine sound of his parents tearing each other apart.

It was always the same, always terrible. He'd find himself sitting upright in bed, cold and wet from pee, toes curled so tightly that his feet hurt, waiting with a burnt-rubber taste in his mouth until the ugliness came into focus.

Once in a while, in the beginning, they did it upstairs– either of their bedrooms could serve as a killing ground-and when this happened, he'd climb out of bed and tiptoe from the Child's Wing across the landing, make a stumble-sneak to the Steinway grand, then slide under the giant instrument and settle there. Sucking his thumb, letting his fingertips brush against the cold metal of the foot pedals, the undercarriage of the piano looming above like some dark, voluptuous canopy.

Listening.

Usually, though, they fought downstairs, in the walnut-paneled library that looked out to the garden. Doctor's room. By the time he was five, they did it there all the time.

Everyone except her called his father Doctor, and for the first years of his life, he thought that was his father's name. So he called him Doctor, too, and when everyone laughed, he thought he'd done something terrific and did it again. By the time he learned that it was a stupid affectation and that other boys called their fathers Dad-even boys whose fathers were also doctors-it was too late to change.

Lots of times Doctor was cutting all day and into the night and slept at the hospital instead of coming home. When he did come home, it was always really late, way after the boy had been put to bed. And since he left for rounds an hour before the boy woke up, father and son rarely saw each other. One result of this, the Grinning Man believed, was that as an adult he had to struggle to retrieve a visual image of Doctor's face, and the picture he did produce was fragmented and distorted-a cracked death mask. He was also convinced that this problem had spread like a cancer, to the point where anyone's face eluded him-even when he managed to dredge up a mental picture of another human being, it vanished immediately.

It was as if his mind was a sieve-damaged-and it made him feel weak, lonely, and helpless. Really worthless when he let himself think about it. Out of control.

Only one type of picture stuck well-real science brought power-and only if he worked at it.

At first he thought Doctor was gone a lot because of work. Later he came to understand that he was avoiding what waited for him when he crossed the threshold of the big pink house. The insight was useless.

On Home Nights, Doctor usually put his black bag down in the entry hall and headed straight to the kitchen, where he fixed himself a sloppy sandwich and a glass of milk, then took the food into the dark-paneled library. If he wasn't hungry, he headed for the library anyway, sank into his big leather chair, loosened his tie, and sipped brandy while reading surgical journals by the light of a glass-shaded lamp with a weird-looking dragonfly on the shade. Unwinding before plodding heavily up the stairs for a few hours of sleep.

Doctor was a fitful sleeper, too, though he didn't know it. The boy knew because the door to Doctor's bedroom was always left open and his thrashing and moans were scary, echoing harshly across the landing. So scary it made the boy feel as if his insides were rattling and turning to dust.

Her bedroom-le boudoir, she called it-was never open. She locked herself in there all day. Only the smell of battle brought her out sniffing, like some night-prowling she-spider.

Though he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd been allowed in there, his memories of the place were vivid: cold space. An ice palace-that was the image that had stayed with him after all these years.

As white and bleak as a glacier. Treacherous marble floors, white porcelain trays crammed with diamond-faceted crystal bottles, the facets sharp enough to wound, beveled mirrors that spat back skewed reflections, filmy hangings of white lace, dead and sickeningly ephemeral, like the molt of some soft-boned albino reptile.

And satin. Shimmering acres of it, shiny, cold, snotlike to the touch.

At the center of the glacier was an immense white four-poster bed on a platform with a tufted satin headboard, smothered by gelatinous layers of satin-sheets and comforters and draperies and pendulous window valances; even the closet doors were padded with panels of the slimy stuff. His mother was always naked, lying exposed from the waist up under a frothy satin tide, propped up by a satin bed-husband, cocktail glass in hand, taking small sips of an oily-looking colorless liquid.

Her hair was long and loose. Harlow-blond, her face ghostly and beautiful, like that of an embalmed princess. Shoulders white as soap, with little bumps where the collarbones arched upward. Rouged nipples like jelly candy.

And always the cat, the hateful Persian, fat and spineless as a cotton ball, snuggled against her breast, piggy, water-colored eyes shining with defiance at the boy, hissing ownership of all that female flesh, branding him an intruder.

Come-a-here, snowball. Come to Mama, sweet thing.

The stink, also. More intense as he got closer to the bed. Shit-breath. The oily liqueur, redolent of juniper. French perfume, Bal a Versailles, so cloying even the recollection made him gag.

She slept all day and left the glacier at night to do battle with Doctor. Throwing open the door to her room and surging down the stairs in a swirl of satin.

They'd start. He'd wake up, jolted by the bad-machine sound-a cruel roar that wouldn't stop, as if he'd been locked in a shower, the water turned on full force. He'd get up, still groggy, trace a hypnotic path from his room to the top of the stairs, then down each step, feeling the heat of her bare feet radiating from the carpet. Thirteen stairs. He always counted in his head, always stopped at number six before sitting down to listen. Not daring to move as the machine sounds began to separate in his mind, his brain breaking the roar down into lip-smacking growls and bone-crunching syllables.

Words.

The same words, always. Hammer blows that made him cringe.

Good evening, Christina.

Don't good evening me. Where have you been!

Don't start, Christina. I'm tired.

You're tired? I'm tired. Of how you treat me. Where were you until ten after one!

Goodnight, Christina.

Answer me, you bastard! Where the hell have you been?

I don't have to answer your questions.

You goddamn do have to answer my questions!

You're entitled to your opinion, Christina.

Don't you dare smirk at me like that! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!

Lower your voice, Christina.

Answer me, damn you!

What do you care?

I care because this is my house, not some goddamned motel that you check in and out of!

Your house? Amusing. What mortgage checks have you written lately?

I pay the real bills, you bastard, from my soul-I gave up everything to be your whore!

Oh, really?

Yes, really, damn you.

And what is it exactly that you're supposed to have given up?

My career. My goddamned soul.

Your soul. I see.

Don't you dare smirk at me, you bastard!

All right, all right, no one's smirking. Just get out of here and no one will smirk at anyone.

I paid for everything, damn you-with blood and sweat and tears.

Enough, Christina. I'm tired.

You're tired? From what? Running around with your candy-striper whores-

I'm tired because I've been cracking chests all day.

Cracking chests. Big shot. Lousy bastard. Whore-fucker.

You're the whore, remember? By your own admission.

Shut up!

Fine. Now crawl back upstairs and leave me alone.

Don't you tell me what to do, you bastard! You're not my boss. I'm my own boss!

You're drunk, is what you are.

You drive me to drink.

Right, your weaknesses are my responsibility.

Don't laugh at me, I'm warning you-

You drink, Christina, because you're weak. Because you can't face life. You're a coward.

Bastard goddamned bastard! What's that you're guzzling, Coca-Cola?

I can handle my liquor.

I can handle my liquor.

Don't imitate me, Christina.

Fine. Now get the hell out of here. Drink yourself cirrhotic and leave me alone.

Drink yourself cirrhotic. You and your fucking jargon, think you're a hotshot. Everyone thinks you're a pompous asshole-when I worked Four West, everyone said so.

Didn't slop you from licking my balls, did it?

It made me want to throw up. I did it for your money.

Fine. You've got my money. Now get the hell out of here.

I'll stay wherever the hell I want to.

You're out of control, Christina. Rambling. Make an appointment with Emil Diefenbach tomorrow and have him check you out for organic brain disease.

And you're a limpdick asshole.

Pathetic

Stop smirking, limpdick!

Pathetic.

Maybe I am pathetic, maybe I am! At least I'm human, unlike you the fucking machine who can handle everything. You're perfect-Mister Per… Doctor Perfect! Handles anything except getting a hard-on! Doctor Limpdick Perfect!

Pathetic lush.

What is that, Coca-fucking-Cola!

Get away, Christina, I'm-

Sure doesn't taste like Coca-fucking-

Get away-

-Cola!

-Oh, shit, you spilled it all over me.

Poor baby, poor limpdick! Serves you right! Slob! Whore-fucker!

Get out of the way, you goddamned bitch! Get out of the way, damn you! I need to clean this off!

Just throw it out Doctor Limpdick. Fucking Italian suit makes you look like a greaseball, anyway.

Move, Christina!

Whore-fucker.

MOVE!

Fuck you!

I'm warning you!

I'm warning you-Ow! You-oh, you pushed me you hurt me, you lousy stinking bastard! Oh! Ow, my foot-Look at you. Dribbling. Pathetic.

You pushed me, you goddamned cocksucker!

Drunken cow!

Piece of shit!

Fucking lush!

STINKING FUCKING KIKE BASTARD!

Ah! There it is!

You're goddamned fucking right there it is, you filthy hooknosed kike limpdickl

Go ahead, let it all out. Show your true colors, bitch!

JEW BASTARD!

White trash cunt!

KIKEKIKEKIKE! CRUCIFYING BASTARD!

The second victim was identified quickly.

After he'd picked up the sheet and looked at her, Daniel's first thought was: Fatma's older sister. The resemblance was that strong down to the missing earrings.

They'd started working on the missing-kid files again, getting nowhere. But the interdepartmental gag was off, the story had hit the papers immediately, and passing her picture around brought results on Sunday forty-eight hours after the body had been found. A detective from the Russian Compound, a recent transfer from Haifa, remembered her as someone he'd busted a few months ago, for soliciting down by the harbor. A phone call to Northern District brought her file down by police courier, but she'd been let go with a warning and there wasn't much to learn from it.