Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

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He's not yours to mess with, you bastard! There's not an ounce you in him!

Discussion closed, Christina. Get out of my way. Take a good look at him, you bastard! His hair, his nose – there's no kike in him. He's not yours.

If only it were true. Let go of my arm.

It's true, you stupid kike bastard. He's not yours-he's Schwann's!

(Silence.)

He's Schwann's, you asshole. Don't you see the resemblance?

What the hell are you talking about?

Ah, now he's upset, now he wants to kill me. Get away from me-I'll scream.

I said, what are you talking about, Christina?

The summer Schwann stayed with us, he had me every day is what I'm talking about. We did it in the house, on the beach, in the pool!

(Silence.)

Take a good look at him. Remember Schwann's face. Strong resemblance, isn't it, Charles?

Absurd.

You were absurd, Charles. Playing hotshot doctor, giving Schwann your pompous speeches about surgery and its place in society, thinking he was looking up to you and thought you were so hot, calling you Herr Doktor Professor, and all the time it was me he was after. I was the reason he kept kissing up to you, telling you how goddamned wonderful you were. The moment you walked out the door and left him here with your books, I was Johnny-on-the-spot and we were climbing all over each other and loving it and he gave me a beautiful baby with no filthy kike blood in it, SO STAY AWAY FROM HIM, YOU BASTARD, DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM, HE'S NOT YOURS!

(Silence. Heavy footsteps.)

Ah! Now he's quiet, walking off with his tail tucked between his legs. Now he's got nothing snotty to say!

The shithead will be proud of you," said Shmeltzer as he entered the conference room. "Is this communication going to be horizontal or vertical?"

"Diagonal," said Daniel. He was tacking a map of Jerusa-lem and its exurbs onto the wall next to the blackboard. The spots where both victims had been dumped were circled in red crayon. as was the cave.

Shmeltzer took his place at the table. He nodded at the Chinaman and Daoud while reaching for the coffeepot. Jt was eight in the morning, twenty hours after the discovery of the bloody rock. The room was on the ground floor of Head-quarters, white-walled and refrigerated by an overexuberant air conditioner.

Daniel finished hanging the map and picked up a pointer, Shmeltzer passed him the coffeepot and he filled his cup. The Chinaman and Daoud lit up. The cold air filled quickly with smoke and tension.

"Where Cohen?" Daniel asked the Chinaman. "Don't know. He was supposed to meet me at seven, do a walk-through of the Armenian Quarter. I haven't seen him or heard from him."

'Ah, the vagaries of youth," said Shmeltzer. He filled his cup, took a long swallow.

"We can't afford vagaries," said Daniel. He picked up the phone. left a message with the switchboard for Samal Cohen to call in immediately, then hung up, irritated. Just when he'd thought the kid was shaping up. So much for flexibility.

"Let's begin," he said, tapping the pointer to the map.

Last night he'd called each of them, informed them about the cave. Now he went over the basics, gave them time to take notes before returning to his seat and picking up the Forensics report.

"We owe Meir Steinfeld a dinner at Cow on the Roof. He worked all night and came up with more than we could have hoped for. There were two classes of animal blood in the cave-rodent and canine-and one human sample, type O, Rh positive. Both Fatma and Juliet were O-positive, but they differed on the haptoglobin test. Juliet was type two, the commonest, but Fatma was type one, which shows up in only about fifteen percent of the population. All Steinfeld found was type one, so it looks as if Juliet wasn't killed in the cave."

"That's no proof Fatma was," said Shmeltzer. "Fifteen percent isn't that rare."

"No proof," said Daniel, "but strong indications. Steinfeld estimates the volume of blood loss as monumental. Dr. Levi confirms it would have had to be fatal. The anthropometric analysis of the outline on the rock indicates a slender female of Fatma's height. A copious amount of dried blood was found in the dirt at the head of the rock, suggesting a deep. draining head or neck wound. The blood flow over the sides indicates smaller, multiple wounds on the trunk. Know of any other victims who fit that description?"

"For the sake of argument," said Shmeltzer, "here's another scenario: The Bedouins cut up one of their own women on that rock. Executed her for fucking the wrong guy or talking out of turn, then buried her somewhere in the desert."

"The time frame doesn't work," said Daniel. "Steinfeld estimates the age of the blood at three to six weeks-nothing he'll swear to, but it's definitely older than eight days, which is howJong the Bedouin have been grazing in that part of the desert. Border Patrol's had a good fix on them for some time -since the end of the rainy season they've been up north, nowhere near the cave. And the shred of cloth fits the descrip– tion of the shift Fatma was last seen wearing." He paused. "It's not ironclad, but it's well worth pursuing."

Shmeltzer nodded and drank more coffee. "All right," he said, "two killing grounds. Why?"

"I don't know," said Daniel. "And neither body was washed in that cave-there's been no water down there for four months and both bodies were washed thoroughly."

"You could bring water into the desert in bottles," said the Chinaman. "Last summer we spent a couple of weeks at my wife's kibbutz. They put me to work at the carp ponds, schlepping bottles of distilled back and forth in order to backflush the filters. Big plastic ones-they hold eight liters each, weigh about thirty kilos. Two would be enough to wash a body, don't you think?"

Shmeltzer got up and took a close look at the map. "We're talking a four-kilometer climb, Yossi. Down a mountainside in the dark. Know anyone who could pull that off while hauling sixty kilos of water, maybe a forty-kilo corpse as well?" The Chinaman grinned and flexed a huge bicep. "Is that a confession, Goliath?" Shmeltzer shook his head and returned to his seat.

"The water could have been carried down on donkey-back." said Daniel, "but no one's spotted any donkeys down there– and it would be tremendously inefficient. The more logical assumption is that Fatma was murdered in the cave and most of her blood was allowed to drain out there. The body was then moved to the second place, where the final cleanup took place. Maybe the same place Juliet was killed."

"He kills her, then moves her to wash her," said the Chinaman. "Very weird. What's the point?"

"Like a sacrifice on an altar," said Shmeltzer. "A korban, straight out of the Bible." He smiled sourly. "Maybe we should have grilled Kagan's people more thoroughly." Korbanot, the ancient Judaic sacrifices that antedated prayer. Daniel had thought of it himself-the implications dis-turbed him. Looking across the table, he sought out the single non-Jewish face. Daoud's expression was noncommittal. 'Yes," he said. "More of that same ceremonial quality." He found a piece of chalk and wrote on the blackboard:

FATMA: Killed in cave, washed? JULIET: Killed?, washed?

'There are caves near Ein Qerem," said Daoud. "Not far from where Juliet was found. And some of the streams there are still running."

Daniel nodded. "The Border Patrol began searching them at sunrise. Afif called in an hour ago-they've found nothing so far."

"Maybe we've got more than one kill spot," said Shmeltzer. "because we've got more than one killer. Why not a whole group.of murderous bastards, some crazy cult? Way things are going, it wouldn't surprise me. They could bring water down to the cave in small containers. If they used their homes, there'd be God knows how many kill spots to choose from."

"A caravan of people would be conspicuous in the desert," said Daniel. "Afif's men would have been likely to spot them with the infrared."

"Those boys are eagle-eyes but they're not infallible," said Shmeltzer. "They missed a murderer hiking four kilometers with a body over his back and gear-the knives, the sheet, some kind of portable light. Assuming he cut her at night."

"All right," said Daniel, "we won't rule it out." He wrote: multiple killers? on the board. Pausing to take a sip of coffee, he found it had turned tepid and replaced the cup on the table.

"Something else," he said. "From the outside, the cave looks impenetrable. Someone would have had to inspect it to know about it. It's not exactly a garden spot-the guides don't take tourists down there."

"Which is why I thought of the Bedouins," said Shmeltzer. "They know every crack in the sand. Or maybe we've got murderous archaeologists on our hands."

"Contact the university, Nahum, and the Nature Conservancy. Find out if any digs have been planned in the area, any groups taken on hikes down there within the las year or so."

Shmeltzer nodded and made a note.

"Next order of business," said Daniel. "I got a call from the army about Aljuni-the wife murderer from Gaza. He gal tired of being watched, finally agreed to a polygraph. Tel Aviv will do it and send us the report. Any other updates? Then on to Little Hook's story about the flat-eyed American."

"Little Hook's a treacherous piece of dirt," said Shmeltzer, "He'd just as soon lie as breathe."

"Any reason for him to make up a story like this one? asked Daniel.

Shmeltzer held out one hand and ticked off fingers. "Avoiding a larceny bust, trying to curry favor with us, attention seeking."

"I don't think so, Nahum," said the Chinaman. "The lowlife have come around to our side on this one. This Butcher shit is wiping them out financially. Red Amira may have spun a yarn for Little Hook, but my bet is that he's repeating it faithfully"

"Putting aside Little Hook's credibility," said Daniel, there are problems fitting the story to our case. From the way it sounds, Flat Eyes was looking for a curbside pickup. Nothing about our killer indicates that type of impulsive selection. And neither of our victims was working the streets: Fatma was no whore; Juliet had just gotten into town-she had no time to set up her brothel contacts and had no street experience here in Israel."

'She streetwalked in Haifa," said the Chinaman.

"For one day before she got caught. And she was clumsy– the Northern District detective who picked her up told me he was surprised she was a professional. She had no idea sex for hire was legal as long as she kept her mouth shut. He caught her breaking the soliciting law aggressively, throwing herself at sailors. No doubt she would have gotten smarter had she stayed alive and eventually found employment, but the whores and pimps you've spoken to never spotted her or Fatma working Jerusalem, did they, Yossi?"

'No' admitted the big man. "neither of them have been seen at the pickup places. But Juliet could have done some back-alley stuff. And it's possible Fatma wasn't that innocent.

Her boyfriend was slime-maybe he sold her to others."

'Maybe," said Daniel, "According to the brother, Abdel said she was dead, which could have meant she'd turned promiscuous, but no one spotted her hooking and the regular girls always notice newcomers." He shook his head. "No, I don't see either of them meeting the killer at curbside. This wasn't just quick sex-they were shot up with heroin, injected without resistance. To me that says some kind of seduction was used to snare them. Juliet was a drug user, so for her the heroin may have actually been the lure. But what convinced a traditional girl like Fatma to lie there and get stuck?"

"First thrills," said the Chinaman. "When they fall, they fall fast."

"We have evidence she hadn't fallen that far. A few days before she left the monastery, she waited in the olive grove for Anwar, begged him to help her reconcile with the family. So her corruption was far from complete. Taking that needle was a big step-someone very credible had to convince her to do it, or trick her. Someone exploiting a position of trust. Which is why we spent so much time on the doctors, why I put Elias on the monk." To Daoud: "How's that going?"

"The same. He starts walking, then all of a sudden he stops and heads back for the monastery. The farthest he's ever gotten is to the end of the Via Dolorosa. Usually he returns after just a few steps. As if something's bothering him."

"Stick with it. Maybe you'll find out what it is. Daoud nodded, then said, "One question, Pakad."

"What is it?"

"The issue of the casual pickup. We're dealing with a psychologically disturbed person, a deviate. Perhaps he deviated from his own rules and yielded to impulse."

"Perhaps he did, Elias. But why would he go for Amira Nasser? Fatma and Juliet looked remarkably alike, which implies he's after a certain type-small, pretty brunettes wearing earrings. And he probably likes them young-Juliets baby face fooled him. Without her wig, Amira is a petite brunette, but someone watching her work wouldn't know that. He'd see a redhead, hot pants and fishnets, all plastered with makeup."

"Maybe he goes for different types for different things." said the Chinaman. "Redheads for sex, brunettes for killing."

"Wait a minute," said Shmeltzer. "Before we go any further with this, let's bear in mind that this American guy didn't do a damned thing that was incriminating. He offered cash, the whore turned him down, he walked away, end of story. Supposedly he had flat eyes-whatever that means. Very weak. boys. And the fact that it comes via the hunchback makes it weaker than weak."

"I agree with you," said Daniel, "but weak is better than nothing. And having stated all the problems with the story. it still holds my interest. The fact that Amira was scared by this guy can't be brushed off-prostitutes get good at assessing their customers because their safety depends on it. If Amira thought there was something weird about him, there probably was. And the time frame is appealing: Thursday night-a murder a week. Now, exactly how did she describe him, Yossi?" The Chinaman flipped through his note pad. "According to Little Hook he was 'an American with crazy eyes… he came out of nowhere… she figured he'd been hiding somewhere off the road.' I took a look at the area-there's a small field someone could hide in. Forensics found some tire marks, lots of footprints, but all of it was too indistinct to identify."

"Go on," said Daniel. "He offered sex for money, but his eyes scared her and she refused.' I asked Little Hook what was wrong with the eyes and he said Amira had told him they were 'flat. Mad… A strange smile, veiy wide, a grin. But the grin of a killer.' As to what made it a killer's grin, he said, 'Not a happy grin, very crazy.'"

The big man closed the pad. "I tried to get more– squeezed him hard enough to get juice, but that's all there is. If you want, I can pick him up again."

"Just see that he stays in town." Daniel got up, wrote AMERICAN? on the board.

'To Amira," he said, "American could have meant any number of things-a genuine American, someone who spoke English or wore American clothes. Or someone who looked American, which could translate to fair-skinned, big-boned, a T-shirt with the American flag-who knows? But at the very least we're talking about some kind of foreigner-a man with a non-Levantine appearance. Which gives us a possible line of inquiry."

"Comparisons with foreign homicides," said Shmeltzer. 'America and Europe."

'Exactly. Our new Interpol liaison in Bonn is a fellow named Friedman. I've been trying to reach him since Yossi told me Little Hook's story. He's out of town-no one in his office will say where. When he calls in I'm going to have him contact all the Interpol chiefs in Europe, see if they can find records of similar crimes within the past ten years. It shouldn't be difficult; with the exception of the Germans, their homicide rates are generally as low as ours. A vicious one will stand out. The American situation's more complicated: They record tremendous numbers of sex murders each year and there's no central reporting-each city has its own police jurisdiction. They seldom communicate with one another. Lately, though, the FBI's gotten involved-they've been collating homicides and finding serial murderers who travel across the country, killing people. They're in the process of setting up? computer bank, and I think I have a way of hooking into it without going through all the red tape. In the meantime, though, it would be nice to talk to Amira. Any information on her whereabouts, Yossi?"

"All three of us picked up rumors that she's back in Jordan," said the Chinaman, "living in one of the towns outside Amman. Elias and I heard she's in Suweilih. Cohen was told Hisban. When we tried to trace the origin of the rumors, all we got is something that somebody told somebody after he heard it from somebody."

"Weaker than weak," said Shmeltzer. "Speaking of ru-mors, Shin Bet's confirmed Darousha's definitely homosexual. Had an affair last year with a Jewish doctor. Hajab the watchman spends his off-hours at Darousha's place in Ramallah, doing odd jobs. Maybe they're into funny business. Want Shin Bet to stay on it?"

"It's low priority," said Daniel, remembering what Ben David had said about latent homosexuals. "More important, have them contact the Mossad operative in Amman and run a trace on Amira."

"They weren't overjoyed about the Beirut brothel, won't like this any better, Dani. The whore's no security risk. The case isn't political. Having an operative leave Amman to comb the smaller towns is damned conspicuous."

"This whole mess has turned political," said Daniel. "Laufer made a point of informing me that the Syrians are preparing a U.N. resolution 'condemning the Zionists occupation for the wanton slaughter of innocent Arab women.' After the automatic majority pushes it through, the heat's going to be turned way up, so you may get more cooperation than you expected. Besides, we don't need anything flashy from the operative, just a location."

"If they locate her, then what? Abduction?"

"First let's see if they can trace her. We'll take it from there."

"Okay," said Shmeltzer, thinking of another breakfast with his Sheraton friend. It would be all business from now on-no more fantasies of pillow play. Since he'd met Eva, other women seemed fashioned of cardboard.

"Any other questions?" said Daniel.

The Chinaman raised a finger. "What happens if we do get something interesting from Interpol or the Americans?"

"Then we check out airline arrivals from the country where the matching crime occurred. Pare down our lists and start interviewing foreigners."

The big man groaned.

'Yes, I know," said Daniel. "Fun for all of us."

The phone rang. Daniel picked it up, heard Avi Cohen say 'Dani?" in an infuriatingly cheerful tone of voice.

"Yes, Cohen. You'd better have a good reason for missing the meeting."

"Real good, Dani." The kid was gushing. "The best."

It was kind of funny the way it happened, thought Avi. Ironic, even. But he'd pulled it off.

He left the Russian Compound and walked to the cobbled parking lot, exhilarated, holding on to his good mood even after four hours of paperwork. He'd sweated through every word of it. had called no one for assistance. Wanting to prove to Sharavi that he could handle anything when he put his mind to it.

The BMW was parked between two unmarkeds. He unlocked it, got in, popped the clutch, and spun out of the compound on squealing tires, past the disapproving eyes of two uniforms. Turning onto Rehov Yafo, he sped west for twenty meters before screeching to a halt behind a cement truck with an engine as loud as a fighter jet.

A traffic jam. The glut of cars on Yafo was thick as pitch, motorists leaning on their horns, pedestrians taking advantage of the situation and jaywalking between the inert automobiles. He watched as a uniform on horseback blew his whistle and tried, without success, to get things moving.

Classy, he thought, watching the mounted officer prance in and out of the jam. The horse was a fine-looking Arabian, its rider an older guy, looked Moroccan. Still a samal, Avi noticed. No career advancement, but the guy sat tall in the saddle. Keeping his dignity amidst all the fumes and clamor.

The first time he'd seen a mounted policeman had been right after the '67 liberation, on a trip to Jerusalem with his father, some sort of official business. They'd been stuck in a traffic jam just like this one, Avi a timid kid of five, eating sunflower seeds and spitting them out the car window, his father punching the horn and cursing, griping that an administrative assistant to an MK deserved better.

That's what I want to be, Abba.

What, an administrative assistant?

A horse policeman.

Don't be silly, boy. They're showpieces, useless. A bit of candy for the Eastern types.

They eat candy, Abba!

His father rolled his eyes, lit one of those smelly Pana-manian cigars, gave Avi an absent pat on the knee, and said:

Back in Iraq and Morocco the Jews weren't allowed to ride horses-the Arabs wouldn't let them. So when they came to Israel, the first thing they wanted to do was jump on a horse. We bought a few for them, told them they could ride if they became policemen. It made them happy, Avi.

That one doesn't look happy, Abba. He looks tough

He's happy, believe me. We made all of them happy, that's what politics is all about.

Avi looked in the rearview mirror, saw a light turn green, and watched a herd of westbound cars rushing to join the tail end of the jam. He put on the emergency brake, got out of the BMW, and walked to the center of the road in order to see what the problem was.

"Get back in, you idiot!" someone shouted. "Don't be standing there when it's time to move!" Avi ignored the chorus of horns that rose behind him. Little chance of anything moving, he thought. Traffic was at a stand still clear up to the King George intersection. "Idiot! Subversive!"

He could see what was causing it now: An eastbound cab had stalled. For some reason the driver had attempted to push his vehicle across the road into westbound traffic and had ended up straddling both sides, trapped by gridlock.

Now all lanes in both directions were blocked and tempers were heating.

Avi looked for escape-he'd jump the sidewalk if he had to. But both sides of Yafo were bordered by shops, not even a break for a wrong-way alley.

Wonderful-he'd be late for his appointment with Sharavi. The Yemenite had sounded none too pleased about his miss-ing the staff meeting.

No problem there. He'd be pleased when he found out how well things had gone. All the paperwork wrapped up.

He heard a whistle, looked up, and saw the mounted policeman shouting at him and waving him back inside. He pulled out his police ID but the uniform had already turned his back and didn't see it.

'Showpiece," said Avi, and got back in the car. Rolling up the windows and turning on the air conditioner, he lit up a cigarette, turned off the engine, put the key in and slipped a Culture Club cassette into the tape "Karma Chameleon" came on. That crazy George Guy was as queer as a five-legged sheep but he could really sing.

Avi turned up the volume, hummed along to lyrics he didn't fully understand, and blessed his good fortune.

To hell with horses and meetings and superior officers. Nothing was going to spoil his good mood.

He reclined the seat, sat low, and reminisced about last night.

Ironic, really funny, how he'd almost missed it. Because the balcony had become almost a hobby, he'd been spending so much time out there the South African girl was starting to nag. ("Are you some kind of voyeur, Avraham? Shall I buy you a telescope?")

Generally he could keep her annoyance at bay with affection and time-outs for first-rate sex-the little extra moves that let a girl know you had her pleasure in mind. He made sure always to give her a good workout, varying the positions, stretching it out until she was right on the brink, then backing off, then moving in again, so when she came she was really tired and fell right asleep. Unaware, moments later, when he left the bed.

Then back to the balcony.

Last night, though, he'd been exhausted himself. The girl had prepared two giant steaks for dinner-her monthly allowance was unbelievable; the only time he'd seen file mignon like that was when his family traveled to Europe.

Steak and fried potatoes and chopped salad. Along with a bottle of Bordeaux and half a chocolate cake. After all that. Avi had felt fuzzy around the edges but still able to oblige. thank you, madame.

She'd taken hold of him, pulled him to the bed, giggling. Then forty-four minutes (he'd timed it) of straightaway pump-ing with the girl holding on to him as if he were a preserver, Avi feeling himself sweat, the wine popping out of him in fermented droplets.

After that one, he'd been tired too. Listening to the rhythm of the girl's breathing, then sinking into deep, dreamless sleep.

No balcony, for the first time since he'd been on the Wolfson surveillance.

Then screams-he didn't know how many of them he'd missed. But loud enough to yank him awake, shuddering. The girl awoke, too, sat up holding the sheet to her body, just like in the movies-what the hell was she hiding?

Another scream. Avi swung his legs out of bed, shook his head to make sure it was really happening.

"Avraham," the girl croaked. "What's going on?" Avi was up now. The girl reached out for him.

'Avraham!"

The grogginess had made her look ugly, thought Avi. Damaged. And he knew that it was the way she'd look in five years. All the time. While running to the balcony he decided he'd break it off with her, soon. 'What is it, Avraham?" 'Shh."

Malkovsky was in the courtyard, barefoot and wearing a white robe that made him look like a polar bear. Lumbering in circles, chasing a child-a girl of about twelve.

One of the daughters, second to the oldest. Avi remem-bered her because she always looked so serious, walked separately from the others. Sheindel-that was her name.

Sheindel was in pajamas. Her blond hair, usually braided, fanned around her shoulders as she ran from the polar bear. Screaming: "No, no, no! No more!"

"Come here, Sheindeleh! Come here. I'm sorry!"

'No! Get away! I hate you!"

"Shah shtill! Quiet!" Malkovsky reached out to grab her, moving sluggishly because of his weight. Avi ran back into the bedroom. Throwing on trousers and a shirt that he didn't bother to button, he kept his ears attuned to the cries from below.

'No! Get away from me! I hate you! Aahh!"

"Stop running, I order you!"

"I hate you! I hate you! Aaahhh!"

Avi put the light on. The South African honey yelped and threw herself under the covers. He fumbled as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Where were his handcuffs, dammit! Always prepared and now look at him… the wine

. Ah, there on the nightstand. He pocketed them. Now the gun.

"Help!" Sheindel was screaming. "Shut your mouth, stupid girl!' 'No. no, get away! Help!"

Avi's eyes were clear now. He found the 9 mm hanging in its holster over the chair, pulled the gun out, stuck it under his waistband, and ran for the door.

"Is it terrorists?" asked the girl, still under the covers.

"No. Back to sleep." Avi flung open the door, thinking: There are different types of terrorism.

He sprinted for the stairwell, leaped down the stairs four at a time, pumped up and strangely elated. When he got to the courtyard, lights were switching on throughout the nearby apartments, checkering the complex.

Malkovsky's back was to him. Sheindel was nowhere in sight. Then Avi heard sucking sobs and hyperventilation and realized that she was hidden behind her father, concealed by his mass. She'd backed herself into a corner. Malkovsky was advancing toward her, huffing, arms spread wide.

"Sheindel," he cajoled. "I'm your tateh."

"No!" Sob, breath. "You'rea"-sob, breath-" rashaf" Evil man.

"Don't touch her," said Avi.

Malkovsky jerked around, saw the Beretta pointed at him. His eyes were agitated, his face moonlight-pale and greasy with perspiration.

"What?" he said.

"I'm a police detective. Get away from her, Malkovsky. Lie on the ground."

Malkovsky hesitated. Avi walked up to him, keeping the gun aimed. Malkovsky stepped backward. Avi grabbed the lapel of the white robe with one hand, put one foot around Malkovsky's ankle, and tripped him with a judo move he'd learned in basic training.

The bigger they were, the easier they fell, he thought, watching Malkovsky collapse facedown. Something to do with leverage, according to the self-defence instructor, but until now Avi had never really believed it.

Working swiftly, enjoying his competence, he yanked Malkovsky's arms behind his back. The man's corpulence made it hard to stretch the limbs far enough to cuff them, but he tugged hard and finally clamped the cuffs over soft. hairy wrists.

"Oy, you're hurting me," said Malkovsky. His breathing was labored and rapid. He turned his head to the side and Avi saw blood seeping into his mustache and beard; the fall had bruised him.

"Tsk, tsk," said Avi, making sure the cuffs were secure. Malkovsky moaned.

Wouldn't it be funny if the fat bastard gave out right here-heart attack or something? True justice, but the paper-work would be a nightmare.

'Oy."

"Shut up."

Malkovsky safely trussed, Avi turned to the child. She was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up, head buried in her arms.

"It's okay," he said. "You're all right." Her small body convulsed. Avi wanted to comfort her, didn't know if touching her was the right thing to do. Footsteps sounded in the courtyard. An older couple:– neighbors coming to gawk. Avi showed them his police identification and told them to go back inside. They stared at Malkovsky's prostrate bulk. Avi repeated his order and they complied. More tenants came filing into the courtyard, Avi shooed them away, forcefully, until finally he was alone again with Malkovsky and the girl. But the others were still there, watching. He could hear windows sliding open, whis-pers and mutters. Saw their silhouettes, outlined muddily in the half-light.