Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

"Meanwhile Arnon pulls up, sees what's happening, and runs over to help. He's got a pistol, runs toward them waving it but is afraid of hitting the woman. The Arab with the gun starts shooting-misses three times even at close range but finally gets Arnon in the belly.

"Arnon's down. The pregnant woman manages to break free, starts running and screaming at the top of her lungs. The Arabs go after her. Mrs. Kagan happens to be taking a walk near the outskirts of the settlement, hears the gunshots and the screams and rushes over. She's packing an Uzi, pulls it into firing position. The Arab with the gun shoots at her, misses, then starts to run away. Mrs. Kagan goes after all three of them, opens up on the car, kills two of them right away, wounds the third. By now, Gvuraniks are streaming out. They pull the wounded Arab out of the car and beat him to death."

Marciano paused for a drag on his cigarette. "Pretty picture, eh, Dani? Wait, there's more. Seems the three Arabs were only part of the gang. There are four others waiting in a flat in Hebron-knives, shroud, looks like they had a revenge party in mind. When the Fiat doesn't show up, these guys drive up the road to investigate, see Gvura people standing over the dead bodies of their comrades, and pull out their Czechis. The Gvuraniks spot them, go after them-lots of shooting, no one hit. The Arabs step on the gas, speed back to Hebron telling everyone that the Jews are on a rampage, murdering Palestinian heroes. To make matters worse, some professor from Bir Zeit-asshole punk named El Said-is visiting an uncle, hears the news, and steps out in the middle of the souq with an impromptu speech that whips up a mob. The rest you saw."

Marciano smoked some more, took another swallow from the canteen. A chorus of ambulance sirens rose shrilly and diminished, backed by racing engines, the still-lusty epithets of the Gvura people.

"In terms of your case," said the colonel, "we found a newspaper article in the Fiat-you know the one I mean."

"I haven't read the paper today," said Daniel.

"In that case I'll get it for you." Marciano got on his knees, stuck his head out of the truck, and called an MP over.

"Get the bag labeled Number Nine out of the evidence case."

The MP trotted off.

"Where's Kagan?" asked Daniel.

"With his wife. Shooting those Arabs seemed to shake her up. She collapsed shortly afterward-they took her to Hadassah for observation."

Daniel remembered the woman's quiet grace, hoped she was all right.

"What's the casualty situation?" he asked.

"The three dead ones from the Fiat. The pregnant one received only a few scratches, but it wouldn't surprise me if she loses her baby. Arnon's belly wound looked serious, lots of blood loss-when they carried him off he was unconscious. You just saw the one with the knife-no doubt he'll be a hero by this evening. Stupid bastard didn't leave us much choice. Six of my boys received flesh creases. Bunch of Arabs with rubber bullet injuries. We took another ten in custody, including El Said and the four gangsters in the second car-we're taking them to Ramie. You can have a go at them by evening, though I doubt you'll learn anything-just another action-reaction."

The MP came back with a paper bag. Marciano took it, pulled out a folded newspaper and gave it to Daniel.

This morning's Al Quds. A front-page headline that read: SEW EVIDENCE IN BUTCHER MURDERS POINTS TO ZIONIST murder PLOT. An Arabic translation of a wire service story by Mark Wilbur, augmented by florid inserts authored by the local editor.

"It ran in our papers too," said Marciano. "Without the extra bullshit."

"I've been out in the field since sunrise," said Daniel, immediately regretting the apologetic sound of it. The field. Walking the desert near the murder cave, his beeper signal weakened by the surrounding hills. Walking in circles, like some Judean hermit. Hoping to find… what? New evidence? Cosmic insight? Cut off from reality, until he returned to his car, got the riot call from Shmeltzer.

He read the article, grew progressively angrier with each sentence.

Mark Wilbur claimed to have received a message from someone-an anonymous someone, who the reporter strongly implied was the Butcher himself. A blank piece of paper upon which had been pasted two paragraphs excised from a Hebrew-language Bible, the precise translation and references supplied by "biblical scholars."

The first, according to Wilbur, was "the traditional Old Testament justification for the Judaizing of Palestine":

AND BECAUSE HE LOVED THY FATHERS, AND CHOSE THEIR SEED AFTER THEM, AND BROUGHT THEE OUT WITH HIS PRESENCE, WITH HIS GREAT POWER, OUT OF EGYPT; TO DRIVE OUT NATIONS FROM BEFORE THEE GREATER AND MIGHTIER THAN THOU, TO BRING THEE IN, TO GIVE THEE THEIR LAND FOR AN INHERITANCE, AS IT IS THIS DAY. (DEUTERONOMY 4:37-38).

The second was termed "a collection of Mosaic sacrificial rituals taken from the Book of Leviticus":

AND IF HE BRING A LAMB AS HIS OFFERING FOR A SIN-OFFERING, HE SHALL BRING IT A FEMALE WITHOUT BLEMISH. (4:32)

BUT THE INWARDS AND THE LEGS SHALL HE WASH WITH WATER. (1:13)

WHATSOEVER SHALL TOUCH THE FLESH THEREOF SHALL BE HOLY; AND WHEN THERE IS SPRINKLED OF THE BLOOD THEREOF UPON ANY GARMENT, THOU SHALT WASH THAT WHEREON IT WAS SPRINKLED IN A HOLY PLACE. (6:20)

Shall he wash with water, thought Daniel. Except for those close to the investigation, no one knew about the washing of the bodies. Barring a leak, that meant the paragraphs might very well be the real thing. Material evidence that Wilbur had failed to turn over.

He tightened his jaw, read on:

"… cannot dismiss the possibility of religious-ethnic motivations behind the Butcher slayings. Both victims were young Arab women, and though police have refused to discuss the details of the case, rumors of sacrificial mutilation have persisted since the discovery, almost a month ago, of the first victim, Fatma Rashmawi, 15."

The article went on that way for several more paragraphs, discussing the conflicts between "right-wing religious settlers on the West Bank and the indigenous Palestinian population," noting that "although prayer has replaced animal sacrifice in Jewish worship, frequent references to sacrificial ritual remain an important part of the liturgy," quoting choice phrases from Moshe Kagan's most inflammatory speeches, sing the Gvura leader's use of the Bible to justify "coer-territorial expansion." Citing the growing anger among many Israelis toward "what are perceived as random terrorist acts on the part of disenfranchised Palestinians."

Reminding everyone of the tradition of revenge in the Middle East.

Coming as close as possible to blaming the Gvuraniks, or someone like them, for the murders, without actually spelling it out.

But doing it subtly-managing to come across as objective and truth-seeking. Wreaking more damage with nuance and implication than by direct accusation.

"Wonderful thing, freedom of the press." Marciano smiled.

Daniel put the newspaper back in the bag, said, "I'll keep this. What else do you have?"

"All the weapons, tagged and ready for fingerprinting. We've tried to keep the car clean, too, but Gvura people were all over it. The Hebron revenge flat's sealed and guarded. When can your people get to it?"

"Right away. Can you patch me to French Hill?"

"Easy enough," said Marciano, crushing out his cigarette.

The two of them climbed out of the truck bed and back up into the cab. The colonel punched a few buttons, handed

Daniel the radio, said good-bye and good luck, and stepped out. Daniel watched him stride onto the asphalt, stooping to examine a bloodstain, conferring with an underling, gazing neutrally at the Gvura people, who were beginning to return to their homes.

The pace of activity had slowed. Only the heat remained constant. A flock of ravens rose from the vineyard, flying overhead in formation, then reversing itself and settling in the fig trees. Big, lazy-looking birds, their well-fed bodies sheathed by blue-black wings as glossy as an oil slick. Perched with uncharacteristic silence on the gray, knobby branches.

Suspicious creature, the raven. Noah had sent one out to seek dry land; it had come back before completing the journey. Convinced, according to the rabbis, that Noah had designs upon its mate.

Daniel stared at the birds for a moment, then got on the radio.

Wilbur never heard them coming. He was celebrating the Butcher-letter story-rounding off the afternoon at Fink's with a belly full of steak and chips washed down with shots of Wild Turkey and Heineken chasers. The place was empty-all the others were scrambling to write up the Gvura riot thing. Far as he was concerned, that was the same old stuff, be stale by sunrise. He was enjoying the solitude, easing down his fifth chaser and fading into a nice summer high, when he felt his elbows in the vise-grip, saw the gray sleeve hook around his neck and flash the badge in his face.

"What the-" He tried to turn around. A big, warm hand clamped around him and held his head still, exerting pressure behind the ears and keeping him staring straight ahead. Another hand took hold of his belt and pushed forward, preventing him from backing off the barstool.

He looked for the bartender, someone to witness what was going on. Gone.

"Police. Come with us," said a dry voice.

"Now wait one sec-" He was lifted off the stool, all booze-limp, marched out the door to a waiting car with its motor idling.

As they dragged him, he tried to clear his head, zero in on details.

The car: white Ford Escort four-door. No chance to look at the plates. The driver was shielding his face with a newspaper.

The rear door opened. He was eased in, next to a young guy. Good-looking. Tan. Bearded. Skintight red polo shirt, tight designer jeans. Angry face.

"Seat belt," said Dry Voice, and he got in, too, sandwiching Wilbur and slamming the door shut. Wilbur examined him: an older one, limp gray suit, glasses, pale face, beak-nosed and thin-lipped. Semitic version of the guy in "American Gothic." Something about him made Wilbur's stomach queasy.

He fought to suppress his fear, telling himself: No problem, this is a democracy. No Tontons Macoute/Savak types here, unless… they weren't policemen. All he'd seen of the badge was a flash of metal-cops in a democracy weren't supposed to behave like this.

Nasty thoughts flashed through his mind. Israeli mafia. Or some crazy Arab group-even though neither of the two in the back looked like Arabs. Maybe Gvura crazies getting back at him for the riot.

A fourth man came around from the rear of the car and got in front, next to the driver. Bushy black hair, big and broad-had to be the one who'd grabbed his neck. Black polo shirt. Huge, hunched shoulders-weight lifter's shoulders. The seat creaked when he moved.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Seat belt," repeated Dry Voice, and when Wilbur hesitated, both he and Handsome reached over and fastened the belt themselves, yanking it tight over his midriff.

The driver put the Escort in gear. Kinky-haired, modified Afro with a yarmulke bobby-pinned to the crown. Crocheted black yarmulke with red roses around the border. Band of dark skin showing above a white shirt collar-a black Jew?

Kinky backed out HaHistadrut Street, onto King George, drove north, shot the amber light at the Yafo intersection and continued on Straus, weaving in and out of traffic like some joyrider.

Straight out of a second-rate foreign film, thought Wilbur. French or Italian. Only this was real and he was scared shitless.

The Escort hurtled along atbreakneck speed until coming to a red light at Malkhei Yisrael, at which point Kinky hooked into an alley so narrow its stone walls threatened to scrape the sides of the car. Kinky maintained his pace, dodging potholes and rubbish.

Wilbur's fingernails dug into his knees. His tailbone was taking a beating, though most of the impact was absorbed by the bodies of Handsome and Dry Voice, compressing him shoulder to shoulder. They stared ahead, paying no attention to him, as if he were too insignificant to deal with. Smelling of cologne and sweat. Dry Voice kept one hand in his jacket.

Very subtle.

The alley hairpinned. Kinky kept speeding.

Wilbur stared at the floor in order to keep from heaving.

They emerged on Yehesqel, turned on Shmuel Hanavi, and Wilbur thought: They are police. Taking me to National Headquarters on French Hill.

Outrageous.

He permitted himself to get angry, began selecting the precise wording of his official protest.

Then the Escort bypassed the police compound and continued north and he felt the fear rise again in his gut, stronger, mingling with booze-tinged nausea.

"I demand to-" Croaking. Sounding like a wimp.

"Quiet," said Dry Voice, meaning it.

Kinky kept up the speed. They zipped through the northern suburbs, passed Ramot Eshkol, and the city stopped looking citylike.

Goddamned desert. Empty stretches that preceded the Ramot. Then the northern heights themselves.

Ramot A.

Ramot B.

Wilbur forced himself to keep concentrating on the details, keeping his mind on the story that would come out of all this. The story he was going to shove down these bastards' throats: Reporter abducted; State Department protests. International scandal. Exclusive story by Mark A. Wilbur. TV interviews, talk shows. Dinner at the White House. No problem selling this screenplay… who'd be right to play him? Redford? Too flat

On the story, off reality.

The four men in the car didn't talk. They really didn't seem concerned with him.

That scared him.

Details:

Apartment tracts knocked up quickly for new immigrants -clusters of no-frills rectangles, cinder block faced with limestone, sitting on dry beds devoid of landscaping. Depressing. Like the housing projects back in New York, but these had a ghost-town quality to them, separated from one another by acres of sand.

Laundry on lines.

A vest-pocket park shaded by pines and olives. Kerchiefed women pushing strollers. Hassid types walking with their hands clasped behind their backs. A small shopping center.

A handful of people. Too far to notice what was happening.

Or care.

The Escort kept barreling along, traveling so fast the chassis was rattling.

Ramot Pollin.

Fewer people, then none. Things were starting to look downright desolate.

Half-finished foundations. Scaffolding. The skeletal underpinnings of buildings. A prefab gas station on a concrete pad, the windows opaque with dust and still X-taped, four oblong trenches where the pumps were going to be.

But no workers, no signs of construction activity. Some goddamned strike, no doubt.

Trenches. Tractor treads. Craters occupied by dormant bulldozers and cranes, the dirt pushed up around the rims in soft brown pyramids.

Unfinished roads bleeding off into dust.

Quiet. Silent. Too damned silent.

A roller-coaster hump in the road, then a sharp dip, another construction site at the bottom, this one stillborn, completely deserted: a single story of cinder block, the rest wood frame. Off in the distance, Wilbur could see tents. Bedouins-where the hell were they taking him?

Kinky answered that question by driving off the road, down a muddy ditch, and onto the side. He circled the cinder-block wall until coming to a six-foot opening at the rear and driving through it.

Another car was parked inside, half-hidden by shadows. Red BMW, grayed by dust.

Kinky turned off the engine.

Wilbur looked around: dark, damp place, probably the future subterranean garage. Roofed with sheets of plywood and black plastic tarp. Garbage all over the dirt floor: nail-studded wood scraps, plasterboard fragments, shreds of insulation, bent metal rods, probably a healthy dose of asbestos particles floating in the air.

During orientation, Grabowsky had amused him with stories of how the Israeli mafia buried their victims in the foundations of buildings under construction. Religious Hassid who were kohens-some special kind of priest-afraid of going into the buildings because Jewish law prohibited them from being near dead bodies.

No longer amusing.

No, couldn't be. Kinky wore a yarmulke. Nice Jewish boy, no mafia.

Then he remembered some of the stuff that guys with yarmulkes had pulled off in the diamond district.

Oh, shit.

"Okay," said Dry Voice. He opened the door. Wilbur saw the gun bulge under his suit jacket. Wool suit-asshole wasn't even sweating.

All of them except Kinky got out of the car. Dry Voice took Wilbur's elbow and led him a few feet past the front bumper.

Handsome and Iron Pumper folded their arms across their chests, stood there staring at him. Iron Pumper turned full face. Wilbur saw he was an Oriental-goddamned Oriental giant with cold slit eyes. This had to be a dream. Too much booze-he'd wake up any moment with a four-plus hangover.

A door slammed. Kinky was out of the car now, holding an attache case in one hand, the paper he'd used to shield his face in the other.

Wilbur looked at the paper. This morning's international Trib, his Butcher-letter story on page two.

Dry Voice held on to his elbow. Handsome and Slant-Eye had backed away into the shadows, but he could still sense their presence.

Kinky came closer. Small guy-not black, more like a mixed-blood, the kind you saw all over Brazil. But with weird golden eyes that shone in the dimness like those of a cat. The hand holding the paper was a mess-stiff-looking, covered with shiny pink scars. Real contrast to the rest of him, which was all brown and smooth and seamless. Baby face. But the eyes were old.

"Hello, Mr. Wilbur." Soft voice, barely an accent.

"Who are you?" Who the fuck are you!

"Daniel Sharavi. I understand you've been asking about me."

Goddamned geezer at the archives. They all stuck together.

"In the course of my work-"

"That's what we want to talk to you about," said Sharavi. "Your work." He waved the Herald Tribune.

Wilbur felt the anger return. More than anger-rage-at what the bastards had put him through.

"This stinks," he said. "Kidnapping me like some-"

"Shut your fucking mouth," said Dry Voice, tightening the hold on his elbow. Heavier accent than Sharavi, but no mistaking the words or the tone.

Sharavi glanced at Dry Voice, smiled apologetically, as if excusing an errant brother. So this was going to be one of those good-cop-bad-cop routines

"Have a seat," said Sharavi, motioning to a plywood board suspended on cinder blocks.

"I'll stand."

Dry Voice led him to the board and sat him down. Hard.

"Stay."

Wilbur stared up at him. Asshole looked like an accountant. IRS auditor delivering bad news.

Wilbur kept eye contact. "These are Gestapo tactics," he said.

Dry Voice knelt in front of him, gave a very ugly smile. "You're an expert on Gestapo?"

When Wilbur didn't answer, the asshole stood, kicked the dirt, and said, "Shmuck."

Sharavi said something to him in Hebrew and the guy moved back, folded his arms over his chest like the others.

Sharavi lifted a cinder block, brought it close to Wilbur, and sat on it, facing him.

"Your article today was very interesting," he said.

"Get to the point."

"You used a biblical scholar to locate the precise references of the passages."

Wilbur said nothing.

"May I ask which scholar?"

"My sources are confidential. Your government assures the right-"

Sharavi smiled.

"Mutti Abramowitz isn't much of a scholar. In fact, his father told me his grades in Bible Studies have always been very poor."

Little guy put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, as if expecting an answer.

"What's your point?" said Wilbur.

Sharavi ignored the question, opened his attache case, and rummaged in it. Head concealed by the lid, he asked, "Where were you three Thursdays ago?"

"Now, how am I supposed to remember that?"

"The day before Juliet Haddad's body was found."

"I don't know where I was, probably following some… Whoa, wait a minute. I don't have to do this." Wilbur stood. "I want a lawyer."

"Why do you think you need one?" Sharavi asked, mildly.

"Because you people are trampling on my rights. My strong advice to you is quit right now and minimize the damage, because I'm going to raise a stink the likes of which-"

"Sit down, Mr. Wilbur," said Sharavi.

Dry Voice took a step forward, hand in his jacket. Sit, shmuck."

Wilbur sat, head swimming with booze and bad vibes.

"What were you doing three Thursdays ago?" Sharavi repeated.

"I have no idea. I'd just gotten back from Greece, but you guys probably know that, don't you?"

"Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad."

"My articles speak for themselves."

Dry Voice said, "Your articles are shit."

"Tell me about the wounds on Juliet Haddad's body," said Sharavi, almost whispering.

"How the hell would I know anything about that?"

Sharavi unfolded the Herald Tribune, searched for a place with his finger, found it, and read out loud: '"… rumors of sacrificial mutilation have persisted.' Where did you hear those rumors, Mr. Wilbur?"

Wilbur didn't reply. Sharavi turned to the others and asked, "Have you heard such rumors?"

Three head shakes.

"We haven't heard any such rumors, Mr. Wilbur. Where did you hear them?"

"My sources are confidential."

"Your sources are shit," said Dry Voice. "You're a liar. You make them up."

"Inspector Shmeltzer lacks tact," said Sharavi, smiling, 'but I can't argue strongly with him, Mr. Wilbur." Little bastard held out his hands palms up, all sweetness and light. The palm of the messy hand was puckered with scar tis-sue.

"Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar," he said, shaking his head. "A clown like Samir El Said as a sociological scholar. Rumors of 'sacrificial mutilations.' You have a vivid imagination, Mr. Wilbur."

"Lying shmuck," said Dry Voice.

"Listen," said Wilbur, "this good-cop-bad-cop stuff isn't going to work. I've watched the same movies you have."

"You like movies, don't you?" Sharavi reached in the briefcase, took out some papers, and handed them to Wilbur.

The notes and title page for his screenplay. Not the original, but photocopies.

"You have no right-"

"Very interesting reading," said Sharavi. "You seem to have many ideas about the Butcher."

"That's fiction-"

Sharavi smiled. "Many ideas," he repeated. "It was you who named him the Butcher, wasn't it? So in one sense you invented him."

"What else did you steal from my office?"

"Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad."

"I already told you-everything I know is in my stories."

"Your stories are shit," said Dry Voice-Shmeltzer.

"This is outrageous," said Wilbur.

"Murder is always outrageous," said Sharavi.

"Breaking into my office, stealing my personal-"

"Just like Watergate," suggested Sharavi.

"Wilburgate," said Shmeltzer. "Shitheadgate." He said something in Hebrew. Handsome and Slant-Eye laughed.

Sharavi shook his head. The others quieted.

"A good imagination," he said, returning his attention to Wilbur. "You heard rumors that the police haven't heard, receive letters from someone you claim is the Butcher-"

"I claimed nothing of the sort, I simply-"

"You implied it strongly. Just as you implied that the Gvura people were responsible-"

"I analyze facts," said Wilbur. "Do my research and come up with feasible hypotheses-"

"Feasible hypotheses?"

"You got it, chief."

"You seem to know more about the Butcher than anyone. His motives, his 'sacrificial mutilations,' what goes on inside his head. He must appreciate your understanding, think of you as a friend, because he sends you a letter-a letter without postage. A letter without any fingerprints or serum traces except the ones that match those removed from your liquor bottle and typewriter. Your fingerprints. Your serum type."

"That envelope was stuck in my mail."

"Yes, that's what Mutti says. However, the mail lay in the box there for an hour before he collected it and brought it to you."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning perhaps you placed it there yourself."

"That's absurd."

"No," said Sharavi. "That's a feasible hypothesis. Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar is absurd."

"Why would I do something like that?" asked Wilbur, knowing the question was stupid, the answer obvious. "I report the news," he said. Talking to the walls. "I don't create it."

Sharavi was silent, as if digesting that.

"This morning," he said, finally, "five men died, a woman will probably lose her baby, another man, a good portion of his intestines. Several others were injured. All because of "news' that you invented."

"Blame the messenger," said Wilmur. "I've heard it before."

"I'm sure you have. My research reveals you have a history of inventing the news. Mardi Gras ritual murders that turn out to be suicides, exposes that end up exposing nothing."

Wilbur fought to stay cool. "We have nothing to talk about."

"But that's old mischief," said Sharavi. "My primary concern is how far your current inventing went. Could you have been hungry enough for a juicy crime story to supply crime?"

Wilbur shot out of his chair. "What the hell are you saying!"

Sharavi closed his attache case, placed it on his lap, and smiled. •

"Learning by doing, Mr. Wilbur. It ensures realism."

"This conversation is over." Wilbur's heart was pounding, his hands shaking. He forced a cool tone: "Nothing more without my lawyer."

Sharavi waited a long time before speaking. Let the silence sink in.

"Where were you three Thursdays ago, Mr. Wilbur?"

"I don't know-but I was in Greece when the first one was killed! Across the goddamned Mediterranean!"

"Sit down," said Shmeitzer.

"Bullshit," said Wilbur. "Pure and total bullshit harassment."

Sharavi waved Shmeitzer away and said, "Remain on your feet if you like." The gold eyes remained steady. "Tell me, Mr. Wilbur, what sharp-bladed instruments do you own besides the Sabatier cutlery in your kitchen and the Swiss Army knife in your desk?"

"Absurd," said Wilbur. His damned heart wouldn't quiet.

"Do you rent another flat besides the one on Rehov Alharizi?"

"I want a lawyer."

"You've quoted Samir El Said, extensively. What's the nature of your relationship with him?"

Wilbur didn't answer.

"Talk, shmuck," said Dry Voice.

"I have nothing to say. This whole thing is a crock."

"Are you engaged in a homosexual relationship with Professor El Said?"

That took Wilbur by surprise. He tried to maintain a poker face but, from Sharavi's smile, knew he'd been unsuccessful.

"I thought not," said the little bastard. "You are a little old for him."

"I'm not homosexual," said Wilbur, thinking: Why the hell am I defending myself?

"You like women?"

"Do you?"

"I don't like cutting them up."

"Oh, Christ."

"Shmuck's religious," said Dry Voice.

"I have nothing to say," said Wilbur.

"Look," said Sharavi, "we have plenty of time. When it gets dark, we'll use flashlights to chase away the rats."

"Suit yourself," said Wilbur.

But the stonewall didn't work.

Sharavi proceeded to question him for another hour and a half about the murders. Times, places, where he bought his linens, what kind of soap he used, how many kilometers a day he drove. Were his eyes healthy, what drugs he took, did he shower or take baths. What were his views on personal hygiene. Seeming irrelevancies. Picayune details that he'd never thought about. Asking the same questions over and over, but changing the phrasing ever so slightly. Then coming out of left field with something that sounded totally irrelevant and ended up being somehow tied in with something else.

Trying to confuse him.

Treating him like a goddamned murderer.

He was determined to resist, give the little bastard nothing. But eventually he found himself relenting-worn down by the smiles and the repetition, Sharavi's unflappable manner, the way he ignored Wilbur's outbursts, refused to take "umbrage at Wilbur's insults.

By the time the reporter realized he was losing, he'd already lost, answering questions with numbed docility. His feet tired from standing, but refusing to sit for fear of underscoring his submission.

As the interrogation wore on, he rationalized it away by telling the little bastard was giving in too. Acting nicer.

Treating him like an adviser, not a suspect.

Believing him.

After ninety minutes, Sharavi stopped the questions, chatted with him about trivia. Wilbur felt himself loosen with relief. Sat down, finally, and crossed his legs.

Twenty minutes later, the chatting ceased. The basement cavity had grown darker, colder. Nightfall.

Sharavi said something to Slant-Eye, who came over and offered Wilbur a cigarette. He refused. Finally, Shavari clicked the attache case shut, smiled, and said, "That's it."

"Great," said Wilbur. "Drop me back at Beit Agron?"

"Oh, no," said Sharavi, as if the request had taken him by surprise.

Slant-Eye put a hand on Wilbur's shoulder. Handsome walked over, put handcuffs on him.

"This is Subinspector Lee," said Sharavi, looking at the

Oriental. "And this is Detective Cohen. They'll be taking back to Jerusalem. To the Russian Compound, where you'll be booked for obstructing a criminal investigation and withholding evidence."

A flood of words rose in Wilbur's gullet. He lacked the will to expel them and they stagnated.

Sharavi dusted off his trousers.

"Good afternoon, Mark. If there's anything else you wish to tell me, I'll be happy to listen."

When the BMW had driven off, Daniel asked Shmeltzer, "What do you think?"

"Only thing I got from his eyes is alcoholism-you should have seen the bottles in his flat. As far as the grin goes, we didn't give him much chance to smile, did we, Dani? Nothing we've turned up in the flat or the office implicates him, and the Greek thing checks out as an alibi for Fatma's murder-though if he's got pals, that's meaningless. What did Ben David tell you about the letter?"

"That the Bible quotes could mean a real fanatic or someone wanting to sound like one. One thing's for certain: Whoever wrote it is no true scholar-the passages from Leviticus are out of sequence and out of context. The one about washing the legs refers to a male animal. It smells deceptive-someone trying to distract us."