Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

The object of all this architectural affection, a frail blond fraulein of twenty-one, contracted cholera two months after her arrival in Jerusalem and was dead three weeks later. After burying her near the Grove of Gethsemane, the grieving widower found himself shaken by a crisis of faith that sucked him back to Europe, never to return, abandoning his dream house to the ruling Ottomans.

The Turks had always entertained a disdain for Jerusalem and its structures and, during four centuries of reign, had transformed it from a teeming Crusader shrine into a dusty, disease-ridden, provincial village, home to beggars, lepers, and fanatic Jew-infidels. From the moment its foundation had been laid, the Amelia Catherine had been an affront to their world view-that a Christian-infidel should be allowed to build something so vulgar as a house for a woman, a house that looked down upon the mosques of AI Aqsa and the Rock, was a grievous insult to Allah.

Heavy taxes collected from the German fool had kept these religious reservations at bay. But once he was gone, the gardens were ordered fallow, the lawns burned, the great house transformed to a military warehouse. Soon, the stink of machine grease emanated from every marble corridor.

That state of affairs endured until 1917, when the British invaded Palestine. The debased mansion on Scopus was strategically located and its begrimed windows witnessed many a long bloody battle. When the gunfire died, on December 11, General Allenby was marching into Jerusalem and the Ottoman Empire was a thing of the past.

The British welcomed themselves with a ceremony of exceptional pomp-one that amused the poor Jews and Arabs whose families had inhabited the city for centuries-and like every conquering horde before them, the new rulers lost no time refurbishing the Holy City to their taste, starting with the Amelia Catherine.

Crews of workmen were ordered to scythe through ankle-ripping coils of weeds; limestone was abraded to its original blush; cisterns were emptied, cesspools drained and relined. Within weeks, suitably impressive headquarters for the British military governor had been created and the genteel mix of small talk and the clatter of teacups could be heard on the veranda.

In 1947 tensions between Palestinian Jews and Palestinian Arabs began boiling over. The British lost their taste for empire building and quickly pulled up stakes. Fighting broke out, followed by a cease-fire and a United Nations partition that created a jigsaw solution: The land was divided into six sections, with the southern and northern coastal regions and the heartland, including Jerusalem and most major cities, granted to the Arabs. The Jews received a strip of central coastline, an inland wedge of Galilee, and the barren Negev desert. Though they'd been deeded the lion's share of natural resources, the Arabs were dissatisfied with less than everything and, in 1948, attacked the Jews. Thousands of lives and one armistice later found the Jewish portion, now called Israel, enlarged to include the entire western section of Palestine but still smaller than the Arab portion, now called Jordan, which encompassed both sides of the Jordan River and spread to the east.

Faulty prophecy left Jerusalem bizarrely divided. The Holy City had been carved up hastily on November 30, 1948, during a temporary cease-fire. The process of division was an unceremonious exercise conducted in an abandoned building in the Musrara slum by the Jewish commander, a lieutenant colonel named Moshe Dayan, and the Arab commander, a lieutenant colonel named Abdullah Tal.

Neither Dayan nor Tal thought the truce would last and both considered their efforts temporary. The Jews hoped for a permanent peace treaty with their cousins, and Abdullah Tal still harbored fantasies of conquest, having boasted only days before of riding into Jewish Jerusalem on a white horse.

They went to work, using soft, waxy pencils-Dayan's red, Tal's green-on a 1:20,000 scale map of Jerusalem, drawing crude, arbitrary lines that corresponded to a land width of 50 meters. Lines that expanded as the wax melted, cutting through the centers of homes and backyards, shops and offices, splitting the city like Solomon's baby. Lines that didn't deserve serious attention because they were nothing more than transitory sketches.

But the commanders were sectioning a land that devours its prophets, where the only consistency is surprise. As the days stretched out, cease-fire matured to armistice, sketches became international borders, the space between the wax, a no-man's-land for nineteen years.

Due to its strategic value, Mount Scopus had been divided earlier, turned into a demilitarized zone administered by the United Nations. Israel retained the ruins of Hadassah Hospital and the Hebrew University; the eastern slope, housing the battered Amelia Catherine, was assigned to Jordan. All buildings on both sides of the mountain lay vacant and unused, though minimal patrols were permitted, the weeds were kept trimmed, and Arabs farmers were allowed, illegally, to plough the fields surrounding the Amelia Catherine and grow truck crops.

In 1967 the Arabs attacked again and, once again, lost honor and land. Jerusalem fell under exclusive Jewish rule for the first time in more than three thousand years and Scopus was unified. The Amelia Catherine entered its fifth metamorphosis, as a hospital, operated jointly by the U.N. and a Swiss-based group of Protestant missionaries.

It was a hasty transformation, wholly lacking in sentiment: the compound enclosed by high chain-link fences, grand suites reduced to wards by particle-board partitions, the mansion's large paneled library painted a pale clinical green and apportioned into a warren of offices. Soon the high stone walls resonated with the moans and muffled sobs of human infirmity.

It was this diminished grandeur that Daniel saw as he followed Baldwin under a sweeping marble staircase and down a long, whitewashed corridor. The building seemed empty and, except for a sonata played haltingly on typewriter, silent.

The administrator's office was midway down the hall, a small, light room with a high domed ceiling. Tacked to the back of the door was a schedule of mobile clinics.

The furnishings were cheap and efficient: an imitation Danish modern desk at the center, two matching straight-backed chairs, a striped cotton sofa along the left wall. Above the sofa hung a framed print of "The Last Supper" and two diplomas: a bachelor's degree in business from an agricultural college in San Antonio, Texas, and a master's in sociology from the American University in Beirut. Opposite the sofa was a wall of bracket shelves, half filled with textbooks and spiral-bound U.N. publications. A small electric fan blew air from one of the empty shelves. Next to it sat a cowboy hat with a leather band. Behind the desk, a pair of tall, arched windows exposed a panoramic view of the desert. Between the windows stood a glass display case filled with archaeological relics: coins, small clay urns, strips of parchment. Baldwin saw Daniel looking at them and smiled.

"All legal and proper, Officer Sharavi. Official property of the U.N."

Daniel returned the smile and the American moved behind the desk and reclined in his chair. Taking a seat across from him, Daniel held his note pad in his lap and searched for signs of personal attachment-family snapshots, the little curios that people bring to the workplace to remind them of home. Except for the hat, nothing.

"How many people are on your staff, Mr. Baldwin?"

"Full time only, or part time as well?"

"Everyone, please."

"In that case, I can't answer you other than to say that it's a long list."

"Does this list exist in written form?"

Baldwin shook his head. "It's not that simple, Officer. The Amelia Catherine concentrates on two spheres of activity: mobile outreach clinics to refugees and indigents, and weekly in-house clinics that we run right here-dermatology, eye care, neurology, women's problems, maternal and child health. Many of the local doctors and nurses volunteer their services; some are paid on a part-time basis; still others are full-time employees. What you'd call a dynamic situation."

"I'm interested," said Daniel, "in those who sleep in the building."

"That," drawled Baldwin, "narrows things down considerably." The American held up his hand, ticked off fingers as he spoke. "There are our nurses, Peggy Cassidy and Catherine Hauser-"

"What are their nationalities?"

"Peggy's an American-California, if that means anything to you. Catherine's Swiss."

"And both of them slept here last night?"

"Whoa," said Baldwin, holding out his hands, palms out. "You said 'sleep,' in general terms. As far as last night, specifically, I have no idea."

The man had a way of reacting to simple questions as if they were traps. The wariness, thought Daniel, of a criminal or a politician;

"Go on, please," he said, writing. "Who else?"

"Dr. Carter, Dr. Al Biyadi, possibly Dr. Darousha."

"Possibly?"

"Dr. Darousha lives in Ramallah. He's a very dedicated man, a fine physician. Comes here after seeing his private patients and sometimes works well into the night. We provide him with a room so that he doesn't have to drive home in a state of fatigue. I have no way of knowing if he used it last night."

"The doctors' first names, please."

"Richard Carter, Hassan Al Biyadi, Walid Darousha."

"Thank you. Any others?"

"Ma'ila Khoury, our secretary; Zia-whom you've met; and myself."

Daniel consulted his notes. "Dr. Carter is an American?"

"Canadian. Dr. Al Biyadi is a native of Jerusalem."

Daniel knew an Al Biyadi family. Greengrocers with a stall in the Old City, on the Street of Chains. He wondered about a connection.

"Ma'ila is Lebanese," Baldwin was saying, "Zia's a Palestinian, and I'm from the great Lone Star State of Texas. And that's it."

"What about patients?"

Baldwin cleared his throat.

"There are no clinics today, in honor of Muslim Sabbath."

"I mean hospitalized patients."

Baldwin frowned. "I explained before, we function primarily as an outpatient center and outreach facility. Our goal is to make contact with those who wouldn't ordinarily have access to health care. We identify problems and direct them to the appropriate source of treatment."

"A referral center."

"In a sense, but we do administer primary treatment at our clinics."

"So patients are never admitted here?"

"I wouldn't say never, but rarely."

Such a huge building, thought Daniel, housing only a handful of people. Vacant wards, empty beds. All that foreign money so that poor Arabs could see doctors who told them to go see other doctors. It seemed foolish, symbolism posing as function. Typical of the U.N. But that was neither here nor there.

"Mr. Hajab," he said. "What is his job?"

"Watchman, custodial work, general repairs."

"This is a large building to be maintained by one person."

"A cleaning crew-some women from East Jerusalem-do the daily mop-up. Zia helps with odds and ends."

"Both Mr. Hajab and Dr. Darousha are from Ramallah.

Did they know each other before Mr. Hajab began working here?"

"Dr. Darousha recommended Zia for the job. More than that, I can't tell you."

"Mr. Hajab told me his first contact with the hospital was as a patient. Was Dr. Darousha his physician?"

"You'll have to talk to Dr. Darousha about that."

"Very well," said Daniel, rising. "I'd like to do just that."

Baldwin made a phone call and, when no one answered, took Daniel across the hall, to the source of the typing. Ma'ila Khoury was a lovely-looking woman of about twenty-five, with full pale lips, curly hennaed hair, and widely spaced khaki eyes. She wore smart Western clothes and her nails were long and polished. An emancipated woman of old Beirut. Daniel wondered why and how she'd come to Israel to work and received his answer a moment later when a quick look-something that implied more than boss and secretary-passed between her and Baldwin. The American spoke to her in poor Arabic and she answered in a cultured Lebanese accent.

"Did Dr. Darousha sleep here last night, Ma'ila?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Is he here in the hospital?"

"Yes, sir. In examining room four, with an emergency patient who just arrived."

"Come with me, Officer Sharavi."

The examining rooms were on the other side of the staircase, on the west wing of the building, five numbered doors that had once been servants' quarters. Baldwin knocked lightly on number four and opened it. The room within was peacock-blue paint over lumpy plaster, relieved by a single grilled window just below the arch of the ceiling. An olive-wood crucifix and a white metal first-aid box adhered to one wall. Filling most of the floor space was a chipped white examining table next to a chipped white cabinet. A hanging white lamp swung from the ceiling, emitting cold bluish light.

On the examining table lay a man-from the looks of his dusty clothing a farm laborer-stolid and unmoving, one arm by his side, the other resting limply in the grasp of a second man in a long white coat. The man holding the arm looked up at the intrusion.

"Good morning, Dr. Darousha," said Baldwin.

Darousha gave a wait-one-minute gesture and returned his attention to the arm, which Daniel saw was as red and glossy as boiled sausage. The doctor was short, dark, fiftyish, froglike, with coarse, bushy hair and sad, drooping eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. His coat was starched and spotless, and he wore it buttoned, over a white shirt and dark tie and razor-pressed black slacks. A stethoscope hung scarflike around his neck. His feet were small and narrow in woven black loafers and, as he rocked from one to the other, seemed barely to touch the ground.

"How many wasps bit you?" he asked in a deep, authoritative voice.

"Hundreds. Maybe thousands."

Darousha scowled and laid the arm down gently. Inserting the prongs of the stethoscope in his ears, he placed the disc on the man's still-clothed chest, listened, and put the instrument away. Lifting the arm again, he said, "This is nasty. Very nasty." He stared down sternly at the farmer, who smiled weakly.

"Very well. I'm going to give you an injection of something that will fight the infection, as well as some pills. Take them twice a day for ten days and then come and see me again. If this isn't any better, I'll have to cut it open to drain it, which will hurt badly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Take every one of those pills, do you understand?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"How often must you take them?"

"Two times a day, Doctor."

"For how long?"

"Ten days."

"Roll over, facing the door."

Darousha pulled a hypodermic syringe out of the cabinet, went through the routine of filling, checking, and expelling air bubbles, and tugged down the waistband of the man's trousers, which were so loose they didn't need to be unfastened. Aiming the needle like a dart, he jabbed it into the fanner's buttocks. The man blinked at the pain, smiled at Daniel and Baldwin.

"Go on now. The nurse in number two will give you the pills."

"Thank you, Doctor."

When the farmer had gone, Darousha stepped out into the hallway and lit up a Rothmans. Daniel's presence didn't seem to bother him, when Baldwin introduced him as a policeman, Darousha nodded, as if the visit had been expected.

"I've got a few things to look into," said Baldwin, taking a step. "Be back in a minute, okay?"

There was furtive tension in the American's eyes and Daniel wondered what he planned to do. Warn the others of impending interrogation? Sneak a drink? Flirt with Ma'ila?

"Okay," he said and watched Baldwin lope down the hallway, then turned back to Darousha, who was smoking the cigarette as if it were his last.

"What can I do for you?" asked the doctor. Daniel had expected to converse in Arabic but the man's Hebrew was perfect.

"A serious crime has been committed in the vicinity of the hospital, Doctor. I'm questioning the staff of the hospital about unusual occurrences."

Darousha remained placid. "What kind of unusual occurrences?"

"Sights, sounds, anything out of the ordinary."

"I saw and heard police cars. Otherwise, nothing."

"And you were here all night?"

"Yes."

"What time did you go to bed?"

"Shortly before midnight."

"When did you awaken?"

"Seven."

"How often do you sleep here, Doctor?"

"That depends upon my schedule. If it's late when I complete my obligations and I feel too tired to drive, I stay over."

"By 'obligations' you mean patients?"

"Or other matters. Yesterday, for example, I attended a day-long seminar at Hadassah. Emergency crises in children-anaphylaxis, choking. My afternoon patients were delayed until evening and I didn't finish until after eleven."

"Did the other doctors-Carter and Al Biyadi-attend the seminar as well?"

"Dr. Carter, yes. Dr. AI Biyadi, no."

"He remained here?"

"I have no idea." Darousha put the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, and added a millimeter of ash to the tip.

"You live in Ramallah."

"That's correct."

"Zia Hajab is also from there."

A nod. The ash tumbled.

"How well do you know him?"

"Our families are entwined. His grandfather worked for my grandfather, his father for my father."

"What kind of work did they do?"

"We owned orchards. They were field hands."

"Does that relationship persist?"

Darousha shook his head. "I'm my father's only son. After his death I decided to study medicine, and the orchards were leased to another family who had no need for Zia's services. I was gone at the time, studying medicine in Amman. Otherwise I would have intervened. As it turned out, he found part-time work at a petrol station."

"Until another family transaction edged him out."

"That's correct."

"Difficult for him and his family."

"For him, yes. There is no family. Both parents and a sister died of tuberculosis thirty years ago. His three brothers were inducted into the Arab Legion. All were killed in '67."

"Did he fight too?"

"Yes. He was taken captive."

"What about wife and children?"

"None."

Daniel found his interest in the watchman growing. For the picture Darousha was painting was one of chronic failure, habitual abuse by the fates. Why did Hajab have difficulty holding on to a job? And why, with bachelorhood virtually unknown among the Arabs, had he never purchased a woman, never spread his seed? It indicated social problems, the kind of downtrodden, isolated life that could lead to self-hatred. Or the resentment that sometimes blossomed into violence.

He needed to know more about the workings of the man's mind, but sensed that a direct question would put Darousha off. Taking an indirect path, he said, "Hajab told me he had headache problems. Did you treat him for his pain?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Please explain."

Darousha's sad eyes drooped even further.

"His pain was a pain of the soul that chose to settle in his head. I offered reassurance and chalky syrup. My most effective medical intervention was helping him get a job."

"It was a psychosomatic disorder, then."

Darousha stiffened. "These are confidential matters. I cannot discuss them further."

"Doctor," said Daniel, "if there's something in Hajab's psychological makeup that would predispose him to antisocial behavior, it's essential that you tell me."

"He's a moody man," said Darousha. "Suffers from depression. But there's nothing criminal in him. Nothing that would interest you."

"How often does he get depressed?"

"Infrequently, perhaps once or twice a month."

"For prolonged periods of time?"

"Two or three days."

"And what are his symptoms?"

Darousha threw up his hands, impatiently.

"I shouldn't be discussing this, but if it will simplify matters, I'll tell you. He develops ambiguous pains-psychosomatic symptoms-the headaches, gets very weak and goes to sleep. There's no aggressiveness, no antisocial behavior. Now, if you'll excuse me, please, I really must be going."

The man's face was closed tight as a vault. Sensing that any further prodding would be useless, Daniel took down his home address and phone number, thanked him for his time, and ended the interview.

Alone in the hall, he thought for a while about Zia Hajab, was still thinking when Baldwin returned.

"All the others except Peggy are in the dining room," said the American. "They say they've seen or heard nothing."

"What did you tell them?" asked Daniel.

"Just what you told me. That there'd been a crime nearby. None of them knows anything that can help you."

"Nevertheless, I'll need to talk to them."

"Suit yourself."

The dining room was an airy blue rectangle furnished with half a dozen circular tables, five of them empty. The ceiling was white and edged with crown moldings. French doors led out to a patio that served as pecking grounds for dozens of pigeons. Their clucks and thrums could be heard through the glass. Each table was surrounded by folding chairs and covered with an aquamarine tablecloth. Arabic music played from a portable radio. A long table at the center of the room bore plates of pastry and fruit, glasses of orange juice. A brass samovar on a wheeled cart hissed coffee-flavoured steam. Next to it stood Zia Hajab, solemn-faced, a white apron fastened over his work clothes, holding a cup under the spout.

Baldwin walked Daniel to a table by the window where the other two doctors and the Swiss nurse, Catherine Hauser, were seated together eating breakfast. After making the introductions, the administrator sat down with them. Before Baldwin's rump had settled on the chair, Hajab moved in quickly to serve him, filling his plate with dates and apples, pouring steaming coffee into his cup, punctuating the activity with obsequious bows.

No invitation to sit was offered Daniel and he remained standing. Three faces stared up at him. He needed to speak to each individually, and breaking up their klatch made him feel intrusive. He took Catherine Hauser first, drawing her to a table at the far end of the room, carrying her coffee cup for her and setting it down in front of her.

She thanked him and smiled, a plump, elderly woman dressed in a shapeless, colourless smock. Gray-haired and blue-eyed, with the same kind of parchment skin he'd seen on the older nuns at the Convent of Notre Dame de Sion. As he looked at her, coins of color rose on each cheek. She seemed friendly and cooperative but was sure she'd heard or seen nothing. What had happened? she wanted to know. A crime, he said, smiled, and ushered her back to her table.

The Canadian, Carter, he would have pegged for one of the Scandinavian backpackers who traipsed through the city each summer-big-framed and heavy-featured, with curly blond hair, narrow gray eyes, and a full ginger beard. He was in his early thirties and wore old-fashioned round gold-framed glasses. His hair was shaggy and longish and, like the rest of him, seemed carelessly assembled. His white coat was wrinkled and he wore it over a blue work shirt and faded jeans. Slow-talking and deliberate, he appeared to be lost in his own world, though he did express normal curiosity about the crime.

Daniel answered his questions with vague generalities and asked, "You attended the seminar with Dr. Darousha?"

"Sure did."

"Did you see patients afterwards?"

"No," said Carter. "Wally went back by himself. I was off-shift, so I took a cab into East Jerusalem and had dinner. At the Dallas Restaurant." He chuckled and added: "Fillet steak, chips, three bottles of Heineken." Another chuckle.

"Something amusing, Dr. Carter?"

Carter shook his head, ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled.

"Not really. Just that this sounds like one of those cop shows back home-where were you on the night and all that."

"I suppose it does," said Daniel, writing. "What time did you arrive back at the hospital?"

"Must have been close to ten-thirty."

"What did you do when you arrived?"

"Went to my room, read medical journals until they put me to sleep, and popped off."

"What time was that?"

"I really couldn't tell you. This was fairly boring stuff so it could have been as early as eleven. When was this crime committed?"

"That hasn't been established yet. Did you hear or see anything at all that was out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing. Sorry."

Daniel dismissed him and he shambled back to his table. A former hippie, Daniel guessed. The kind who might blunt life's edges with a hit of hashish now and then. A dreamer.

Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi, by contrast, was all points and angles, formal, dapper, and delicate-almost willowy-with skin as dark as Daniel's, short black hair, well-oiled, and a pencil-line mustache that had been trimmed to architectural precision. He looked too young to be a doctor, and his white coat and elegant clothes only served to enhance the image of a child playing dress-up.

"By any chance," Daniel asked him, "are you related to Mohammed Al Biyadi, the grocer?"

"He is my father," said Al Biyadi, suspiciously.

"Many years ago, when I was a uniformed officer, thieves broke into your father's warehouse and stole a new shipment of melons and squash. I was assigned to the case." One of the first triumphs, the criminals quickly apprehended, the merchandise returned. He'd swelled with pride for days.

As an attempt to gain rapport, it failed.

"I know nothing of melons," said the young physician coldly. "Ten years ago I lived in America."

"Where in America?"

"Detroit, Michigan."

"The automobile city."

Al Biyadi folded his arms across his chest. "What do you want of me?"

"Did you study medicine in Detroit, Michigan?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Wayne State University."

"When did you return to Israel?"

"I returned to Palestine two years ago."

"Have you worked at the Amelia Catherine all that time?"

"Yes."

"What is your specialty?"

"Family medicine."

"Did you attend the seminar at Hadassah?"

Al Biyadi's face contracted, almost shriveling with anger. "You know the answer to that, policeman. Why play games?"

Daniel looked at him calmly and said nothing.

"The same thing over and over," said Al Biyadi. "Something happens and you harass us."

"Have you been harassed by the police before, Dr. Al Biyadi?"

"You know what I mean," snapped the young Arab. He looked at his watch, drummed his fingers on the table. "I have things to do, patients to see."

"Speaking of seeing, did you see anything unusual last night?"

"No, nothing, and that's likely to be my answer to all of your questions."

"What about during the early morning hours?"

"No."

"No shouts or cries?"

"No."

"Do you own a car?" asked Daniel, knowing he was prolonging the interview in response to Al Biyadi's hostility. But it was more than a petty reaction: The young doctor's response was out of proportion. Was his anger politically rooted or something more-the edginess of the guilty? He wanted a bit more time to study Hassan Al Biyadi.

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"A Mercedes."

"What color?"

"Green."

"Diesel or petrol?"

"Diesel." From between clenched jaws.

"Where do you park it?"

"In the back. With everyone else's."

"Did you drive it last night?"

"I didn't go out last night."

"You were here all night."

"Correct."

"Doing what?"

"Studying, going about my business."

"Studying for what?"

Al Biyadi tossed him a patronizing look. "Unlike the less educated occupations, the field of medicine is complex, always changing. One needs constantly to study."

A woman in her late twenties came into the dining room. She saw Al Biyadi, walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Good morning, Hassan," she said brightly, in heavily accented Arabic.

Al Biyadi mumbled a reply.

"Any more questions?" he asked Daniel.

The woman looked puzzled. She was plain, with a flat, pleasant face, snub-featured and freckled, devoid of makeup. She wore a sleeveless white stretch top over blue jeans, and low-heeled sandals. Her hair was thin, straight, medium-brown. It hung to her shoulders and was pulled back behind her ears with white barrettes. Her eyes were large and round and matched her hair in hue. They glided inquisitively over Daniel's face, then clouded in confusion at the sight of his kipah.

"Police," said Al Biyadi. "There's been some sort of crime and I'm being interrogated like a common criminal."

The woman absorbed his hostility, as if by osmosis. Imitated his crossed-arms posture and glared at Daniel as if to say Now you've upset him. I hope you're happy.

"Miss Cassidy?"

"That's right."

"I'm Chief Inspector Sharavi. Please sit down. You, Doctor, are free to go."

Being dismissed so quickly seemed to anger Al Biyadi as much as had being detained. He bounded out of his chair and stamped out of the room.

"You people," said Peggy Cassidy. "You think you can push everyone around."

"By people, you mean…?"

The young woman smiled enigmatically.

"Please sit," Daniel repeated.

She stared at him, then lowered herself into the chair.

"Would you like some coffee, Miss Cassidy?"

"No, and can we get on with whatever it is you want?"

"What I want," said Daniel, "is to know if you heard or saw anything unusual last night, or during the early hours of the morning."

"No. Should I have?"

"A crime was committed just up the road. I'm searching for witnesses."

"Or scapegoats."

"Oh?"

"We know how you feel about us, about those who want to help the Palestinian people."

"This isn't a political matter," said Daniel.

Peggy Cassidy laughed. "Everything's political."

Daniel took a few moments to write in his pad.

"Where in the States are you from, Miss Cassidy?"

"Huntington Beach, California."

"How long have you lived in Israel?"

"A year."

"And how long in Detroit?"

The question surprised her, but only for a moment. The look she gave Daniel bore the scorn reserved for a magician whose illusions have failed. "Three years; And yes, that's where I met Hassan."

"At Wayne State University?"

"At Harper Hospital, which is affiliated with Wayne State University. If you must know."

"When did the two of you meet?"

"Four years ago."

"Have you been… have you had a relationship since that time?"

"I don't see that that's any of your business."

"If I presumed too much, I apologize," said Daniel.