Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

But then he noticed that this boy looked different. Soft and slovenly. Hunched over, as if his spine were made of some pliable material. An undersized bullethead shaved to bristle length, sooty smears of peach fuzz on cheeks and chin. A weak chin. Moist, drooping, sheeplike eyes. The swaying, stiff and arrhythmic, punctuated by random finger flutters.

The boy continued reading, unresponsive to the presence of a stranger. Puzzled, Daoud stepped forward and cast a shadow over the book. The boy looked up and smiled. A smile of such innocence and warmth that the detective found himself smiling back.

"Good afternoon." Daoud's fingers drummed against the envelope that held the photo of the murdered girl.

More smiles, no answer. Thinking the boy hadn't heard, he repeated himself.

A blank stare. Another smile. Loose-lipped and gap-toothed.

Daoud looked at the book in the boy's spreading lap. The Arabic alphabet. A child's primer. Filthy, fluttering fingers held it awkwardly. A smell arose from the boy's homemade clothing. The stink of someone who didn't know how to wipe his ass properly.

An idiot. Figured.

"See you later," Daoud said, and the boy continued to stare, intensely, as if committing the detective's face to memory. But when Daoud stepped away the boy suddenly grew alarmed. Dropping the primer, he pulled himself clumsily to his feet and held on to the pipe arbor for support. Daoud saw that he was a tall one, with heavy, sloping shoulders, and wondered if he was dangerous. He tensed in anticipation of trouble, but the boy showed no signs of aggression, only frustration. Eyes rounding, he moved his lips furiously, churning soundlessly, until finally a croak emerged, followed by garbled noise that Daoud had to strain to understand:

"Hellosir. Nie-niceday!"

"An idiot who could speak. A meager blessing, but maybe the poor guy had enough sense to be of some help.

"Good book?" he asked, looking at the fallen primer, shielding his nose with his hand to block out the stink. Trying to make conversation, establish rapport.

The boy was silent, staring at him, uncomprehending.

"Learning the alphabet, my friend?"

More blank stares.

"Want to look at something?" Daoud tapped the envelope. "A picture?"

The boy craned his neck, gawked at him. Rolled his eyes. Idiotically.

Enough of this, thought Daoud. He turned to leave.

The boy rocked on his feet and started gurgling and gesturing wildly. He pointed to his eyes, then to Daoud's lips, reached out suddenly to touch those lips with a grubby finger.

Daoud stepped nimbly away from the contact and the boy pitched forward, adding shouts to his gestures, slapping his own ears so hard it had to hurt.

Definitely trying to communicate, thought Daoud. He strained to understand.

"Seedwords! Seedwords! No ear, no ear!"

As the boy kept up his singsong, Daoud played it back in his head. Seedwords? Words? See dwords. See the words. No hear-

"You're deaf."

The boy's smile lit up his face. Gapping his hands, he jumped up and down.

Who was the real idiot? Daoud castigated himself. The poor kid could read lips but he-the brilliant detective-in his attempt to keep his nostrils unsullied had been hiding his nose and mouth when he talked.

"Seedwords, seedwords!"

"Okay." Daoud smiled. He came closer, made sure the boy had a clear view of his lips. Overenunciated: "What's your name, my friend?"

Straining neck cords, a moment's delay, then: "Ahmed." Muddily.

"Your family name, Ahmed."

"Nsif."

"Nasif?"

Smiles and nods.

"Hello, Mr. Ahmed Nasif."

"H'lo."

The effort of speaking made the boy's body go tense. Words were accompanied by the flapping of hands, the strange finger flutters.

This is more than just deaf, thought Daoud. Some sort of spastic condition. And mentally defective, just as he'd first thought. Speak to him as if to a child.

"I am Sergeant Daoud. I am a policeman."

More smiles. The crude pantomime of shooting a gun. "Boom boom." The boy laughed, and drool trickled down a corner of his mouth.

"That's right, Ahmed. Boom, boom. Would you like to look at a picture?"

"Boom, boom!"

Daoud pulled the photo out of the envelope, held it close enough for the sheep-eyes to see, not so close that the flapping hands could grab out and maul it.

"I'm looking for this girl, Ahmed. Do you know her?"

An emphatic nod. Eager to please.

"You do?"

"Did, dirl!"

"Yes, a girl. Does she live here in Silwan, Ahmed?"

The boy said "dirl" again, the word preceded by something Daoud couldn't make out.

"Say that again, Ahmed.".

The boy pawed at the photo. Daoud pulled it back.

More pawing, as if he were trying to hit the picture.

"What's her name, Ahmed?"

"Badirl!"

"She's a bad girl?"

"Badirl!"

"Why is she a bad girl, Ahmed?"

"Badirl!"

"What had she done wrong?"

"Badirl!"

"Do you know her name, Ahmed?"

"Badirl!"

"All right, Ahmed. She's a bad girl. Now tell me her name, please."

"Badirl!"

"Where does she live, Ahmed?"

"Badirl!"

Sighing, Daoud put the picture away and started leaving. Ahmed gave a loud shriek and came after him, putting a padded hand on his shoulder.

Daoud reacted swiftly, turning and pushing the boy away. Ahmed stumbled and landed in the dirt. He looked up at Daoud, pouted and burst into loud sobs. Daoud felt like a child abuser.

"Come on, Ahmed. Settle down."

The door to the house opened and a small woman stepped out, bosom drooping, round dark face emerging like a hickory nut from within the folds of her melaya.

"What is it?" she said in a high, sharp voice.

"Mama, Mama, Mama!" wailed the boy.

She looked at the fruit of her loins, then over at Daoud with a combination of sadness and muted anger. A look that said she'd been through this many times before.

The boy reached his hands out, cried "Mama." Daoud felt like apologizing but knew it was the wrong approach for someone like her. To the traditional ones, raised on beating by fathers and husbands, kindness was interpreted as weakness.

"I'm Police Sergeant Daoud of the Kishle Substation," hesaid, stiffly. "I'm searching for someone who knows this girl." A wave of the photo. "Your son said he did and I was attempting to learn what he knew."

The woman snorted, came forward and glanced at the photo. Looking up without expression, she said, "He doesn't know her."

"Badirl!" said Ahmed, clucking his tongue.

"He said he did," said Daoud. "Seemed quite sure of it."

"Lessano taweel" snapped the woman. "He has a long tongue." She chattered rapidly: "His talk is like dung. Can't you see he's a fool?" Coming down the steps, she walked to the boy, slapped him sharply on the head, and took hold of his shirt collar.

"Up, you!"

"Mama, Mama!"

Slap, drag, slap. The boy got halfway to his feet and the woman, breathing hard, pulled him up the stairs toward the door.

"Badirl!" shouted the boy.

"One moment," said Daoud.

"A fool," said the woman, and she yanked the boy into the house and slammed the door.

Daoud stood alone on the steps and considered his options: He could knock, pursue the matter. But to what end? The picture had elicited no response from the woman, which meant the idiot son probably didn't know her either. A long-tongued idiot, as she'd said. Shooting off his mouth. A waste of time.

He took a deep breath and noticed that the skies had begun to darken. His job was far from done-covering the rest of the village would take hours. But the chance for human contact diminished with every degree the sun dropped. Better to wait until morning, a workday, with men on the streets. In the meantime he'd be better off asking his questions around more populated areas: the bus depot, the train station. Chasing shadows into the small hours.

It was decided, then. He'd leave Silwan, work Jerusalem until he couldn't keep his eyes open, come back tomorrow. First thing in the morning.

The collision of fist with face, firecracker-sharp.

The Chinaman sat in the tent, watching the movie. Waiting for Charlie Khazak to finish with the truck driver.

Bruce Lee on a big TV screen, surrounded by seven masked bad guys in black pajamas. Bare-chested and sweating, unarmed against the bad guys' knives and clubs. The bad guys moving in. A closeup of Bruce grimacing, screaming, a storm of lightning kicks and all the bad guys are down.

Not likely.

Applause and hoots came from some of the tables. Greasy-haired pooshtakim slouched with their arms around the bare shoulders of dumb, adoring girlfriends. Staring at the TV on the ladder as if it were some kind of god on a pedestal. Chain-smoking and drinking Turkish coffee, eating shishlik and watermelon, open-mouthed, spitting the seeds onto the dirt floor. Snotty little punks, laughing too loud. At this hour they should all be in bed. He picked out at least three or four he'd busted in the last year, probably others he couldn't remember. A couple of them met his eyes, tried to give him a little shit with defiant looks, but turned away when he held the stare. •

A hot night, and he was overdressed for it-jeans, boots, a body shirt, a loose cotton sport coat to cover his shoulder holster. Tired and grumpy from walking all night through the Arab neighborhoods, showing the girl's picture and getting blank stares. Five hookers working the entire Green Line, all of them fat and ugly. Having to wait for one of them to finish blowing an Arab in the back of her car before he could question her; the other ones available but semiretarded. None of them knew the girl; none of them seemed to care, even after he'd warned them, even after Gray Man. Now, here he was, waiting again, for a shit like Charlie Khazak.

On the screen, Bruce had walked into a garden and encountered a fat bald guy with the body of a sumo wrestler. Was there a plot to this one? Bruce's footwork didn't seem to impress Fatso. Close-up of his ugly puss grinning. Bruce getting slammed around; then a neck chop and a two-hander to the back of the head turned the tables. More cheers and hoots. Someone had told him the guy had died from a brain tumor or something like that. Too many kicks to the head.

He took a cube of melon from his plate, let it melt in his mouth, looked around the tent, got restless, and walked outside. Charlie Khazak was still talking to the driver, standing next to the melon truck, playing dickering games.

The Chinaman kept his eye on the flow out of the Damascus Gate, watched a group of soldiers pass under the arch, patting one another on the back, looking like the teenagers they were. A couple of Arabs, emerged, dressed in long white jallabiyahs. Another Arab, older, carrying a prayer rug. A solitary Hassid, tall, thin, wearing a wide mink hat. Like some black-garbed scarecrow, earlocks swinging as he walked. Where was a guy like that coming from at one in the morning on Shabbat-didn't they screw their wives on Friday night? What was his game-a late wrestle with the Talmud? Or some other kind of wrestle? During the stakeouts on Gray Man he'd learned about the righteous ones

Shouts of laughter poured out of Charlie's tent. No doubt Bruce had polished off someone else. As if in competition, the tent next door erupted in guffaws, backed by bass-heavy rock music.

Midnight party time at The Slave Market, every Friday, like clockwork. No party for Yossi Lee, walking through the tents, showing the picture to sleazy types and getting nothing.

By daybreak the tents would be down, the entire area just a dirt lot again, crowded with ten-dollar-a-day laborers waiting to be picked up by contractors. The only evidence of the party scene, the garbage: piles of broken bamboo shishlik skewers and melon rind, seeds dotting the dirt like dead bugs.

A Border Patrol jeep drove down Sultan Suleiman, stopped, and flashed blue lights over the walls, striping the Damascus Gate and driving on. Belly-dancing music came from one of the coffeehouses just inside the gate. A hangout for older Arabs-men only; the women were stuck at home. Card games and backgammon, the air a fog of tobacco smoke filtered through rosewater narghilas. Scratchy recordings of finger cymbals and whining violins, the same love song played for an hour-what use was all that romance, with no women around? Maybe they were ail queer-the way they sucked on their narghilas, you could hear the gurgle.

Charlie Khazak paid the driver. Two boys materialized from behind the truck and started unloading the melons, carrying five, six at a time, back to the tent. Hot night like this, they'd sell faster than they came in.

The Chinaman stretched impatiently, walked over to Charlie, and said, "Come on."

"Patience." Charlie smiled and turned back to the Arab, who was counting his money with a tongue-moistened finger. Charlie smiled again, a vulture smile on a vulture face. Skinny, dark. Pocked, sunken cheeks, Iraqi beak nose, and one dark line of eyebrow. Bald on top with pointy sideburns and a long fringe of hair on the sides that ran over onto his collar. A purple and green paisley shirt with balloon sleeves, tight black pants, needle-toed patent-leather shoes. A pooshtak all grown up. The guy's father had been a rabbi in Baghdad; the wages of righteousness, a punk son.

"Patience, nothing," said the Chinaman and put his hand heavily on Charlie's shoulder. All bones. One good squeeze and the guy would be out of commission.

He exerted the tiniest bit of pressure and Charlie said goodbye to the Arab.

The two of them walked back to the tent, past the tables with pooshtakim greeting Charlie as if he were some sort of pop star, to the rear, where shishlik and skimpy hamburgers sizzled on charcoal grills and a sleepy-looking bartender filled orders behind a makeshift bar of melon cartons piled one on top of the other. Charlie grabbed a bottle of Coke from the ice bucket and offered it to the Chinaman, who took it and dropped it back in the bucket. Charlie shrugged, and the Chinaman motioned him into a dark corner next to a pyramid of melons, away from the eyes of the others.

"Look at this," he said, pulling out the picture. "Know her?"

Charlie took the photo, furrowed his forehead so that the single eyebrow dipped in the center.

"Cute. Is she sleeping or dead?"

"Ever sell her?"

"Me?" Charlie feigned hurt feelings. "I'm a restaurateur, not a flesh peddler."

A roar of approval rose from the crowd at the tables. Bruce Lee had just finished vanquishing a small army of bad guys.

"The mysteries of the Orient," said Charlie, watching the film. "Right up your alley."

"Cut the shit. I'm tired."

Something in the detective's voice wiped the smile off

Charlie's face. Handing the photo back, he said: "Don't know her."

"Ever seen her around?"

The faintest hesitation, but the Chinaman picked up on it.

"No."

The Chinaman inched closer to Charlie, so that they could smell each other. "If you're holding out on me, I'll find out, shmuck. And I'll come back and jam one of those melons up your ass."

The bartender looked up. Smiling faintly, enjoying the sight of the boss being bossed.

Charlie put his hands on his hips. Raised his voice for the benefit of the bartender: "Get the hell out of here, Lee. I'm busy."

The Chinaman lifted a melon from the pyramid, knocked on it as if testing for freshness, then let it roll off his palm and fall to the ground. The melon landed with a dull thud and exploded, pink pulp and juice splattering in the dust. The barman looked up, remained in his place. No one else seemed to have noticed. All locked in on Bruce.

"Oops." The Chinaman smiled.

Charlie started to protest, but before he could say anything the Chinaman placed his right boot heel on the tent-keeper's right instep, leaned in, and put a little weight on it. Charlie's eyes opened wide with pain.

"What the-" he said, then forced himself to smile. The grand-daddy pooshiak, toughing it out, not wanting to look like a pussy in front of his fans. Not that they had eyes for anyone but Bruce.

"Tell me what you know." The Chinaman smiled back.

"Off my foot, you baboon."

The Chinaman continued smiling. Pressed down harder and talked nonchalantly, as if the two of them were buddies. Having a chat about sports or something.

"Listen, Adon Khazak," he said, "I've no interest in finding out what naughtiness you've been up to. Tonight." More pressure. "Just tell me about this girl."

Charlie gasped and the bartender came closer, bottle of Goldstar in one hand. "Charlie-"

"Get the hell out of here, stupid! Do your job!"

The bartender cursed under his breath, went back to washing glasses.

"Like I told you," Charlie said between his teeth. Sweat ran down his nose, beading at the tip of the beak, rolling off into the dirt. "I don't know her. Now get the hell off my foot before you break something."

"You've seen her around."

"What of it? She's a face, a nothing."

"Where and when," said the Chinaman.

"Get off and I'll tell you."

The Chinaman gave a good-natured shrug and broke contact. Charlie spat into the ground, did a sneaky little dance. Concealed his pain by pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a box of matches, jamming a cigarette between his lips, and making a show of lighting a match against his thumbnail. He sucked in smoke, blew it out though his nostrils. Repeated the gesture. Formed his features into a tough-guy grimace.

"Very impressive," said the Chinaman. "The girl."

"She's been around once or twice, okay? That's all."

"On a Friday?"

"That's the only time we're here, Lee." A kick at a stray chunk of pulp.

"Was she alone or with someone?"

"I saw her with a guy."

"What kind of guy?"

"An Arab."

"Name."

"How the hell should I know? They never came in. I just saw them hanging around. It was a long time ago."

"How long?"

"Month, maybe two."

"How do you know he was an Arab?"

"He looked like one. And he was talking Arabic." As if explaining to a moron.

"What did this Arab look like?"

"Skinny, lots of hair, mustache. Cheap clothes."

"How tall?"

"Medium."

"Be more specific."

"Not tall, not short. In the middle-maybe a meter eight."

"How old?"

"Eighteen or nineteen."

"What else about him do you remember?"

"Nothing. He looked like a million others."

"What'd you mean, lots of hair?"

"What does it mean to you?"

"Charlie," said the Chinaman, meaningfully.

"Thick, bushy, okay?"

"Straight or curly?"

"Straight, I think. Like yours." A smile. "Maybe he's your cousin. Lee."

"What style?"

"Who the hell remembers?"

"She an Arab too?"

"Who else would hang around with an Arab, Lee?"

"One of your cousins."

Charlie spat again. Inhaled his cigarette and ordered the bartender to clean up the mess.

"Street girl?" asked the Chinaman.

"How would I know that?"

The Chinaman cracked the knuckles of one hand.

"You're a cunt peddler is how, Charlie."

"I'm not into that shit anymore, Lee. I sell melons, that's all. Maybe this guy was pimping her, but all I saw was them hanging out. Once or twice."

"Ever see her with anyone else?"

"No. Just the two of them, hanging around-it was over a month ago."

"But you remember her."

Charlie grinned and patted his chest.

"I'm a connoisseur of beauty, you know? And she was good-looking. Big round ass, nice tits for someone that young. Even in those stupid clothes she was all right."

"She wore cheap clothes too?"

"Both of them. He was a nothing, a farmer. Give her a makeover, she'd be a fine piece."

"Tell me what else you know," said the Chinaman, restraining an urge to slap the little shit.

"That's it."

"Sure about that?"

Charlie shrugged, took a drag on his cigarette.

"Step on my foot again, Lee. From here on in, anything I tell you will be fairy tales."

"Ever see this Arab without her?"

"I don't look at boys. Do you?"

The Chinaman lifted his hand. Charlie recoiled, stumbling backward, and the Chinaman caught him before he fell. Lifted him by the scruff, like a rag doll.

"Tsk, tsk," he said, patting the tent-keeper's face gently. "Just a love pat."

"Goto hell, Lee."

"Shabbat shalom."

Back on his Vespa, he processed what he'd learned. Charlie's recognition had turned the girl from a picture into someone real. But when you got right down to it he didn't know much more than when he'd started.

She was loose, hung around with an Arab guy, which meant she was probably an Arab. Maybe a Christian-some of them were a little more modern. No way would a Muslim daddy allow his girl out at night, unchaperoned, least of all at The Slave Market.

Unless she was an orphan or a whore.

No one at the orphanages had known her.

A whore, probably. Or an unwanted daughter sold by her family-it was against the law, but some of the poorer families still did it. The girls, unwanted baggage, traded for cash to rich families in Amman or one of the oil states. The real slave market. Charlie had said her clothes were cheap

He kicked in the scooter's engine, flipped it around, drove south around the Old City. Past the Border Patrol jeep, which had stopped for a cigarette break near the Jaffa Gate. Swinging away from the walls, up to Keren Hayesod, zipping through the Rehavya district. Toward his flat on Herzl on the west side of town.

A lead, but pitiful. Good-looking, poor Arab girl with a poor Arab boyfriend. Big deal.

It was too late to knock on any more doors-not that that approach was worth much anyway. A day of it had brought him dumb stares, shakes of the head. Some of them pretending his Arabic was too poor to understand-pure crap; he was plenty fluent. Others simply shrugging. Know-nothing Ahmeds. For all he knew, he'd already talked to the right person and had been lied to.

If she had a family, they should have claimed her.

Probably a whore. But none of the pimps or the street girls knew her. Maybe a rookie. Short career.

Maybe the long-haired boyfriend was the killer, or maybe he was just a guy who'd screwed her once or twice, then went on to something else. Thin, medium-sized, with a mustache. Like saying a guy with two arms, two legs. Nothing worth reporting to Dani.

Yossi Lee, ace investigator. He'd been on his feet for twelve hours, with little to show for it. Had gulped down greasy felafel that sat undigested in his stomach. Aliza had said she'd try to wait up for him, but he knew she'd be sleeping, little Rafi curled in the crib by the bed. Yesterday the kid had said "apple," which seemed pretty good for sixteen months. Muscles on him, too; ready for soccer before you knew it. Maybe he'd get a chance to bounce him around a little before hitting the street again. No walk in the park this Saturday, though. Shit.

The wind in his face felt good. He liked the city this way, sweet and empty. As if all of it belonged to him. King Yossi, the Jewish Genghis.

He'd drive around a little more. Give himself time to wind down.

Daniel awoke at three in the morning, troubled by vague remembrances of dark, bloody dreams. Metal through flesh, his hand severed, floating through space, out of reach. Crying like a child, mud-soaked and feeble

He changed positions, hugged the pillow, wrapped himself in the top sheet and tried to relax. But instead, he grew edgier and rolled over again, facing Laura.

She was covered to her chin, breathing shallowly through barely parted lips. A wave of hair fell over one eye; a hint of tapered fingernail extended from beneath the sheet. He touched the nail, brushed away the hair. She stirred, made a throaty, contented sound, and stretched so that the sole of one foot rested on his ankle. He inched closer, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, dry lips tasting faintly of morning.

She smiled in her sleep and he moved up against her and kissed her chin. She opened her eyes, looked at him with confusion, and closed them again. Her body tensed, and she turned away from him. Then her eyes opened again. She mouthed the word oh and wrapped her arms around him.

They embraced, lying on their sides, face to face, kissing, nuzzling, rocking in a tangle of sheets. She raised one leg and rested it on his thigh, took him and guided him inside of her. They made love that way, slowly, sleepily, until climax brought them wide awake.

Afterward, they lay connected for a while. Then Laura said, "Daniel… I'm thirsty," with mischief in her voice.

"AH right," he said, extricating himself.

He got out of bed, went into the kitchen, and filled a glass with cold mineral water. When he returned she was sitting up, bare above the waist, her hair pinned up. He handed her the glass and she emptied it in two long drafts.

"Want more?" he asked.

"No, this is fine." She moistened her finger on the rim of the glass, brushed it across her lips.

"Sure?" He smiled. "There's a half-gallon bottle in the refrigerator."

"Tease!" Fanning wet fingers, she splashed him lightly. "Can I help it if I get thirsty? That's the way my body works."

"Your body works just fine." He lay down beside her, put his arm around her shoulder. She set the glass on the nightstand, looked at the clock that rested there, and gave a low moan.

"Oh, no. Three-twenty."

"Sorry for waking you."

She reached beneath the covers, touched him lightly, and laughed. "All's well that ends well. Have you been up long?"

"A few minutes."

"Anything the matter?"

"Just restless," he said, feeling the tension return.

"I'll get up and let you rest."

He began to move away but she touched his wrist and restrained him.

"No. Stay. We've hardly talked since you got that call."

She rested her head on his shoulder, made circles with her palm across his hairless chest. They sat without speaking, listening to night sounds-a faint whistle of wind, the hum of the clock, the synchrony of their heartbeats.

"Tell me about it," she said.

"About what?"

"What you avoided talking about by going to bed at nine."

"You don't want to hear about it."

"Yes, I do."

"It's horrible, believe me."

"Tell me, anyway."

He looked at her, saw the will in her eyes. Shrugged and began talking about the murder, reporting dispassionately, professionally. Leaving out as much as he could without patronizing her. She listened without comment, flinching only once, but when he finished her eyes were moist.

"My God," she said. "Fifteen."

He knew what she was thinking: not much older than Shoshi. He allowed himself to share the thought, and a stab of anxiety pierced him to the core. He defended against it the way he'd been taught to block out pain. Forcing pleasant images into his mind. Fields of wild poppies. The fragrance of orange blossoms.

"Heroin, sex murder, it doesn't… fit," Laura was saying. "We're not supposed to have that kind of thing here."

"Well, now we do," he said angrily. A second later: "Sorry. You're right. We're out of our element."

"That's not what I meant. I'm sure you'll solve it."

"Twenty-four-hour shifts until we do."

"It's just…" She groped for words. "When I was growing up, I heard about those kinds of things alt the time. It wasn't that we accepted them, but… Oh, I don't know. Here, it just seems a heresy, Daniel. Demonic."

"I understand," said Daniel, but to himself he thought: That's exactly the kind of thing I have to avoid. Devils and demons, religious symbolism-the city makes you think that way. It's a crime, no more, no less. Perpetrated by a human being. Someone sick and fallible

"What time will you be leaving?" Laura asked. "Seven. I have to walk down to the Katamonim. If I'm not back by twelve-thirty, start lunch without me."

"The Katamonim? I thought you said she was an Arab."

"Daoud thinks she is. We won't know until we ID her." She unpinned her hair, let it fall to her shoulders. "The brass wants it kept quiet," he said. "Which means meetings away from Headquarters. If we get any leads, we'll be meeting here, Sunday evening. Don't prepare anything. If we're out of soda, I'll pick some up."

"What time in the evening?"

"Between five and six."

"Do you want me to pick up Luanne and Gene?" Daniel slapped his forehead. "Oh, no, how could I forget. When are they corning in?"

"Seven P.M. if the flight's on schedule."

"Perfect timing. So much for grand hospitality."

"They'll be fine, Daniel. They'll probably be exhausted for the first day or so. I've arranged a walking tour of the Old City churches and Bethlehem on Tuesday, and I'll book them on an all-day trip to Galilee with an emphasis on Nazareth. That should keep them busy for a while."

"I wanted it to be personal, the way they treated us."

"There'll be plenty of time for that-they're here for four weeks. Besides, if anyone should be able to understand, it's them. Gene probably sees this kind of thing all the time."

"Yes," said Daniel, "I'm sure he does."

At four Laura fell back asleep and Daniel drifted into a somnolent state, neither slumber nor arousal, in which dream-images flitted in and out of consciousness with a randomness that was unsettling. At six he got up, sponged off in the bathroom, dressed in a white shirt, khaki trousers, and rubber-soled walking shoes, and forced himself to swallow a glass of orange juice and a cup of instant coffee with milk and sugar. He took his tallit out on the balcony, faced the Old City, and prayed. By seven he was out the door, beeper on his belt, the envelope containing pictures of the dead girl in hand.

As on every other Shabbat, two of the elevators in the building were shut down, the third set automatically, stopping at every floor, so that religiously observant tenants could ride without having to push buttons-the completion of electric circuits was a violation of the Sabbath. But religious convenience also meant agonizingly slow progress, and when he saw that the car had just reached the ground floor, he took the stairs and bounded down four flights.

A man was in the lobby, leaning against the mailboxes, smoking. Young, twenty-two or -three, well built and tan, with dark wavy hair and a full clipped beard highlighted with ginger, wearing a white polo shirt with a Fila logo, American designer jeans, brand-new blue-and-white Nike running shoes. On his left wrist was an expensive-looking watch with a gold band; around his neck, a gold Hai charm. An American, thought Daniel. Some kind of playboy, maybe a rich student, but he doesn't belong here-everyone in the building was religious, no one smoked like that on Shabbat.