The Butcher's Theatre (10 page)

He sipped his cola, popped an olive in his mouth, removed the pit, and put it on his plate. Nibbling on another, he asked, “Anyone at the Amelia look like a suspect?”

“Nothing glaring,” said Daniel. “Two of them were especially jumpy. Doctor named Al Biyadi and his girlfriend—an American nurse. She implied we’ve been persecuting him. Seemed to be a typical case of sheikh fever.”

“Sure,” said Shmeltzer. “Madly in love with Ahmed until he puts a bomb in her suitcase and sends her off on El Al. Where’d she meet him?”

“In America. Detroit, Michigan. Lots of Arabs there. Lots of PLO sympathy.”

“What is it we’re supposed to have done to Lover Boy?”

“Don’t know yet,” said Daniel. “Probably some kind of immigration problem. Records is running a check on both of them and on the other hospital people as well.” He took a drink of soda, felt the bubbles dance against the back of his teeth. “Think this one could be political?”

Shmeltzer shrugged. “Why not? Our sweet cousins keep searching for new approaches.”

“Levi said it’s likely she was anesthetized,” said Daniel. “Sedated with heroin.”

“Kindly killer,” said Shmelzer.

“It made me think of a doctor, but then I thought a doctor would have access to all kinds of sedatives—no need to use something illegal.”

“Unless the doctor was an addict himself. Maybe he and the girl had a heroin party. She overdosed. When he saw her he panicked, cut her up.”

“I don’t think so,” said Daniel. “Levi says the dose wasn’t fatal, and she was injected twice.” He paused. “The way it was done, Nahum—the cutting was deliberate.”

The door opened and Kohavi came in with another man.

Shmeltzer looked at the newcomer, then sharply back at Daniel.

“Speaking of sweet cousins,” he said.

“He’s first-rate,” said Daniel. “If the girl’s an Arab he’ll be valuable.”

Kohavi had slipped back to the front room and the new man walked toward them alone. Medium-sized, dark-complexioned, and in his twenties, he wore a tan suit, white shirt, and no tie. His face was long and big-boned, terminating in a heavy square chin. His hair was light reddish-brown and combed straight back, his mustache a faint ginger wisp over a wide, serious mouth. Narrow-set green eyes stared straight ahead, unwavering. When he reached the table he said, “Good afternoon, Pakad.”

“Good afternoon, Elias. Please sit down. This is Mefakeah Nahum Shmeltzer of National Headquarters. Nahum, Samal Rishon Elias Daoud, of the Kishle Station.”

“Elias.” Shmeltzer nodded.

“The privilege is mine, sir.” Daoud’s voice was thin and boyish, his Hebrew fluent but accented—the rolling Arabic “r,” the substitution of “b” for “p.” He sat down and folded his hands in his lap, docile but inquisitive, like a schoolboy in a new class.

“Call me Nahum,” said Shmeltzer. ‘“Sirs’ are fat guys who wear their medals to bed.”

Daoud forced a smile.

“Have something to drink, Elias,” said Daniel.

“Thank you. The proprietor is bringing me a coffee.”

“Something to eat?”

“Thank you.” Daoud took a pita and ate it plain, chewing slowly, looking down at the tablecloth, ill at ease. Daniel wondered how many Jewish restaurants he’d been to—how often, for that matter, did he come over to the western side of town?

“We’re all impressed,” he said, “with your work on the Number Two Gang case. All those creeps behind bars, the drugs kept off the street.”

“I did my job,” said Daoud. “God was with me.”

Shmeltzer took a pickle and bit off the tip. “Here’s hoping He stays with you. We’ve got a tough one. A maniac murderer.”

Daoud’s eyes widened with interest.

“Who was killed?”

“A young girl,” said Daniel. “Mutilated and dumped on Scopus across from the Amelia Catherine. No ID. Here.”

He picked up the envelope, drew out photos of the dead girl, and distributed copies to both detectives.

“Ring any bells?”

Shmeltzer shook his head. “Pretty,” he said in a tight voice, then turned away.

Daoud continued to examine the picture, holding the edges with both hands, concentrating, grim.

“I can’t place her,” he said finally. “But there’s something familiar about the face.” “What?” asked Daniel.

Daoud stared at the photo again. “I don’t know why, but one of the villages keeps coming to mind. Silwan, perhaps. Or Abu Tor.”

“Not Bethlehem?”

“No, sir,” said Daoud. “If she were from Bethlehem, I’d know her.”

“What about the other villages?” asked Shmeltzer. “Sur Bahir, Isawiya.”

“Maybe,” said Daoud. “For some reason Abu Tor and Silwan come to mind.”

“Perhaps you’ve seen her in passing,” said Daniel. “A brief glimpse through the car window.”

Daoud thought for a while. “Perhaps.”

He’s worried, thought Daniel. About having spoken too soon with nothing to back it up.

“So you’re saying she’s an Arab,” said Shmeltzer.

“That was my first impression,” said Daoud. He tugged at his mustache.

“I’ve got a requisition in for all the missing-kid files,” said Daniel. “Sixteen hundred of them. In the meantime, we’ll be knocking on doors. The villages are as good a place to start as any. Take Silwan first, Elias. Show the picture around. If nothing clicks, go on to Abu Tor.”

Daoud nodded and put the photo in his jacket pocket.

A shout came from across the room:

“All recruits at attention!”

A striking-looking man swaggered toward the table. Well over six feet, bulging and knotted with the heavy musculature of a weight lifter, he wore white shorts, rubber beach sandals, and a red sleeveless mesh shirt that exposed lots of hard saffron skin. His hair was blue-black, straight, parted in the middle and styled with a blow-dryer, his face wholly Asian, broad and flat like that of a Mongolian warrior. Eyes resting on high shelflike cheekbones were twin slits in rice paper. A blue shadow of beard darkened his chin. About thirty years old, with five years latitude on either side of the estimate.

“Shalom, Dani. Nahum.” The man’s voice was deep and harsh.

“Chinaman.” Shmeltzer nodded. “Day off?”

“Till now,” said the big man. He looked at Daoud appraisingly, then sat down next to him.

“Yossi Lee,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re Daoud, right? The ace of Kishle.”

Daoud took the hand tentatively, as if assessing the greeting for sarcasm. Lee’s shake was energetic, his smile an equine flash of long, curving white teeth. Releasing the Arab’s hand, he yawned and stretched.

“What do they have to eat in this dump? I’m starved.”

“Better this dump than somewhere else,” said Shmeltzer.

“Somewhere else would be free,” said Lee. “Free always tastes terrific.”

“Next time, Chinaman,” promised Daniel. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes late and the new man hadn’t arrived.

Emil came in with menus.

“A beer,” said the Chinaman.

“Goldstar or Maccabee?” asked Emil.

“Goldstar.”

The waiter started to leave.

“Stick around,” said Daniel. “We’ll order now.”

Shmeltzer and the Chinaman ordered stuffed marrow appetizers and a double mixed grill each. Daniel noticed Daoud examine the menu, shift his eyes to the price column, and hesitate. Wondering, no doubt, how far a brand-new sergeant’s salary would carry him. Daniel had visited Daoud’s home in Bethlehem shortly after the bust of the Number Two Gang, bringing news of the promotion and a gift of dried fruit. The poverty had surprised him, though it shouldn’t have—most cops had serious money problems. The papers had just run a story about a bunch of new hires applying for welfare. And before joining the force Daoud had worked as a box boy in a souvenir shop, one of those cramped, musty places that sold olive-wood crucifixes and straw mockups of the Nativity to Christian tourists. Earning what—a thousand a year?

Now, watching the Arab scan the menu, the memory of that poverty returned: the Daoud household—three closet-sized rooms in an ancient building, mattresses on the floor, a charcoal stove for heat, prints of Jesus in agony on whitewashed walls. Children everywhere—at least half a dozen, toddling and tripping, in various stages of undress. A shy young wife gone to fat, a crippled motherin-law knitting silently. Cooking smells and baby squalls.

Putting his own menu down, he said: “I’ll have a mint salad.”

“Mint salad.” said Emil the Waiter, copying. “What else, Pakad?”

“That’s it.”

The waiter’s eyebrows rose.

“Dieting?” said the Chinaman.

“Shabbat tonight,” said Daniel. “Big meal.”

Daoud handed his menu to Emil the Waiter.

“I’ll have a mint salad too,” he said.

“What else for you?”

“A coffee.”

Emil grew wary, as if expecting to be the butt of a joke.

“Don’t tell me,” said the Chinaman. “You’re eating at his house.”

Daoud smiled.

“That’ll be all,” said Daniel to the waiter, who departed, muttering, “Salads, salads.”

Daniel began laying out the case before the food came and continued after its delivery, ignoring his salad and talking while the others ate. Handing a photo of the dead girl to Lee, he placed another in front of the empty chair, and passed on what he’d learned so far. The detectives took notes, holding pens in one hand, forks in the other. Chewing, swallowing, but mechanically. A silent audience.

“Three possibilities come to mind immediately,” he said. “One, a psychopathic murder. Two, a crime of passion—in that I include blood revenge. Three, terrorism. Any other suggestions?”

“Gang murder,” said Shmeltzer. “She was someone’s girl and got in the middle of something.”

“The gangs use bullets and they don’t kill women,” said the Chinaman. He slid cubes of shishlik off a skewer, stared at them, ate one.

“They never used to kill anyone,” said Shmeltzer. “There’s always a first time.”

“They hide their corpses, Nahum,” said Lee. “The last thing they want is to make it public.” To Daoud: “You guys never found any of the ones The Number Two boys hit, did you?”

Daoud shook his head.

“Any gang wars brewing that you know of?” Daniel asked Lee.

The Chinaman took a swallow of beer and shook his head. “The hashish gangs are stable—heavy supply down from Lebanon with enough to go around for everyone. Zik and the Chain Street Boys have a truce going on stolen goods. Zik’s

also cornered the opium market but for now it’s too small for anyone to challenge him.”

“What about the melon gangs?” asked Shmeltzer.

“The crop will be small this summer so we can expect some conflict, but that’s a while off and we’ve never had a melon murder yet.”

“All in due time,” said the older detective. “We’re growing civilized at an alarming rate.”

“Look into the gangs, Chinaman,” said Daniel. “And investigate the possibility of a pimp-whore thing—that she was a street girl who betrayed her sarsur and he wanted to make an example of her. Show her picture to the lowlifes and see if anyone knew her.”

“Will do,” said Lee.

“Any other hypotheses?” asked Daniel. When no one answered he said, “Let’s go back to the first three, starting with terrorism. On the surface it doesn’t look political—there was no message attached to the body and no one’s claimed credit. But that may still be coming. We know they’ve been trying out street crime as a strategy—the one who stabbed Shlomo Mendelsohn shouted slogans, as did the punks who shot at the hikers near Solomon’s Pool. Both of those cases were semi-impulsive—opportunistic—and this one looks more premeditated, but so was the job Tutunji’s gang did on Talia Gidal, so let’s keep our minds open. Nahum, I want you to liaison with Shin Bet and find out if they’ve picked up word of a sex murder strategy from overseas or any of the territories. Elias, have you heard anything along those lines?”

“There’s always talk,” said Daoud cautiously.

Shmeltzer’s face tightened. “What kind of talk?” he asked.

“Slogans. Nothing specific.”

“That so?” said the older detective, wiping his glasses. “I saw something specific the other day. Graffiti near the Hill of Golgotha. ‘Lop off the head of the Zionist monster.’ Could be someone followed instructions.”

Daoud said nothing.

“When you get right down to it,” Shmeltzer continued, “there’s nothing new about Arabs mixing mutilation and politics.” He jabbed his fork into a piece of grilled kidney, put it into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “In the Hebron

massacre they sliced the breasts off all the women. Castrated the men and stuffed their balls in their mouths. The Saudis still dismember thieves. It’s part of the Arabic culture, right?”

Daoud stared straight ahead, tugging at his mustache until the skin around it reddened.

Daniel and the Chinaman looked at Shmeltzer, who shrugged and said, “This is Jerusalem, boys. A historical context is essential.”

He returned his attention to his food, cutting into a baby lamb chop, masticating with exaggerated enthusiasm.

The silence that followed was ponderous and cold. Daoud broke it, speaking in a near murmur.

“For this murder to be political, the girl would have to be Jewish—”

“Or a member of an Arab family viewed as collaborationist,” said Shmeltzer.

Daoud lowered his glance and pushed salad greens around his plate.

“All possibilities will be considered,” said Daniel. “Let’s move on to the second possibility. Crime of passion—unrequited love, an affair gone sour, soiled honor, blood revenge. Any of you know of family conflicts that could get nasty?”

“A couple of Moroccan families over in Katamon Tet have been punching each other out for the last few months,” said the Chinaman. “Something about where the laundry should hang. Last I heard it’d cooled down. I’ll check.”

“Two betrothed families from Surif are feuding over a dowry,” said Daoud. “It’s been all words so far but the words are growing stronger and it may very well boil over into violence. But I know all the family members on both sides and she’s not of them. The only other thing I can think of is that Druze sheikh who was murdered last year.”

“Hakim al Atrash,” said Daniel.

“Yes. Common belief is that it was a land dispute and the Janbulat clan was behind it. It’s an open situation—vengeance has yet to be accomplished. But when they kill someone it will be another man, not a young girl.”