The Butcher's Theatre (53 page)

Malkovsky bellowed with pain, squirmed helplessly, like a steer trussed for slaughter.

Sheindel was biting her knuckles to keep from hyperventilating.

Avi pulled the wife away, told her: “Cut it out, take care of your daughter.”

Mrs. Malkovsky curled her hands into claws, looked down at her husband, and spat on him.

“Momzer! Meeskeit! Shoyn opgetrent?”

Sheindel let go of her knuckles and started to wail.

“Oy,” moaned Malkovsky, praying as his wife cursed him. Avi recognized the prayer, now. The El Molei Rakhamim, the prayer for the dead.

“Shtikdreck! Yentzer!” screamed Batla Malkovsky. “Shoyn opgetrent? Shoyn opgetrent—gai in drerd arein.r She lunged at Malkovsky. Avi restrained her and she twisted in his grasp, spitting and cursing, then began clawing at him, going for his eyes.

Avi slapped her across the face. She stared at him, stupidly. A pretty woman, actually, when you looked past the grimness and the hysteria and the baggy dress. She started crying, clenched her jaws shut to stem the tears. Meanwhile the kid was sobbing her heart out.

“Cut it out,” he told the mother. “Do your job, for God’s sake.”

Mrs.Malkovsky went limp and started to weep, joining her daughter in a sobbing duet.

Great. Yom Kippur.

“Oy,” she said, tearing at her hair. “Riboynoy sheloylam!”

“Oy, nothing,” said Avi. “God helps those who help themselves. If you’d done your job in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened.”

The woman stopped mid-sob, frozen with shame. She

yanked out a healthy clump of hair and nodded her head violently. Up and down, up and down, bobbing like some kind of robot whose controls had short-circuited.

“Take care of your daughter,” said Avi, losing patience. ‘Go inside.”

Still bobbing, the woman capitulated, walking over to Sheindel and touching her lightly on the shoulder. The girl looked up, wet-faced. Her mother stretched out arms that had been forced into steadiness, uttered vague maternal comfort.

Avi watched the kid’s reaction, the gun still trained on Malkovsky’s broad back.

“Sheindeleh,” said Mrs. Malkovsky. “Bubbeleh.” She knelt. put her arm around the girl. Sheindel allowed herself to be embraced but made no move to reciprocate.

Well, thought Avi, at least she hadn’t pushed her away, so maybe there was something still there. Still, to let it go this far…

Mrs. Malkovsky stood and raised Sheindel to her feet.

“Get inside,” said Avi, surprised by how gruff he sounded.

The two of them walked into the apartment.

“Now, as for you,” Avi told Malkovsky. The fat man groaned.

“What’s the matter?” said a new voice. “What’s going on?’

A little bald man with a gray bandage of a mustache had come out into the courtyard. He was wearing a sport coat over pajamas, looked ridiculous. Greenberg, the building manager. Avi had seen him nosing around. “You,” said Greenberg, staring at the Beretta. “The one who uses the tennis court and swimming pool all the time.” “I’m Detective Cohen, on special assignment from police headquarters and I need you to make a call for me.” “What has he done?”

“Broken the laws of God and man. Go back to your flat, phone 100, and tell the operator that Detective Avraham

Cohen needs a police wagon dispatched to this address.” Malkovsky started praying again. A symphony of window—

squeaks and whispers played in counterpoint to his entreaties. “This is a nice place, very tidy,” said Greenberg, still trying to absorb the reality of the moment.

“Then let’s keep it that way. Make that call before everyone finds out you rent to dangerous criminals.”

“Criminals? Never—”

“Call 100,” said Avi. “Run. Or I’ll shoot him right here, leave the mess for you to clean up.”

Malkovsky moaned.

Greenberg ran.

Laufer’s secretary liked Pakad Sharavi, had always thought of him as kind of cute, one of the nicer ones. So when he entered the waiting room she smiled at him, ready for small talk. But the smile he offered in return was brittle, a poor excuse for cordiality, and when he brushed past her instead of sitting down, she was caught off guard.

“Pakad—you can’t do that! He’s in a conference!”

He ignored her, opened the door.

The deputy commander was conferring with his soda water bottle, polishing the metal, peering up the spout. When he saw Daniel he put it down quickly and said, “What is this, Sharavi!”

“I need to know where he is.”

“I have no time for your nonsense, Sharavi. Leave at once.”

“Not until you tell me where he is, Tat Nitzav.”

The deputy commander bounded out of his chair, came speeding around the desk, and marched up to Daniel, stopping just short of collision.

“Get the hell out.”

“I want to know where Malkovsky is.”

“He’s not your concern.”

“He’s my suspect. I want to question him.”

“Out.”

Daniel ignored the digression. “Malkovsky’s a suspect in my murder case. I needed to talk to him.”

“That’scrap,” said Laufer. “He’s not the Butcher—I ascer-tained that myself.”

“‘What evidence did he present to convince you of his innocence?”

“Don’t try to interrogate me, Sharavi. Suffice it to say he’s out of your bailiwick.”

Daniel struggled with his anger. “The man’s dangerous. If Cohen hadn’t caught him, he’d still be raping children under official protection.”

Ah, Cohen,” said the deputy commander. “Another bit of insubordination that you—and he—will be answering to. |Of course, the charges against him will be mitigated by inexperience. Improper influence by a commanding officer.” “Cohen was—”

“Yes. I know, Sharavi. The girlfriend at Wolfson, one of |life’s little coincidences.” Laufer extended a finger, poked at the air. “Don’t insult me with your little games, you bastard. You want to play games? Fine. Here’s a new one called suspension: You’re off the Butcher case—off any case, without pay. pending a disciplinary hearing. When I’m finished with you, you’ll be directing traffic in Katamon Tet and feeling grateful about it.”

“No.” said Daniel. “The case is mine. I’m staying with it.” Laufer stared at him. “Have you lost your mind?” When Daniel didn’t answer, the deputy commander went behind his desk, sat, took out a leather-bound calendar, and began making notes.

“Traffic detail, Sharavi. Try calling the pretty boy in Australia if you think it’ll hefp you. Your protekzia’s long gone—dead and buried.” The deputy commander laughed out loud. “Funny thing is, it’s your own doing—you fucked yourself, just like now. Nosing into things that don’t concern you.” Laufer lifted a pack of English Ovals off the desk, found it empty and tossed it aside. “Like a little brown rat, rooting in garbage.”

“If I hadn’t rooted,” said Daniel, “you’d still be pushing paper in Beersheva.”

Laufer made a strangling noise and slammed his hand on

the desk. His eyes bulged and his complexion turned the color of ripe plums. Daniel watched him inhale deeply, then expel breath through stiffened lips, saw the rise and fall of his barrel chest, the stubby fingers splayed on the desk top, twitching and drumming as if yearning to do violence.

Then suddenly he was smiling—a cold, collaborative smirk.

“Aha. Now I understand. This, beating Rashmawi, it’s all something psychiatric, eh, Sharavi? You’re trying for a stress pension.”

“I’m fine,” said Daniel. “I want to work on my case. To catch criminals rather than protect them.”

“You have no case. You’re on suspension as of this moment.” Laufer held out a fleshy palm. “Hand over your badge.”

“You don’t really want it.”

‘What !’

“If I walk out of here under suspension, the first place I’m going is the press.”

“All contact between you and the press is forbidden. Violate that order and you’re finished for good.”

“That’s okay,” said Daniel. “I’m allergic to traffic.”

Laufer leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for several moments, then lowered his gaze and directed it back at Daniel.

“Sharavi, Sharavi, do you actually think you’re intimidating me with your threats? What if you do talk? What will it amount to? A nosy little detective, unable to solve the case he’s charged with, tries to distract attention away from his incompetence by whining about administrative manners. Small stuff, even by local standards.”

The deputy commander folded his hands over his paunch. His face was calm, almost beatific, but the fingers kept drumming.

A poor bluffer, thought Daniel. Shoshi would wipe him out in poker.

“I’m not talking local,” said Daniel. “I’m talking international. The foreign press is sure to love this one—child rapist shielded by the police as he stalks the streets of Jerusalem, secret deals cut with Hassidic rebbe. ‘The suspect was apprehended assaulting his own daughter while under

privileged protection of Deputy Commander Avigdor Laufer. The officer who apprehended him has been disciplined—’”

“It goes higher than Avigdor Laufer, you fool! You don’t know what you’re dealing with!”

“The higher the better. They’ll eat IT with a spoon.”

Laufer was on his feet again. Glowering, pointing. “Do it and you’ll be finished, permanently—a blighted record, loss of security rating, no pension, no future. Any decent job will be closed to you. You’ll be lucky to find work shoveling shit with the Arabs.”

“Tat Nitzav,” said Daniel, “we don’t know each other well. Let me acquaint you with my situation. Since the first day of my marriage, my in-laws have been trying to get me to move to America. They’re Jews, believe deeply in the state of Israel, but they want their only daughter near them. I’ve a standing offer of a new house, new car, tuition for my kids, and a job with my father-in-law’s corporation. A very decent job—executive responsibility, regular hours, and more money than I’ll ever earn here, more than you ever will. The only hold the job has over me is the job itself—doing it properly.”

The deputy commander was silent. Daniel took his badge out of his wallet.

“Still want it?”

“Damn you,” said Laufer. “Damn you to hell.”

Lucky, thought Daniel, that he was a pencil-pusher, no detective. Al Birnbaum had never owned a corporation, had spent his working years selling paper goods to printing companies. And even that was old news—he’d been retired for a decade.

He left Laufer’s office and went to his own, having gotten what he’d wanted but feeling no flush of victory.

He’d missed the chance to interview Malkovsky because Cohen had run the whole arrest as a one-man show, booking the suspect without calling in. And if the child raper was a killer they’d never know—another unsolved, like Gray Man.

He thought of calling Cohen in, dressing him down, and kicking him off the team. But the kid had saved Malkovsky’s daughter, his performance on the stakeout had been impeccable, and his intentions on the bust had been good. There’d been no way for him to suspect what was going on while he sweated over the paperwork.

Some paperwork too. All the details of the arrest precisely documented on the correct forms, perfect penmanship, not a single spelling error. It must have taken him most of the night. In the meantime, bye-bye, Malkovsky, trundled out the back door under police escort, handcuffed to a Shin Bet operative dressed as a Hassid. A quick ride to Ben Gurion, bypass of Passport Control and Security, and first-class seating for both of them on the next El Al jet to Kennedy.

Good scandal potential, but short-lived—people forgot quickly; bigger and better things were sure to come along—so he’d decided to use it while it was still worth something. To keep Cohen—and himself—safe, keep Anwar Rashmawi’s lawyer at bay, put an end to any nonsense about disciplinary hearings. And to get Laufer to describe his interrogation of Malkovsky, if you could call it that—three or four hasty questions in a baclc room at the airport, then goodbye, good riddance. Under duress, the deputy commander also agreed to have Mossad make contact with the New York investigators and attempt to question Malkovsky about the murders of Fatma and Juliet.

A symbolic triumph, really, because Daniel no longer considered Malkovsky a serious suspect—not in light of the bloody rock discovery. The man was grossly overweight and out of shape; at the jail he’d complained of shortness of breath. An examining doctor had said his blood pressure was dangerously high. It was unlikely he’d have hiked through the desert carrying a body, though Daniel supposed he could have been part of one of Shmeltzer’s murder cults.

Killer Hassidim—too crazy to consider.

But that wasn’t the point. The brass hadn’t known about the rock when they’d shipped him back to New York. They’d intruded on his case, sullied it with politics.

He’d lived through that before, refused to endure it again.

Rooting in the garbage.

Try calling Australia.

He wondered about Gavrieli, wondered if he liked Melbourne, how he was taking to the duties of an embassy attache. Gorgeous Gideon wore a tuxedo well, knew how to make conversation at parties, the right wine to drink; still, Daniel was certain he was far from fulfilled.

Rooting and nosing. Biting the hand that had fed him— and fed him well, not scraps.

Laufer was a fool, but his words had opened up old wounds. The guilt.

Not that there had been any choice.

He still wondered why Lippmann had been assigned to him. Gavrieli had never answered that one, had avoided Daniel since the day the report was filed.

Surely he must have known it would all come out.

Or had he expected a cover-up—or failure, a premature wrap-up? All the talk about Daniel’s talents just more toothy subterfuge used to capture another pawn, place him into position?

Gavrieli had always had a way with words.

They’d met in ‘67, in early May, just after Passover, in the army training camp near Ashdod. A beautiful spring, balmy and dry, but rumors had settled over the base like storm clouds: Nasser was planning to move troops into the Sinai. No one was sure what would happen.

Daniel had been a nineteen-year-old inductee, a year out of the yeshiva, an honors graduate of paratroop training still basking in the memory of his jumps—the deathly thrill of human flight. Newly assigned to the 66th Battalion, he’d reported to base in sergeant’s chevrons, a red beret, and trooper’s boots, all of it so new it felt like a Purim costume.