Kellerman, Jonathan - The Theatre

"Which is why I thought of the Bedouins," said Shmeltzer. "They know every crack in the sand. Or maybe we've got murderous archaeologists on our hands."

"Contact the university, Nahum, and the Nature Conservancy. Find out if any digs have been planned in the area, any groups taken on hikes down there within the las year or so."

Shmeltzer nodded and made a note.

"Next order of business," said Daniel. "I got a call from the army about Aljuni-the wife murderer from Gaza. He gal tired of being watched, finally agreed to a polygraph. Tel Aviv will do it and send us the report. Any other updates? Then on to Little Hook's story about the flat-eyed American."

"Little Hook's a treacherous piece of dirt," said Shmeltzer, "He'd just as soon lie as breathe."

"Any reason for him to make up a story like this one? asked Daniel.

Shmeltzer held out one hand and ticked off fingers. "Avoiding a larceny bust, trying to curry favor with us, attention seeking."

"I don't think so, Nahum," said the Chinaman. "The lowlife have come around to our side on this one. This Butcher shit is wiping them out financially. Red Amira may have spun a yarn for Little Hook, but my bet is that he's repeating it faithfully"

"Putting aside Little Hook's credibility," said Daniel, there are problems fitting the story to our case. From the way it sounds, Flat Eyes was looking for a curbside pickup. Nothing about our killer indicates that type of impulsive selection. And neither of our victims was working the streets: Fatma was no whore; Juliet had just gotten into town-she had no time to set up her brothel contacts and had no street experience here in Israel."

'She streetwalked in Haifa," said the Chinaman.

"For one day before she got caught. And she was clumsy- the Northern District detective who picked her up told me he was surprised she was a professional. She had no idea sex for hire was legal as long as she kept her mouth shut. He caught her breaking the soliciting law aggressively, throwing herself at sailors. No doubt she would have gotten smarter had she stayed alive and eventually found employment, but the whores and pimps you've spoken to never spotted her or Fatma working Jerusalem, did they, Yossi?"

'No' admitted the big man. "neither of them have been seen at the pickup places. But Juliet could have done some back-alley stuff. And it's possible Fatma wasn't that innocent.

Her boyfriend was slime-maybe he sold her to others."

'Maybe," said Daniel, "According to the brother, Abdel said she was dead, which could have meant she'd turned promiscuous, but no one spotted her hooking and the regular girls always notice newcomers." He shook his head. "No, I don't see either of them meeting the killer at curbside. This wasn't just quick sex-they were shot up with heroin, injected without resistance. To me that says some kind of seduction was used to snare them. Juliet was a drug user, so for her the heroin may have actually been the lure. But what convinced a traditional girl like Fatma to lie there and get stuck?"

"First thrills," said the Chinaman. "When they fall, they fall fast."

"We have evidence she hadn't fallen that far. A few days before she left the monastery, she waited in the olive grove for Anwar, begged him to help her reconcile with the family. So her corruption was far from complete. Taking that needle was a big step-someone very credible had to convince her to do it, or trick her. Someone exploiting a position of trust. Which is why we spent so much time on the doctors, why I put Elias on the monk." To Daoud: "How's that going?"

"The same. He starts walking, then all of a sudden he stops and heads back for the monastery. The farthest he's ever gotten is to the end of the Via Dolorosa. Usually he returns after just a few steps. As if something's bothering him."

"Stick with it. Maybe you'll find out what it is. Daoud nodded, then said, "One question, Pakad."

"What is it?"

"The issue of the casual pickup. We're dealing with a psychologically disturbed person, a deviate. Perhaps he deviated from his own rules and yielded to impulse."

"Perhaps he did, Elias. But why would he go for Amira Nasser? Fatma and Juliet looked remarkably alike, which implies he's after a certain type-small, pretty brunettes wearing earrings. And he probably likes them young-Juliets baby face fooled him. Without her wig, Amira is a petite brunette, but someone watching her work wouldn't know that. He'd see a redhead, hot pants and fishnets, all plastered with makeup."

"Maybe he goes for different types for different things." said the Chinaman. "Redheads for sex, brunettes for killing."

"Wait a minute," said Shmeltzer. "Before we go any further with this, let's bear in mind that this American guy didn't do a damned thing that was incriminating. He offered cash, the whore turned him down, he walked away, end of story. Supposedly he had flat eyes-whatever that means. Very weak. boys. And the fact that it comes via the hunchback makes it weaker than weak."

"I agree with you," said Daniel, "but weak is better than nothing. And having stated all the problems with the story. it still holds my interest. The fact that Amira was scared by this guy can't be brushed off-prostitutes get good at assessing their customers because their safety depends on it. If Amira thought there was something weird about him, there probably was. And the time frame is appealing: Thursday night-a murder a week. Now, exactly how did she describe him, Yossi?" The Chinaman flipped through his note pad. "According to Little Hook he was 'an American with crazy eyes… he came out of nowhere… she figured he'd been hiding somewhere off the road.' I took a look at the area-there's a small field someone could hide in. Forensics found some tire marks, lots of footprints, but all of it was too indistinct to identify."

"Go on," said Daniel. "He offered sex for money, but his eyes scared her and she refused.' I asked Little Hook what was wrong with the eyes and he said Amira had told him they were 'flat. Mad… A strange smile, veiy wide, a grin. But the grin of a killer.' As to what made it a killer's grin, he said, 'Not a happy grin, very crazy.'"

The big man closed the pad. "I tried to get more- squeezed him hard enough to get juice, but that's all there is. If you want, I can pick him up again."

"Just see that he stays in town." Daniel got up, wrote AMERICAN? on the board.

'To Amira," he said, "American could have meant any number of things-a genuine American, someone who spoke English or wore American clothes. Or someone who looked American, which could translate to fair-skinned, big-boned, a T-shirt with the American flag-who knows? But at the very least we're talking about some kind of foreigner-a man with a non-Levantine appearance. Which gives us a possible line of inquiry."

"Comparisons with foreign homicides," said Shmeltzer. 'America and Europe."

'Exactly. Our new Interpol liaison in Bonn is a fellow named Friedman. I've been trying to reach him since Yossi told me Little Hook's story. He's out of town-no one in his office will say where. When he calls in I'm going to have him contact all the Interpol chiefs in Europe, see if they can find records of similar crimes within the past ten years. It shouldn't be difficult; with the exception of the Germans, their homicide rates are generally as low as ours. A vicious one will stand out. The American situation's more complicated: They record tremendous numbers of sex murders each year and there's no central reporting-each city has its own police jurisdiction. They seldom communicate with one another. Lately, though, the FBI's gotten involved-they've been collating homicides and finding serial murderers who travel across the country, killing people. They're in the process of setting up? computer bank, and I think I have a way of hooking into it without going through all the red tape. In the meantime, though, it would be nice to talk to Amira. Any information on her whereabouts, Yossi?"

"All three of us picked up rumors that she's back in Jordan," said the Chinaman, "living in one of the towns outside Amman. Elias and I heard she's in Suweilih. Cohen was told Hisban. When we tried to trace the origin of the rumors, all we got is something that somebody told somebody after he heard it from somebody."

"Weaker than weak," said Shmeltzer. "Speaking of ru-mors, Shin Bet's confirmed Darousha's definitely homosexual. Had an affair last year with a Jewish doctor. Hajab the watchman spends his off-hours at Darousha's place in Ramallah, doing odd jobs. Maybe they're into funny business. Want Shin Bet to stay on it?"

"It's low priority," said Daniel, remembering what Ben David had said about latent homosexuals. "More important, have them contact the Mossad operative in Amman and run a trace on Amira."

"They weren't overjoyed about the Beirut brothel, won't like this any better, Dani. The whore's no security risk. The case isn't political. Having an operative leave Amman to comb the smaller towns is damned conspicuous."

"This whole mess has turned political," said Daniel. "Laufer made a point of informing me that the Syrians are preparing a U.N. resolution 'condemning the Zionists occupation for the wanton slaughter of innocent Arab women.' After the automatic majority pushes it through, the heat's going to be turned way up, so you may get more cooperation than you expected. Besides, we don't need anything flashy from the operative, just a location."

"If they locate her, then what? Abduction?"

"First let's see if they can trace her. We'll take it from there."

"Okay," said Shmeltzer, thinking of another breakfast with his Sheraton friend. It would be all business from now on-no more fantasies of pillow play. Since he'd met Eva, other women seemed fashioned of cardboard.

"Any other questions?" said Daniel.

The Chinaman raised a finger. "What happens if we do get something interesting from Interpol or the Americans?"

"Then we check out airline arrivals from the country where the matching crime occurred. Pare down our lists and start interviewing foreigners."

The big man groaned.

'Yes, I know," said Daniel. "Fun for all of us."

The phone rang. Daniel picked it up, heard Avi Cohen say 'Dani?" in an infuriatingly cheerful tone of voice.

"Yes, Cohen. You'd better have a good reason for missing the meeting."

"Real good, Dani." The kid was gushing. "The best."

It was kind of funny the way it happened, thought Avi. Ironic, even. But he'd pulled it off.

He left the Russian Compound and walked to the cobbled parking lot, exhilarated, holding on to his good mood even after four hours of paperwork. He'd sweated through every word of it. had called no one for assistance. Wanting to prove to Sharavi that he could handle anything when he put his mind to it.

The BMW was parked between two unmarkeds. He unlocked it, got in, popped the clutch, and spun out of the compound on squealing tires, past the disapproving eyes of two uniforms. Turning onto Rehov Yafo, he sped west for twenty meters before screeching to a halt behind a cement truck with an engine as loud as a fighter jet.

A traffic jam. The glut of cars on Yafo was thick as pitch, motorists leaning on their horns, pedestrians taking advantage of the situation and jaywalking between the inert automobiles. He watched as a uniform on horseback blew his whistle and tried, without success, to get things moving.

Classy, he thought, watching the mounted officer prance in and out of the jam. The horse was a fine-looking Arabian, its rider an older guy, looked Moroccan. Still a samal, Avi noticed. No career advancement, but the guy sat tall in the saddle. Keeping his dignity amidst all the fumes and clamor.

The first time he'd seen a mounted policeman had been right after the '67 liberation, on a trip to Jerusalem with his father, some sort of official business. They'd been stuck in a traffic jam just like this one, Avi a timid kid of five, eating sunflower seeds and spitting them out the car window, his father punching the horn and cursing, griping that an administrative assistant to an MK deserved better.

That's what I want to be, Abba.

What, an administrative assistant?

A horse policeman.

Don't be silly, boy. They're showpieces, useless. A bit of candy for the Eastern types.

They eat candy, Abba!

His father rolled his eyes, lit one of those smelly Pana-manian cigars, gave Avi an absent pat on the knee, and said:

Back in Iraq and Morocco the Jews weren't allowed to ride horses-the Arabs wouldn't let them. So when they came to Israel, the first thing they wanted to do was jump on a horse. We bought a few for them, told them they could ride if they became policemen. It made them happy, Avi.

That one doesn't look happy, Abba. He looks tough

He's happy, believe me. We made all of them happy, that's what politics is all about.

Avi looked in the rearview mirror, saw a light turn green, and watched a herd of westbound cars rushing to join the tail end of the jam. He put on the emergency brake, got out of the BMW, and walked to the center of the road in order to see what the problem was.

"Get back in, you idiot!" someone shouted. "Don't be standing there when it's time to move!" Avi ignored the chorus of horns that rose behind him. Little chance of anything moving, he thought. Traffic was at a stand still clear up to the King George intersection. "Idiot! Subversive!"

He could see what was causing it now: An eastbound cab had stalled. For some reason the driver had attempted to push his vehicle across the road into westbound traffic and had ended up straddling both sides, trapped by gridlock.

Now all lanes in both directions were blocked and tempers were heating.

Avi looked for escape-he'd jump the sidewalk if he had to. But both sides of Yafo were bordered by shops, not even a break for a wrong-way alley.

Wonderful-he'd be late for his appointment with Sharavi. The Yemenite had sounded none too pleased about his miss-ing the staff meeting.

No problem there. He'd be pleased when he found out how well things had gone. All the paperwork wrapped up.