Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“Later,” said Milo. “I think I'd rather look at your place, first.”

Sharavi was surprised. “Why?”

“See how the high-tech half lives.”

“Will we be working together?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“There are always choices,” said the dark man.

“Then my choice right now is to see your setup. If you can't even give on that, I'll know what I'm dealing with.”

Sharavi touched his lip with his good hand and gazed up at Milo. The surprised eyes looked innocent.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

He gave us an address on the 1500 block of Livonia Street and told us to see ourselves out and meet him. Then he slipped behind a partition and disappeared.

We drove south on La Cienega, passing one dark restaurant after another, heading for Olympic. Milo said, “He uses that hand as a prop.”

“Handicapped detective on a case full of handicapped victims. It could give the case another dimension for him.”

“Despite what he says, think he's really here to clean up the mess?”

“I don't know.”

“Just between you and me and the dashboard, Alex, that doesn't sound half-bad. We catch the bastard, the Israelis finish him off, no publicity, no media bullshit, no goddamn lawyers, and the Carmelis and God-knows-how-many other parents get some closure.”

He laughed. “Some public servant I am. The rule of law. But someone who'd do that to retarded kids…” He cursed. “Painting with blood. DVLL in the shoes. So Raymond's a match, too. What bugs me is that it's only luck that led us to the message. And your hawkeye.”

He laughed and it jarred me.

“What?”

“You ever come across this Butcher in your readings?”

“No.”

“Bringing in a one-case homeboy.” He ran his hand over his face and looked at the dashboard clock. “Jesus, it's after two already. Robin gonna be worried?”

“Hopefully she's sleeping. When I left for the meeting with the other cops I told her I'd be late.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping for progress.”

“Well, we got some, all right.”

“Are you going to stay on the case if it means working with Sharavi?”

“Why should I give it up just because Carmeli's a control freak- oh hell, forget my righteous indignation. The guy lost his daughter, he's flexing whatever muscle he's got. Would I do differently if I had the clout? Not on your life. And it's bigger than just Irit, now.”

“Another thing,” I said, “by working with Sharavi, you can coopt him. Those resources Carmeli talked about.”

“Yeah. All sorts of surveillance toys. But first we need someone to surveil.”

We were south on Robertson now. At Cashio, he turned right and laughed again. “Besides, who better than me to work this puzzler, right? I do have the top solve rate in West L.A.”

“Eighteen percent higher than the competition,” I said. “Hoo-hah.”

“My mommy always told me I'd be tops.”

“Mom knows best.”

“Actually,” he said, “what she said was, “Milo, honey, how come you stay in your room all day and don't go out anymore? And what ever happened to that nice girl you used to date?' ”

Livonia was the first block west of Robertson. The 1500 block meant a left turn. He cruised slowly.

“Only a mile or so from the Carmelis' house,” I said.

“Maybe the boss drops in for briefings?”

“He probably does. That's why Carmeli's attitude changed. Sharavi told him you knew what you were doing. Or played him the surveillance tapes.”

“Endorsement from Big Brother,” he said. “Wonder if the neighbors know they're living with James Freaking Bond.”

The neighbors lived in small, seventy-year-old Spanish houses. Nearly obscured by a twisted hedge of Hollywood juniper, Sharavi's pink bungalow sat behind a tiny lawn shaved to the dirt. In the driveway was the gray Toyota I'd seen at the schoolyard.

A porch light yellowed the wooden front door. A small olive-wood mezuzah was nailed to the sidepost. Before we could ring, Sharavi opened the door and let us in.

He'd removed his windbreaker and was wearing the pale blue shirt and jeans. The shirt was short-sleeved and his forearms were hairless, thin but muscled, laced with veins. A wedding band circled the ring finger of the good hand.

There was an alarm panel just inside. The living room and dining room were completely empty: clean, golden hardwood under white ceilings; an unscreened, spotless brick fireplace; pleated blackout drapes over every window.

He waved us through a short, narrow center hall, past a kitchen with gray cabinets, to the rear of the house.

“Something to drink?” he said, passing a small bathroom. The lights were on. Every room was lit- showing us there was nothing to hide?

Milo said, “Let's see your gizmos.”

Sharavi surged past a bedroom. Queen-sized bed, topsheet with a military tuck, nightstand with nothing on it but a cheap lamp.

Our destination was the second bedroom at the end of the hall.

Metal-sheet shutters on these windows. A steel-legged desk identical to Zev Carmeli's was against the far wall and a black vinyl chair was wheeled up to it. On the desk were a police scanner, CB and shortwave radios, iron-gray laptop computer, laser printer, battery backup, fax machine, and a paper shredder with an empty catch basket. Empty trash basket on the wooden floor. Stacked neatly between olive-wood bookends was a collection of hardware and software manuals and boxes of backup tapes and CD-ROMs.

Next to the computer were two white phones, three reams of paper, and a pair of maroon velvet bags, each with gold-embroidered Stars of David. On top of the smaller bag was a crocheted skullcap- dark blue with red roses along the border.

Sharavi saw me looking at the bags.

“Prayer equipment,” he said. “Shawl and phylacteries and prayer book. I need all the help I can get.”

“What do you pray for?” said Milo.

“It depends,” said Sharavi.

“Upon what you want?”

“Upon how worthy I feel.” Sharavi unzipped the larger bag, drew out a folded square of white woolen cloth with black stripes.

“See, nothing dangerous.”

“Having God on your side can be dangerous,” said Milo. “Or thinking you do.”

Sharavi's arched eyebrows rose higher. “Because I'm religious, I'm a dangerous fanatic?”

“No, I'm just saying-”

“I understand your resentment, we had a bad beginning. But why waste any more time on it? You want to solve these cases and so do I. In addition to the professional incentive, I want to return to Jerusalem, to my wife and children.”

Milo didn't answer.

“How many children do you have?” I said.

“Three.” Sharavi returned the shawl to the bag. “I surveilled you because it was the only way to get information. Rude? Definitely. Unethical? I could debate that, but I'll say yes. But all in all, no big crime. Because an innocent child was murdered- three children, now. At the least. I'll live with my sins. And I suspect you would, too.”

“Know me, do you?”

Sharavi smiled. “Well, I have had a chance to learn about you.”

Milo said, “Hah. Do they have stand-up comedy in Jerusalem?”

“In Israel,” said Sharavi, “everyone's a prophet. It's the same thing.”

He touched the prayer bag. “You're effective, Detective Sturgis, and effective people focus on what's important. That's not an attempt to kiss your rear, just fact. I'm going to get some coffee. Are you sure you don't want any?”

“Positive.”

He left us alone in the room.

I looked at the computer manuals and Milo unzipped the second velvet bag. Black leather straps and boxes.

“Phylacteries,” I said. “Inside are biblical-”