Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“Let me check out Bukovsky first.”

Sharavi said, “If Bukovsky has something interesting to say, perhaps Dr. Delaware can do more than just drop in at Spasm.”

“Such as?”

“If Meta still holds meetings, he could try to attend. Who better than a Ph.D.? He could pose as someone interested in-”

“Forget it,” said Milo.

Sharavi blinked but didn't move, otherwise. “All right.”

“And don't think about going yourself, Superintendent.”

Sharavi smiled. “Me? I lack the qualifications.”

“The same goes for any of your people.”

“My people?”

“Put it out of your mind. No undercover operations that I don't know about.”

“All right.”

“All right? Just like that, huh?”

“Just like that.”

Saying it in a near-whisper but for the first time, the Israeli was showing emotion. The faintest tightening around the golden eyes, a twitch along the jawline.

“I'm doing my best to cooperate,” he said softly.

“I'm a skeptic and a pessimist,” said Milo. “When things go too smoothly it worries me.”

Sharavi's jaw relaxed and he brought up a smile- mechanically, as if evoking data from the computer.

“Shall I make your life difficult, then, Milo?”

“Why break a trend?”

Sharavi shook his head. “I'm going to eat.”

He left the room again and Milo thumbed absently through the printout in the bin. “I'll try to interview Bukovsky today. And call Ponsico's parents. I just hope this whole Ponsico thing hasn't gotten us too far afield.”

He got up and paced. The house was small and I could hear Sharavi working in the kitchen.

“If I visit the bookstore,” I said, “I could sound out the Lambert woman, see if I can get her to talk about Meta.”

“Alex-”

“In an unobtrusive way. Even if the killer's a Meta member, that doesn't make the whole group a homicidal cabal. And if I did get into a meeting and was able to look them all over-”

“Delete the thought, Alex.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because Sharavi suggested it?”

He whipped around, glaring. “Ten points off for a very bad guess.”

“Hey,” I said, “I'm brutally frank 'cause I care.”

He started to retort, dropped his shoulders, laughed. “Look at this. I'm trying to protect you and you're dissing me. You think it's a smart idea hobnobbing with a group of genetic snobs, one of whom could be a goddamn serial killer?”

“I don't think attending one meeting is going to put me in danger.”

He didn't answer.

“Also,” I said, “I think Sharavi's involvement still bothers you to the point where you run the risk of throwing the baby out.”

He rubbed his face hard and fast. “This is great. Him on one side and you on the other… for all I know he's got this goddamn room bugged.”

“Okay, I'll shut up. Sorry.”

He grimaced. Laughed again. Circled the room.

“What the hell am I doing here- yeah, yeah, you're right, having to deal with him does piss me off. I don't like… too many layers.” He shoved his arms in front of him, breaststroking air. “Like suffocating under a dozen blankets.”

“Sure,” I said. “But unless some progress is made on the killings, you run the risk of a dozen more blankets. As in task force.”

“What is this, tough love ?”

“It's for your own good, sonny boy.”

“Dr. Castor Oil- you really want to play secret agent, don't you? Couple of days with Mr. Mossad and you're itching for code names and fountain-pen cameras.”

“That's me,” I said. “Agent Double-O-Shrink. License to interpret.”

Sharavi returned with a sandwich on a cheap plastic plate. Tuna and lettuce on egg bread. Very little tuna.

He put the plate down next to the phones. His face said he had no appetite.

“I have two police scanners. The one in the kitchen was on. A call just went out on one of your tactical bands. Central Division Homicide detectives calling in a dead body in an alley. A 187 cutting. It's probably unrelated, but next to the body was a white cane. I thought you should know.”

Picking up the sandwich, he took a small, decisive bite.

Daniel watched the two of them drive away through a slit in the living-room drapes.

He'd kept up a bland front during the meeting. Taken things in, given very little out.

Could Delaware see through it?

The psychologist seemed more agreeable, but with psychologists you never knew.

Another meeting. How many had he attended over the years, leaving with those same feelings of frustration?

Like Sturgis, he preferred working alone.

Like Sturgis, he was seldom able to.

Coating himself with the veneer of reason, when he itched to be as negative as Sturgis.

Dead children…

He seldom showed his feelings to anyone, even Laura.

Sobbing about Daoud and his fat wife, twice, both times alone in the cool, dark privacy of a tiny, cavelike Yemenite synagogue near the Mahane Yehudah market. An empty synagogue, because he'd chosen the dead time between the morning shaharit service and the afternoon minhah.

Reciting a few psalms, returning home that evening presentable for Laura and the children.

Why expose them to even a hint of the pain?

The Bethlehem hatchet wielders would never be punished.

Not in this world, anyway.

Now, this. Irit, the other kids. Maybe a blind man. What could be more hideous?

Would this Meta thing lead anywhere? Probably not.

One walked the desert sands, sank shafts, hoped for oil…

So he and Sturgis were probably feeling similar emotions- hey, let's have a discussion group, like the ones the department organized when a sapper got blown up or one of the undercover guys took a knife in a back alley of the Old City.

Daniel could just see it. Sturgis and him, sitting in a circle, each daring the other to be human. Delaware in the middle, the… what was the word- the facilitator.

Sturgis grumbling. An ill-mannered bear, that one. But smart.

Zev Carmeli was feeling better about the guy.

Like most diplomats, Zev didn't forgive. Forced to put on a polite front all day, he was judgmental, essentially a misanthrope.

Daniel remembered the call.

“Guess who they've given me now, Sharavi. A homosexual.”

Daniel had sat in a rear room of the New York embassy, listening as Carmeli complained. Carmeli reiterating his opinions of the “moronic L.A. police.”

“A homosexual,” he repeated. “Who he screws is his own damn business but it makes him an outcast, so how can he possibly be effective? I ask for the one with the highest solve rate and this is who they give me.”

“You think they're playing with you?”

“What do you think? This is some city, Sharavi. Every group hates the other. Like Beirut.”

Or Jerusalem, thought Daniel.

“Maybe he is the best, Zev. Why dismiss him before you know?”

Silence.

“You?” said Carmeli. “A guy with a yarmulke and you approve of that kind of thing?”

“If he's the one with the highest solve rate and the right kind of experience, then you're doing well.”

“I'm surprised, Sharavi.”

“About what?”

“Such tolerance. The orthodox aren't known for their tolerance.”

Daniel didn't respond.

“Well,” said Carmeli, “that's why I'm calling you. You come out here and check things out, whatever it takes. If you say keep him on, I will. But ultimately, it's your responsibility.”

Then he'd hung up.

Poor Zev.

Years ago, they'd both been students at Hebrew U. Daniel a twenty-five-year-old senior with three years of Army experience, Zev, younger, one of the few whizzes exempted out because of high test scores and family connections. Even then Zev had been serious for his age and openly ambitious. But you could talk to him, have a discussion. Not anymore.