Kathy Reichs - Cross bones

“Curious,” he said.

I also described my meeting with Tovya Blotnik, and mentioned Jake’s qualms about the man.

“Curious,” he said.

I debated telling Ryan about the sedan. What if the whole thing was the product of my imagination?

What if it wasn’t?

Better to be wrong than to take a rock in the head. Or worse.

I described the incident.

Ryan listened. Was he smiling? Too dark to tell.

“Probably nothing,” I said.

Ryan reached across the table and put a hand over mine. “You’re okay?”

“More or less,” I said.

Ryan rubbed his thumb back and forth across my skin. “You know I’d prefer that you didn’t set out on your own.”

“I know,” I said.

The waiter dropped two coasters on the table and parked a can of high-test Coke on each. Apparently Ryan’s Hebrew lessons hadn’t included the word “diet.”

“No beer?” I asked.

“Not an option.”

“How do you know?”

“No beer signs.”

“Always detecting,” I said, smiling.

“Crime never sleeps.”

“I think I’ll go to theJerusalem Post tomorrow, browse through the archives, see what Yadin was saying about the Masada cave skeletons back in the sixties,” I said.

“Why not use the university library?”

“Jake says thePost keeps old articles on file by topic. Should be a hell of a lot quicker than plowing through reels of microfiche.”

“ThePost will be closed on Saturday,” Ryan said.

Of course it would. I changed the subject.

“How was your interview?” I asked.

“Kaplan’s insisting he was hired to hit Ferris.”

“By whom?”

“Kaplan claims he never knew her name,” Ryan said.

“Her?”

I think Ryan nodded.

“What did this mystery woman say to him?”

“She needed a shooter.”

“Why’d she want Kaplan to kill Ferris?”

“She wanted him dead.”

Eye roll. Wasted in the dark.

“When did she solicit his help?”

“He thinks it was the second week of January.”

“Around the time Ferris was asking Kaplan to sell the skeleton.”

“Yep.”

“Ferris was shot in mid-February.”

“Yep.”

The waiter issued napkins, plates, and utensils, then placed a pizza between us. It was covered with olives, tomatoes, and little green things I took to be capers.

“How’d the woman make contact?” I asked when the waiter had gone.

“Called the pet shop.”

Ryan served slices of pizza.

“Let me understand this. A strange woman rang up, inquired about guinea pigs, then said, ‘Oh, by the way, I want you to take someone out?’”

“That’s his story.”

“Nowthat’s curious.”

“That’s his story.”

“This woman give a name?”

“Nope.”

“Could Kaplan tell you anything about her?”

“Said she sounded like a cokehead.”

The pizza was excellent. I took a moment to wade through the flavors. Tomato, onion, green pepper, olives, feta, and a spice I couldn’t identify.

“What did she offer?”

“Three grand.”

“What did Kaplan say?”

“Ten grand.”

“He got ten thousand dollars?”

“The woman counteroffered with three grand up front, three after the hit.”

“What did Kaplan do?”

“He claims he took the payout, then blew her off.”

“He scammed her?”

“What’s she gonna do? Call the cops?”

“She’s still got three grand to have him capped.”

“Good point.” Ryan served up seconds.

“Did Kaplan and this woman ever meet face-to-face?”

“No. The money was left under a trash can in Jarry Park.”

“How very James Bond.”

“He insists that’s how it worked.”

We ate and watched the crowd around us. A woman sat opposite, her face a pale egg in the darkness. It was all I could see. Herhijab hid her hair and was pinned beneath her chin. Her shirt was dark, the sleeves long, the cuffs buttoned tight at the wrists.

Our eyes met. The woman didn’t look away. I did.

“I thought Kaplan was strictly white-collar,” I said.

“Maybe he got bored and decided on a career change.”

“Kaplan could be making the whole thing up to throw you off.”

“I’ve been thrown off by lesser luminaries,” Ryan said, doling out the last two slices of pizza.

Again, we ate in silence. When I’d finished, I leaned back against the wall.

“Could the mystery woman be Miriam Kessler?”

“I posed that very question to Kaplan. The gentleman answered in the negative, saying the good widow was above reproach.”

Ryan bunched his napkin and tossed it onto his plate.

“Got any ideas?” I asked.

“Madonna. Katie Couric. Old Mother Hubbard. Lots of women call small-time crooks with no history of homicidal behavior and offer them money to commit murder.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I said.

“ALLAHUU-UUU-AKBAAAAR-”

Recorded prayer exploded outside my window.

I opened one eye.

Dawn was seeping around the things in my room. One of them was Ryan.

“You awake?”

“Hamdulillah.”Ryan’s voice was thick and fuzzy.

“Um hmm,” I said.

“Praise the Lord.” Mumbled translation.

“Whose?” I asked.

“Too deep for fiveA. M. ”

Itwas a deep question. One I’d considered long after Ryan fell asleep.

“I’m convinced it’s Max.”

“The muezzin?”

I hit Ryan with a pillow. He rolled over.

“Someone wanted Max so badly they were willing to kill for him.”

“Ferris?”

“For one.”

“I’m listening.” Ryan’s eyes were blue and sleepy.

“Jake’s right. This goes beyond the Hevrat Kadisha.”

“I thought the HK boys wanted everyone.”

I shook my head. “This isn’t about the generic Jewish dead, Ryan. It’s about Max.”

“So who is he?”

“Whowas he.” My voice was taut with self-recrimination.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I lost him.”

“What could you have done?”

“Delivered him directly to the IAA. Not hauled him with me to the Kidron. Or, at least taken steps to keep him secure.”

“Shouldn’t have left the Uzi behind in the Bradley.”

I clocked Ryan again. He confiscated the pillow, scooted up, and propped it behind his head. I nestled beside him.

“Facts, ma’am,” Ryan said.

It was a game we played when stumped. I started the time line.

“In the first centuryC. E., people died and were buried in a cave at Masada, probably during the seven-year occupation of the summit by Jewish zealots. In 1963, Yigael Yadin and his team excavated that cave but failed to report on bones found there. Nicu Haas, the physical anthropologist detailed with analyzing those bones, stated verbally to Yadin and his staff that the remains represented twenty-four to twenty-six commingled individuals. Haas made no mention of one isolated, articulated, and complete skeleton, later described to Jake Drum by a volunteer excavator who’d helped clear the cave.”

Ryan picked up the thread.

“That isolated, articulated, and complete skeleton, hereinafter to be referred to as Max, ended up at the Musée de l’Homme in Paris. Sender, unknown.”

“In 1973, Yossi Lerner stole Max from the museum and gave him to Avram Ferris,” I said.

“Ferris spirited Max to Canada, later entrusted him to Father Sylvain Morissonneau at l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges,” Ryan said.

“On February twenty-sixth, Morissonneau gave Max to Brennan. Days later Morissonneau turned up dead.”

“You’re jumping ahead,” Ryan said.

“True.” I thought about dates. “On February fifteenth, Avram Ferris was found shot to death in Montreal.”