The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

"Get anything at the hospital?" asked Shmeltzer.

"Typical U.N. situation. Lip service and hostility."

"What do you expect? They live like little princes, the assholes-duty-free Mercedes, villas, diplomatic immunity. What do they pay their pencil-pushers now-forty, fifty thousand a year?"

"Ninety."

"Shekels or American dollars?"

"Dollars," said Daniel. "Tax-free."

"Shit," said Shmeltzer. "Ten years' worth of wages for you and me. And for doing nothing." He dipped pita in eggplant salad, managed to frown while chewing. "I remember one guy I questioned in a burglary case. Nigerian, looked just like Idi Amin. Safari suit, ivory-tipped walking stick, and an engraved calling card with a title you could eat for lunch: Executive Regional Director of the Sinai Border Commission, supposed to count how many Egyptians we kill and vice versa. No matter that we gave it all back at Camp David and there's no border anymore-this guy's job was to administer it because the hard-liners at the U.N. never recognized Camp David. Far as they're concerned it's still a war zone."

He sipped his cola, popped an olive in his mouth, removed the pit, and put it on his plate. Nibbling on another, he asked, "Anyone at the Amelia look like a suspect?"

"Nothing glaring," said Daniel. "Two of them were especially jumpy. Doctor named Al Biyadi and his girlfriend-an American nurse. She implied we've been persecuting him. Seemed to be a typical case of sheikh fever."

"Sure," said Shmeltzer. "Madly in love with Ahmed until he puts a bomb in her suitcase and sends her off on El Al. Where'd she meet him?"

"In America. Detroit, Michigan. Lots of Arabs there. Lots of PLO sympathy."

"What is it we're supposed to have done to Lover Boy?"

"Don't know yet," said Daniel. "Probably some kind of immigration problem. Records is running a check on both of them and on the other hospital people as well." He took a drink of soda, felt the bubbles dance against the back of his teeth. "Think this one could be political?"

Shmeltzer shrugged. "Why not? Our sweet cousins keep searching for new approaches."

"Levi said it's likely she was anesthetized," said Daniel. "Sedated with heroin."

"Kindly killer," said Shmelzer.

"It made me think of a doctor, but then I thought a doctor would have access to all kinds of sedatives-no need to use something illegal."

"Unless the doctor was an addict himself. Maybe he and the girl had a heroin party. She overdosed. When he saw her he panicked, cut her up."

"I don't think so," said Daniel. "Levi says the dose wasn't fatal, and she was injected twice." He paused. "The way it was done, Nahum-the cutting was deliberate."

The door opened and Kohavi came in with another man.

Shmeltzer looked at the newcomer, then sharply back at Daniel.

"Speaking of sweet cousins," he said.

"He's first-rate," said Daniel. "If the girl's an Arab he'll be valuable."

Kohavi had slipped back to the front room and the new man walked toward them alone. Medium-sized, dark-complexioned, and in his twenties, he wore a tan suit, white shirt, and no tie. His face was long and big-boned, terminating in a heavy square chin. His hair was light reddish-brown and combed straight back, his mustache a faint ginger wisp over a wide, serious mouth. Narrow-set green eyes stared straight ahead, unwavering. When he reached the table he said, "Good afternoon, Pakad."

"Good afternoon, Elias. Please sit down. This is Mefakeah Nahum Shmeltzer of National Headquarters. Nahum, Samal Rishon Elias Daoud, of the Kishle Station."

"Elias." Shmeltzer nodded.

"The privilege is mine, sir." Daoud's voice was thin and boyish, his Hebrew fluent but accented-the rolling Arabic "r," the substitution of "b" for "p." He sat down and folded his hands in his lap, docile but inquisitive, like a schoolboy in a new class.

"Call me Nahum," said Shmeltzer. '"Sirs' are fat guys who wear their medals to bed."

Daoud forced a smile.

"Have something to drink, Elias," said Daniel.

"Thank you. The proprietor is bringing me a coffee."

"Something to eat?"

"Thank you." Daoud took a pita and ate it plain, chewing slowly, looking down at the tablecloth, ill at ease. Daniel wondered how many Jewish restaurants he'd been to-how often, for that matter, did he come over to the western side of town?

"We're all impressed," he said, "with your work on the Number Two Gang case. All those creeps behind bars, the drugs kept off the street."

"I did my job," said Daoud. "God was with me."

Shmeltzer took a pickle and bit off the tip. "Here's hoping He stays with you. We've got a tough one. A maniac murderer."

Daoud's eyes widened with interest.

"Who was killed?"

"A young girl," said Daniel. "Mutilated and dumped on Scopus across from the Amelia Catherine. No ID. Here."

He picked up the envelope, drew out photos of the dead girl, and distributed copies to both detectives.

"Ring any bells?"

Shmeltzer shook his head. "Pretty," he said in a tight voice, then turned away.

Daoud continued to examine the picture, holding the edges with both hands, concentrating, grim.

"I can't place her," he said finally. "But there's something familiar about the face."

"What?" asked Daniel.

Daoud stared at the photo again. "I don't know why, but one of the villages keeps coming to mind. Silwan, perhaps. Or Abu Tor."

"Not Bethlehem?"

"No, sir," said Daoud. "If she were from Bethlehem, I'd know her."

"What about the other villages?" asked Shmeltzer. "Sur Bahir, Isawiya."

"Maybe," said Daoud. "For some reason Abu Tor and Silwan come to mind."

"Perhaps you've seen her in passing," said Daniel. "A brief glimpse through the car window."

Daoud thought for a while. "Perhaps."

He's worried, thought Daniel. About having spoken too soon with nothing to back it up.

"So you're saying she's an Arab," said Shmeltzer.

"That was my first impression," said Daoud. He tugged at his mustache.

"I've got a requisition in for all the missing-kid files," said Daniel. "Sixteen hundred of them. In the meantime, we'll be knocking on doors. The villages are as good a place to start as any. Take Silwan first, Elias. Show the picture around. If nothing clicks, go on to Abu Tor."

Daoud nodded and put the photo in his jacket pocket.

A shout came from across the room:

"All recruits at attention!"

A striking-looking man swaggered toward the table. Well over six feet, bulging and knotted with the heavy musculature of a weight lifter, he wore white shorts, rubber beach sandals, and a red sleeveless mesh shirt that exposed lots of hard saffron skin. His hair was blue-black, straight, parted in the middle and styled with a blow-dryer, his face wholly Asian, broad and flat like that of a Mongolian warrior. Eyes resting on high shelflike cheekbones were twin slits in rice paper. A blue shadow of beard darkened his chin. About thirty years old, with five years latitude on either side of the estimate.

"Shalom, Dani. Nahum." The man's voice was deep and harsh.

"Chinaman." Shmeltzer nodded. "Day off?"

"Till now," said the big man. He looked at Daoud apprais-ingly, then sat down next to him.

"Yossi Lee," he said, extending his hand. "You're Daoud, right? The ace of Kishle."

Daoud took the hand tentatively, as if assessing the greeting for sarcasm. Lee's shake was energetic, his smile an equine flash of long, curving white teeth. Releasing the Arab's hand, he yawned and stretched.

"What do they have to eat in this dump? I'm starved."

"Better this dump than somewhere else," said Shmeltzer.

"Somewhere else would be free," said Lee. "Free always tastes terrific."

"Next time, Chinaman," promised Daniel. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes late and the new man hadn't arrived.