Cross Bones (38 page)

“Why kil Blotnik?”

“Col ateral damage.”

Ferris? Why not?

“Why shoot Ferris?”

The woman stiffened. “I don’t have time for this.”

Sensing I’d struck a chord, I dug deeper.

“Two bul ets to the brain. That’s cold.”

“Shut up!” The woman sniffed, cleared her throat.

“You should have seen what the cats did to him.”

“Stinking little bastards.”

When things fal into place, they often do so rapidly.

I can’t say what my senses took in. The cadence of her speech. The nasal drip. The blonde hair. The trilingualism. The fact that this woman knew me.

Knew the cats.

Suddenly, disparate facts toggled.

The bad police dialogue.

ALaw & Orderrerun. Briscoe tel ing a suspect he didn’t know jack.

A woman hired Hersh Kaplan to kil Avram Ferris.

Kaplan said she sounded like a cokehead.

The sniffing. The throat-clearing.

“I have sinus problems.”

Kaplan was phoned from the Mirabel warehouse the week the boss was vacationing with Miriam.

“So someone phoned Kaplan’s home from Ferris’s warehouse while Ferris was in Florida. But Kaplan hadn’t phoned the warehouse, either from his home or his shop, making it unlikely that Purviance was cal ing Kaplan in response to a message he’d left for Ferris. So who the hel made the cal ? And why?”

Ferris was shot with a Jericho nine-mil imeter semiautomatic. That gun was reported stolen by a man named Ozols. In Saint-Léonard.

“That’s ‘oak’ in Latvian. We’ve got an international arborist convention, right here in Saint-Léonard.”

Ozols. Oak. The Latvian name I’d seen in a lobby in Saint-Léonard.

The lobby of Courtney Purviance’s building.

“And here’s another interesting development. Courtney Purviance is in the wind.”

My subconscious blossomed into a ful -color map.

Courtney Purviance had kil ed Avram Ferris. She hadn’t been abducted. She was standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at my chest.

Of course. Purviance knew the warehouse and its contents. Probably knew about Max. Travel to Israel was a regular part of her job. Flying here was routine.

But why kil Ferris? Blotnik?

Religious conviction? Greed? Some deranged personal vendetta?

Would she kil me with equal cal ousness?

I felt a rush of fear, then anger, then an almost trancelike calm. I would have to talk my way out. There was no getting past the gun.

“What happened, Courtney? Ferris didn’t cut you in for a big enough piece of the pie?”

The gun dipped, then the muzzle straightened.

“Or did you just want more?”

“Zip it.”

“Did you have to steal another gun?”

Again, Purviance tensed.

“Or is it easier to score a piece in Israel?”

“I’m warning you.”

“Poor old Mr. Ozols. That wasn’t a nice thing to do to a neighbor.”

“Why are you here? Why did you have to get involved in this?”

I could see Purviance’s finger stroking the trigger. She was nervous. I decided to bluff.

“I’m with the SQ.”

“Move.” The gun waggled me forward. “Easy.”

I took two steps. As I approached, Purviance backed off.

We sized each other up in the dim green glow.

“Yeah. You came to my house with that crime dick.”

“The cops are liking you for the Ferris hit.” I went with Purviance’s Hol ywood cop talk.

“And you’re one of them.” Sarcastic.

“You’re a col ar.”

“Real y?” Sniff. “And there’s a whole squad waiting for your cal or they’l storm this museum.”

She’d read my bluff. Okay. I stayed with the station-house lingo, but tried a new tack.

“Ask me? You’re getting a bum rap. Ferris was hawking merchandise he shouldn’t have been. God be damned. History be damned. Bring on the bucks.”

Purviance wet her lips, but didn’t speak.

“You got wise, right? Told him not to wholesale those bones. At least not without cutting you in. He blew you off.”

The conflict inside her played out in her features. Purviance was angry and hurt. And jumpy as hel . A bad combination.

“Who are we to lip the boss? We’re just the secretary. The maid. The chick who irons his shorts. Prick probably treated you like a field hand.”

“That’s not how it was.”

I pushed.

“That Ferris was one stone-cold bastard.”

“Avram was a good man.”

“Yeah. And Hitler liked dogs.”

“Avram loved me.” Blurted.

Something else clicked for me.

Purviance lived alone. Al those cal s from the Mirabel warehouse to her home. Ferris and Purviance weren’t just coworkers. They were lovers.

“He had it coming. Bastard was running a game on you. Probably fed you the old saw about leaving his old lady.”

“Avram loved me.” Repeated. “He knew I was ten times smarter than that cow of a wife.”

“That why he snuck south with ole Miriam? You’re not dumb. You figured out he was never leaving her.”

“She didn’t love him.” Bitter. “He was just too weak to deal with it.”

“Strike one. Miriam’s doing Coppertone while you’re stuck in your cold-weather flat. You’re his favorite squeeze, but who’s left behind to answer the phones? And the cheap son of a bitch won’t even cut you in on the skeleton.”

Purviance wiped her nose on the back of the gun hand.

“Then, strike two. Kaplan screwed you over. First your lover, then your hit man. You were having a bad run.”

Purviance jerked the gun so the muzzle was now on my face. Easy. Don’t antagonize her.

“Ferris owed you. Kaplan owed you. You knew that skeleton would put you bucks up. Why not take it?”

“Why not.” Defiant.

“Then the bones disappeared. Strike three. Screwed again.”

“Shut up.”

“You come al the way to Israel to steal them back. No bones found. Strike four. Screwed again.”

“Screwed? I think this wil do.”

Purviance tapped her bag. I heard the hol ow thunk of a plastic container.

“Gutsy. You already capped the boss. Why not Blotnik?”

“Blotnik was a thief.”

“Saved you al that nuisance of breaking and entering.”

A smile crawled Purviance’s face. “I hadn’t a clue about these bones until Blotnik blabbed. Old fool hadn’t had them two hours.”

“How did he know about them?”

“Some old bat found fragments while scoping the shroud they’d been in. What the hel .” Purviance again tapped the bag. “This could be crap. Or it could be the Holy Grail. This time I’m taking no chances.”

“What did you offer Blotnik? Did he think you had the Masada skeleton?”

Again the cold smile. “Just conning the con man.”

She’d kil ed Blotnik, snatched the shroud bones, and gotten away. What was she doing back here?

“You were moving under the radar. Why double back?”

“We both know a relic’s worth zip without paper.”

We heard it at the same instant. The soft squeak of a rubber sole.

Purviance’s trigger finger twitched. She hesitated, undecided.

“Move!” she hissed.

I stepped back into the closet, eyes focused on Purviance’s gun.

The closet door slammed. A bolt clicked.

Hurried footsteps, then silence.

I put my ear to the wood.

A sound like surf, overridden by the drone of a radio commentator.

Stay quiet? Draw attention?

What the hel .

I pounded.

I cal ed out.

Seconds later the office door slammed inward against a wal .

Heart plowing, I shrank deeper back toward the el .

A strip of light under the closet door.

Rubber soles.

The bolt clicked open.

The door swung in.

39

I’D NEVER BEEN SO GLAD TO SEE ANYONE IN MY LIFE.

“What the hel are you doing here?” Jake’s tone was al shock.

“Did you see her?”

“Who?”

“Purviance.”

“Who’s Purviance?”

“Never mind.” I pushed past him and grabbed an arm. “We’ve got to stop her.”

I tugged. We both ran.

“She’s got no more than a three-minute lead.”

Out the office. Down the hal .

“Who’s Purviance?”

“The lady with your shroud bones.”

Gripping the rail, I took three stairs at a time. Jake stayed with me.

“You drove?” I threw over my shoulder.

“I’ve got the crew truck. Tempe—”

“Where?” I was breathing hard.

“In the drive.”

As we flew out the door, a car blew past, driver’s head barely clearing the wheel.

“That’s her,” I panted.

The car shot the gate.

“Move!”

Yanking the doors, Jake and I threw ourselves into the truck.

Jake turned the key and flooded the engine. It roared in neutral. Jake threw the gearshift, then tacked a triangle of short turns.

As we came about, Purviance’s car was disappearing from the foot of the drive.

“She’s turned left onto Sultan Suleiman.”

Jake jammed the gas. Our tires spit gravel and we rocketed forward.

“What’s she driving?”

“Citroën C-3, I think. I only got a quick look.”

We plunged downhil . Across the way, the Old City was swal owed in mist.

Barely braking, Jake jerked the wheel hard left. I lurched right and my shoulder slammed the window.

Up ahead, the Citroën’s tail ights were again hooking left.

Jake pounded the accelerator.

I reached back, tugged and clicked my seat belt.

Jake made the turn onto Derech Jericho.

The Citroën had lengthened its lead. Its tail ights were now two tiny red blurs.

“Where’s she going?”

“We’re on HaEgoz at this point, but behind us it’s cal ed the Jericho road. She could be heading to Jericho. Hel , she could be heading to Jordan.”

Few cars moved along the pavement. Fog swirled the streetlights.

Purviance kicked it to fifty.

Jake stayed with her.

Purviance kicked it to sixty.

“Hang on.”

I placed two hands on the dash.

Jake floored it. The gap closed.

The air in the truck felt damp and close. Mist filmed the windshield.

Jake hit the wipers. I cracked a window.

Lights flicked by on both sides of the street. Apartments? Garages? Nightclubs? Synagogues? The buildings were black LEGO blobs. I wasn’t sure where we were.

A tower took shape on my right, neon logo shimmying in the haze. The Hyatt. We were about to intersect the Nablus Road.

Purviance made the turn.

“She’s heading north,” I said. Nervous talk. Jake knew that.

The traffic signal went red. Ignoring it, Jake spun the wheel. We fishtailed. Jake muscled the back wheels into line with the front.

The Citroën’s tail ights had shrunk to dots. Purviance had picked up a quarter-mile lead.

My heart was doing flip-flops. My palms felt damp on the dash.

Now and then a bil board framed into view, faded. We raced on.

Suddenly signs flared out of the fog.MA’ALEH ADUMIN. JERICHO. DEAD SEA .

“She’s heading for Highway One.” Jake’s voice was guy-wire taut.

Something was up. The Citroën’s tail ights were now expanding.

“She’s slowing down,” I said.

“Checkpoint.”

“Wil they stop her?”

“This one’s usual y a wave-through.”

Jake was right. After a brief pause, the Citroën blew past the guardhouse.

“Shal we tel them to stop her?”

“Not a chance.”

“They could pul her over.”

“These guys are border patrol, not police.”

Jake braked. The truck slowed.

“Let’s ask—”

“No.”

“This is a mistake.”

“Don’t say a word.”

We rol ed to a stop. The guard looked us over, bored, then waved us through. Before I could speak, Jake hit the gas.

A sudden thought.

Back at the museum, Jake never asked about Blotnik.

I hadn’t given him time?

He already knew that Blotnik was dead?

I looked sideways. Jake was a black silhouette, long neck corrugated by the bony tube of his throat.

Sweet Jesus. Did Jake have an agenda of his own?

Jake accelerated hard. The truck lurched forward.

My palms slapped the dash.

The terrain turned desolate. My world narrowed to the two red blurs at the Citroën’s rear.

Purviance goosed it to seventy, then eighty.

We ran hard through desert older than time. I knew what stretched to either side of the highway. Terra-cotta hil s, furnaced val eys, Bedouin camps with their shoddy huts and slumbering herds. The Judean wilderness. A moonscape of bleaching bones and seeping sand, tonight al lost to the fog.

Mile after mile of stil ness. Nothingness. Now and then a rare lamp bathed the Citroën in artificial light. Seconds later, our truck would blink through. I’d see my hands, salmon surreal, bracing the dash.

Purviance edged toward ninety. Jake matched her.

The Citroën rounded curve after curve, tail ights winking into our vision, then out, then in again. Our truck strained. We began to drop back.

The tension in the cab was palpable. No one spoke as each of us focused on those pulsing red eyes.

We hit a bump. Jake downshifted. The front wheels went airborne. The rear fol owed. My head whiplashed as the truck slammed down.

When I looked up, the Citroën’s tail ights were disappearing in mist.

Shifting back into fourth, Jake gunned it. The lights bal ooned. I stole a peek in the side-view. No one behind us.

In my memory, what happened next happened in slow motion, like an instant replay. In reality, the whole thing probably took a minute and a half.

The Citroën entered a curve. We fol owed. I remember glistening blacktop. The needle nearing ninety. Jake’s hands, tight on the wheel.

A car appeared on the other side of the highway, headlights blurry ribbons slashing the mist. The ribbons wavered, then swooned toward the Citroën.

Purviance jerked the wheel. The Citroën pitched right, dropped two tires onto the shoulder. Purviance jerked again. The Citroën hopped back up onto the pavement.

The oncoming car crossed the center lane, il uminating the Citroën. I could see Purviance’s head wagging back and forth as she fought the wheel.