Lineup (15 page)

Chapter 26

INSPECTOR
Eli Nachum was sitting in his car watching Adi Regev’s house. Finding a parking place around here in the evening was a headache, but at this hour of the morning the street was empty. What in God’s name was he doing here? It was more than likely that Adi was at work, like most of her neighbors. And even if she was home—what then? Why had he come?

He was only a few days into his suspension, but he couldn’t stand to stay in the house any longer. He felt like a prisoner, wandering from room to room looking for some way to occupy himself and not finding anything to do. His rage at the way he’d been treated, at being thrown out like garbage after years of devoted service, ate away at him incessantly. Fuck them all. He’d done what he had to.

He took it out on Leah. Every word out of his wife’s mouth set him off. He read into it criticism, disappointment, and humiliation. Throughout the years of their marriage, their roles had been clearly defined: he went to work to provide for the family, and she stayed home to raise the children. And now, long before he’d anticipated retiring, he was stuck at home with her from morning to night. He’d decided not to tell her anything until the situation became clearer, but the news had spread very quickly. Even before he made it home, Leah’s brother the cop had called to ask her if the rumor that was going around the precinct was true.

Yesterday he’d realized that if he didn’t want to lose his family along with his job, he’d better get out of the house. Luckily, they hadn’t taken his car away yet. Without thinking about where he was going, he’d found himself parked outside Nevo’s apartment. He’d sat there for hours, watching the entrance, waiting for him to come out, without any real purpose. He knew very well that he couldn’t touch Nevo. Even if they found new evidence, it wouldn’t matter. “Double jeopardy,” they’d say.

After several hours with no sign of Nevo, he got bored and headed for Adi’s house. He’d been sitting there for a while when he finally saw her coming home from work at six o’clock. He didn’t approach her. What could he say? He walked up and down the street a few times to check if her father was still keeping an eye on her, but he didn’t see him. If he had, he might’ve told him he’d also become obsessed with the case. When Leah called at eight to ask where he’d disappeared to, he drove home.

And now here he was again in the same place, sitting outside her apartment for no good reason. It was just an excuse to get out of the house. He didn’t know what else to do with himself now that he had no job to go to. They say criminals return to the scene of the crime; apparently cops do too. Overcome by a sense of futility, he leaned his head on the steering wheel.

The sound of rapping on the window made him jump. An old woman was gesturing for him to roll down the window.

“You’re a police officer?” she said, somewhere between a question and a statement.

He nodded.

“I want to make a complaint,” the woman said through the half-open window.

He’d been so absorbed in his own problems that he hadn’t given a thought to the impression he was making on anyone else. Did she think he was running surveillance on someone? Or maybe she imagined he was watching over the neighborhood to make sure no one stole it, he thought, chuckling ironically to himself.

“Ma’am, if you have a complaint, I suggest you go to the local police station,” he said disinterestedly, moving his hand toward the key as if he were about to start the car and drive away.

“There’s a man in that building,” she said, ignoring him and pointing to a house across the street. “On the fourth floor. His name is Ilan Meron. He doesn’t clean up after his dog. To be fair, when he moved here a month and a half ago, he did. But it’s gotten very bad lately. Every night for the last ten days . . . ,” she went on.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but I’m in a hurry,” he said, cutting her off. “I suggest you take your complaint to the city . . .”

“That’s just it. I did,” she cut in. “I already sent them two letters. I even called the citizen complaint line. But nothing helped. They won’t send a warden out at one in the morning, and that’s when he walks his dog.”

“I suggest you continue to appeal to the city. I’m sure they’ll do something about it eventually.” Hoping that would be enough to get rid of her, he turned the key in the ignition.

Abruptly, he stopped what he was doing and looked at the old woman again. She was seventy at least, if not eighty. What was a woman her age doing up at one in the morning for ten days straight?

Nachum switched off the engine and climbed out of the car. If it didn’t help, it certainly couldn’t hurt. After all, he had nothing else to do.

It was only when he was standing opposite her that he saw how short she was. Daunted by their difference in height, she took a step back.

“I’m willing to make an exception and take your complaint,” he said, earning a satisfied smile in response.

ALONE
in the living room, he could hear Mrs. Glazer busy in the kitchen. He’d refused her offer of something to eat or drink and insisted he didn’t have much time, but he soon realized it made no difference what he said.

The faces in family pictures smiled down at him from a dark wooden credenza. Without having to ask, he could tell that the man who appeared in the older photos but was absent from the newer ones was her late husband. She was clearly a widow who lived on her own.

The apartment reminded him of his parents, who had passed away years ago. He felt an ache in his heart. Even though he assumed his parents and Mrs. Glazer came from very different backgrounds, the room he was in was very similar to the home he’d grown up in: bulky furniture, cotton throws spread over the armchairs, vacation mementos, heavy drapes, and the familiar odor of mothballs hanging in the air. His father had died of cancer while Nachum was still assigned to logistics. He never got to see his son fulfill his dream and get his gold shield. His mother, who’d never been sick a day in her life, died of a broken heart two and a half years later.

He got up and walked to the balcony. It was just like the one in his parents’ house, he recalled. It even held the same kind of lounge chair. He opened the blinds slightly to check the view from the balcony and was disappointed to find that it looked out on the main street. The rape had taken place on the other side of the building. Mrs. Glazer couldn’t have seen anything from here.

As soon as he’d arrived on the scene that night, he’d ordered his detectives to knock on every door and question all the neighbors. He hadn’t been present during the interviews, believing it was more important for him to remain at the site and oversee the work of the crime scene investigators. The detectives came back empty-handed. No one had seen or heard anything, they reported. It had happened late at night, and as Adi Regev told him herself, the perp had covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream. And like most rapes, it was all over in a few minutes.

“Officer Nachum,” Mrs. Glazer called.

She was standing behind him holding a delicate glass of tea on a small matching saucer. A plate of cookies was on the table beside her. She apologized for not having anything better to offer him, saying she had not been expecting guests, but nevertheless it was clear from the expression on her face that she wouldn’t agree to talk to him until he’d finished off at least one cookie.

Like a well-mannered child, he chewed the cookie, complimented her on her baking skills—the cookies were actually very good—and listened patiently while she explained they were Abigail’s favorites and gave him a few choice details about her granddaughter.

“About your complaint,” he said, cutting in.

“Yes, yes, of course. Like I said, his name is Ilan Meron. He’s around thirty, and by the way he dresses, I think he’s a lawyer . . . Are you writing this down?” she asked.

“I want to get a clear picture in my mind first. You say he walks his dog around one in the morning . . . ,” he said, trying to point her in the direction that interested him.

“That’s right. He takes the dog out and he doesn’t clean up after it!” she declared with a note of triumph in her voice.

“How do you know?” he asked.

The look she threw at him made it obvious that she was not only surprised by his question but also rather offended that he might doubt her statement.

“My husband, Sefi, passed away two years ago. Ever since, what can I say, I have trouble sleeping,” she said with a sigh after a short pause.

“So you sit there and look out on the street?” He pointed to the lounge chair on the balcony.

“You know, at my age, it’s relaxing just to sit and watch what goes on outside. It helps pass the time,” she said, lowering her eyes.

He looked at her in silence. He knew what she meant more than she imagined.

“Good for you, ma’am,” he said, pulling himself together. “It’s good you keep an eye out, that you care. Young people today, they only care about themselves.”

“This neighborhood matters to me. I’ve lived here forty years, I raised my children here. And believe me, things are getting worse every day. It’s like you said, people don’t care anymore. That’s why I always keep an eye on the street so I’ll know what’s going on,” she said, eagerly agreeing with him.

“I bet you could tell me stories . . . ,” Nachum replied, hoping to encourage her to go on talking, but she just gave him a sheepish grin, like a young girl.

“You keep it up . . . We policemen need people like you . . . When things happen, it’s good that someone’s watching.” He went on stroking her ego. He debated if she was ready for him to start questioning her about the night of the rape but decided to hold off until he was sure he’d gained her trust.

“My job isn’t very different from what you do,” he said. “If you only knew how many hours I spend in surveillance. Maybe I should recruit you for the force.” He was rewarded with another smile.

“Can I tell you something, Officer Nachum?” she asked, leaning closer.

“You can tell me anything you want,” he answered, holding her gaze.

Mrs. Glazer stood up, went to the balcony, and pulled a box out from under the lounge chair.

“I haven’t told anyone else about this,” she said. To his astonishment, she opened the box and took out a very professional-looking pair of binoculars.

“This is how I see the scoundrel who doesn’t clean up after his dog,” she said, holding them out to him.

He examined them closely to be sure they were what he thought they were. He was right. These weren’t ordinary binoculars. They were a highly sophisticated model with night-vision capability!

With a quick movement, Mrs. Glazer took them back and returned them to the box. He could tell she regretted having given in to the temptation to reveal to him what was undoubtedly a closely guarded secret.

“Can we get back to Ilan Meron and his dog? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” she said, sitting down opposite him.

“Two months ago a woman was raped in the yard behind your building,” he said gently.

She covered her mouth in shock.

“A young woman. She was brutally raped,” he repeated to be sure she had heard him.

“Yes, I know,” Sarah Glazer said after a pause. “Poor thing.” She sighed.

“Did you see anything that night?”

“No,” she answered, shaking her head firmly. “I told the policeman who came here. I was asleep. It was late. I didn’t see anything.”

Nachum focused his eyes on her, but she wouldn’t make eye contact with him. He was about to remind her that she’d just told him she had trouble sleeping but stopped himself. He didn’t want to put her on the defensive.

They sat facing each other in silence. She picked up her glass and took a sip of tea. He could see her hand trembling. Was she hiding something? If she was, he had to tread carefully. His relentless determination had already gotten him in enough trouble.

“Whatever you tell me will remain in confidence,” Nachum said reassuringly. “No one else will know. You have my word.”

She reached out for a tissue from a box on the credenza and wiped her eyes.

“I’m so ashamed.”

He listened in silence, his fingers gripping the glass of boiling hot tea tighter and tighter as she told him about that night, how she’d watched the rape in the yard behind her house from the window of the bathroom on the other side of the apartment, how she’d stood there frozen, petrified. When she told him about the large tattoo on the man’s arm, he poured the whole glass of tea down his throat, scalding himself.

“It’s okay, entirely understandable,” he said soothingly when she had finished her story and was again saying how sorry she was, how ashamed she felt.

Knowing the chances were slim, he opened his bag and took out a picture of Nevo. “Is this the man you saw?”

Sarah Glazer took the photograph and examined it closely. He didn’t take his eyes off her.

“It’s hard to say,” she said finally.

“Try. It’s very important,” he implored.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s him and maybe not.”

HE
sat on a bench outside the house. He needed time to gather his thoughts, to digest what Sarah Glazer had told him.

If Ohad had dug a little deeper, they might have heard her story the night it happened. Everyone knew that eyewitnesses were often too scared to talk, especially elderly women who lived on their own. And rightly so. But if he’d known about it then, he wouldn’t have had to rely so heavily on Adi’s identification of the rapist. And he would have been able to use her neighbor’s testimony to convince her that she’d fingered the right man, that she had nothing to be concerned about.

At the time, he hadn’t thought to pay attention to any distinguishing marks. Now he strained unsuccessfully to remember—did Nevo have a tattoo on his arm or didn’t he?

Chapter 27

ADI
dragged herself through her apartment, trying to get ready for another day at work. She used to leap out of bed, get herself together in record time, and skip down the stairs. But she couldn’t get back into a routine. She felt like the world had moved on without her while she was trapped in a shell of sadness, and she’d been left behind. Everything around her seemed too fast, too loud, too bright.

She’d returned to work three weeks ago, and on the surface things were back to normal. But her life had changed completely. She almost never went out, never did anything for fun. Dating was out of the question. She couldn’t even bear the thought. She came home and sat in front of the TV all night or played some dumb game on the computer. Anything else required more than she had to give. Her parents were pressuring her to leave Tel Aviv, to go to college or do something else to give purpose to her life and help her put the past behind her. Meanwhile, she just listened without responding. Maybe they were right. Maybe not. Making a decision required energy she didn’t have.

As usual, the TV was on, some morning program showing on the screen. She liked to listen with half an ear to the banal chatter while she brushed her teeth, got dressed, forced herself to eat breakfast. The mundane subjects and simple pleasures they talked about lifted her spirits and helped her forget for a short moment. She could hear the TV from anywhere in her tiny apartment, half of a larger one that had been subdivided.

A famous model who had taken a year off to have a baby was telling the two moderators how it felt to be back on the catwalk as a mother, how she’d ended a photo shoot early to nurse the baby, how easy it had been to get her figure back. Adi actually wanted to hear the last part, about the diet, but they ran out of time. The interview with the model who’d learned what really mattered in life after giving birth was cut short by the news.

Eight o’clock! She hadn’t noticed the time. She had to leave now! She took a final sip of coffee and was taking her mug into the kitchen when she heard the newsreader reporting another brutal rape in north Tel Aviv. The mug fell from her hands, shattering in the sink.

She couldn’t breathe. It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the apartment. In a typical monotone, the man on the TV screen recited that the rape had taken place late the previous night on Stricker Street. The victim was a single woman in her twenties. The rapist had fled.

Stricker Street was right around the corner. Adi’s knees buckled. She sat down on a kitchen chair. Even though the volume on the TV was turned down low, it seemed like the newsreader was yelling at her, screaming in her ear, as he related that a similar incident had occurred nearby two months ago. The perpetrator had been caught and had been allowed to plead to the lesser charge of aggravated assault due to a technicality. He’d been sentenced to two years’ probation. Sources in the police force, he went on, claimed that because of the similarity between the two incidents, there was a very good chance the same man had committed the second rape as well.

With shaking hands, Adi picked up the remote and switched off the TV. The apartment fell silent. The words continued to echo in her ears—“another brutal rape in north Tel Aviv,” “due to a technicality.”

She was overcome by a wave of nausea, the granola and yogurt she’d eaten for breakfast rising in her throat. She ran to the bathroom and hurled—again and again. She couldn’t make them stop, the nausea and uncontrollable weeping.

Finally, she got up from the floor. On her way to the living room she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen, her face was blotched, her hair was disheveled. She’d taken hundreds of showers in the past two months, but suddenly she imagined she could smell his odor on her again, like another recurrence of an illness she thought she’d recovered from.

Tearing off her clothes, she ran to the shower. Just like she had that night, she stood under the scalding water, scrubbing and crying.

She recalled her last meeting with Inspector Nachum. Think how you’ll feel if he does it again, he’d said to her, but she’d been so furious she didn’t want to hear it. The prosecutor had also asked her to consider the possibility that he might do it again, but she’d ignored her too.

What had she done, what had she done? Her tears mingled with the stream of water pouring down on her.

She stepped out of the shower and lay down on her bed. Everyone had pleaded with her not to recant, but she wouldn’t listen. A spoiled, self-centered brat, that’s what she was. It was her fault he’d raped someone else. Just a few blocks away, another girl was lying on a bed somewhere, bleeding, sobbing, shaking. And all because of her.

Adi got up, opened the drawer of her desk, and pulled out Nachum’s card. She’d ask him to forgive her, tell him she knew it was her fault, that she was ready to do anything, to help in any way she could, even testify in court if necessary. She’d do whatever they asked.

She picked up her cell phone and saw that her parents had called several times while she was in the shower. They must’ve heard the news too. With a shaking hand, she punched in the numbers on the card.

A woman answered.

“Can I speak with Eli Nachum, please?”

“Inspector Nachum is on leave,” the woman replied drily.

“When will he be back?” Adi asked. She was surprised he wasn’t there. He didn’t seem the type to take a vacation.

The policewoman cleared her throat. “That information is not available at this time,” she answered finally before hanging up.