Lineup (20 page)
DAVID
Meshulam was ushered quickly through the border crossing at Shaar Ephraim, passing from Israel within the Green Line, where law and order reigned, to the West Bank, or what Faro liked to call the “Wild West.” He should have left the minute Faro was picked up. He was familiar with the emergency plan: if anything goes wrong, hook up immediately with George’s crew in Shufa.
But even though he knew he should get in the car and disappear, he couldn’t leave everything behind and run like a rabbit. It was probably all his fault anyway. He wanted to get it off his chest, to admit to Faro what he’d done, but every time he tried, he couldn’t get the words out. He couldn’t stand the thought of seeing the disappointment on the face of the man he owed his life to. And now even if he wanted to come clean, who would he tell? The cops had Faro, and there was no one else he could trust.
He couldn’t get his head around the arrest. Everything pointed to Nevo. Faro was hauled in after Nevo was released, Nevo ran, and, to top it off, the car with the bomb had vanished into thin air. Nevo’s wife and kid were missing too.
But—and it was a very big but—if Nevo had talked, what was all the bullshit about another rape? He read the stories in the paper. Every fucking cop in the country was looking for him. Maybe it was just a smoke screen so Faro wouldn’t know he ratted him out. Even the asshole cops weren’t stupid enough to pin two rapes on a nerd like Nevo.
The whole thing was too confusing, too complicated, way above his pay grade. But what choice did he have? Faro wasn’t there, so he had to rely on himself to make sense of all this shit. He decided his best move was to hide out in Nevo’s apartment. Making his way over the rooftops, he slipped in without being seen. He figured sooner or later Nevo would have to come back for his stuff, or send someone else to get it. He’d left everything behind when he ran. The cops didn’t scare him. It didn’t seem very likely they’d put a watch on the place. Faro always told them to take advantage of the tight budget the police had to work with. Worse comes to worst, if he caught sight of a cop he’d take off.
He’d spent two nights there, and then yesterday, Nevo’s old man showed up. At least he thought he was his old man. He couldn’t even be sure of that anymore. He’d shown the old geezer no mercy, but he hadn’t given up easy, and Meshulam had a bloody jaw and a broken nose to prove it. And despite the hammering he’d taken, he hadn’t volunteered any information about Nevo.
He’d keep looking, but for now his busted face would attract too much attention. He had to get out of there for a couple of days until things quieted down. Then he’d go after him again. In the meantime, he’d be safe with George. The cops couldn’t touch him there.
He sped down the winding road. He wasn’t ready to give up yet. It was just a minor delay. It’d work out in the end. He’d find Nevo and get him to spill his guts. After that, who knows what might happen.
ZIV
was terrified. All of a sudden he was the target of a double manhunt. Both the cops and the mob were looking for him.
Despair almost got the better of him. He didn’t have the street smarts to deal with this shit. He ran through possible scenarios in his mind but was paralyzed to make a decision. Every scheme led to a dead end. How was he supposed to decide between different shades of disaster?
His first thought was to take Nachum’s advice and disappear for a few more days. He’d go back to Gili and Merav and go on pretending nothing was wrong, just ignore the world and everything that was happening around them. But as soon as he got on the road heading south, doubt began gnawing at him. He filled the tank and then parked at the edge of the gas station. Was he making a mistake? Running away again would make the bad guys more convinced than ever that he’d informed on them. And eventually he’d have to come back and face reality.
He felt unbearably lonely and powerless, like a tiny pawn in a game between two titans. Why the hell were Faro’s guys still after him? He’d been out long enough for them to see he hadn’t betrayed them. If he’d told the cops what he was doing that night, they would have picked up Faro and Meshulam by now, and they certainly wouldn’t be accusing him of another rape. Why was the mob still looking for him when he was wanted in connection with the second rape?
Given the circumstances, he was less anxious about the cops. He was shocked to hear they suspected him of another rape, but he could deal with that. Merav would testify that he was hundreds of miles from Tel Aviv when it happened. Even if they didn’t believe her—and there were no other corroborating witnesses—the worst they could do was throw him in jail. At this point, that seemed the safest option.
Faro’s organization was still his biggest problem. There were no lines they wouldn’t cross. They wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him or Gili. Nachum’s attacker said to tell him not to forget what Meir said in Abu Kabir. The words sent a shiver down his spine.
Feeling stifled, he cracked the window to let in the cold air. He debated going to the police and telling them what he knew about Faro in return for protection for his family and him. But how could they protect them? He’d have to keep looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Faro wouldn’t give up. You never got free of guys like him. What kind of life would they have? He’d be condemning Gili and Merav to living on the run.
A huge semi behind him honked, startling him. He turned the key in the ignition and got back on the road.
He had to talk to Faro. If he sat down with him face-to-face and told him he hadn’t given him up, he’d see in his eyes that he was telling the truth. He had to. Meshulam was no more than a thug, but not Faro. He was a clever guy. Ziv was sure he could convince him. That’s why he’d gone back to the city in the first place.
But what if it didn’t go the way he hoped? The image of Nachum’s bloody face and battered body floated up before his eyes. That’s what he’d look like, assuming Faro decided to let him live. If he hadn’t shown up in time, Nachum would be dead. Who would save
him
if his plan didn’t work?
Before leaving for Tel Aviv, Ziv had written a letter detailing everything, had put it in a sealed envelope, and had given it to Merav for safekeeping. He wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. After all, the less she knew, the better. The letter could put her at risk, make her a target too. But it was also his insurance policy if his plan didn’t work. “Don’t open it unless I don’t come back and you and Gili are in danger. Only if you have no other choice,” he said as he handed it to her. She’d promised. If he told Faro about the letter, it might give him some leverage. Of course he’d never tell him where it was, just that it existed and that the cops would get it if anything happened to him.
For the second time that day, he saw the skyline of Tel Aviv in the distance.
Once, at one of their fancy picnics at Orit’s house before his world collapsed, he’d said he’d give his life for Gili. They weren’t just words. He really meant it. But still, it was the sort of thing parents say. It’s easy to mean it when there’s no danger in sight, when you can’t imagine you’ll ever actually have to do it.
“ZIV?”
Noam sounded very surprised to hear his voice.
He’d thought long and hard about the best way to make contact with Faro. He considered calling him directly, but he’d never called him before for any reason whatsoever. He was afraid it would be regarded as presumptuous, as if he weren’t showing Faro the proper respect, and he certainly didn’t want to piss him off any more than he already was. He was scared to call Meshulam. In the end, he decided to go through Noam. Despite everything that had happened, he might still have some credit with Noam in view of their history. He’d been his commander way back when, and Noam had gotten him the job with Faro. And he wasn’t actually part of the organization, just Faro’s nephew. He’d dialed the number a dozen times that day, but Noam’s phone was switched off. It was eleven at night by the time he reached him.
“Where are you?” Noam asked.
“Listen, I need a favor,” Ziv said, getting the words out quickly before he changed his mind. “I have to talk to your uncle . . . as soon as possible.”
“You kidding, Nevo, or what? Are you nuts?” There was an unfamiliar harshness in Noam’s voice.
“I swear by everything I hold dear, I didn’t do anything, Noam. They’ve got no reason to come after me. I didn’t do anything. I’ve got to talk to your uncle.”
No response.
“Five minutes, that’s all I need. Just to explain. I don’t know what to do. I need your help.”
“Where are you?” Noam asked again.
“Here, in Tel Aviv. Tell me where to go and I’ll be there. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.”
“Let me check with a few people and I’ll get back to you,” Noam said, hanging up.
Ziv got out of the car and paced back and forth, his cell phone in his hand. Had he made the right decision? Maybe Faro wouldn’t want to hear what he had to say. Maybe he’d just give the order to kill him.
His phone rang.
“I talked to them,” Noam said. “Wait at the top of the Ayalon North ramp at the Halacha exit. Someone will be by shortly to pick you up.”
NACHUM
moved slowly, flinching with pain at every step. The doctor had told him to stay in bed and not put any weight on the leg. He’d nodded and promised Leah to do as he was told. But the second she left the room he was out of bed, leaning on crutches and keeping out of sight of the ward nurses. The thought that she was lying in a bed only two floors above him gave him no peace.
He couldn’t remember how many times they’d told him how lucky he was, that, considering the beating he’d taken, his injuries weren’t too severe. Still, his whole body hurt, especially the left knee and the ribs. At the slightest incautious movement, he could almost feel his broken bones rubbing up against each other.
As he tottered, panting, along the empty corridors, stopping from time to time to rest, he kept hoping they’d be there, that this trek, which would take a healthy person five minutes and was taking him half an hour, was not in vain. He breathed a sigh of relief, insofar as his broken ribs allowed, when he saw him sitting in the waiting room, staring sightlessly at the TV screen on the wall. He was afraid he might not recognize him, but he identified Michael Aronov immediately. The resemblance between Dana and her father was striking.
NACHUM
had had a flood of visitors all day. Everybody wanted to know what happened to him, but he told no one. Even when he was alone with his wife, he refused to answer her endless questions. He’d decided to keep it to himself for the time being. He even declined to cooperate with the local cops who came to question him after they were notified by the hospital of a possible crime.
Had he made the right choice? If he shared the information he’d gotten from Sarah Glazer about the tattoo on the man’s arm, and the fact that Nevo didn’t have one, Nevo wouldn’t be their prime suspect anymore. They could stop concentrating all their efforts on looking for the wrong man and start focusing on finding the true rapist.
There’d been a few times during the day when he’d almost dialed Ohad’s number, but he’d never made the call. He’d been part of the system long enough to know it wouldn’t make any difference. They’d convinced themselves that Nevo was the perp, and they were trapped in that mind-set. It all fit: the similarity between the two attacks, the fact that Nevo had already been convicted and had only gotten off because of a technicality. At this point, admitting that he didn’t do the crimes meant admitting they’d been wrong from the outset, that they’d helped convict an innocent man.
He couldn’t really blame them. He’d just now arrived at that conclusion himself, while he was on suspension. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t have gotten there if he was still carrying a badge. But when you’re on the force, the considerations are different, the thinking is different. It’s easy to join in the consensus, to go with the flow. Much easier than taking an unpopular stance and expressing doubts. One guy says something, another seconds it, and then two more add their voices to the choir and they all make perfect harmony. Even if the fifth guy down the line thinks differently and decides to say so, who’s going to listen?
If he gave them the information, chances are they wouldn’t give it the proper weight. They’d probably focus on the facts of secondary importance: How come he was conducting a private investigation? Where did he meet with Nevo? Why did he let him get away?
NACHUM
lowered himself onto a chair in the waiting room. The sharp pain in his side forced a groan out of him. Michael Aronov took his eyes from the TV screen and looked at him suspiciously. There were only five other people in the room, leaving plenty of empty seats farther away that he could’ve chosen. He imagined his battered face wasn’t a pretty sight either.
He watched Michael Aronov in silence. Part of a detective’s job description is knowing how to cope with the tragedies he encounters on a daily basis, how to steel himself to the pain and focus on the investigation. He’d sat opposite parents like the Aronovs too many times to count. But this time he felt ill at ease because he wasn’t officially a policeman. He was conducting an independent investigation. But he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t ignore the connections between the Adi Regev case and the rape of Dana Aronov. Like the ring, for instance. The more he found out, the closer he’d come to the rapist.
He saw Aronov’s leg twitching and the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. The only way he’d have any chance of drawing him out and getting him to tell him what happened to his daughter would be to take him somewhere private. And he couldn’t reveal his identity. After all, if it weren’t for his own mistakes, they might have caught the real perp in time and prevented the attack on Dana.
He glanced again at the cigarettes making a bulge in Aronov’s pocket. He hadn’t smoked in twenty years.
“Can I buy a cigarette? The pain is killing me,” he said, nodding to the small balcony outside.
Aronov held out the pack without looking at him.
“Would you mind helping me get the door open?”
Aronov stood up.
NACHUM
watched him walk back inside. In a minute, he’d get up and start the trek back to the ward.
It hadn’t been easy, but in the end he’d managed to get Dana’s father to open up. He wasn’t sure what triggered it. It could be that he mentioned his own daughter, or that he groaned about his pain and the man took pity on him, or that, having grown up in the USSR, Aronov felt more comfortable talking to a stranger than to anyone in uniform. Maybe it was simply boredom, a way to pass the time or ease the hurt a little. And it could have been all those things together.
He didn’t have much to say. He and his wife lived and worked in Beersheba, remote from their daughter’s life in Tel Aviv. The police called to inform him of what happened to Dana. He was at work, in the bank, when they got the horrendous news. She was unconscious when they found her, and she’d been that way ever since. The doctors couldn’t say when she’d wake up, or if she ever would. His wife had gone to Dana’s apartment to get a few hours’ sleep. She’d be back soon and then it would be his turn to get some rest.
Dana was a receptionist in the Weizmann Fitness Center, right near the hospital. She didn’t tell him a lot about her life in the city. As far as he knew, she didn’t have a boyfriend. She was closer to her mother, but she didn’t know about anyone in particular her daughter was seeing either. They had no idea who could have done it. That’s what they told the police, and the two reporters who came to pester them too.
Nevertheless, Nachum’s excruciating journey from the ward might not have been wasted. Aronov told him that before she got the job at the gym, Dana had worked as a waitress at the Zodiac Café, a popular local coffee shop. As a rule, he wouldn’t give much weight to her previous place of employment, but he’d heard that name before. Yaron Regev told him that Adi spent a lot of time there. Nachum had even questioned the servers about anyone matching the description Adi had given of her attacker, but nothing came of it. “A lot of people who come here match that description,” he was told.
This might be the connection he was looking for. Dana was in a coma and couldn’t provide any further details about the rapist, but now that he had a clearer picture of his personality, the questions put to the servers could be more focused.
He stood up, biting down on his lip to stifle the yelp of pain. He’d call Ohad tomorrow and tell him what he’d found out. If he could, he’d continue the investigation on his own. But for the time being, that was impossible, considering the shape he was in. Anyway, the cops had more resources.
He made his way tortuously through the empty corridors smelling of illness and pain. Yes, he’d call Ohad tomorrow and tell him everything. Or would he?
