Pattern Crimes (29 page)

They went out for a walk late one afternoon along the wall that ran along the western edge of the Old City. They walked silently until they reached the Jaffa Gate. Then Anna turned to him and spoke:

"I love it here, David. I don't know why
. I'm not religious but I'm stirred. There's no river, no harbor, but I love it anyway. The city covering the hills like a carpet. The long shadows of people by the walls. Oh, David, it's your place, your city. This magic city-made-of stones...."

Early Saturday morning he drove to Haifa, arriving at the Raskov house at ten o'clock. It was an extremely large house in Central Carmel, modern, flat-roofed, and sprawling, with a fine view of the harbor below.

A Druse woman opened the door. No sign of Judith or Joe. "I'm Captain Bar-Lev," David said to her in Arabic.

The woman nodded. "Please wait. Hagith will be right down."

From the stoop David looked around. The lawn was perfectly manicured, and there were two shiny Mercedes-Benz automobiles parked beside the house. The trunk door of one had been left open exposing tennis rackets, an expensive set of golf clubs, a pair of snorkeling flippers and a breathing tube.

Hagith's face reminded David of Gideon's, but her gestures were reminiscent of Judith. On the drive up to Tiberias, they talked about her schoolwork, her teachers, her friends, carefully skirting details of her life at home.

"Anna and I want you to stay with us," he said. "For a week, or longer if you like, and your mother approves." Hagith didn't answer. "Don't you miss Jerusalem? Do you remember it? It's been almost a year since you came up to visit."

"Yes, I remember," she said. And then she started to cry.

"Darling! What's the matter?" He pulled the car over to the side of the road. "Why are you upset? Is it something I said? Please tell me so I can help."

"I want
to visit," she said. "I miss you and grandfather very much."

"We miss you too. That's nothing to cry about."

"Joe won't let me come," she said.

"What do you mean, he won't
let you?
Why not, darling?"

"He says people will try and kidnap me so they can get his money."

The crude son-of-a-bitch!
He fought hard to control his fury. "Listen, Hagith—it doesn't matter what Joe says. Doesn't matter at all. A visit to Jerusalem is between you, me, and your mother—and nobody else."

"I don't like him,"
she said suddenly. "His breath smells bad." She threw herself sobbing across David's lap. He petted her splayed hair while explaining that no matter where she lived, he, David, would always love her and would always be her daddy. But even as he said all of this he couldn't help but be aware of a surge of joy inside.
She hates Joe Raskov, hates the smell of his breath! She still my daughter!
Suddenly he felt better than he had in weeks.

"I've been thinking about Anna and her problem playing Mendelssohn," his father said.

"Yes?"

"Mendelssohn was a Jewish composer."

"So...?"

"So that could be significant. She's having trouble with
a Jew."

"You think she's having trouble with me, father?"

"Maybe. Of course this is only a suggestion, David, but
perhaps
it would be helpful if you would both examine that."

When he glanced up Shoshana's supple body filled the doorway. She shook her glossy curls and grinned.

"So here you are," he said.

"I know you've been waiting for me."

He motioned her to a chair. She sat and crossed her arms. "Nine days ago you sent me to catch Amit Nissim. I told you what happened—she couldn't describe the scary bearded man any better
than she had for you. So I thought: Okay, I'll keep in touch, she
knows something, she's the only one who does, she may be only six years old but right now she's all we've got. Every afternoon I've been dropping by the school just when they let the kids go loose. Amit sees me, runs over, we give each other a hug, then we walk a couple blocks, I buy her an orange, we talk, about police work, this and that, then I pat her on her fanny and send her home.

"I like her. She looks up to me, says she wants to join the force when she grows up. But I'm not spending my time with a six-year-old because I need my ego massaged. I figure she's seen this scary bearded guy once, maybe she'll see him again. Every time we meet I ask her if she has, and she shakes her head and promises she'll tell me if she does.

"Okay, two days ago we go through it again. No, she hasn't seen him, so we go on to something else. Then, out of the blue, she says: 'I saw the other one.' 'Who?' 'The other one,' she says—which just about freaks me out. Turns out, to please me she's been sitting with her parents watching all the grown-up shows. And on one of them, a discussion program a week ago, she recognized another of the three men from the van. Not the scary bearded one, and not the guy who was hurt. But the third man who, with the beard, helped the injured guy limp away. Can she describe him? A little. He had gray hair, sharp eyes, and acted very proud. Since that fits just about every Israeli TV panelist I've ever seen, I asked the broadcast people for a list. It wasn't long. I found pictures of most of the men in old newspapers and magazines. I compiled a little scrapbook and this afternoon I showed it to Amit. She examined every face, then fingered one of them. You know, David, she's been an excellent witness, and so far she's been on the button every time."

Shoshana placed her scrapbook on his desk. He turned the pages: party leaders, former cabinet ministers, public personalities from business and the arts. When he reached an old newspaper photo of General Yigal Gati, Shoshana clicked her teeth.

He glanced up at her. "Him?"

Her
eyes were flashing. "Yup."

He leaned back, thrilled. Pieces were finally clicking into place.

"You know, Shoshana, you've become one damn fine detective after all."

"Thanks. And now I suppose you'll take this into Rafi since, of course, it's not our case anymore. I hear the new team's discrediting all our work. Dov says they don't even care about the accident. So they'll probably discount this too."

He touched the scar on his cheek. "Fuck them," he said.

"Right! Fuck them!" She laughed. "What are
we
going to do?"

He leaned forward. "I want you to check up on our old friend Gutman, the Torah thief. He's been in the lock-up awhile. Maybe that prosecutor, Netzer, wouldn't mind if you took him out for a little walk."

"Gutman?" She squinted at him.

"Yeah. Don't you think he could use some air?"

"Is there some connection between him and General Gati?"

 
"Talk to Netzer, Shoshana. We need old Gutman. So when you go in use all your charms."

Late that afternoon she brought Gutman to where he waited beside the Jean Arp sculpture on the western edge of Independence Park. It had been a magical Jerusalem day, the sky deep blue, the dry air fragrant with decaying lilac blossoms. Now Arp's three vertical steel waves stood like profiles of gigantic women, silver silhouettes against the dense summer greenery.

Gutman had aged since the night of his arrest. He'd lost weight, his skin was pale, and he blinked like a man not used to being out in natural light.

"So it's you." When he saw David he lifted his eyebrows. "For this they let me loose?"

"You're not loose," David replied.

"Oh? More Gestapo torture. I get it now." Gutman enlarged his eyes. "Bring the old Jew out of Bergen-Belsen, let him breathe, then send him quick to the delousing van."

David knew Gutman was a shrewd old crook and that his indignant persecution talk was merely rhetoric. But he found the Nazi references troubling. They were bad enough coming from Arabs, but when a Jew used them they were calculated to injure and infuriate.

"Let's call this a short reprieve."

"Just how damn short is it going to be?"

"Depends on you."

"Do I have to read your mind?"

"Okay, Jacob, let's take a little walk."

He gestured for Shoshana to follow, then guided Gutman up King George toward the offices of the Chief Rabbinate.

"How's your father?" A moderate tone now, as if Gutman had decided to behave like a normal person for a while.

"You should have told me you knew him."

"And embarrass you?"

"I wouldn't have been embarrassed."

"Oh? So you like to arrest your father's friends?"

The harsh defensive tone again; David ignored it. "You recognized me. Tell me how."

"I knew you when you were a kid. I've seen you a few times since. People point you out: 'Hey, there goes young Bar-Lev, nice boy.' See, David, you're not old enough yet. Later your face will change. Your true cop-type character will assert itself."

They passed Stein's Bookstore. Through the window David saw an old man in a skullcap moving languidly among stacks of moldy second-hand Hebrew and German books. Ahead, grenade screens guarded the entrance to the Jewish Agency. Bands of razor wire caught the sun.

"I haven't seen your father in years. Or many of the others."

"The hunters."

Gutman glanced at him. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing. It's the one thing about which he's never said a word."

"Didn't he say anything about me?"

"Yes. He said you were a man who had been 'wronged.' "

Gutman smiled. "Still, you knew I'd been a hunter?"

"Yigal Gati told me. He came around one day."

"Hmmm. This is interesting. Tell me more."

"I didn't like him much. Pushy kind of guy."

"He always was. A good commander but no compassion, none at all."

"Yes," said David, "I know what you mean. A real first-class Israeli prick."

Suddenly Gutman stopped. He turned to David. There was fear in his eyes and wariness too. "What are you telling me?"

"That Gati's not doing you any good. That if you want help with your difficulties, Gati's not your man."

"So who is my man?
You?"

"Calm down. Let's go into the park. It's nice and cool down there."

He glanced back at Shoshana, then guided Gutman off King George. As they descended by a footpath and entered the trees, the sounds of Jerusalem traffic faded away.

"So what are you going to do for me, sonny-boy? Going to get me off?"

"Can't do that. A reduced charge—maybe. But for that you'll have to trade."

"Trade? You mean bargain? Your camel for my rug—that sort of thing?"

"How about your money for my Torah?" For the first time, David saw Gutman grin.

This, he knew, was the crucial moment, the pivot upon which the interview would turn. Gutman could spill, if indeed he had anything to spill. Or he could tighten up and then it would be useless to try and make him talk.

They passed a young mother in a red blouse pushing a baby carriage, and then a young man with one leg, tall, tanned, athletic, a Lebanon veteran, walking with crutches, his sweetheart by his side.

"I want to explain about the Torahs."

"I'm listening." David gestured toward a bench. Gutman sat down. David sat beside him. Shoshana leaned against a tree.

"I don't want you to misunderstand. I didn't do it for the money. I never cared about that."

"So what did you care about?"

"Religious people. Their stupid
halacha.
The way they've brought this country to its knees. They're detestable. The Knesset ought to ban them. Fire the rabbis. Outlaw the yarmulke. Cut off their damn earlocks and if they don't like it ship them out." He shook his head. "One day in 1972 one of them, a black-suited black-hatted son-of-a bitch, hit my only daughter, Miriam, with his car. He was a diamond merchant, fifty-two years old. She was nineteen, on leave from the army, a beautiful red-headed kid, eyes so sweet you'd look into them and want to cry. He ran her down, squashed her right there on Malkhe Yisrael, and the bastard didn't even stop. Just drove off with his precious diamonds, and then, when they caught him and put him on trial—no doubt of the outcome; the case was open-and-shut—up pop a dozen of his friends to say he couldn't have been the driver because he was with them in their
lernen
group interpreting Talmud at the time. Then his lawyer starts in on Miriam like she was some kind of slut, like she practically deserved to be run over for walking in a religious neighborhood, her head provocatively uncovered and her bare legs fanning flames of lust. The prosecutor was a young smart-ass. He didn't prepare himself; they ate him up alive. Then came the verdict. Reasonable doubt, says the judge. No punishment. No damages. The fucker walks out of court, a great big smile on his face. Your father tells you I was 'wronged.' Yeah, I was wronged.
Oh yeah! I was wronged!"