by Kathy Reichs
Ryan’s hand closed around mine.
“What chow would you be favorin’, ma’am?”
I knew I wanted a shower. I knew I wanted clean clothes. I knew I wanted food, followed by twelve hours of sleep.
I hadn’t a clue what cuisine I favored.
“Got a plan?”
“Fink’s.”
“Fink.”
“On Histadrut. Been there since before Israel was Israel. Friedman tells me Mouli Azrieli’s an institution.”
“Mouli would be the owner.”
Ryan nodded. “Mouli’s reputed to have turned Kissinger away rather than close the doors to his regulars. But more to the point, Mouli is said to rustle up some mean beef goulash.”
Rustle up? Ryan was going into his cowboy routine.
“Thirty minutes.” I raised one muddy finger. “On one condition.”
Ryan spread his arms. What?
“Lose the lingo.”
I turned toward the stairs.
“Lock the booty in your room safe,” Ryan said to my back. “Rustlers in these parts.”
I stopped. Ryan was right. But my room had been burgled. It wasn’t safe. I’d lost one set of bones, and didn’t want to risk losing another.
I turned.
“Do you think Friedman would secure the bones at police headquarters overnight?”
“Unquestionably.”
I held out my pack. Ryan took it.
Soap and shampoo. Blush and mascara. A half hour later, in soft light, from the right angle, I looked reasonably good.
Fink’s boasted a total of six tables. And a million examples of bric-a-brac. Though the decor was dated, the goulash was excellent.
And Mouli did join us with his stack of scrapbooks. Golda Meir. Kirk Douglas. John Steinbeck. Shirley MacLaine. His celeb collection rivaled that at the American Colony.
In the taxi, Ryan asked, “What would you be thinking, lass?” He’d traded Gunsmoke for Galway.
“Mouli needs new curtains. What would you be thinkin’?”
Ryan beamed a smile as wide as Galway Bay.
“Ah, ’tis that,” I said.
“’Tis,” he said.
I needn’t have worried about fretting sleepless alone in the dark.
26
I SLEPT THROUGH THE MUEZZIN’S CALL TO prayer. I slept through morning rush hour humming by my window. I slept through Ryan slipping off to his room.
I awoke to my jeans playing “A Hard Day’s Night.”
That couldn’t be right.
“I should be sleepin’ like a log . . .”
The music cut off.
Weird dream. Lying back, I remembered the prior evening’s postprandial romp. The lyrics fast-forwarded in my mind.
“You know I feel all right . . .”
The tinny music blared again.
Jake’s mobile!
Bolting from bed, I unpocketed the phone, and dropped the jeans back onto the floor.
“Jake?”
“You’ve got my cell.”
“How are you?”
I looked at the clock. Seven-forty.
“Peachy. I love being bled and having thumbs shoved up my butt.”
“Nicely put.”
“I’m outa here before they take another run at me.”
“You’ve been released?”
“Right.” Jake snorted.
“Jake, you have to—”
“Uh. Huh. Did you get it?”
“The bag was gone.”
“Fucking sonovabitch!”
I waited out the explosion.
“What about the other?”
“I have the shrou—”
“Don’t say it over a cell phone! Can you get to my place?”
“When?”
“I’ve got to deal with the truck, then scare up a replacement vehicle.” Pause. “Eleven?”
“Directions?” I darted to the desk.
Jake gave them. The landmarks and street names meant nothing to me.
“I have to call the IAA, Jake.” To tell them I’d lost the skeleton. I was dreading it.
“First, let me show you what else I recovered from that tomb.”
“I’ve been in Israel for two days. I have to call Blotnik.”
“When you’ve seen what I have.”
“Today,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he snapped. “And bring my goddamn phone.”
Dead air.
Obviously Jake still had irritability issues. And paranoia issues? Did he really believe his calls were being monitored?
I was standing naked, phone in one hand, pen in the other, when someone kicked my door.
Crap. Now what?
I checked the peephole.
Ryan had returned bearing bagels and coffee. He’d shaved, and his hair was wet from the shower.
Through my morning toilette, I described Jake’s call.
“We’ll finish with Kaplan well before eleven. Where’s Jake living?”
“Beit Hanina.”
“I’ll get you out there.”
“I’ve got directions.”
“How is he?”
“Ferocious.”
* * *
Kaplan was being held at a police station in the Russian Compound, one of the first quarters to be established outside the Old City. Originally intended as a residence for Russian pilgrims, it was now a down-at-the-heels piece of inner city deservedly slated for urban renewal.
The district headquarters and attached lockup were a collection of buildings wedged between Jaffa Street and the Russian church. Stone walls, iron window grates. Dingy and decrepit, the place blended well with the hood.
Police units pointed every which way. Friedman parked among them, by a cement barricade flanking the compound. Near it, a massive stone pillar lay half-exposed in the earth.
The pillar was fenced off with iron railings, inside of which were mounded thousands of cigarette butts. I pictured policemen and nervous prisoners taking their last open-air drags before heading or being herded inside.
Friedman noticed me eyeing the pillar.
“First century,” he said.
“Herod strikes again?” Ryan said.
Friedman nodded. “They say it was intended for the royal stoa of Herod’s Temple Mount.”
“The old boy was quite a builder.”
“Quarrymen noticed a crack, so they just left the thing in the ground. Two millennia later, it’s still here.”
We passed through a small guardhouse where we were electronically searched, then questioned. Inside the station, we were again quizzed by a sentry who had to have been at least a year out of high school, then led to a recently vacated office.
Smoke fouled the air. Papers littered the desk, topped by a half-drunk mug of coffee. Stacks of reports. A Rolodex flipped to T.
I noted a name on the mug. Solomon.
I wondered how ole Sol felt about being booted from his digs.
The air had that universal police station smell. A small fan did its best, but it wasn’t enough.
Friedman disappeared, returned. Minutes later, a uniformed cop escorted the prisoner into the office. Kaplan wore black pants and a white shirt. No belt. No shoelaces.
The cop took up a position outside the door. Ryan leaned on one wall. I leaned on another.
Kaplan flashed Friedman a chamber-of-commerce smile. He was clean-shaven, and his eyes seemed pouchier than I remembered.
“I trust Mr. Litvak has come to his senses.”
You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.
The raspy voice cinched it. Kessler and Kaplan were one and the same.
Friedman pointed to a chair. Kaplan sat.
“This is such a silly misunderstanding.” Kaplan laughed a silly-misunderstanding laugh.
Friedman took Sol’s desk chair and inspected his fingernails.
Kaplan turned and got his first good look at me. Something flicked in his eyes, shutter-quick.
Recognition? The first inkling of
why he was here?
Ryan stepped forward. Wordlessly, he held up the photo of Max.
Kaplan’s smile faltered, but hung in.
“You remember Dr. Brennan?” Ryan nodded in my direction.
Kaplan didn’t reply.
“Avram Ferris?” Ryan went on. “All that nasty autopsy business?”
Kaplan swallowed.
“Tell me about it,” Ryan said.
“What’s to tell?”
“I didn’t travel to Israel to discuss checks, Mr. Kaplan.” Ryan’s voice could have cut polar ice. “Or is it Kessler?”
Kaplan crossed his arms. “Yes, Detective. I knew Avram Ferris. Is that what you came here to ask?”
“Where did you get this?” Ryan tapped the photo.
“From Ferris.”
“I see.”
“It’s true.”
Ryan gave Kaplan silence. Kaplan filled it.
“Really.”
Kaplan flicked a glance at Friedman. Friedman was still admiring his manicure.
“Ferris and I did occasional business.”
“Business?”
“It’s stuffy in here.” Kaplan’s bonhomie was fading fast. “I need water.”
“Mr. Kaplan.” Deep disappointment in Friedman’s voice. “Is that how we ask?”
“Please.” Exaggerated sigh.
Friedman strode to the door and spoke to someone in the corridor. Returning to his seat, he smiled at Kaplan. The smile held all the warmth of a proto-amphibian.
“Business?” Ryan repeated.
“I bought and sold things for him.”
“What kind of things?”
A small guy with a big nose arrived and handed Kaplan a grimy glass. The guy was scowling. Sol?
Kaplan gulped, looked up, but didn’t speak.
“What kind of things?” Ryan repeated.
Kaplan shrugged. The water trembled.
“Things.”
“Protecting client confidentiality, Mr. Kaplan?”
Kaplan shrugged again.
“Skeletal things?” Ryan waggled the photo of Max.
Kaplan’s face stiffened. Draining the water, he carefully placed the glass on Sol’s blotter, leaned back, and laced his fingers.
“I want a lawyer.”
“Do you need a lawyer?”
“You don’t intimidate me.”
“You hiding something, Mr. Kaplan?”
Ryan turned to Friedman.
“What do you think, Ira? You suppose Mr. Kaplan was engaged in a little black-marketeering?”
“I think that’s possible, Andy.”
Kaplan’s face remained deadpan.
“Or maybe he decided illicit antiques were kids’ stuff, embarked on a more ambitious career path.”
Kaplan’s fingers were thin. He clasped them so tightly the knuckles went white.
“Could be, Andy. Now that you mention it, he looks like a real Renaissance guy to me.”
Ryan addressed Kaplan.
“That it? You decide to up the ante?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean murder, Hersh. It is Hersh, isn’t it?”
“Jesus Christ.” A flush crept north from Kaplan’s collar. “Are you crazy?”
“What do you think, Ira? You think Hersh capped Avram Ferris?”
“No!” Kaplan shot forward and twisted from Ryan to Friedman. “No!”
Ryan and Friedman exchanged shrugs.
“This is insane.” The flush detonated across Kaplan’s face. “I didn’t kill anyone. I couldn’t.”
Ryan and Friedman waited.
“Okay.” Kaplan raised both hands. “Look.” Kaplan chose his words carefully. “Occasionally I secure objects of questionable provenance.”
“You did this for Ferris?”
Kaplan nodded. “Ferris phoned, asked if I could find a buyer for something special.”
“Special?”
“Extraordinary. Once-in-a-lifetime.”
More waiting.
“Something that would cause havoc in the Christian world. Those were his words.”
Ryan raised the photo.
Kaplan nodded. “Ferris gave me the photo, said not to tell anyone where I got it.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know. This winter.”
“That’s a bit vague, Hersh.”
“Early January.”
Ryan and I exchanged glances. Ferris was shot in mid-February.
“What happened?”
“I floated word, found there was interest, told Ferris I’d deal, but first I’d need more than just his word and his photo for validation. He said he’d get me proof of the skeleton’s authenticity. Before we could meet, Ferris was dead.”
“What did Ferris tell you about the skeleton?” I asked.
Kaplan turned to me. His eyes showed something for a moment, then went neutral.
“It came from Masada.”
“How’d Ferris get it?’
“He didn’t say.”
“Anything else?”
“He said it was a person of historic importance, and claimed to have proof.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
We all thought about that. What proof might Ferris have had? Statements from Lerner? Le Musée de l’Homme? The museum file that Lerner had stolen? Maybe the original paperwork from Israel?
In the corridor, I heard someone talking to the cop. Poor, displaced Sol?
“What about Miriam Ferris?” Ryan changed tack.
“What about her?”
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Ferris?”
Kaplan shrugged.
“Is that a yes?”
“I know her.”
“In the biblical sense?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Let me rephrase, Hersh. I did ask if it was Hersh, didn’t I? Did you have an affair with Miriam Ferris?”
“What?”
“First I asked confirmation of your given name. Then I asked if you were doing Miriam. Two-part questions too tough for you?”
“Miriam was married to my ex-wife’s brother.”
“After your brother-in-law’s death, you two kept in touch?”
Kaplan didn’t answer. Ryan waited. Kaplan folded.
“Yes.”
“That how you hooked up with Ferris?”
Again the silence. Again the wait. Again Kaplan crumbled.
“Miriam is a good person.”
“Answer my question, Hersh.”
“Yes.” Bitter.
“Why pony up the photo at Ferris’s autopsy?”
Kaplan shrugged one shoulder. “Just trying to help.”
Ryan went over it and over it. Kaplan grew restless, but stuck to his story. He knew Miriam through his former brother-in-law, and Ferris through Miriam. From time to time, he did some minor-league buying and selling of illegal goods. He’d agreed to unload the skeleton for Ferris. Before he got full background on the bones, Ferris was killed. He didn’t do it. His conscience told him to surrender the photo.
Kaplan’s version never changed.
That time.
27
AT HALF PAST TEN, RYAN AND I RECLAIMED possession of the shroud and bones, then climbed into Friedman’s personal car, an ’84 Tempo with a duct tape K on the right rear window. Friedman stayed with Kaplan.
“What’s his plan?” I asked
“Give the gentleman time to reconsider his tale.”
“And then?”
“Ask him to repeat it.”
“Repetition is good,” I said.
“Brings out inconsistencies.”
“And forgotten details.”
“Case in point, Mama Ferris,” Ryan said.
“Got us hooked into Yossi Lerner and Sylvain Morissonneau,” I agreed.
Beit Hanina is an Arab village with the timely good fortune to find itself within modern Jerusalem’s new municipal boundaries. It is now Beit
Hanina Hadashah, or New Beit Hanina. Jake had kept a flat here for as long as I’d known him.
Jake’s directions sent us into territory that was Jordan from 1948 until 1967. Ten minutes after leaving the Russian Compound, we hit the Neve Yakov checkpoint on the Ramallah, formerly the Nablus, Road. Good timing. The queue only stretched a block and a half.
Ryan joined the line and we crept forward, car length by car length. On our trip to the Kidron, Jake had told me that the wall designed to cocoon Israel from the rest of the world would shoot down the center of the road we were on. I scanned the stores flanking each side.
Pizza parlors. Dry cleaners. Sweet shops. Florists. We could have been in St-Lambert. Scarsdale. Pontiac. Elmhurst.
But this was Israel. To my left lay the insiders, those whose businesses would prosper despite the wall. To my right lay the outsiders, those whose businesses would wither because of the wall. Sad, I thought. These, the common folk humping to feed their families, were the real winners and losers in this disputed land.
Without Friedman, Ryan and I had anticipated a grilling. Au contraire. The guard glanced at our passports and Ryan’s badge, bent for a look, and waved us through. Crossing into the West Bank, we made an immediate left, then another onto Jake’s street.
Jake rented the top floor of a small stucco home owned by an Italian archaeologist named Antonia Fiorelli. Jake lived up. Fiorelli lived down, with seven cats.
Ryan announced our arrival via a cracked speaker in the property wall. Seconds later Jake opened the gate, led us past a chicken-wire coop housing goats and rabbits, down a winding pebble walk, and up an outer staircase. By the second floor, we’d picked up a three-cat escort.
There are several feline types. The pet-me-I-adore-you-let-me-curl-in-your-lap calico. The feed-me-don’t-bug-me-I’ll-call-you Siamese. The I’m-watching-to-see-if-your-chest-is-still-moving-while-you-sleep feral tom.
This trio fit nicely into category three.
Most of Jake’s flat was taken up by a large central room with brown tile floor, white plaster walls, and brick trim arching the windows and doors. Wooden cabinets lined one end, and swooped around as an island to separate the kitchen from the living and dining areas.
Jake’s bedroom was the size of a broiler oven. It contained an untidy bed, a dresser, and a cardboard box for dirty laundry.
Everything else was “office.” A vestibule area had been converted to a computer and map room. An enclosed porch was used for artifact cleaning. A back bedroom was set up for cataloging, recording, and analysis.
