The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

Daniel couldn’t suppress his grin. “Regards to Mrs. Moscowitz,” he said.

  The old man’s eyebrows rose in exasperation.

  “She’s a nice woman, Abba.”

  “Very nice. The nicest. But not for me—that’s no sin, is it?” A hand went up and adjusted the beret. “Now she’s decided that the way to my heart is through my stomach—a Hadassah course in Yemenite cooking. Bean soup and kubaneh and kirshe every Shabbat. In addition to all her Ashkenazi food. I eat until I ache, for fear of hurting her feelings. Which is also why I haven’t been able to tell her we’re not a destined match.” He smiled balefully at Daniel. “Can the police help in such matters?”

  “Afraid not, Abba.”

  Shared laughter followed by an expectant silence.

  “Shabbat shalom, Abba.”

  “Shabbat shalom. It was good to see you.”

  His father continued to hold his hands. Squeezing. Lingering. Suddenly, the old man brought the damaged hand to his lips, kissed the scar tissue, and let go.

  “What you do is also an art,” he said. “You must remember that.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  On the way back up to The Star, he passed close to the shwarma stand, caught a glint of metal, and stopped: a long-bladed knife, flashing like a silver minnow in the hands of the counterman. Assaulting the meat as it turned slowly on the spit, the lamb splitting open and crackling with surrender as layer after layer fell from the cone. An everyday thing; he’d seen it thousands of times without noticing.

  The counterman was a lanky Moroccan Jew, face wet with perspiration, apron dotted with gravy. He finished preparing a sandwich for a customer, saw Daniel staring, shouted out that the shwarma was fresh, and offered to cut the detective a juicy one. Shaking his head no, Daniel resumed his climb.

  The door to The Star was wide open, leading to a small, dim entry hall backed by a curtain of painted wooden beads. Parting the beads, he walked in.

  Luncheon business was brisk, the cedar-paneled front room fan-cooled and filled with a comfortable mix of tourists and regulars, the robust chorus of laughter and conversation competing with a background tape of French and Italian pop songs.

  The walls of the restaurant were hung generously with pictures and figurines, all rendered in a stellar motif. Over the bar was an oil portrait of a younger David Kohavi, darkly fierce in his general’s uniform. Just beneath the painting was a Star of David hewn from Jerusalem stone, at its center the word HaKohav—“the star”—and a dedication from the men of Kohavi’s battalion in raised bronze letters. The fire-burnished bronze of melted bullet shells.

  Emil the Waiter was washing glasses behind the bar, stooped and gnarled in a billowing starched shirt and black bow tie. When he saw Daniel he came forward and escorted the detective toward an unmarked door at the rear of the restaurant. Just as the waiter’s hand settled on the doorknob, Kohavi himself emerged from the kitchen, dressed, despite the season, in dark suit and tie, a white-haired version of the man in the painting. Bellowing a greeting, he shook Daniel’s hand and motioned Emil back to the bar.

  “I’ve set up a table for you. Five, right?”

  “If they all show up.”

  Kohavi pushed the door open. “One already has.”

  The rear banquet room was almost empty. Papered in a burgundy print and lit by crystal lamps in sconces, it sported a raised wooden stage at the far end and accommodated two dozen tables, all but one of them bare and unoccupied. A tablecloth of burgundy linen had been spread across a round table next to the stage. At it sat a nondescript man reading Ha’aretz. The sounds of footsteps caused him to glance up briefly from his paper before resuming his perusal.

  “The fish is good today,” said Kohavi, stopping midway. “So are the filet steak and the shishlik. I’ll send the others back as they arrive.”

  “One of them’s never been here,” said Daniel. “Elias Daoud.” He described Daoud physically.

  “Daoud,” said Kohavi. “The Arab involved in breaking up the Number Two Gang?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Nice piece of work. I’ll see to it he doesn’t get lost.”

  “Thanks.”

  The restaurateur left and Daniel walked to the newspaper reader and sat opposite him, propping the envelope of photos against one leg of his chair.

  “Shalom, Nahum.”

  The paper lowered and the man gave a brief nod. “Dani.”

  He was in his mid-fifties, bald and thin, with features that had been cast with an eye toward anonymity: the nose slightly aquiline but unmemorable, the mouth a tentative hyphen of intermediate width, the eyes twin beads of neutral brown, their lack of luster suggesting sleepiness. A forgettable face that had settled into repose—the serenity of one who’d vanquished ambition by retreating from it. He wore reading glasses, a cheap digital watch on one hairless forearm, and a pale-blue sport shirt with a faint windowpane check, its pocket sagging with ballpoint pens. A navy-blue windbreaker had been folded neatly over the chair next to him. Over it was slung a shoulder holster bearing a 9 mm Beretta.

  “Mice in the Golan are committing suicide,” he said, tapping the newspaper and putting it down. “Jumping off cliffs, hundreds at a time. An instinctive reaction to over-population, according to the scientists.”

  “Noble,” said Daniel.

  “Not really,” said the thin man. “Without a sufficient supply of mice, the owls who prey on them will die.” He smiled. “If the owls complain to the U.N., we’ll be brought up on cruelty-to-animal charges.”

  The door to the kitchen swung open and Emil the Waiter came to the table with a platter of salads—hummus, tehina, two kinds of eggplant, pickled cucumbers, bitter Greek olives—and a stack of pita for dipping. He set down a plate next to each of them and bowed formally.

  “Something to drink, Pakad Sharavi?”

  “Soda water, please.”

  “For you, Mefakeah Shmeltzer?”

  “Another cola, no lime this time.”

  When he was gone, Daniel said, “Speaking of the U.N., I was up at the Amelia Catherine this morning. It relates to our new one.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Shmeltzer, rolling an olive between his fingers. “Bloody cutting on Scopus.”

  “Are tongues flapping that energetically?” asked Daniel.

  The edge in his voice made Shmeltzer look up.

  “Just the usual grapevine stuff from the uniforms. You called for an extra car to search the hillside—people wanted to know why. What’s the big deal?”

  “No big deal. Laufer wants it kept quiet.”

  “I want world peace and harmony,” said Shmeltzer. “Care to take bets on either?”

  “What did you hear, exactly, Nahum?”

  “Maniac homicide, maybe a whore, maybe another Gray Man. Does it match?”

  Daniel shook his head. “Doubtful.” He related what he’d learned about the case. The account seemed to subdued Shmeltzer.

  “Insane,” he said quietly. “We never used to see that kind of thing.”

  Emil returned with the drinks and, eyeing the untouched food, asked if everything was all right.

  “Everything’s fine,” said Daniel. Rising, he went to sink across the room and used a copper cup to wash both hands. Upon returning, he sat down, said the blessing over bread, broke off a piece of pita, salted it, and ate it. Dipping another piece into the hummus, he put it in his mouth, the pungency of cumin and garlic a pleasant shock upon his tongue. Emil nodded approvingly and turned on his heel.

  “Get anything at the hospital?” asked Shmeltzer.

  “Typical U.N. situation. Lip service and hostility.”

  “What do you expect? They live like little princes, the assholes—duty-free Mercedes, villas, diplomatic immunity. What do they pay their pencil pushers now—forty, fifty thousand a year?”

  “Ninety.”

  “Shekels or American dollars?”

  “Dollars,” said Daniel. “Tax-free.”

  “Shit,�
�� said Shmeltzer. “Ten years’ worth of wages for you and me. And for doing nothing.” He dipped pita in eggplant salad, managed to frown while chewing. “I remember one guy I questioned in a burglary case. Nigerian, looked just like Idi Amin. Safari suit, ivory-tipped walking stick, and an engraved calling card with a title you could eat for lunch: Executive Regional Director of the Sinai Border Commission, supposed to count how many Egyptians we kill and vice versa. No matter that we gave it all back at Camp David and there’s no border anymore—this guy’s job was to administer it because the hard-liners at the U.N. never recognized Camp David. Far as they’re concerned it’s still a war zone.”

  He sipped his cola, popped an olive in his mouth, removed the pit, and put it on his plate. Nibbling on another, he asked, “Anyone at the Amelia look like a suspect?”

  “Nothing glaring,” said Daniel. “Two of them were especially jumpy. Doctor named Al Biyadi and his girlfriend—an American nurse. She implied we’ve been persecuting him. Seemed to be a typical case of sheikh fever.”

  “Sure,” said Shmeltzer. “Madly in love with Ahmed until he puts a bomb in her suitcase and sends her off on El Al. Where’d she meet him?”

  “In America. Detroit, Michigan. Lots of Arabs there. Lots of PLO sympathy.”

  “What is it we’re supposed to have done to Lover Boy?”

  “Don’t know yet,” said Daniel. “Probably some kind of immigration problem. Records is running a check on both of them and on the other hospital people as well.” He took a drink of soda, felt the bubbles dance against the back of his teeth. “Think this one could be political?”

  Shmeltzer shrugged. “Why not? Our sweet cousins keep searching for new approaches.”

  “Levi said it’s likely she was anesthetized,” said Daniel. “Sedated with heroin.”

  “Kindly killer,” said Shmeltzer.

  “It made me think of a doctor, but then I thought a doctor would have access to all kinds of sedatives—no need to use something illegal.”

  “Unless the doctor was an addict himself. Maybe he and the girl had a heroin party. She overdosed. When he saw her he panicked, cut her up.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Daniel. “Levi says the dose wasn’t fatal, and she was injected twice.” He paused. “The way it was done, Nahum—the cutting was deliberate.”

  The door opened and Kohavi came in with another man.

  Shmeltzer looked at the newcomer, then sharply back at Daniel.

  “Speaking of sweet cousins,” he said.

  “He’s first-rate,” said Daniel. “If the girl’s an Arab he’ll be valuable.”

  Kohavi had slipped back to the front room and the new man walked toward them alone. Medium-sized, dark-complexioned, and in his twenties, he wore a tan suit, white shirt, and no tie. His face was long and big-boned, terminating in a heavy square chin. His hair was light reddish-brown and combed straight back, his mustache a faint ginger wisp over a wide, serious mouth. Narrow-set green eyes stared straight ahead, unwavering. When he reached the table he said, “Good afternoon, Pakad.”

  “Good afternoon, Elias. Please sit down. This is Mefakeah Nahum Shmeltzer of National Headquarters. Nahum, Samal Rishon Elias Daoud, of the Kishle Station.”

  “Elias.” Shmeltzer nodded.

  “The privilege is mine, sir.” Daoud’s voice was thin and boyish, his Hebrew fluent but accented—the rolling Arabic “r,” the substitution of “b” for “p.” He sat down and folded his hands in his lap, docile but inquisitive, like a schoolboy in a new class.

  “Call me Nahum,” said Shmeltzer. “‘Sirs’ are fat guys who wear their medals to bed.”

  Daoud forced a smile.

  “Have something to drink, Elias,” said Daniel.

  “Thank you. The proprietor is bringing me a coffee.”

  “Something to eat?”

  “Thank you.” Daoud took a pita and ate it plain, chewing slowly, looking down at the tablecloth, ill at ease. Daniel wondered how many Jewish restaurants he’d been to—how often, for that matter, did he come over to the western side of town?

  “We’re all impressed,” he said, “with your work on the Number Two Gang case. All those creeps behind bars, the drugs kept off the street.”

  “I did my job,” said Daoud. “God was with me.”

  Shmeltzer took a pickle and bit off the tip. “Here’s hoping He stays with you. We’ve got a tough one. A maniac murderer.”

  Daoud’s eyes widened with interest.

  “Who was killed?”

  “A young girl,” said Daniel. “Mutilated and dumped on Scopus across from the Amelia Catherine. No ID. Here.”

  He picked up the envelope, drew out photos of the dead girl, and distributed copies to both detectives.

  “Ring any bells?”

  Shmeltzer shook his head. “Pretty,” he said in a tight voice, then turned away.

  Daoud continued to examine the picture, holding the edges with both hands, concentrating, grim.

  “I can’t place her,” he said finally. “But there’s something familiar about the face.”

  “What?” asked Daniel.

  Daoud stared at the photo again. “I don’t know why, but one of the villages keeps coming to mind. Silwan, perhaps. Or Abu Tor.”

  “Not Bethlehem?”

  “No, sir,” said Daoud. “If she were from Bethlehem, I’d know her.”

  “What about the other villages?” asked Shmeltzer. “Sur Bahir, Isawiya.”

  “Maybe,” said Daoud. “For some reason Abu Tor and Silwan come to mind.”

  “Perhaps you’ve seen her in passing,” said Daniel. “A brief glimpse through the car window.”

  Daoud thought for a while. “Perhaps.”

  He’s worried, thought Daniel. About having spoken too soon with nothing to back it up.

  “So you’re saying she’s an Arab,” said Shmeltzer.

  “That was my first impression,” said Daoud. He tugged at his mustache.

  “I’ve got a requisition in for all the missing-kid files,” said Daniel. “Sixteen hundred of them. In the meantime, we’ll be knocking on doors. The villages are as good a place to start as any. Take Silwan first, Elias. Show the picture around. If nothing clicks, go on to Abu Tor.”

  Daoud nodded and put the photo in his jacket pocket.

  A shout came from across the room:

  “All recruits at attention!”

  A striking-looking man swaggered toward the table. Well over six feet, bulging and knotted with the heavy musculature of a weight lifter, he wore white shorts, rubber beach sandals, and a red sleeveless mesh shirt that exposed lots of hard saffron skin. His hair was blue-black, straight, parted in the middle and styled with a blow-dryer, his face wholly Asian, broad and flat like that of a Mongolian warrior. Eyes resting on high shelflike cheekbones were twin slits in rice paper. A blue shadow of beard darkened his chin. About thirty years old, with five years latitude on either side of the estimate.

  “Shalom, Dani. Nahum.” The man’s voice was deep and harsh.

  “Chinaman.” Shmeltzer nodded. “Day off?”

  “Till now,” said the big man. He looked at Daoud appraisingly, then sat down next to him.

  “Yossi Lee,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re Daoud, right? The ace of Kishle.”

  Daoud took the hand tentatively, as if assessing the greeting for sarcasm. Lee’s shake was energetic, his smile an equine flash of long, curving white teeth. Releasing the Arab’s hand, he yawned and stretched.

  “What do they have to eat in this dump? I’m starved.”

  “Better this dump than somewhere else,” said Shmeltzer.

  “Somewhere else would be free,” said Lee. “Free always tastes terrific.”

  “Next time, Chinaman,” promised Daniel. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes late and the new man hadn’t arrived.

  Emil came in with menus.

  “A beer,” said the Chinaman.

  “Goldstar or Maccabee?” asked Emil.

&n
bsp; “Goldstar.”

  The waiter started to leave.

  “Stick around,” said Daniel. “We’ll order now.”

  Shmeltzer and the Chinaman ordered stuffed marrow appetizers and a double mixed grill each. Daniel noticed Daoud examine the menu, shift his eyes to the price column, and hesitate. Wondering, no doubt, how far a brand-new sergeant’s salary would carry him. Daniel had visited Daoud’s home in Bethlehem shortly after the bust of the Number Two Gang, bringing news of the promotion and a gift of dried fruit. The poverty had surprised him, though it shouldn’t have—most cops had serious money problems. The papers had just run a story about a bunch of new hires applying for welfare. And before joining the force Daoud had worked as a box boy in a souvenir shop, one of those cramped, musty places that sold olive-wood crucifixes and straw mockups of the Nativity to Christian tourists. Earning what—a thousand a year?

  Now, watching the Arab scan the menu, the memory of that poverty returned: the Daoud household—three closet-sized rooms in an ancient building, mattresses on the floor, a charcoal stove for heat, prints of Jesus in agony on white-washed walls. Children everywhere—at least half a dozen, toddling and tripping, in various stages of undress. A shy young wife gone to fat, a crippled mother-in-law knitting silently. Cooking smells and baby squalls.

  Putting his own menu down, he said: “I’ll have a mint salad.”

  “Mint salad,” said Emil the Waiter, copying. “What else, Pakad?”

  “That’s it.”

  The waiter’s eyebrows rose.

  “Dieting?” said the Chinaman.

  “Shabbat tonight,” said Daniel. “Big meal.”

  Daoud handed his menu to Emil the Waiter.

  “I’ll have a mint salad too,” he said.

  “What else for you?”

  “A coffee.”

  Emil grew wary, as if expecting to be the butt of a joke.

  “Don’t tell me,” said the Chinaman. “You’re eating at his house.”

  Daoud smiled.

  “That’ll be all,” said Daniel to the waiter, who departed, muttering, “Salads, salads.”

  Daniel began laying out the case before the food came and continued after its delivery, ignoring his salad and talking while the others ate. Handing a photo of the dead girl to Lee, he placed another in front of the empty chair, and passed on what he’d learned so far. The detectives took notes, holding pens in one hand, forks in the other. Chewing, swallowing, but mechanically. A silent audience.