Pattern crimes

by William Bayer

  A pause while Zvi calculated. He spoke tentatively at first. "We thought they were cops."

  "Really? Why?"

  "I don't know. Aaron thought so. He said it was something about the way they moved."

  "So?"

  "So we laid low a while. We watched them."

  "And?"

  "We decided they weren't cops."

  "So then what did you do?"

  "We thought they might be a rival group using the place occasionally to do a trade."

  "Did you go over there?"

  "Aaron did. Got spooked too. Wanted us to move. But then…well, we decided to stick around. And after that they didn't come back."

  David watched him. "There's something you're not telling me, Zvi."

  "He followed them."

  "Who?"

  "Aaron."

  "How?"

  "On his scooter."

  "Where?"

  "To a private house."

  David tried not to let his excitement show. "Which house?"

  Zvi shrugged. "You'll have to ask him. He didn't say."

  The simplest cleanest deals are always best. When David put it to Aaron, he let him know there'd be no compromise: "So far no one knows we've picked you up. We haven't contacted the Narc Unit and if you work with us we won't. The four of you go free. We never met you, we don't know you and, frankly, we don't ever want to see you again. Naturally we keep the pistols. In return you show us where you followed the people from that ruin across the gorge. That's it. Take it or leave it, tough guy. You got one minute to make up your mind…"

  55 Lover of Zion Street. One of the best buildings on perhaps the best street in residential Jerusalem. David knew it well; it was just a block from his father's old house on Disraeli. He'd passed it hundreds of times when he was growing up.

  An elegant, subdivided, four-story building with two entrances and an attached garage. An ornate wrought iron wall facing the street with a perfectly trimmed privet hedge behind. A gate for pedestrians and a second bigger one for cars. A small garden built around a mature jacaranda whose spreading branches cut the moonlight that fell upon carefully manicured beds of flowers.

  He turned to Aaron. "So what did you see?"

  "One guy got out, opened the gate. Then the other drove in the van. The first locked up again."

  "How long did you wait?"

  "About a minute."

  They didn't see you?"

  "My scooter's very quiet."

  "That's it? Nothing else?"

  Aaron shook his head.

  David looked at him, reached out, grasped hold of his hair, pulled him close, and stared into his eyes. "Don't ever pack a pistol again." He pushed him away. Then Dov pulled him out of the car and shoved him from behind.

  "Leave Jerusalem," David called after him. "Tell the others. You're finished here. All of you. We see you again we feed you to the narcs."

  He had dropped Dov off at Gillo, was back now in Abu Tor cruising En Rogel Street, searching for a place to park. He found one up the block, locked the car, then walked back slowly toward number sixteen. It was 4 A.M.

  He was aware, at last, of his exhaustion. He was filthy from the stake-out, sweaty from half a night spent in humid interrogation rooms. He'd been up twenty-four hours straight, talking with Peretz, crawling around a deserted Arab village, breaking down a gang of drug dealers, and now, finding his thinking scattered and slow, he longed for uninterrupted sleep.

  He paused at the front door of his building trying to recall the combination. Three-three-five-something. He hesitated. The dogs…he didn't hear the neighborhood dogs which always barked when he came home late.

  A squeaking sound, like a car door being opened. He had a bad feeling as he turned back toward the street. The cars all looked familiar, cars of people in his building and of neighbors who lived on either side. Then, when he noticed the boxlike silhouette of the large dark van parked on the other side, saw that its side panel door was open, realized he'd driven past it and then passed it again on foot just seconds before, he cursed and dove for the bushes beside the stoop. A second later there erupted the sounds of war.

  Burp!-burp!-burp! Burp!-burp!-burp! Submachine-gun fire ripped across the front of number sixteen biting out little chips of stone. It ripped back again, lower this time, stitching the masonry just above his head. The dogs started to bark, all of them, at once. Chips fell on him as he drew his pistol and started firing back. Something hot touched his cheek. Wild barking. Another burst of fire. He saw sparks coming from the dark open back compartment of the van, then a figure crashing out headfirst onto the street. The panel door slammed shut. The engine started. The van peeled off toward the corner. It squealed as it turned left at the Ariel Hotel, then roared its way south along Hevron, fading finally until the only sound left was the desperate mad cacophony of the dogs.

  Lights came on in the building next door. David heard windows being opened. When he glanced up at his own apartment, he saw the old lady who lived on the floor above leaning over her balcony staring down at him, worry and fascination on her face. It was a familiar expression; he'd seen it many times: fright and curiosity and also something else, that strange twist of the mouth that his father called "the guilty grimace of the survivor."

  He pulled himself out of the shrubbery, went to the intercom, buzzed Anna, then touched his burning cheek. He licked his finger and tasted blood. A small piece of stone had cut his face.

  "David! What happened?"

  "An ambush. Don't worry, Anna. I'm fine. I really am. Please call Rafi for me. Ask him to come over and ask him to send a crew."

  He walked slowly back into En Rogel Street toward the place where the van had been parked. He was looking for the figure he thought he'd seen crash out of the back of the van. In the shadow of another car he saw the form of a man lying face down on the pavement. He drew closer, observed large bloody tears in his shirt and that his hands were handcuffed behind his back. He studied him a while, then crouched and touched his neck. Stiff and cold. He turned him over. For a moment he didn't recognize him-features slack, face drained, the edge of anger gone, Peretz looked like any middle-aged Israeli male, eyes sad and woeful, who'd been dead for several hours.

  Precisely at noon, all five permanent members of Pattern Crimes hit 55 Lover of Zion Street hard. Shoshana and Micha, on instructions from David, went straight for the garage. There they found a dark blue Chevrolet van. It was empty but the key was in the ignition. Shoshana started it, backed it up fast, but before she could get it out to the street, two men ran toward her, waving Shin Bet IDs. They blocked the driveway and, when Micha Benyamani ordered them to move, shoved him aside, then shut and padlocked the driveway gate.

  It was a stand-off in the ground floor apartment too. When David burst in with Uri and Dov, they found two men and an attractive young woman in a minimally furnished office. One of the men, stocky and bearded, was speaking on the phone; the other, young and muscle-bound, was flirting with the woman who sat typing at one of the desks.

  When the bearded man saw them he snapped some kind of alert to his caller, hung up, and faced David with a sneer.

  "Out of bounds here, policeman. This is a Security Services squad."

  "Over against the wall. All three of you-hands behind your heads. You're under arrest."

  Nobody moved. The two men exchanged a look. The girl peered around nervously.

  "We're Shin Bet, asshole," the bearded man said. "Get your people out of here."

  "Who the fuck you calling asshole?" Uri asked.

  "He tries anything, Uri, kick him in the balls."

  "Your oaf kicks anyone I'm shooting off his foot." The younger man had drawn a pistol. The beard stepped forward and planted his feet apart.

  "Your illustrious career has just ended, Bar-Lev. Nobody messes with us. Especially no stinking cops."

  Uri continued toward him. The beard held his ground. "We stink, huh?"

  "Take pictures," David ordered. Then he p
icked up the phone.

  While he spoke to Rafi, and Dov brought out his camera, Uri turned suddenly on the younger man, flipped him onto his back, disarmed him, and cuffed his wrists. The girl screamed. The beard attacked Dov, trying to rip the camera from his hands. Uri jumped on him from behind. When the beard, too, was subdued and cuffed and the girl had obeyed their order, placing her hands behind her head, Dov took careful mug shots of the three of them, then went outside and took more portraits of the goons blockading the gate.

  Ephraim Cohen arrived first. Rafi, who'd used a squad car with a siren, was only seconds behind. Their confrontation took place in the driveway. David, who now had the two Shin Bet men sitting back-to-back, listened from the door.

  "She's not taking that van," Ephraim warned.

  "She's taking it," Rafi said. "And my forensic guys are going over it."

  Shoshana sat smiling in the driver's seat; she'd locked herself inside.

  "Listen, Shahar," Cohen said, trying to strike a reasonable tone, "you don't bust in on us. If you think you've got good cause, go to a judge and get a warrant. Until then pull your people out."

  "I don't need a warrant, not when my top unit chief is ambushed."

  Cohen stared at Rafi with withering scorn. "My guys get ambushed all the time."

  "We think it was a couple of your goons."

  "You think!"

  "What are you afraid of, Cohen?"

  "You're on my turf, Shahar. Get off of it."

  "You've got no 'turf.' "

  "Oh no? We'll see."

  They came inside together to use the phone after agreeing that their respective bosses would have to talk.

  "Why the handcuffs?" Cohen asked.

  Rafi nodded to David, who nodded to Uri, who unlocked the cuffs and set the two men loose. As soon as Uri stepped back the beard lunged for him. Uri kicked him in the shins. He howled. The girl screamed again.

  "Control your creeps!" Rafi yelled. Ephraim Cohen herded the three of them out the door. Then, while Rafi phoned District Superintendent Latsky, Ephraim approached David with a smile.

  "Last time we met I did you a favor."

  "Yeah, you set up Peretz."

  "That was a good tip, David."

  "So why did you kill him? Is that what you do when one of your crummy operations falls apart?"

  Rafi motioned David aside.

  "Don't insult him. You shouldn't have done it like this. You should have checked with me."

  "I would have, Rafi, but if we'd gone for a warrant they'd have heard about it and buried the van."

  "Cohen's calling Levin, a big-shot colonel. We may be in more trouble than you think."

  "This is Jerusalem."

  "So what? Can we bust IDF Intelligence? Can Shin Bet bust the Russian Compound? This is their territory, David. Busting in here puts us in the wrong."

  "We've got pictures now."

  "You're still going to need that van."

  "If one of these guys was 'Hurwitz' and Amit Nissim identifies him…"

  "They'll tear her apart."

  "There's the clerk at the photo store."

  "Not enough, David." Rafi shook his head. "With people like this, nowhere near enough."

  Superintendent Nathan Latsky huddled with Rafi, while the four Shin Bet men glowered and Ephraim Cohen looked impatiently at his watch. Latsky was an old chain-smoking Pelmach type who'd turned frosty in middle age. Now, near to retirement, he disliked conflict. David knew he barely tolerated Rafi, whose open-door policy and undisciplined unit chiefs offended his sense of order.

  When Colonel Levin arrived, he and Latsky sauntered into the garden. David couldn't hear what they were saying but it looked very cozy-an elaborate pas de deux with lots of friendly smiles, deferential noddings, and polite discussion of inter-service protocols, neither man trying to intimidate the other, each positioning himself for the inevitable Israeli compromise.

  Latsky came back to talk with Rafi, while Levin conferred with Ephraim Cohen. After a few minutes the superintendent motioned David over.

  "Levin says you've blown this headquarters." Latsky lit a cigarette. "He says he's moving his unit out."

  "What about the van?"

  "What about it? You're sure as hell not going to get it now."

  "I need it. There's evidence in there," David said.

  "David's been shot at twice," Rafi explained.

  Latsky nodded. "You tried to snatch it from them and you failed. Now they're not giving it up. Levin's talking principle."

  "So it's an impasse. Now what do we do?"

  "In a situation like this I go to the Police Minister and he goes to the Director of Shin Bet."

  "Then what?"

  Latsky exhaled nervously. "They take it to the Cabinet."

  "By that time the van's cleaned up."

  The superintendent shrugged. "So what do you want to do? Fight it out with them with guns? You took on these people, Bar-Lev. You should have known better. Now we're in a mess."

  "It's a vicious circle," David said. "I couldn't get evidence without moving on them first."

  "Sounds to me like you didn't have a legitimate case." The superintendent squinted at him. "Oh yeah. Another thing. No pictures. They want your film back too."

  The Police Ministry was in a government building in Sheikh Jarrah, a floor above the larger Ministry of Housing. A decent enough office but nothing grand. The minister, presently attentive to police affairs, hoped shortly to move on to better things.

  David only knew him by reputation. He was Algerian-born, a slick, smooth-talking fifty-year-old former trial lawyer with perfectly parted silver-gray hair and beautifully manicured nails. He'd gotten the police as part of a package deal called "Opening to the East," whereby certain presentable younger Sephardic politicians received a limited number of minor ministries in return for joining the coalition of religious and right-wing parties that formed the present government.

  The minister sat behind a large wooden desk staring out the window. During David's presentation he had fondled an aluminum ruler, pivoting it occasionally to catch the light. Now, waiting for his decision, David sat nervously in a chair in the center of the room. Rafi Shahar and Superintendent Latsky reclined on a leather couch against the wall. The aromas from Rafi's pipe and Latsky's cigarettes merged and filled the room.

  "Anything else?" the minister asked. He rotated his chair and then he smiled. David shook his head. "You won't mind if I ask some questions?" The minister had won fame for his cross-examinations at a number of spectacular political trials.

  "Last night you didn't see anybody in the van?" David nodded. "And you can't positively identify the van as being the one you found in the Lover of Zion Street garage?" David nodded again. "These dope dealers you let go-what made you think they were reliable?"

  "Their story made sense."

  The minister leaned forward. "But you weren't sure?"

  "Of course not. How could I be?" He wondered what the minister was driving at.

  "This Major Peretz-how do you know he actually found the so-called executioner?"

  "He told me where to find the house and also that Susan Mills had been tortured before she'd been killed. That's something only people in my unit knew."

  "He could have discovered those things the same way he found out about the double cuts. You don't have a body so you can't say for certain whether this 'executioner' is dead, or, for that matter, whether there ever existed such a man?"

  "There's no certainty about anything in this case," David said. "It's the accumulation of many small details."

  The minister snapped down his ruler. "You want me to go to the Cabinet. I'm asking questions I anticipate will be asked of me. If I can destroy your story, then your adversaries will destroy it. In which case we'll lose. In which case there's hardly any point in taking it to the Cabinet in the first place. Don't you agree?"

  David nodded and sat back.

  "Okay, did you check with anyone before you released t
he drug dealers?"

  "No."

  "Have you the authority to make that kind of deal?"

  "Within limits."

  The minister turned to Rafi. "Did he exceed his limits?"

  "No."

  The minister smiled. "That's the first positive link in this extremely peculiar chain of events." He looked at David. "You say this man, Ephraim Cohen, was a friend of your brother. Can you think of any reason why he would want to mislead you about Major Peretz?"

  "He was manipulating me. He wanted to throw me off the scent."

  As part of a conspiracy?" David nodded. "But Peretz never told you the name of the 'old friend,' the one he said suggested he attend the Rubin Academy symposium?"

  "No."

  "So you don't know if he made that up?"

  "No."

  "You can't be sure anything Peretz told you was true?"

  "No."

  "And your reconstruction of the accident is based solely on the uncorroborated testimony of a minor child and the hearsay ravings of the discredited, possibly psychotic, and now dead Major Peretz-isn't that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "So let me ask you, captain: What is this crime that you think is going to be committed? Who are these conspirators? What evidence have you got that Security Services personnel attacked you at the zoo and in front of your house? The answers-correct me if I'm wrong-are: 'don't know'; don't know'; and 'none.' Right?"

  David nodded. "Those would have to be my answers."

  The minister sat back and arched his ruler between his hands. "Tell me, honestly, if you were me, would you go to the Cabinet with this kind of speculation?"

  David shrugged. "I'm a cop, not a judge. Everything I do is speculative."

  The minister bent the end of his ruler, then released it so it sprung at David like a tiny catapult. When their eyes met again David saw a narrow gaze of sympathy; the sharp prosecutorial look was gone.

  "Let me make this clear. I understand your actions this morning. On a personal level I'm sympathetic. But if I go into the Cabinet with this I'll end up having to resign. So I'm sorry… By the way, I understand you refused Colonel Levin's request to turn over some rolls of film."

  David nodded.

  "Okay, you and Shahar wait outside. Latsky-stay. There're a few loose ends to discuss…"