“Anything?” said Milo. “You're saying the investigation gets the full clout of your office?”
“One hundred percent. It always has.”
“Full clout is yours to grant? Being only a social director? License to cater?”
Carmeli was thrown off. “Whatever is in my power I'll—”
Carmeli's eyes shifted over to Sharavi. The dark man said nothing.
“I'm an arranger,” Carmeli said. “I arrange all sorts of things.”
25
Milo and Carmeli remained eye to eye, each holding on to the stare as if it were precious.
Carmeli moved away first. “I've said what I have to say.” He walked quickly back to his office and closed the door.
Milo said, “How do we get out of here?” to Sharavi.
Sharavi reached behind the water cooler and something clicked. As Milo started for the door, Sharavi said, “In line with my promise to tell you everything, here's something important: Someone wrote DVLL in ballpoint pen in Raymond Ortiz's right shoe. Small letters, but discernible under the blood.”
Milo's hands clenched again and a dragon grin stretched his mouth unnaturally. “You have them.”
“No, they're in the Newton Division evidence room. Some of the blood has flaked away over time and it appears to have been applied thinly— probably with a brush, there seem to be strokes. But once you know what to look for, the letters are clear.”
“A brush,” said Milo.
“Painting with a child's blood,” said Sharavi, looking at me. “Maybe he sees himself as an artist.”
Milo cursed silently.
“One thing that interests me,” said Sharavi, “is the fact that the writing was done first and then the blood was added. So even back then, when, as Dr. Delaware has pointed out, he was still impulsive, those letters— leaving a message— meant something to him and he planned carefully. He's always had a definite agenda.”
“What else interests you?” said Milo.
“Just the elements that you're aware of. The variability in methods and body positioning, the geographic scatter, two girls, one boy. The lack of pattern to throw us off, but despite that, a pattern, as Dr. Delaware has suggested. Retardation's obviously an issue, so maybe DVLL has something to do with that, or handicaps in general— D for defective. Defective devils, something like that.”
He took out his bad hand and looked at it. “Until the match between Irit and the Shaver girl came up, I was skeptical about Dr. Delaware's theory of linkage. Even now, there's a disconnected feeling to these killings.”
“Disconnected, how?” I said.
“I don't know.” The smooth face tightened and lines showed around the eyes. “Not that my opinion means much. I have only dealt with one serial killer. In Israel that makes me an expert. Here . . .” He shrugged.
“How'd you get the shoe?” said Milo.
“I didn't get it, I got to it. Please don't ask more.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can't tell you.”
“Open communication, huh?”
“From now on. The shoes are in the past. With three killings on your hands, maybe more, why bother?”
“More?”
“At this level of subtlety,” said Sharavi, “there could be DVLL messages never detected. Don't you think?”
Milo didn't answer.
“I understand your not trusting me,” said the dark man. “In your position I'd feel the same way—”
“Cool it with the empathy, Superintendent. That's Dr. Delaware's territory.”
Sharavi sighed. “All right. Would you like me to remove the bugs tonight or tomorrow?”
“Where are they?”
“All in Dr. Delaware's home.”
“Where else?”
“Just there.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“No reason,” said Sharavi, “except I have no interest in lying to you. Check for yourself. I'll provide debugging equipment.”
Milo waved him off. “How many bugs are there in Dr. Delaware's home?”
“Four. In the phone receiver, under the living room couch, under the dining table, and the kitchen table.”
“That's it?”
“Hook me up to a polygraph if it'll make you feel better.”
“Polygraphs can be fooled.”
“Sure,” said Sharavi, “by psychopaths with abnormally low levels of arousal. I'm not a psychopath. I sweat.”
“Do you?”
“All the time. Now, shall I disconnect the bugs or do you want to do it yourself? Nothing complicated. Four little black discs that pop right off.”
“Where's the feed?”
“A phone at my place.”
“What else do you have there?”
“A police scanner, various equip—”
“A scanner with tactical lines?”
Sharavi nodded.
“What else?”
“The usual. A fax machine, computers.”
“You're hooked into all the police data banks,” I said. “DMV, NCIC.”
“Yes.”
“State offender files, too?”
“Yes.” He turned to Milo. “I'm aware of all the work you've done looking into alibis—”
“Who else are you working with besides Ms. English-as-a-Second-Language?”
“I'm working completely alone. Irina is employed by the consulate.”
“Big shot's daughter gets killed and they send just one guy?”
“I'm all they have,” said Sharavi. “For this kind of thing.”
“Just how big is Carmeli?”
“He's considered . . . very talented.”
“What kind of case was this Butcher?”
“Sexual psychopath, organized, a careful planner. He murdered Arab women— runaways and prostitutes at first, then he progressed to less-marginal victims— a woman who'd just left her husband and was socially vulnerable. He gained their trust, anesthetized them, then dissected them and dumped their bodies in hilly areas around Jerusalem, sometimes accompanied by pages from the Bible.”
“Another case with messages,” I said. “What was his?”
“We never had a chance to interview him but we suspect he had some kind of racist agenda, possibly trying to cause a race war between Arabs and Jews. The FBI was informed fully. If you'd like, I'll get you copies of the VICAP case file.”
“You never had a chance to interview him,” said Milo. “Meaning he's dead.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I killed him.” The golden eyes blinked. “Self-defense.”
Milo looked down at the damaged hand.
Sharavi raised his arm and the limp flesh bobbed. “He doesn't get all the credit for this. I was partially disabled in the Six-Day War. He destroyed what function was left. I would have preferred capturing him alive in order to learn from him. But . . .” Another blink. “After it was over, I read all I could about people like him. There wasn't much, the FBI was just getting the VICAP program started. Now, they offer profiles but Dr. Delaware's point about profiles relying upon the past is well-taken. What's to stop some clever boy from doing his reading, too, and using it against us?”
“Us?” said Milo.
“Policemen. There is a certain . . . contrived feeling to these killings, don't you think?”
“Self-defense,” said Milo. “So now you've been brought over to “defend' yourself against our guy.”
“No,” said Sharavi. “I'm not a hired assassin. I'm here to investigate Irit Carmeli's death because Consul Carmeli thought I could be of use.”
“And Consul Carmeli gets what he wants.”
“Sometimes.”
“He said you were in the States. Where?”
“New York.”
“Doing what?”
“Security work at the embassy.”
“Self-defense work?”
“Security work.”
“You speak excellent English,”
I said.
“My wife is American.”
“Is she here with you?” said Milo.
Sharavi gave a low, soft laugh. “No.”
“Where's she from?”
“L.A.”
“Lots of L.A. connections,” said Milo.
“Another point in my favor. Shall I disconnect the bugs?”
“Ever been tapped yourself?”
“Probably.”
“You don't mind?”
“No one likes the loss of privacy,” said Sharavi.
“You guys are big on that, aren't you? Gadgetry, top security, high tech. But all the Mossad crap didn't help your prime minister, did it?”
“No,” said Sharavi. “It didn't.”
“That was an interesting one,” said Milo. “I'm no conspiracy buff, but it made me wonder: The guy shoots Rabin in the back, from two feet away. Next day there's video footage on TV showing him heckling Rabin at a bunch of rallies, frothing at the mouth, having to be carried away. And within hours of the assassination all his confederates are rounded up. So he was well known to the authorities, but the security guards let him get right next to the target.”
“Interesting, isn't it?” said Sharavi. “What's your theory?”
“Someone didn't like the boss.”
“There are people who agree with you. Another theory is that even experienced security people couldn't imagine a Jewish assassin. Yet another is that the original plan was to use blanks, make a public statement, and the assassin changed his mind at the last minute. In any case, it's a national disgrace. And it's caused me additional pain because the assassin was of Yemenite descent and so am I— shall I disconnect now or later? Or would you care to do it yourself?”
“Later,” said Milo. “I think I'd rather look at your place, first.”
Sharavi was surprised. “Why?”
“See how the high-tech half lives.”
“Will we be working together?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There are always choices,” said the dark man.
“Then my choice right now is to see your setup. If you can't even give on that, I'll know what I'm dealing with.”
Sharavi touched his lip with his good hand and gazed up at Milo. The surprised eyes looked innocent.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
He gave us an address on the 1500 block of Livonia Street and told us to see ourselves out and meet him. Then he slipped behind a partition and disappeared.
We drove south on La Cienega, passing one dark restaurant after another, heading for Olympic. Milo said, “He uses that hand as a prop.”
“Handicapped detective on a case full of handicapped victims. It could give the case another dimension for him.”
“Despite what he says, think he's really here to clean up the mess?”
“I don't know.”
“Just between you and me and the dashboard, Alex, that doesn't sound half-bad. We catch the bastard, the Israelis finish him off, no publicity, no media bullshit, no goddamn lawyers, and the Carmelis and God-knows-how-many other parents get some closure.”
He laughed. “Some public servant I am. The rule of law. But someone who'd do that to retarded kids . . .” He cursed. “Painting with blood. DVLL in the shoes. So Raymond's a match, too. What bugs me is that it's only luck that led us to the message. And your hawkeye.”
He laughed and it jarred me.
“What?”
“You ever come across this Butcher in your readings?”
“No.”
“Bringing in a one-case homeboy.” He ran his hand over his face and looked at the dashboard clock. “Jesus, it's after two already. Robin gonna be worried?”
“Hopefully she's sleeping. When I left for the meeting with the other cops I told her I'd be late.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping for progress.”
“Well, we got some, all right.”
“Are you going to stay on the case if it means working with Sharavi?”
“Why should I give it up just because Carmeli's a control freak— oh hell, forget my righteous indignation. The guy lost his daughter, he's flexing whatever muscle he's got. Would I do differently if I had the clout? Not on your life. And it's bigger than just Irit, now.”
“Another thing,” I said, “by working with Sharavi, you can coopt him. Those resources Carmeli talked about.”
“Yeah. All sorts of surveillance toys. But first we need someone to surveil.”
We were south on Robertson now. At Cashio, he turned right and laughed again. “Besides, who better than me to work this puzzler, right? I do have the top solve rate in West L.A.”
“Eighteen percent higher than the competition,” I said. “Hoo-hah.”
“My mommy always told me I'd be tops.”
“Mom knows best.”
“Actually,” he said, “what she said was, “Milo, honey, how come you stay in your room all day and don't go out anymore? And what ever happened to that nice girl you used to date?' ”
Livonia was the first block west of Robertson. The 1500 block meant a left turn. He cruised slowly.
“Only a mile or so from the Carmelis' house,” I said.
“Maybe the boss drops in for briefings?”
“He probably does. That's why Carmeli's attitude changed. Sharavi told him you knew what you were doing. Or played him the surveillance tapes.”
“Endorsement from Big Brother,” he said. “Wonder if the neighbors know they're living with James Freaking Bond.”
The neighbors lived in small, seventy-year-old Spanish houses. Nearly obscured by a twisted hedge of Hollywood juniper, Sharavi's pink bungalow sat behind a tiny lawn shaved to the dirt. In the driveway was the gray Toyota I'd seen at the schoolyard.
A porch light yellowed the wooden front door. A small olive-wood mezuzah was nailed to the sidepost. Before we could ring, Sharavi opened the door and let us in.
He'd removed his windbreaker and was wearing the pale blue shirt and jeans. The shirt was short-sleeved and his forearms were hairless, thin but muscled, laced with veins. A wedding band circled the ring finger of the good hand.
There was an alarm panel just inside. The living room and dining room were completely empty: clean, golden hardwood under white ceilings; an unscreened, spotless brick fireplace; pleated blackout drapes over every window.
He waved us through a short, narrow center hall, past a kitchen with gray cabinets, to the rear of the house.
“Something to drink?” he said, passing a small bathroom. The lights were on. Every room was lit— showing us there was nothing to hide?
Milo said, “Let's see your gizmos.”
Sharavi surged past a bedroom. Queen-sized bed, topsheet with a military tuck, nightstand with nothing on it but a cheap lamp.
Our destination was the second bedroom at the end of the hall.
Metal-sheet shutters on these windows. A steel-legged desk identical to Zev Carmeli's was against the far wall and a black vinyl chair was wheeled up to it. On the desk were a police scanner, CB and shortwave radios, iron-gray laptop computer, laser printer, battery backup, fax machine, and a paper shredder with an empty catch basket. Empty trash basket on the wooden floor. Stacked neatly between olive-wood bookends was a collection of hardware and software manuals and boxes of backup tapes and CD-ROMs.
Next to the computer were two white phones, three reams of paper, and a pair of maroon velvet bags, each with gold-embroidered Stars of David. On top of the smaller bag was a crocheted skullcap— dark blue with red roses along the border.
Sharavi saw me looking at the bags.
“Prayer equipment,” he said. “Shawl and phylacteries and prayer book. I need all the help I can get.”
“What do you pray for?” said Milo.
“It depends,” said Sharavi.
Survival of the Fittest Page 20
