“Ponsico was a scientist.”
“True,” said Sharavi. “Which leads me to another issue: As a scientist he'd know what to expect. Potassium chloride causes a quick death, but it's far from painless— sudden cardiac arrhythmia, a severe heart attack. When you execute criminals with it, you add sodium pentothal for pre-sedation and pancurium bromide to stop breathing. Couldn't Ponsico have chosen an easier death for himself?”
“Maybe he was punishing himself,” said Milo. “Thought he deserved cruel and unusual.”
“Guilt?” I said, thinking again of Nolan. “Over what?”
“Maybe he'd played a part in something really nasty. Our killings or something else. Or maybe he was just a guy with mood swings who ended up profoundly depressed in the lab and just happened to have access to poison. And even if he did make things rougher on himself than he had to, it was still relatively fast and clean. Helluva lot better than some of the stuff I've seen people do to themselves. Right, Superintendent?”
“Daniel,” said Sharavi. “Yes, that's true. Self-hatred can be an amazing thing. But . . . I guess I'd like to learn more about this young man.”
“I'll call his parents,” said Milo. “The professors in Princeton. Maybe some of his other coworkers at PlasmoDerm.”
“It's a biomedical company?”
“Skin research. Ponsico was working on improving the success of skin grafts. Why, you see some sort of work connection?”
“No,” said Sharavi. “Though I suppose if there was a dissatisfied customer— someone whose graft didn't take . . . but no, they would have poisoned the surgeon, not the researcher . . . no, I have no ideas.”
He drank tea and put the cup down. “I have good sources in New York. If Meta does exist, they'll be able to find out. We could also tap Zena Lambert's line—”
“Forget it. We've got no grounds for any kind of warrant, let alone a tap. On the off chance she's connected to anything, I don't want to screw up the evidentiary chain.”
“Good point.”
“Don't even think about it,” said Milo.
“Of course,” said Sharavi.
“I mean it.”
“I realize that.”
“The bookstore Zena works in,” I said. “Spasm. An offbeat name so maybe it's a meeting place for people with offbeat ideas. There could be a bulletin board, maybe with a posting by Meta.”
“No phone listing but they announce meetings at a store?” said Milo.
“An out-of-the-way store that attracts the target audience. Want me to drop in and look around?”
He rubbed his face. “Let me think about it— I want to get the most out of anything we do.”
Sharavi got up and stretched, raising both arms above his head, the bad hand dangling. “I'm getting more tea— are you sure you wouldn't like some? The mint's fresh. I found a big patch growing out in back.”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
When he was gone, Milo scowled at the computer. “Garbage in, garbage out. . . . So what's with the Arafat look, Alex— scratch that in view of present company— the porcupine look?”
“I rushed over to the library, didn't take the time to shave.”
“That's half a day's worth?”
I nodded.
“Taking those testosterone pills, again?”
I flexed a bicep and grunted and he gave a tired smile.
Sharavi came back with the tea. Scalding, slightly sweet, the mint flavor gliding above the heat.
As I sipped, I used one of the phones to call my service.
“Hi, Doctor, there's just one. A Loren Bukovsky, from . . . looks like Mensa. Though it says here he asked for Al. The girl— a new one— tried to tell him different but he insisted you were Al. You do get some strange ones, Dr. Delaware, but that's your business, right?”
“Right. What did Mr. Bukovsky have to say?”
“Let's see— sorry, this new one has terrible penmanship . . . it looks like he was . . . no, he has nothing to do with Mela, or Meta . . . something like that . . . anyway, he wants nothing to do with Mela or whatever . . . um, but if you have the . . . sorry, Doctor, this isn't very polite.”
“What does it say, Joyce?”
“If you have the poor taste to want to . . . looks like fraternatize with . . . idiots . . . go to a place called . . . looks like Spastic . . . but he doesn't leave an address . . . very strange, even for you, Dr. Delaware.”
“That's all of it?”
“He also said don't call back, he's not interested in you. How rude, huh?”
“Very,” I said. “But maybe he's got his reasons.”
“Strong opinions,” said Milo, writing down Bukovsky's name.
“And now it's out that we're looking into Meta. Sorry.”
“But at least we know the bookstore's worth looking into.” He turned to Sharavi. “How about using some of that illegal DMV access on Mr. Bukovsky and Ms. Lambert?”
Sharavi put his mug down and faced the computer.
Moments later:
“Loren A. Bukovsky, an address on Corinth Avenue, Los Angeles, 90064.”
“West Los Angeles,” said Milo. “Minutes from the station. Might as well pay him a visit.”
“When should I visit Spasm?” I said.
“Let me check out Bukovsky first.”
Sharavi said, “If Bukovsky has something interesting to say, perhaps Dr. Delaware can do more than just drop in at Spasm.”
“Such as?”
“If Meta still holds meetings, he could try to attend. Who better than a Ph.D.? He could pose as someone interested in—”
“Forget it,” said Milo.
Sharavi blinked but didn't move, otherwise. “All right.”
“And don't think about going yourself, Superintendent.”
Sharavi smiled. “Me? I lack the qualifications.”
“The same goes for any of your people.”
“My people?”
“Put it out of your mind. No undercover operations that I don't know about.”
“All right.”
“All right? Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that.”
Saying it in a near-whisper but for the first time, the Israeli was showing emotion. The faintest tightening around the golden eyes, a twitch along the jawline.
“I'm doing my best to cooperate,” he said softly.
“I'm a skeptic and a pessimist,” said Milo. “When things go too smoothly it worries me.”
Sharavi's jaw relaxed and he brought up a smile— mechanically, as if evoking data from the computer.
“Shall I make your life difficult, then, Milo?”
“Why break a trend?”
Sharavi shook his head. “I'm going to eat.”
He left the room again and Milo thumbed absently through the printout in the bin. “I'll try to interview Bukovsky today. And call Ponsico's parents. I just hope this whole Ponsico thing hasn't gotten us too far afield.”
He got up and paced. The house was small and I could hear Sharavi working in the kitchen.
“If I visit the bookstore,” I said, “I could sound out the Lambert woman, see if I can get her to talk about Meta.”
“Alex—”
“In an unobtrusive way. Even if the killer's a Meta member, that doesn't make the whole group a homicidal cabal. And if I did get into a meeting and was able to look them all over—”
“Delete the thought, Alex.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because Sharavi suggested it?”
He whipped around, glaring. “Ten points off for a very bad guess.”
“Hey,” I said, “I'm brutally frank 'cause I care.”
He started to retort, dropped his shoulders, laughed. “Look at this. I'm trying to protect you and you're dissing me. You think it's a smart idea hobnobbing with a group of genetic snobs, one of whom could be a goddamn serial killer?”
“I don't think attending one meeting is g
oing to put me in danger.”
He didn't answer.
“Also,” I said, “I think Sharavi's involvement still bothers you to the point where you run the risk of throwing the baby out.”
He rubbed his face hard and fast. “This is great. Him on one side and you on the other . . . for all I know he's got this goddamn room bugged.”
“Okay, I'll shut up. Sorry.”
He grimaced. Laughed again. Circled the room.
“What the hell am I doing here— yeah, yeah, you're right, having to deal with him does piss me off. I don't like . . . too many layers.” He shoved his arms in front of him, breaststroking air. “Like suffocating under a dozen blankets.”
“Sure,” I said. “But unless some progress is made on the killings, you run the risk of a dozen more blankets. As in task force.”
“What is this, tough love?”
“It's for your own good, sonny boy.”
“Dr. Castor Oil— you really want to play secret agent, don't you? Couple of days with Mr. Mossad and you're itching for code names and fountain-pen cameras.”
“That's me,” I said. “Agent Double-O-Shrink. License to interpret.”
Sharavi returned with a sandwich on a cheap plastic plate. Tuna and lettuce on egg bread. Very little tuna.
He put the plate down next to the phones. His face said he had no appetite.
“I have two police scanners. The one in the kitchen was on. A call just went out on one of your tactical bands. Central Division Homicide detectives calling in a dead body in an alley. A 187 cutting. It's probably unrelated, but next to the body was a white cane. I thought you should know.”
Picking up the sandwich, he took a small, decisive bite.
35
Daniel watched the two of them drive away through a slit in the living-room drapes.
He'd kept up a bland front during the meeting. Taken things in, given very little out.
Could Delaware see through it?
The psychologist seemed more agreeable, but with psychologists you never knew.
Another meeting. How many had he attended over the years, leaving with those same feelings of frustration?
Like Sturgis, he preferred working alone.
Like Sturgis, he was seldom able to.
Coating himself with the veneer of reason, when he itched to be as negative as Sturgis.
Dead children . . .
He seldom showed his feelings to anyone, even Laura.
Sobbing about Daoud and his fat wife, twice, both times alone in the cool, dark privacy of a tiny, cavelike Yemenite synagogue near the Mahane Yehudah market. An empty synagogue, because he'd chosen the dead time between the morning shaharit service and the afternoon minhah.
Reciting a few psalms, returning home that evening presentable for Laura and the children.
Why expose them to even a hint of the pain?
The Bethlehem hatchet wielders would never be punished.
Not in this world, anyway.
Now, this. Irit, the other kids. Maybe a blind man. What could be more hideous?
Would this Meta thing lead anywhere? Probably not.
One walked the desert sands, sank shafts, hoped for oil . . .
So he and Sturgis were probably feeling similar emotions— hey, let's have a discussion group, like the ones the department organized when a sapper got blown up or one of the undercover guys took a knife in a back alley of the Old City.
Daniel could just see it. Sturgis and him, sitting in a circle, each daring the other to be human. Delaware in the middle, the . . . what was the word— the facilitator.
Sturgis grumbling. An ill-mannered bear, that one. But smart.
Zev Carmeli was feeling better about the guy.
Like most diplomats, Zev didn't forgive. Forced to put on a polite front all day, he was judgmental, essentially a misanthrope.
Daniel remembered the call.
“Guess who they've given me now, Sharavi. A homosexual.”
Daniel had sat in a rear room of the New York embassy, listening as Carmeli complained. Carmeli reiterating his opinions of the “moronic L.A. police.”
“A homosexual,” he repeated. “Who he screws is his own damn business but it makes him an outcast, so how can he possibly be effective? I ask for the one with the highest solve rate and this is who they give me.”
“You think they're playing with you?”
“What do you think? This is some city, Sharavi. Every group hates the other. Like Beirut.”
Or Jerusalem, thought Daniel.
“Maybe he is the best, Zev. Why dismiss him before you know?”
Silence.
“You?” said Carmeli. “A guy with a yarmulke and you approve of that kind of thing?”
“If he's the one with the highest solve rate and the right kind of experience, then you're doing well.”
“I'm surprised, Sharavi.”
“About what?”
“Such tolerance. The orthodox aren't known for their tolerance.”
Daniel didn't respond.
“Well,” said Carmeli, “that's why I'm calling you. You come out here and check things out, whatever it takes. If you say keep him on, I will. But ultimately, it's your responsibility.”
Then he'd hung up.
Poor Zev.
Years ago, they'd both been students at Hebrew U. Daniel a twenty-five-year-old senior with three years of Army experience, Zev, younger, one of the few whizzes exempted out because of high test scores and family connections. Even then Zev had been serious for his age and openly ambitious. But you could talk to him, have a discussion. Not anymore.
The man had lost a daughter.
Daniel knew about fathers and daughters.
Zev could be forgiven just about anything.
Alone in the house, he finished his sandwich, though it might as well have been dust on plywood, then phoned an attorney in New York who received half of his income from the embassy, and asked him to quietly investigate Meta and fellow lawyer Farley Sanger, the one who'd written that retarded people weren't human.
Two more hours at the computer earned him nothing but a sore hand.
Carpal tunnel, the police doctor at French Hill had announced. If you don't watch out you'll have no hands. Ice it and don't use it so much.
Expert advice; Daniel had suppressed laughter and left the examining room wondering what it would be like to have no hands.
At 8:00 P.M., he drove to a kosher market on Pico and stocked up on groceries, putting on his yarmulke in order to blend in. The woman at the register said, “Shalom,” and he felt more at home than he had since arriving.
At ten he called Laura in Jerusalem.
She said, “Darling, I couldn't wait to hear from you. The children want to speak to you, too.”
His heart soared.
36
“Body's zipped, almost ready to go,” said the Central Homicide detective. “Your basic frenzied cutting.”
His name was Bob Pierce and he was in his fifties, thick in the middle with wavy gray hair, a big jaw, and a Chicago accent. On the way over Milo told me he'd once been a top solver, was two months from retirement now, thinking only about Idaho.
This evening, he seemed resigned and stoic, but his fingers gathered and released the bottom hem of his suit jacket, pinching, letting go, pinching.
He stood with us on Fourth Street, at the mouth of the alley between Main and Wall, as the crime-scene crew worked under portable floodlights. The lights were selective and the filthy strip lined with dumpsters sported strange, blotchy shadows. A rotten-produce smell poured out to the street.
“Working alone today, Bob?” said Milo.
“Bruce has the flu. So what's your interest in our alleged felony?”
“Cold case of mine, a retarded kid, so I'm looking into any 187s with handicapped vics.”
“Well, this one was handicapped. Coroner said his eyes were clearly nonfunctional. Atrophied sclera or something like that. Probably born bl
ind. Yours black?”
Survival of the Fittest Page 27
