by Adiva Geffen
◊◊◊
The officer on duty sent me to room 213.
“Let me check,” said the receptionist. She returned a few minutes later with a young man in civilian clothes who introduced himself as Chief Inspector Ben-Shabat. He was also working with Nirit on the case.
I told him my name and he smiled.
“Got it, you’re the one from whose roof she…”
I gave him an embarrassed smile.
He opened the file, flipped through the pages, and shook his head firmly. “It says here your cell phone was already returned.”
“That’s not possible. Let me see, please.”
He snapped the file shut. “Sorry, I can’t do that.”
“The case has been closed, right?” I said. “Just let me see if it’s my signature there.”
Ben-Shabat peeked at the file again and repeated that the cell phone had been returned. He wouldn’t tell me anything else.
“Listen, I wasn’t the one who picked it up. If someone stole my cell phone, I’m going to file a complaint. Who got the girl’s other belongings?”
“What belongings? She had nothing on her. Anyway, the family normally gets whatever we have.”
“You mean to tell me that you gave them my cell phone?”
He took another glance at the file but said nothing.
“Listen, Ben-Shabat. My cell phone was confiscated just because that miserable girl took it from me. What do you normally do in such cases?”
“We take a look at the call history.”
“Great. And what did you find?”
“I can’t tell you that. It was given to her family.”
“And what if seeing the numbers would help me solve this mystery?”
“There’s no mystery — this case is closed.”
“What if I tell you there was malicious intent behind this suicide?”
“We checked the roof. There weren’t any signs of violence, no signs of any struggle or of her having been dragged up there.”
“But she called someone, didn’t she? Perhaps if I knew who it was, we’d be able to understand.”
“Understand what? That she was murdered by a phone call?”
“That someone told her something that made her jump, that they threatened her life. There’s a clue in there somewhere, I just know it.”
“Sorry. And by the way, I see that the family objected to an autopsy.”
“So I heard. And that was enough?”
“In this case, it was. Look, everything was completely clear-cut. The girl suffered from depression, was mentally unbalanced.”
“Says who?”
“Her parents.”
I realized there was no point in continuing the conversation. I said goodbye and got out of there.
◊◊◊
The city of Jaffa was under siege because of some soccer game. Dozens of police officers blocked the main roads and redirected drivers, fuming, to side streets.
I walked down Jerusalem Boulevard toward the Gesher Theatre, as far as possible from the soccer-induced mayhem. I indulged myself with some falafel and sat on the concrete stoop next to the fountain.
So, what did you learn today, I asked myself. Mainly, that we’d need to come up with solid evidence in order to convince the police to reopen the case. How do I connect all the dots for them? Galia and Daria? Avital and Daria? A waitress in Yokneam stole money and went missing, a successful model killed herself, an assistant preschool teacher killed herself — how does it all come together to form irrefutable evidence?
◊◊◊
I found a note from Yavin, my neighbor, next to my door. Someone left something for you with me. I’ll be awake till midnight.
I knocked on his door. He handed me a padded envelope. Inside it, nicely swaddled, was my good old cell phone. I recognized the handwriting on the enclosed note. Bender.
I went back to my apartment and tried to turn on the phone. As I expected, the battery was dead. I plugged it in and waited. When the phone was charged enough, I discovered someone had deleted every remnant of cellular activity. Good thing I’d backed up my phone book.
“I’m happy you called,” Bender said when he recognized my voice.
“I hope this is not a transatlantic call, because Sammy doesn’t pay my expenses.”
“I’m still in Tel Aviv. Going abroad in five days and only for five months. That’s the whole deal. Dikla, I’d really like to see you.”
“Bender, where I come from, you don’t keep in touch with a man who goes to seminars where his ex-wife happens to live.”
“It’s just a coincidence. You know what they say, coincidence is the mother of all misunderstandings.” He tried to be clever and failed miserably.
“You mean to say that coincidences take a lot of planning. I’m out of the game, Bender — Pops doesn’t let me hang out with married men. Bon voyage.”
“Come on, love doll.” He tried his luck with a pet name that used to get me all wet. “Cynicism doesn’t suit you. How about dinner at Michelle and Naama?”
The lowlife was willing to spend a month’s salary, including overtime, for dinner just to spend some time with me. His conscience must be killing him. Why do men always think they need to get us ceviche or pineapple dumplings to win back our hearts?
“I’ll think about it, Bender. Right now, I only called you for some information.”
“Information that would get me interrogated by internal affairs? What now?”
“As a favor for an old friend, please find out what were the last calls made from my cell phone.”
“What for?”
“I have a feeling Daria didn’t go up to the roof to jump. Maybe if we could find out who she talked to—”
“You have a feeling. That’s a great basis for an investigation.”
“Bender, this case has too many loose ends, and you know it.”
“Dikla, I understand your situation and all the complexities involved. But the police won’t reopen the case, and that’s exactly why you got your phone back.”
“And suppose I’m just asking this as a favor. Could you please find out about those last calls? It must be written down somewhere.”
“I’ll see what I can do. And then…”
“And then you’ll get an angel sticker.”
“And then you’ll say, ‘Thank you, Bender. Thanks for thinking about me, Bender. How about having dinner with me, Bender? How about clearing a few things up, Bender?’”
“Thank you, Bender.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, since you asked, perhaps you can get a little information about the autopsy for me.”
“You know as well as I do that there was no autopsy.”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“Hmmmm, maybe. What else do you need?”
“Well, since you’re in such a generous mood…” I rewarded him with a little chuckle. “Why don’t you do some poking around about Ehud Gal. Remember him? The journalist who got beaten half to death.”
“What is he to you?”
“Let’s just say that I see a connection.” I stopped myself before inviting another speech about the case being closed. “I’ll be able to tell you more after you get me some information.”
“Face-to-face?”
“Maybe much more than that,” I encouraged him with a vague promise.
He promised he’d do the best he could and call me back soon. Bender can be all right when he wants to be.
◊◊◊
It was almost midnight when the phone rang.
“Bender?”
“No, this is Galia.” Galia!
“Galia! God, I’ve been going crazy trying to find you.”
She cut me short. “I know. Meet me in an hour and a half at 5 Buk
i Ben Yagli Street. Third floor, white door. Come alone. Don’t talk to anyone else, please.”
“Who are you afraid of?”
She continued without answering. “Before coming up, make sure no one’s following you, that they don’t see you. It’s important. I don’t want to end up in the blue room.”
They who? “I’ll be there.”
“Listen, this is a matter of life and death. If you think you’re being followed, just keep walking, don’t go into the building — I’ll find you. It’s important that I talk to you.”
She hung up.
Then I heard another, faint click. A menacing one. Was there someone else on the line, or was I being completely paranoid?
28
I couldn’t decide whether I should walk to the meeting point or go there by car. The cool wind caressing the sidewalks and Tel Aviv’s eternal parking crisis tipped the scales. I walked. I thought it would also make it easier to evade anyone who might be following me, should Galia’s suspicions prove justified.
Bugrashov Street was teeming with nightlife as usual. The coffee shops were packed, the grocery stores still open. A few men crowded next to a large parking lot. They had just come out of the flourishing establishment called Maya’s Place, a code name for gentlemen’s entertainment of the most intimate kind, operating right under the nose of the helpless police.
Galia had sounded scared enough for me to launch into the how-to-avoid-being-followed routine Sammy had taught me. The best way to frustrate the follower is by doing the unexpected. I stopped at Gabai’s falafel stand and ordered a half portion. While Gabai rolled his wondrous falafel balls and tossed them into the boiling oil, I kept looking around. It didn’t appear anyone was paying attention to me. I went back to the street, took a few steps, then spun on my heel and returned to the stand. Nope. No one was following me.
I headed to Sirkin Street, pretending to go back home. The street was quiet. No one was behind me. I went back to the Bugrashov falafel stand and bought a whole portion this time. None of the other customers seemed interested in me. Then I slowly made my way toward King George Street. By the time I finally got to Buki Ben Yagli Street, it was almost 1:30 a.m.
The terror I’d heard in Galia’s voice and that nearly silent eavesdropping click had me on edge. For a moment, I thought perhaps I should have asked someone to join me, but Galia had specifically told me come alone.
The next thing I saw was an ambulance, lights flashing. My heart skipped a beat — it was parked outside Galia’s building.A few passersby and neighbors wearing pajamas were gathered around. I hurried to duck into the nearest building and watched. It was too much to hope it was just a coincidence.
A few minutes later two paramedics left the building, rolling a young woman on a stretcher toward the open ambulance door. A couple of neighbors followed and remained there after the ambulance pulled out, sirens screaming. I emerged from my hiding place and joined the onlookers as theories and judgments flew around like leaves in the wind.
“What happened?” It began.
“They say she’s completely crazy.”
“Poor thing.”
“Probably a junkie.”
“Just another fruitcake.”
“What happened to her? Do you know who she was?” I shouted, feeling anonymous, concealed in the crowd.
“Some crazy lady stripped naked on the balcony and started to scream her head off.” The young man in the blue t-shirt was happy to establish himself as an expert.
“Says who?”
“The paramedics who took her,” said the dumpy woman next to him.
“Does she live here?” I asked the guy in the blue t-shirt.
“I don’t know. You know how it is with people living in rented apartments — one day they’re here, next day they’re gone.” A philosopher.
“You called the ambulance?”
“No way!” he protested. “I didn’t see anything,” he added and was gone faster than the speed of rumor. Being a Peeping Tom is always fun, but getting involved enough to actually help is just too much for some people.
“Who called the ambulance?” I asked the last remaining bystander.
“Maybe it was the upstairs neighbor,” he suggested. “I didn’t see or hear anything. I only woke up because of the siren,” he said and walked off home.
Ten minutes later I lugged myself back up Bugrashov Street, now empty and quiet.
All the lights in my building were out. Tel Aviv was sleeping, except for Yavin’s pointer, who woke up when he heard me shuffling up the stairs and started to bark loudly.
I was completely alert, tense and upset. I had to think. I called Sammy, woke her up again and told her everything. She listened, then told me it was odd. Very odd.
“Start looking. Do you remember what ambulance it was?”
“No,” I answered with embarrassment. “God, I feel so stupid.”
“Got it. Let’s move on,” Sammy encouraged me. “I’m sure you’ll find her. When you do, we should seriously consider involving the police.”
I called the nearest hospital.
“Who’s she to you?”
“My niece.”
“We don’t give that kind of information over the phone,” the lady in admissions told me.
I didn’t argue, I just asked her to tell me where people who had suffered a nervous breakdown would be taken to.
“What happened exactly?”
“She took all her clothes off on her balcony in the middle of the night and started screaming. Please help me, we don’t know what else to do.”
“God, what is going on with people?” The tired-sounding clerk asked me if the girl was really a relative.
“Yes.”
“What’s the name?”
“Gali, or Galia Maron.”
“Hold on.”
I heard her typing. Then she whispered, “She’s not here. Maybe you should check with psychiatric hospitals.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s not here. For sure. As for the psychiatric hospitals, it’s best that you go there personally. No one’s going to give you any information over the phone.”
There was no point in bothering that sweet girl any further.
It was past midnight, but I knew Bender would still answer the phone.
“What now?” he asked drowsily.
“Just one last tiny request,” I said in the sweetest voice I could muster. “Please find out which hospital admitted a girl brought by ambulance from Buki Ben Yagli Street in the past hour.”
“What do you need this for?”
“An investigation. Thanks so much in advance.”
“Give me half an hour,” Bender answered, suddenly sounding as awake as if he’d had ten cups of coffee.
While waiting, I finally replied to Dr. Magidal’s invitation to join his workshop. Lioness, which was me, asked for more information about the workshop. An automatic reply assured me a representative of the good doctor’s would contact me soon.
Bender got back to me exactly half an hour later. “Are you sure it was an ambulance?”
“Bender!”
“All right, don’t get upset. No hospital in the area admitted a patient named Galia or Gali Maron. Actually, no one matching the description you gave me has been admitted to any hospital in the country in the past hour.”
“Did you check psychiatric hospitals as well?”
“I never take any chances when it comes to you…I even checked veterinary hospitals.”
29
“How long would it take you to get here?” Sammy asked me at 6:30 a.m.
“What’s with you, Sammy? Can’t it wait till normal business hours?”
“Look who’s talking. And no, it can’t. Come here ASAP. This is an emergency, a private emergency.”
&nbs
p; I took my favorite kitchen knife and picked up some croissants for her on the way. I parked my Kia next to Sammy’s house, hoping all the parking officers were still sleeping. Two dogs stared at me in boredom then continued to crap all over the sidewalk.
There was a large canvas bag next to Sammy’s apartment door. I found her in her bedroom, wearing her nicest clothes.
“Emigrating somewhere?”
“I don’t have time for your stupid jokes right now. And get that smelly bag out of my face.”
“Back to your meniscus emergency diet?”
“I’m fasting. I have been since last night. That’s why you’re here, Shoshkowitz. I’m going to the hospital for surgery. Please don’t say anything, it’s not a big deal. I’m due at the hospital at eight. I’ll be back home by the end of the day. My brother Yoel should be here any minute and—”
“Yoel? I thought you two weren’t talking.”
“He’s not here to talk, just to help me up the stairs and to fetch my crutches. Shoshkowitz, it’s time you realized blood is thicker than coffee. To make a long story short, I’ll be stranded on the sofa for the next week. My head and famous spider-sense will be working as usual — the rest of me is going to be out of service.”
“At least you’ll be able to finish The Kindly Ones. God knows that book has enough pages to last for six orthopedic procedures. You don’t need to stay at the hospital?”
“No, two hours in the recovery room, then I’m back home. I appreciate your concern, Shoshkowitz. I’m worried about you too, and since I don’t trust you, and since you’re insisting on trying to tie up all the loose ends in the Daria case, I’ve appointed someone to replace me and help you.”
“You’re irreplaceable, darling.”
“I’m touched. Now I know you’re both a psycho and a sycophant. I’m talking about a personal assistant for you, just for the next week.”
“You mean to tell me that son of a bitch Sasson is back?”
“Sasson? Your new assistant is a million times better than Sasson.” She curled her hands around her mouth, preparing to trumpet an announcement. “Ta-dah!” she bellowed. “Give a warm welcome to your new assistant.”
Into the room walked Cooper.
