by Jacob Ganani
He knew that he’d found what he was looking for, and instantaneously felt a stab in his heart, like the prick of a poisonous arrow. A wave of panic flooded over him.
He glanced quickly at the other names. He recognized two of them as good clients who had slightly exceeded their credit limit and had been advised to clear the excess. They wouldn’t pose a problem, so Isaac would never pay them a visit. At most, he’d have called them on the phone.
What did the cab driver say? A tube-shaped package resembling a rolled-up painting or something like that. Definitely not a painting. A baseball bat!
Isaac went to visit the cop, as he had asked him to do.
There was only one problem: he went alone.
Ezra felt a wave of nausea rolling over him, reaching his throat. Without saying a word, he turned, went to his desk and slumped in his chair. Rice watched him wordlessly as he understood that his boss had just realized what had happened. It was clear at that moment that, this realization, whatever it was, made Ezra as miserable as he had ever seen him. His soldiers, the one on the phone and the other reviewing the lists, felt that something had happened, stopped working and waited silently.
But why go there alone?
Ezra looked up to meet Rice’s eyes and beckoned him over to his desk with a slight nod of his head. Rice motioned for the two men to leave and sat down opposite his boss. He waited until he heard the door close and the electric lock seal behind them.
“Is it one of the large debtors? Is that where he went?”
“Yes, it’s the cop, and that means trouble.” Ezra wasn’t holding back anything.
“What happened?”
“It’s a new situation. The cop went rogue, wanting to renegotiate terms. Got it in his head he could score big here. So I decided to cut him off, scare him a little and see where things go.”
“I noticed we didn’t get our weekly report today,” Rice said. “I thought it was just a delay and we’d get it tomorrow.”
“It’s not going to come. He cut us off,” Sexta said.
Rice glanced at his list again. “The cop owes thirty grand. Did you ask Isaac to collect?”
“Yes, I asked him yesterday. I said to do it without delay, but I thought he’d go next week -”
“Maybe he decided to go today because it’s Thursday and he wanted to make sure the cop wouldn’t show up for the game?”
“The cop wasn’t going to show up, not after our last talk. But I warned Isaac he’s dangerous. I can’t understand why he went alone!”
“Alone?” Rice echoed incredulously.
“Seems like it. He asked Mordechai to meet him on Basel at around eight-thirty, and we already know that he left the cab at seven forty-five. The cop lives two blocks away from where the cab dropped him off. I figure he planned to take care of this and then take a cab back to Basel.”
Rice thought for a moment, and Ezra wasn’t surprised when he asked, “And the wrapped tube, is it what I think it is?”
“Exactly what you think it is. Fits in with my instructions to show him not to mess with us…”
“But alone?” Rice found it hard to grasp.
“I told him to be careful! That cop’s a snake!”
“But we can’t be sure of anything right now,” Rice tried to soothe.
“Yeah, I know, so why do I have such a shitty feeling?”
There was nothing more to say and the two men fell silent. One thought rumbled in Ezra Sexta’s mind and pushed away all the others: were his worst nightmares about to come true?
CHAPTER 31
Friday - morning
At 7:10am Cantor stared at the message that flashed up on his pager. For some reason, the conversation he’d held only last night with Sexta came to mind, if it was even possible to call it a conversation.
When the message came in, he and Haddad were on their way to bring someone in for questioning. They exchanged a look.
Haddad blurted out, “I’m sure it’s nothing,” and continued driving toward their destination. Twenty seconds later, he gave Cantor a worried look, and, in a slightly tense voice, suggested, “Okay, why don’t you give them a call and check things out?”
Cantor grinned in understanding and dialed the Ops Unit. He asked to be patched through to the cops in the field. In less than a minute, he was on the line with the patrolman who was first to respond at the scene.
“Sergeant Effie Sasson here.”
“Morning, Sergeant. Superintendent Oded Cantor from the Tel Aviv Central Police Unit’s Narcotics Division. Have you identified the victim yet?”
“Not yet. But given the location and a certain item found at the scene, I’ve already called Intelligence and gave a description.” Good man.
“Talk to me,” said Cantor.
“Male, approximately forty years old, solid build, medium height, black hair, slightly dark skin.”
“Clothing?”
“Well-dressed. I mean, high quality stuff: expensive black leather shoes, black tailored trousers, fine black leather jacket, looks very expensive, a white shirt - well, originally white.”
“Cause of death?”
“The M.E. hasn’t arrived yet, but it seems pretty clear.”
“This isn’t an official conversation, so feel free.”
“Multiple gunshot wounds. Someone made a sieve out of him, point blank, and there are also scorch marks.”
“Any other injuries?”
“Not that I can see.”
“What position was the body found in?”
“Lying on its side, sort of. We haven’t touched it.”
“Okay. And the item you found?”
“A wooden bat, like a baseball bat. It was tossed near the body as if someone wanted to leave a message.”
“Have you ever thought about becoming a detective, Sergeant?” Cantor asked seriously.
Effie Sasson chuckled amicably. “Honestly, it’s not for me... too much round-the-clock. Am I right?” Another guy twisting the knife into the wound.
“Truth is, you’re right, Sasson,” Cantor said frankly, “and thanks for the info. Maybe we can have coffee together sometime.”
“Gladly, Cantor. They can always reach me from the station. Just give me a thirty-minute heads up. I manage my own schedule.”
“Yeah,” Cantor said ruefully, “as long as it’s between seven and four…”
The sergeant laughed heartily. “But that’s what’s great about it, isn’t it?”
“Sure. One more thing: who called it in?”
“A civilian, an early morning jogger, discovered the body and called the police. When I arrived and saw the baseball bat, I thought the regional Intelligence Officer was the right one to call. It had organized crime written all over it.”
“Most probably, Sergeant. We’ll be in touch.”
Haddad pulled over to the curb. “Should we change our plans?”
“Let’s wait for the ID. It won’t take long, Ami’s already on his way there.”
“It’s in the opposite direction; it’ll be a waste to drive all the way back.” Haddad pointed to a small diner down the road. “Let’s wait there until we know what’s going on.”
“Okay,” Cantor agreed.
Haddad parked in front of the diner. They took the mobile patrol radio with them so that they could stay in touch with the dispatcher. Cantor thought to himself that there was never a dull moment.
***
It was a small neighborhood diner. On the sidewalk were two small round tables, next to which stood a couple of white plastic chairs. Inside, there were another six tables.
The front wall served as a bar and service counter. On the counter stood an espresso machine and a juicer. A pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice was ready to be served.
They ordered two glasses of juice and two cups of coffee and politely declined the offer of pastries. Cantor gestured to the tables outside as they had no interest in sharing police radio chatter with anyone else.
It wasn
’t long before a man of about fifty, wearing a kitchen apron, placed a tray on their table and smiled warmly. He immediately noticed their prattling radio, realized that they needed privacy, and hurried away.
“So, Cantor, investigating in every direction and still no one has any clue as to who’s selling us up the river…” Haddad began.
“Albert, you must have slept well because you’re very calm this morning. What you really want to say is that I’m the one who has no clue.” Cantor sounded gloomy, aware that his time was running out. “Tell me something, Albert. Why would Farhi ask for an operational log from Vice without going through the necessary procedures?”
“He did what? Are you serious?”
Cantor told him about the telephone conversation with Reshef, and Dan Farhi’s response when he gave him the message.
Haddad thought for a few moments and said, “It sounds odd to me, though I have to admit that an operational log contains information that some people would love to get their hands on.” He was hinting heavily at the Sexta family. “In any case, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Shall I ask Dan about it - discreetly?”
“Sure, just don’t tell him it came from me.”
Cantor suddenly wondered whether this news had really surprised Haddad, or if he was just dealing with a cold-blooded, Oscar-worthy son-of-a-bitch.
Ten minutes later, their decision to wait proved prudent. Ami was heard giving an update that they’d identified the body.
Without hesitation, Cantor called his cell phone and heard Ami’s voice after the third ring.
“Good morning, Cantor.”
“And to you. Haddad’s here with me. Do you have a name for us?”
“Isaac Sexta.”
“Isaac Sexta?” Cantor repeated slowly. “Sure?”
“Positive. There’s no damage to the face. It’s him.”
“The M.E.’s finished?”
“Affirmative.”
“Estimated time of death?”
“Seven to ten hours,” he said, “the autopsy will confirm it. Nothing official, but the M.E. believes it was last night.”
“Shot at the scene?”
“Definitely not. There are no signs of blood anywhere, and there should have been. He was shot at point-blank range. We’re all convinced that the body was brought in from somewhere else and dumped at the scene.”
“Are CID there?”
“They’re here, taking photos.”
“Who’s in charge?” asked Haddad.
“Bentzi and Emil. Do you know them?”
“Affirmative. We’ve already met this week.” Cantor looked at Haddad and the latter nodded. “Ami, I have a request: can you delay the removal of the body? Just close the scene until we get there? We’re on our way. Twenty minutes.”
“They’re just photographing for now.”
“Just don’t let them clear. And ask the photographer not to leave till we arrive. Can you make sure of that?”
“No problem. I’ll let Emil know. Where are you?”
“A couple of minutes off the highway, just outside Tel Aviv. See you in a bit.”
Cantor didn’t need to ask for the check as he remembered the price of their items from the menu inside the diner. He quickly placed the correct cash on the table, added a tip and waved to the waiter that they were leaving in a hurry.
Cantor placed a flashing blue light on the roof of the car as Haddad started the engine, swung the car around 180 degrees, and, with tires squealing, they sped away.
***
With the blaring siren driving other vehicles out of their way, Haddad got them to the crime scene at a speed that wouldn’t shame a racing driver. They reached the area in less than twenty minutes and found a fair few people at the scene. The rumor that the victim was a serious crime boss had many of the cops hanging around just to see how the pros, whom they had always envied, worked the scene.
Cantor went over to the body while Haddad glanced at the frozen face so familiar to him and turned to talk with the M.E.
Cantor pulled out his notebook as he walked slowly around the body. It was lying on its side with one hand bent unnaturally beneath it. He noticed the large, circular blood clot formed around the navel area. He also noticed the scorch marks on the light-colored shirt that Sergeant Sasson had mentioned. A few insects were already buzzing around the blood stains, and Cantor was thankful for the relatively cool weather that helped to preserve the scene. Clearly, the victim had been shot multiple times, but he knew that only the lab could determine exactly how many gunshots were fired. He then knelt down and looked closely at Isaac Sexta’s face, which remained perfectly unharmed. The open mouth was pulled back as if in an expression of complete surprise. Cantor wondered how you could be caught completely off guard when someone sticks a gun or rifle in your stomach. He jotted the thought down in his notebook for further discussion. He hoped they’d find the bullets intact, to make it possible to match them to the murder weapon, if ever found. He stood up and looked over the body from top to toe, marking another merit point for Sasson, whose description of Isaac Sexta’s clothes was remarkably accurate: high quality black leather dress shoes, black designer trousers, a white shirt in a delicate fabric with bespoke yellow buttons, and, finally, a leather jacket whose price probably ranges in the thousands. The poor man came out to be murdered dressed like a groom on his wedding day, he thought to himself.
Someone patted him on the shoulder. He turned to see Bentzi, a senior CID detective, the habitual cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth.
“Cantor, you’re interfering with our work,” he said, smiling to indicate that he was joking. “Are you here because it’s Sexta, or is this connected to something specific?”
“Nothing specific. We’ve been tracking the Sexta brothers. What do you say about the location, Bentzi?”
“It’s pretty simple, in my opinion. This turf belongs to Vedinaya and Peer. All the businesses in this area pay them protection.”
“So this is their doing?”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t make sense for them to kill someone like Sexta and dump him on their turf - unless whoever did it wants to join him soon, or plans to start a world war...”
“So why exactly here, in the middle of their territory?”
“Relax, he wasn’t shot here, that’s for sure. His blood’s waiting for us on some backseat or in the trunk of a car that probably disappeared hours ago -”
“And, Bentzi - the baseball bat. How does that fit in?”
“The bat? I don’t think it has anything to do with the murder. Doesn’t seem like it concerns a business meeting between crime organizations. You know what? This may be a message from the killer, claiming self-defense. Bottom line: nothing here is what it seems. This is a story that began somewhere else. And Cantor, I hope you appreciate that I’m not charging you for this one-on-one tutorial.”
“Obviously, Bentzi, you’re too kind... I really appreciate it,” Cantor said, smiling.
Cantor wrote down these insights for later discussion with Haddad, who, in the meantime, had concluded his conversation with the M.E. and returned to stand beside him. He, too, held a notebook, and Cantor glimpsed a page full of tightly-spaced writing. He motioned for him to wait a moment and looked around for the photographer.
“How many photos have you taken, Perry?” he asked.
“About ten, from three different angles.”
“I need ten more close-ups from each side. Can you do it from top to bottom so I can eventually create a life size image?” Cantor requested.
Perry smiled. “I just hope you have a big enough wall in your office. It’ll take a lot of space.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll take down some of the bikini model posters. By the way, did you find any footprints?”
Perry waved his hand dismissively. “The place is full of prints. Nothing helpful. Half the neighborhood walked around here. It was one of the first things I checked.”
“Okay,” said Canto
r.
He stepped aside to let the photographer do his work and turned to Haddad, who was patting his pockets, looking for a cigarette. “What did the M.E. say?”
“He thinks the shooting occurred eight to twelve hours ago. The autopsy will be more specific.”
“And where did it take place?”
“He has no idea, but he’s certain it wasn’t here.”
Cantor nodded in agreement. “Bentzi thinks so, too.”
“The M.E. also says he has a theory about where the killer stood, but he’ll only share the details after the autopsy confirms them.”
“Good.” Dr. Levin was a stubborn type. If he said they’d have to wait, then they’d have to wait. On the other hand, he was extremely efficient, so the waiting time would be minimal.
“Anything else?” Haddad asked.
“Not really.”
They stood there for another thirty minutes, watching the CID team work. Isaac Sexta’s body was placed in a black plastic bag and loaded onto the ambulance to be taken to the Forensics Lab.
“Let’s head back, shall we?”
Cantor nodded and they returned to the car. Haddad sat at the wheel, retrieved the blue light from the roof, and placed it inside the car.
Cantor suddenly felt like this was now an entirely different game.
***
“By the way, about Dan Farhi,” Haddad began.
“What, you checked it out? When did you have the chance?” Cantor was intrigued.
“In between. He has an interesting explanation. He didn’t ask Vice for anything. Someone impersonated him, even using his personal code number.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No. He checked with Vice himself. Can you guess which report was requested?”
“That’s an easy guess. Something to do with an impending raid on one of Sexta’s escort services, right?”
“You’re a genius. Exactly that.”
“More smoke and mirrors?”
“Or maybe this is how he gets the information he’s selling. Requesting it using other people’s names... unless Farhi isn’t telling the truth.”
“Why should we suspect him?”
“Because of his creative explanation. Maybe it’s some kind of twisted, upside-down logic.”
