by Jacob Ganani
“Got it. Hang on in there...”
He hung up, and, at that moment, his phone rang again. It was from an unknown number. Cantor prayed for good news.
“Detective Cantor?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Ezra Sexta.”
Cantor took a deep breath and did not utter a word.
“I’m ready to meet with you.”
“Okay.” He exhaled with a sense of relief, releasing the air slowly as not to betray his elation.
“Two conditions.”
“I’m listening.”
“First condition, we meet in my office.”
“And the second?”
“You show me what you’ve got. If it’s of interest to me, I’ll hear you out. If not – meeting adjourned. In any case, I’m not committing to anything.”
Cantor thought quickly. It wasn’t like he really had much choice. “That’s going to be tough. Give me fifteen minutes to check and get back to you.”
“As you wish. It’s now three-fifteen.”
Cantor called Haddad and told him about Sexta’s offer. “I suggest we agree. Anything that’ll lead us to the traitor’s our top priority. We’ve no other options right now.”
If Cantor expected Haddad to protest, he was pleasantly surprised.
“Listen Cantor, as you’ve said, the important thing right now is to find the traitor. What’s the worst that can happen? Let’s say we give him what we have and he refuses to cooperate. Only now he has this information to use! So, from that moment on, we sit on his tail and follow his people everywhere until they lead us to the man we’re looking for. We trust Prosper’s surveillance, don’t we?”
“No question about it. So we’re agreed?”
“Affirmative.”
“Alright, Albert, I’ll talk to him and get back to you.”
“Wait a minute, Oded. Do we really have an ace in our pocket, or are we bluffing? Because Ezra Sexta will definitely call our bluff.”
“We have a royal flush, Albert. I’ll call you back.”
Cantor glanced at his watch. He had five minutes left. Daphne put down her fork next to the bowl of green salad and looked at him disapprovingly.
“It’s important, Daphne. Crucial. I just need another second.” He called Sexta, who picked up immediately.
“Okay. How do we proceed?” Cantor asked.
“When do you want to meet?”
“Whenever. It’s up to you.”
“Monday morning, nine, in my office. Come in your police cruiser. Make it look official. Park at the front entrance. Come up to my office alone - third floor. No one will be waiting to escort you in. And don’t show up at exactly nine o’clock, so it won’t look like it was a planned meeting. Understood?”
“No problem,” said Cantor, and the line went dead.
Cantor called Haddad.
“Hey, Albert. Monday at nine in his office.” He gave Haddad Sexta’s exact instructions.
“Good, no problem. I’ll sign for a patrol car in the morning and wait for you outside. Say, are you confident with what you’ve got for him? Because if you’re not, maybe we should meet beforehand.”
“There’s no need. I’m sure. You’ll see it Monday morning.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you at the department, Monday at eight. Bye.”
Cantor buried the phone in his pocket and gestured to Daphne that from now on he was all hers. He thought to himself that, this time, he was taking zero chances. What Haddad didn’t see before the meeting, he couldn’t try to leak - all allegedly, of course. According to the old French law: everyone’s guilty until proven otherwise.
CHAPTER 39
Monday - morning
At 9:11am, a police cruiser with its lights flashing emerged onto Hamasger Street, stopping in front of The Palace’s main entrance. The passenger door opened and Cantor stepped out and hurried through the doorway. He went toward the elevator, passing a cleaning lady who was busy polishing a golden banister. Adhering to Sexta’s instructions, he went up to the third floor, which seemed deserted. An elaborate sign directed visitors to the management offices. As he strode along the corridor, he noticed two security cameras and knew that his blatant solitude was nothing more than an illusion. But even if his approach was closely monitored, no one hurried to open Ezra Sexta’s door for him. He knocked on the door, and, after several seconds, it buzzed and opened with a slight push of his hand. A surprise awaited as he discovered that, behind the door, was a small, unfurnished foyer leading to an additional closed door. It was a “sterile area” meant to eliminate the possibility of a surprise break-in into Sexta’s office. Indeed, the door behind him closed automatically and an electric bolt secured it with a soft click.
Four steps brought him to the next door, which boasted a golden plaque that simply read “Manager.” There was no doubt that either Sexta or his interior decorator had a great fondness for all things gold. As he raised his hand to knock, the door buzzed and opened inward on its own.
“Detective Cantor, I presume.” Ezra Sexta, unshaven, disheveled, his eyes red with fatigue, didn’t bother to stand up. Cantor, not expecting any kind of welcome, did not perceive Sexta’s behavior as an attempt to offend.
“Mr. Sexta,” Cantor replied in a similar tone.
“Sit, please.” Ezra gestured to the chair across from him without leaning forward to shake hands. Instead, he leaned further back in his chair as if to increase the distance between them.
Cantor sat down and examined the room. His first reaction was one of surprise. The décor was not at all what he’d expected. He thought he’d encounter a vulgar, tasteless muddle of expensive pieces bought with dirty money. Instead he found quite the opposite, something he’d call tasteful, refined, yet not modest, as if no expense was spared here. He noticed several pieces of classic, French-style furniture, more expensive than he could value, but the pieces complemented each other perfectly and were arranged in a way that created an elegant, soothing and harmonious space. This was unexpected. He’d gathered from Haddad that he was about to meet a crude, aggressive man who worshiped money and had little to do with culture or quality.
However, none of this changed the fact that everything in this room was bought with dirty money.
Ezra Sexta, tired as he may be, did not miss Cantor’s survey of his office, nor the glint of surprise that appeared for a fraction of a second in his eyes. He recognized that Cantor had not anticipated what he now saw. Apparently, someone had taken the time to besmirch his character.
“I’m ready to see what you’ve brought me,” he said quietly.
Cantor reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a brown paper envelope, and placed it on the table halfway between Sexta and himself.
Ezra did not budge from his position or reach out his hand for the envelope. “Before we get to that, you’re not wired, are you?”
Cantor didn’t even attempt to look insulted, but only wondered what Sexta would say if he knew that his office was under 24/7 surveillance. This morning, Cantor had made sure that the cameras were turned off. Sexta wasn’t the only one at risk.
“I’ve got nothing on me, and I hope that’s mutual,” he replied.
Sexta nodded in agreement and pointed to the envelope. “What’s inside?”
“Evidence,” Cantor answered simply. “Evidence that can establish with certainty who killed your brother.”
Ezra at last moved forward in his chair, reached out and picked up the envelope. He opened it and emptied its contents on the table.
“Photos?”
“Correct. They may be difficult to look at.”
Ezra picked up the first photo. The police photograph, cruelly displayed his brother’s body. The photo focused on the front center of the body where the bullets had hit. A large, dark blood stain covered the shirt’s fine fabric. Some of the scorch marks that hadn’t blended into the black stain were clearly visible.
“Three shots?” he asked quietly.
“From point-blank range,” Sexta determined.
Cantor was silent.
Sexta placed the second photo next to the first one. In this image, the area around the bullet holes was magnified. He looked at the two photos, his gaze shifting every few seconds from one to the other, while Cantor sat wordlessly. After two drawn-out minutes, Sexta raised his head. “I don’t see what you mean.”
It was Cantor’s turn to lean back in his chair. “That’s because you weren’t trained for it. Let me show you.” He then reached forward and selected the first photo.
“Look at the shirt, over here, above the bloodstain.” He pointed to the exact place. “See the buttons?”
Ezra was familiar with Isaac’s fondness for special buttons. He studied the amber buttons for a long moment and said, “Yes, they’re bespoke. Isaac had a thing for that. He’d order shirts and replace the buttons with custom made ones. Sometimes each button would be worth more than the shirt.”
“Right, and that’s possibly just our luck. Now look at the zoomed-in photo.”
Ezra Sexta was perceptive. It took him less than a second to spot it. “There’s only half a button here,” he mumbled to himself.
“Exactly! I’m sure one of the bullets broke it off, and that means there’s a half-button just where your brother fell.” He waited a moment to let his words sink in, and continued. “Even if we find a tiny fragment, it’ll be enough for the crime lab.”
Ezra suddenly regained his business sense and leaned forward.
“Only you have no idea where to look?”
“Right, and this is where you can help.”
“How?”
“Give me a name.”
“What name?”
“Don’t play with me. We don’t have time for it. Someone amongst us is selling you information. That night at the marina? Sound familiar? I believe our traitor’s the same person who murdered your brother. So give me a name.”
Ezra Sexta looked straight into his eyes. “What you’re asking for is problematic. You can see that, right?”
“Not really. It’s quite simple, because you know we’re going to track him down anyway. It’s our professional and personal reputation. It’s just a matter of time. In any case, you won’t get anything from him anymore. But think about it this way: by shielding his identity, you’re essentially protecting your brother’s killer.”
“If he’s the killer. You’re not sure of that yet.”
“True, but if we find the missing piece of the button -”
“But maybe my brother was murdered at the same place you found him?”
“I assure you, that didn’t happen. It was firmly established. Your brother was murdered somewhere else. We’re certain that this was only a ploy to confuse us.”
“I don’t know...” Ezra remained skeptical.
“It’s your decision. Up to you.” Cantor was beginning to lose his composure. Sexta was a stubborn nut to crack.
They sat in silence as Cantor avoided looking at Ezra for a few moments, giving him time to allow his thoughts to settle. He then looked up and met his eyes.
“What have you decided?”
“I want to think about it,” Ezra said firmly.
Cantor rose from his chair.
“Can I keep the photos?” Ezra asked.
“They’re your copies.” Cantor walked to the door and reached down to open it.
“Just a minute,” called Ezra.
Cantor turned and saw Ezra’s hand extended toward him. He noticed a white piece of paper. He remembered Haddad mentioning that Sexta was a great poker player.
He walked back to Ezra and put out his hand. Ezra handed him the folded note.
“We’ll talk again,” he said and sank back into his chair, burying his face in his palms.
Outside the door, no one was waiting to escort him out. In the elevator, out of range of the cameras, he spread the note open and read the name written on it. He felt a cold shudder run down his back. Could this be true? He folded the note again.
He walked out of The Palace into the sunlight, got into the car and handed the folded note to Haddad. “Open it.”
“So this is it?”
“We'll know soon enough, won’t we?”
Haddad unfolded the note and read it. “Fucking son of a bitch!! I knew we were wasting our time with him! Your Mr. Sexta’s playing with us!” He spit out the words and Cantor couldn’t remember ever hearing such rage in his voice before. Now, he was suddenly, “His Mr. Sexta.”
“Can I see?”
Haddad handed him the note with a look of disgust, “Sure. Enjoy.”
Cantor looked at the name he’d already read. “I agree with you,” he said quietly, “but why don’t we rule it out just in case? We know where he lives.”
But Haddad refused to cooperate, blurting out belligerently, “I'm not playing this game, Cantor. You want to rule it out, do it on your own! But watch yourself. You’re playing with fire, and you’ll get burned if it’s ever discovered that you suspected him. Your decision! You know what I feel like doing right now?”
“What?”
“Going up there and sticking a barrel down Sexta’s fucking throat!”
Cantor stayed silent as Haddad slammed his fist against the steering wheel and sped away, tires screeching.
CHAPTER 40
It was after ten when Haddad and Cantor entered the department. Matilda, known for her sympathy for Haddad, appeared before them holding a cup of coffee. She greeted Haddad cheerfully. “How you doing, Al?”
“Besides my stiff neck? Average...” he replied with feigned lightheartedness. It crossed his mind that Cantor wasn’t the only one around here who could pretend as he pleased.
“Poor baby… does it really hurt?”
“Hurts terribly. And it’s not nice to make fun of me. What’s new?”
“Same shit, different day… on your way out again?”
“I wish,” Haddad smiled. “I’m buried in paperwork... but a little neck massage could save me.”
She promptly replied with a burst of ringing laughter. “What if I said yes? What’d you do then, huh? Big tough guy!”
“Why don’t you try me?”
“Really?”
“No! Not really, Mattie. You know I’m a chicken.”
“No, darling, chickens want to do it, but they’re too scared. You’re not a chicken. Your problem begins with the letter D.”
“Can we have a little quiet here? People are trying to work!” Detective Gantz sounded annoyed.
“What? Can’t we even talk anymore?” Haddad protested, and added, “This is exactly what’s wrong with this department - no sense of humor. Well, I’m heading over to Evidence. At least it’s peaceful there-”
“Dead peaceful!” Matilda’s laughter accompanied him out of the door.
From his seat, Cantor surveyed the room and decided he had no time to waste. With or without Haddad, he was determined to refute the information he had received from Sexta.
“I’m heading to Forensics,” he announced to Matilda as he made for the door. The ease with which lies came to his tongue began to worry him. A minute later, he was already in his car driving to an address he knew well. He parked two blocks away and continued on foot. The apartment building was located in a quiet residential street. He decided to focus on the underground parking lot. As he sneaked in through the gate, he thought to himself: If this isn’t searching under the streetlamp, then I don’t know what is. A part of him hoped this was an idle pursuit, while another wished for a breakthrough. Either way, he was determined to conduct a thorough search.
In his bag he had a flashlight, a camera, disposable latex gloves, and a pack of plastic evidence bags. The parking lot floor was clear and almost empty of vehicles. On the wall behind each parking bay was the license plate of the car assigned to it. Cantor located the parking spot he was looking for, turned on his flashlight and began to examine the floor. Quickly
, he noticed two light patches that stood out against the gray, concrete floor. The lighter patches, which had not yet absorbed car pollutants, must have been recently created. The stains were located near the white line that marked the parking bay. He imagined the car parked in this spot and estimated that the stains were made between the front and back doors on the driver’s side. Without further delay, he photographed the stains from three different angles and then stepped back ten feet to take a photo of the parking slot along with the license number on the wall. He then pulled out a pocket knife, bent down and scratched the surface of the first stain. The material collected on the edge of the blade went into an evidence bag. He repeated the process with the second stain. There was almost always a chance that the lab could discover the compounds of this substance that seemed to have been covered in some kind of bleach.
Suddenly, whilst still squatting down with the evidence bag in hand, he heard the sound of an approaching engine. It was followed by the loud bang of a car exhaust and Cantor leaped behind an SUV parked in the next row. Another moment passed, and the car, almost as familiar to him as his own, appeared down the ramp. It turned and parked in the spot he’d just examined.
Fuck, he thought. Another coincidence? Why did he have to appear at exactly this moment?’ But his brain was trained to locate an escape route, and there was no effective hiding place in this parking lot. A quick glance revealed that the steel door leading into the building was closed. He figured he’d no chance of reaching it without being discovered. His position behind the SUV was too exposed. One random glance sideways would be enough to detect him. As he heard the sound of the car door opening, he shrank down as much as he could.
He then knew what he had to do. His muscles tensed to the maximum and a burst of adrenaline flooded his body.
Another few seconds passed and the car door slammed shut. He steadied his feet and prepared himself. He heard the approaching footsteps. A moment passed, and he saw the driver walk past him. He held his breath and then rose with precise timing, closing the gap between them in three quick, silent steps, his hand raised high above his head. In one swift movement, he dropped the heavy military flashlight on the back of the man’s neck, exactly at the point that would darken his world within a fraction of a second. His victim dropped like an axed tree and Cantor reached for the hollow of his neck to check for a pulse. From experience, he knew that the stunned man would recover within several minutes. It was time to split.
