An Accidental Murder: An Avram Cohen Mystery

by Robert Rosenberg

  The cat wasn’t killed on the floor mat before the front door. It was put there. Luckily. For whoever did it left a partial print made of Suspect’s blood, which had drained from the lone bullet’s exit wound, a massive tear of the fur and skin and skull and brain of the animal.

  His sigh made his lungs echo with a rattle of breathless pain. Inside, the phone kept ringing. The inspector general himself had called while the District CID commander was still there, overseeing his dozen men and women on the case, wanting a firsthand look at the famous Avram Cohen, the High Priest gone to hermitage who everyone still said was the best boss to ever hold the office.

  Cohen was now convinced, though exactly of what, he couldn’t be sure. The bomb—not unlike the one in Frankfurt —was professional. But there was nothing professional about killing the cat. That was personal. And he knew he had nothing personal with any of the Russians— and that the Alper brothers were not in any position to arrange a bombing attempt on anyone, let alone him.

  The IG did help Cohen with the press, which clamored for a press conference, if not a series of interviews.

  Nobody outside of the IG, the new CID commander, and one old investigator Cohen knew well, who showed up on the scene and could tell Cohen was disturbed by something more than the bomb he found under his desk, knew about what had happened to the cat. The National Police spokesman’s office issued a statement that the investigation was being taken very seriously. Part of his statement included a quote that Cohen formulated with the spokesman’s help: “Retired Deputy Commander Avram Cohen is helping the police in any way they see fit, with their inquiries. Due to the sensitive nature of the investigation, no interviews of any kind will be given until the matter is resolved.”

  It didn’t drive all the reporters away. But using the excuse of a neighborhood canvas, the police did manage to finally push the reporters off the street outside Cohen’s house, to the end of it, where by noon only one remained, and by two o’clock he was also gone.

  Finally alone, he put on a kettle, took a hot shower, and gave a longing look at the bed. But instead, he changed into clean clothes and stirred at the thick mud coffee, sitting at his desk, thinking. Finally, he stopped stirring and while the coffee powder settled at the bottom of the tall glass, he turned on the computer, took a clean sheet of paper for notes, and like a card player testing a deck, he riffled the little stack of yellow notebooks he had filled during the two months of searching through the archives.

  He turned on the computer to download his mail—a digest of messages about cooking, a newsletter about new jazz recordings, an invitation to visit a Web site devoted to counterterrorism—and then, on a hunch, ran a World Wide Web search for Vladimir NEAR Zagorksy.

  Seventeen pages came up. Three were by a medical student of that name, living in California. Six were about a German-Jewish underground activist hung early by the Nazis for subversion. The remaining eight pages were all from a large Web site devoted to bee keeping, with one partner named Vladimir and the other Zagorksy. Cohen shook his head in disappointment. He tried Lev Lerner.

  Nothing. He tried Alexander Witkoff. That name came up in a three-page Web site about Witkoff’s chemicals trading company. He tried Yuhewitz. Gornisht, he moaned, using the Yiddish word to complain. He had called Ahuva even before he called the Emergency 100 Number, not telling her about the cat, but saying quite bluntly that he feared her life might be in danger. “You were right, I’m afraid,” he had said. “The bomber from Frankfurt, he might be here.” “In Israel?” she had asked, not incautiously.

  “Yes.”

  “In Tel Aviv?”

  “The country’s small,” he pointed out.

  “I have to be in court most of the day,” she said.

  “You’ll be safe there,” he agreed, hoping it was true. He checked his watch. It was just before seven in the morning.

  It had taken him twelve minutes between the time he found the cat on the doorstep at 6:30 in the morning to find the bomb under his desk. “I’ll call you later at your office,” he promised. “But it looks like you might be staying at a hotel tonight.”

  “Will you be there?” “I hope so,” he admitted.

  “Then I’ll await your call,” she pronounced, promising that she would leave for her office within the hour.

  He called Laskoff’s office after the last detective, the old one with two ex-wives, four kids, and twelve grandchildren (because one of his sons had turned religious and with his arranged-marriage wife was making kids at the rate of one a year for the last seven years) had finally left his apartment.

  Rose said the banker would not be in the for the rest of the day. One of his clients had died suddenly in the night and Laskoff, as executor, had to step in to help the widow through the coming few days. “But Mr. Laskoff did leave you a message, in case you called.” “Yes, please.” Cohen sighed.

  “Alexander Witkoff was in a consortium that offered to buy Bank Leumi. The Bank of Israel turned down the bid.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No.”

  “Here’s another name for him, when he calls in.

  Zagorksy, Vladimir.”

  She repeated the name, to be sure she had it right, then added, “Mr. Laskoff also asks if you have any message for him about the house.”

  Cohen felt like laughing. But he just told her that no, he had not decided yet, but expected to have an answer soon.

  “But first tell him to find out what he can about Zagorksy.”

  Hanging up, he looked at the phone for a second, thinking.

  He was about to call Shvilli when Jacki called.

  “I heard about the bomb,” she said.

  “How’s Hagit?” he answered.

  “Much better. They’ve decided to let her go home tomorrow. With the baby.”

  “To her parents?”

  “No, she’s going home to their place. Hers and Nissim’s.

  What about this bombing attempt?”

  Cohen ignored the question. “Shvilli’s not answering his phone. He was supposed to find out about a girl Nissim saw, Saturday night.”

  “At the Crown, I know,” said Jacki. “Pinny knows about it.”

  “Can you get through to personnel records?” Cohen asked.

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “Pinhas Shlomi, Shimoni, something like that. Maybe even Shlomzion, served at least ten years in Jerusalem. I need his details. A phone number for him.”

  “I’ll have to use the terminal downstairs,” she said.

  “Now,” he ordered. “And call me back. I’ll be waiting.

  Use my home number.”

  “Fifteen minutes, I promise,” she said.

  He used the time to unroll the long fax Jacki had sent him, starting with the last month in the log Nissim had kept of his own intelligence gathering.

  The Crown Hotel was mentioned twice in three weeks.

  The second time was a week ago. And in the notes Nissim made, at the bottom of a list that began with Yuhewitz, included Yudelstein and Witkoff, appeared the name “Zagrusky” with two question marks beside it. “Zagorksy, Zagrusky,” Cohen muttered under his breath. “Who are you?” he asked the paper between sips of the cooling coffee.

  The telephone shattered the quiet, startling him and making him splash a few drops of the drink across the papers on his desk. He was cursing to himself as he answered the phone.

  It was Shvilli. “I’m in Eilat. With Pinny. You want to talk to him?”

  “Put him on.” “Sir,” Pinny said happily, “how are you?”

  “Okay, Pinny, fine,” said Cohen, impatiently.

  “Your health?” the former subordinate asked with unctuous respect.

  Cohen ignored the question. “You sawnissim on Saturday night. In the lobby. With a girl. Was she working?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth. I never saw her before. She might have been working. Maybe. Very sexy. But she looked too rich to be working. So, after Misha asked, I checked i
t out with reception.”

  “And?”

  “A guest.”

  “Name?”

  “Maya Bernstein.”

  Cohen jammed the phone between his shoulder and ear and reached with two hands for the little yellow notebooks that he had filled during the search through his memories in the archives. The Bernstein twins. The girl. What was her name? It was twenty years old, but it was something.

  Perhaps.

  “Tell me about her,” he demanded.

  “She came in with a big spender. A Russian.”

  “Name?”

  “Zagrusi or something.”

  “Is she Russian?”

  “She has a German passport.”

  “Did you get her details from the passport? Birth date?

  Birthplace? Anything?”

  There was a pause.

  “Check,” Cohen ordered, without any anger in his voice.

  “Of course.”

  “She still there?”

  “No. They left yesterday.”

  “To where?”

  “I’ll have to check.”

  The call waiting kicked in on the phone but he was clenching the phone, tightly considering the implications, leaving a pause in the conversation. The call waiting buzzed him again. He ignored it. “Are you checking?” “You mean now?” asked Pinny.

  “Now,” Cohen demanded. “Give me Misha.”

  Shvilli was defensive, getting on the phone. “I mentioned Zagorksy, no? At the party on Yuhewitz’s boat.

  When Nissim lost it … “

  “No, you didn’t mention him,” complained Cohen.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s Russian. Lives in Germany. We know he deals women. Possibly drugs.”

  “Does he have a son?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “And the girl? This Maya Bernstein?”

  “She’s a toy for him. A show-off toy. A tyolki,” said Shvilli, using Russian slang. “As far as I could tell.”

  “Did you ever talk with her?”

  “He kept her close. And he had muscle to make sure she wasn’t available to anyone else.”

  “What would Nissim want with her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even understand how Nissim got close to her.” The cellular phone rang. “Hold on,” he told Shvilli, answering the second phone. It was Jacki. “I have Pinny Shimoni’s telephone number,” she said.

  “That’s okay, I have him on the other line,” he told her.

  He could hear her disappointment that she hadn’t provided some missing information as she said goodbye.

  “Shvilli, what’s Zagorksy’s relationship with Witkoff?”

  “Close. Very close. At least as far as we’re able to tell.”

  “Andyuhewitz?”

  “Yuhewitz is big in Eilat, but he’s small compared to Witkoff. Zagorksy doesn’t exactly work for Witkoff, at least as far as we know. But they’re friends, that’s for sure.

  They eat out together when Zagorksy’s in the country.”

  “Okay. Back to Maya Bernstein?”

  “I knew nothing about her, until Pinny made the connection and I realized it was her.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “She’s very sexy. Very.”

  “And you’re sure he doesn’t have a son?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Boss, I can’t know everything. I try … “

  “No, I’m not blaming you. But another source tells me Zagorsky has a son.” There was silence for a long minute, while he thought.

  “Boss?” Shvilli asked. “You there?”

  “Describe her,” Cohen said.

  “Like a model, tall. A great figure.”

  “Blonde, black hair? Long, short?”

  “Tall, real tall.”

  “A mole? On her jaw? A beauty mark?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Close your eyes. Think. Try to remember.” “I don’t know,” Shvilli admitted with disappointment.

  “You ever shake hands with her?”

  “What do you mean?” “Just what I asked. Were you introduced? Shake her hand? Talk to her?”

  “Not really. She belongs to Zagorksy. I’m a good customer for Yuhewitz, but I’m not big money. Zagorksy is big money.” “Are you sure she’s a girl?” Cohen forward.

  “What?” “Just what I said. Maybe transsexual? Transvestite, even?”

  “A coccinel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. She was very impressive. Wore this high-fashion dress, on the boat, you stood in the right place, you could see everything. Great tits. I can tell you this: She was a she, as far as every guy on the boat could tell.”

  “And according to Pinny, they’re in Jerusalem now. Is he getting what I asked for?”

  “Here he comes now.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Yes. But before that, boss, please, what makes her so important?” “It’s Zagorksy who’s important. And as you said, she’s his toy.”

  31.

  But Cohen wasn’t sure if he was hunting the businessman spy or the girl on Zagorksy’s arm. According to Pinny, they had gone to the King David Hotel, just up the street from Cohen’s apartment, the day before.

  He stared at the phone and then punched in the number to ask for the Russian. But before the operator began to put him through, he hung up with a second thought and he redialed the hotel’s number, tried slightly to adjust the tone in his voice and asked for Rafi Peri. Right after his departure from the force, Cohen had been offered the job of chief of security at the King David. Ahuva thought he should take the job, but after serving as chief of CID, Cohen was not enchanted by the idea of playing baby-sitter for rich tourists, nor gofer to every visiting VIP security crew.

  So Rafi Peri had gotten the job. He had briefly reached Tel Aviv chief of CID, a year after Cohen left the force, but unlike Cohen, who had no ambition beyond his job as CID chief, Peri wanted more. When it became clear to him that he had reached the pinnacle of his police career, he opted out of the force and took the high-paying hotel job.

  “I was just thinking of you,” said Peri after Cohen identified himself.

  “Why?” asked Cohen suspiciously.

  “The radio is saying someone tried to kill you again. A bomb. Like … “

  “I’m not calling about that,” Cohen lied.

  “Really?” Peri asked, but it was uncertainty not disbelief that colored his tone.

  “Is there a guest named Zagorksy, Vladimir Zagorksy in the hotel?” “You’re kidding,” Peri said.

  “I don’t usually make jokes,” Cohen said.

  “I heard Shuki Caspi picked up the Alpers,” Peri tried.

  “Your Nissim made quite an enemy when he went after the bigalper.” “They’re wrong,” said Cohen confidently, though he wasn’t really.

  “You sound sure.”

  “I am,” Cohen lied again.

  “You’re not on the job anymore.”

  “Nissim was my assistant for a long time.”

  “So, it is personal.”

  “You can say that.”

  Peri didn’t say anything.

  “Zagorksy,” said Cohen, and waited.

  “You didn’t get any of this from me,” Peri finally said.

  “Of course not,” Cohen said truthfully.

  “He took three suites with eastern views of the Old City, the most expensive on the floor,” said Peri.

  “Why does he need three?”

  “There’s him, a girl, and half a dozen associates. I’d call at least three of them muscle, but it’s impolite and I’m in the polite business nowadays.”

  “The rest?”

  “Fancy clerks,” said Peri.

  “Are they there now?”

  “I don’t know.” Cohen sighed. “Pick up the other phone and ask,” he ordered.

  “I don’t know …
“

  “Rafi, please. I’ll leave you out of it. Nobody will know.

  You can trust me.” He waited for Peri’s response. “Please,” he repeated. He was using that word more often nowadays, he thought, usually requesting something he didn’t want but did need.

  “Hold on.” Peri finally complied.

  While he waited on the line, Cohen doodled, drawing a box around the name Maya Bernstein, thinking about what Pinny said, underlining it, adding a row of question marks and finally, circling the word twins. With a question mark.

  The ideas swirled through his head like dervishes whirling swords. With the sound of the receiver at Peri’s end knocking around on the desk before the security officer finally was back on the phone, the swords stopped turning.

  “He’s here,” said Peri.

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks, Rafi.” “Just leave me out of it,” Peri asked.

  “Exactly,” Cohen promised.

  But before he even packed up his wallet and notebook, let alone gathered his keys and his jacket, the phone rang.

  “I heard about the bomb,” said Shmulik.

  “Yes? “asked Cohen.

  “Well?”

  “What?”

  “Are you going to tell me?” “First you have something to tell me,” Cohen said.

  “That thing you asked about,” said Shmulik.

  “Yes.”

  “The answer is yes, the same. And the word is, stay away. You don’t know what’s at stake.”

  “There’s a bomb at stake.”

  “You can’t be sure of that. And believe me, your man is covered. He couldn’t do anything like that without half a dozen interventions.”

  “Half a dozen?”

  “He’s a share.”

  “With?”

  “The Americans.”

  “And the Germans?” “Could be,” said Shmulik. “But Avram, I don’t see how he could be involved.”

  “Maybe he blames me.”

  “For what?”

  “Picking him up. Back then.”

  “Believe me, he’s never complained about you.”

  “How do you know?”