So the phone number will be under her name.”
“I have an author from Hamburg. A mystery writer who knows the police. Maybe he can help,” Kristina started to explain, but Cohen felt like he was running out of time.
“Whatever,” he answered. “Just see if you can find out for me a number for Hannah Bernstein.”
Next he tried Ahuva at the office. She would help him straighten it all out in his head; Lerner, Zagorksy, a boy, a girl, she at least would know the right questions to ask. But a clerk said that the judge was in session and could not be disturbed for anything. “Have her call me at this number please, as soon as she can,” Cohen asked, leaving the cell phone number. At least she was safe, he decided. And she knew enough so that if she didn’t hear from him, she’d check into a hotel or stay with a friend.
He was following his instincts and they were frayed with fear. The unpredictable rhythm of chilly wind blowing through the open window kept him alert, as his mind raced with less control than the routine of his driving.
Passing cars and trucks, he pushed the car faster, hoping that just ahead of the next barreling bus he’d spot the convoy of two black seven-seater Mercedes. All he got for his effort was a near accident, and more self-recrimination. It was burning up inside him, the fear he was totally mistaken, that paranoia, not reason, was driving him forward.
He tried calling Shmulik, but there, too, only a machine answered. He left no message.
He struggled with the feeling all the way to the city, until finally, trapped in the mundane traffic of red lights and green when he got off the highway at the Tel Aviv Railway station, the wind ceased and his own thoughts settled.
He drove the rest of the way to Ahuva’s place with a sense of serenity that if not for the peace it provided would have frightened him with the implications of its resignation to fate. Lerner or Zagorksy, boy or girl, he knew he would encounter them. For just as he realized that no matter what happened he could never know the whole truth, he also recognized for the simplicity of the truth that it was not he who was hunting the Russian—or the boy, or the girl—but it was one of them, or both, hunting him.
Thus, the paranoia took over completely even while it felt as if it had passed. He parked in the basement lot, rode the elevator to Ahuva’s floor, and used his key to get in.
He made himself some coffee and carried it to the porch beyond the sliding glass doors, pulled one of the plastic outdoor chairs close to the railing so he could put his feet up, and waited. With the sun at midday directly above, the soothing blue of the clean winter sky was changing into a glaring white. Waves were choppy on the distant surface of the sea.
Again he called her office, and again the secretary said she was in court until three and then had the rest of the day free. Again he left a message reminding her to call him on the cellular as soon as she was free.
He leaned backward, with a peripheral view that included the front door to the flat and the beach scene below. And all the while, beside his coffee cup and the ashtray for his precious cigarettes on the little wrought-iron and marble-topped table, the matte metal handgun, its clip full and its barrel clean, waited with him. But it was neither Zagorsky nor Maya Bernstein, not even Ahuva, who surprised Cohen. His cellular phone rang. It was Shvilli.
“I’ve got something, boss, I’ve got something. It’s big.
Real big. Where are you?”
“Tel Aviv.”
“Excellent. So am I.”
“What do you have?”
“It’s not for the phone. We have to meet.”
Cohen decided on the cafe downstairs from Ahuva’s apartment. Shvilli promised to be there “as soon as possible.”
Downstairs, under a broad yellow umbrella protecting him from the harsh light of the sun swamping the city, he drank a double espresso at a table with a view of the street in one direction and the beach in the other, waiting for Shvilli. He felt exposed but alert, and, in a way, he was almost eager for them to find him, to confront him and get it over, one way or the other.
The Georgian showed up a few minutes later, taking the shallow steps up from the sidewalk three at a time, almost running to Cohen.
“Listen to this,” he began, with the same breathless excitement that always accompanied his first telling of a breakthrough. “Remember Yudelstein? At that nightclub in Beersheba?”
“The fat man. The judge.” Cohen remembered.
“Yes. He called me, an hour ago. Asked me if I knew how to let the police know something, without it getting back to him.”
“Why you?” Cohen nearly spat the question. “See, I told you it’s dangerous for you. He knows you’re police.
The others know.”
“Maybe he knows. But I trust him.” Cohen sighed. “Nissim,” he said paternally, and for a second they both froze, realizing how Freudian the slip was. “Misha,” Cohen corrected himself, then repeated what he said. “You’ve been doing this too long. If he knows, they know.”
“It doesn’t matter. They didn’t order Nissim killed. It wasn’t Witkoff or Yuhewitz or even your man Zagrosky.”
“Zagorsky,” Cohen corrected Shvilli.
“The point is that it wasn’t the bosses who ordered Nissim killed. It was a couple of their punks. I know them both. Yosef and Gregory. Dumb. Like only real muscle can be dumb. But Yosef is ambitious. Real ambitious.”
“A bad combination.”
“Very bad,” Shvilli agreed.
“So?”
“He’s the one who ambushed Nissim. Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Shvilli moaned. “Just some stupid muscle trying to think for their bosses. They saw how angry Nissim made Yuhewitz, and they wanted to make a move. Decided they’d give the boss what he wanted.”
“Yuhewitz didn’t order it?”
Shvilli shook his head. There was disappointment in his eyes.
“Yudelstein is certain?” Shvilli nodded. “But listen to this. Yudelstein says it has something to do with the girl.” “What about her?” Cohen demanded.
“He didn’t know for sure. Something about her being seen with Nissim that night in the hotel. Jealousy, maybe?”
“I don’t believe it.” “That Yudelstein told me this?”
“No, that it had to do with jealousy. You questioned Pinny more?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“That he saw them talking in the lobby. That was all.” “I know that,” Cohen said softly, coldly. “Did he say anything about the muscle, these two—what are their names?”
“Yosef and Gregory.”
“Yosef and Gregory. Were they in the lobby? Did Zagorsky, or for that matter, Witkoff or Yuhewitz, see Nissim with the girl?”
“Pinny didn’t say anything about that.” “Did you ask him?” Cohen demanded, and immediately cut himself off. He had only himself to blame for not asking Pinny.
“No,” Shvilli admitted weakly.
“Find out,” Cohen ordered.
Shvilli pulled his cellular phone out of his holster.
“Wait,” Cohen instructed. “Did you tell Caspi about any of this?”
“Not yet.”
“Is there any evidence? Aside from Yudelstein?”
Shvilli grimaced.
“The radio this morning said Caspi brought in the Alper mother,” Cohen pointed out. “He’s trying to put pressure on the boys.” He paused for a second, then made a decision.
“You have to tell Caspi,” Cohen ordered. “Now.”
It was an instinctual command, but it did little to clear his own mind of all the confusion. The girl. Why should she hate him so much? Could she have manipulated the two thugs into helping her? Were they in Frankfurt that night?
That helpless feeling of grasping water came back to him.
While Shvilli called first Caspi and then Pinny, Cohen got up and went to the railing overlooking the little park and the path down to the beach. Maybe the assassination of Nissim Levy had nothing to do with him. Zagorsky wasn’t after him
. But that left the “toy,” as all the men so far had referred to the girl—or was it the boy? Cohen was not even sure anymore of that instinct that he had followed.
As if timed to give him the answer, his phone rang.
Krista Scheller was on the line. “I did what you asked for, Avram,” she said. “But this woman, Hannah Bernstein?
She’s dead. Has been for years.”
It made him gasp slightly and he rubbed his chest.
The pause made her ask, “Avram? Are you there?” “How? When?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“My author in Hamburg, a mystery writer with connections to the police. He tells me that there was a fire in the apartment building. The poor woman didn’t get out.”
“There was a young girl staying with the woman then,” Cohen said. “She either just had a baby or was about to have a baby. Did he say anything about her?” “No-o,” said the editor. “You should have said something, I could have asked.”
“Please,” he requested, “and call me back if you learn anything.”
Shvilli came back to the table and sat down, grumbling to himself.
“Caspi’s an asshole. He wants to know my source.”
“Did you give it?”
“How could I? Caspi will go barging after Yudelstein and everything I’ve worked for, Nissim worked for, will go down the drain.”
Cohen just nodded with sympathy. He was thinking. “What happened to the idiots. Yosef and Gregory?”
“They’re being taken care of.”
“Executions?”
Shvilli shrugged.
“There’s something wrong in that. Wouldn’t it be smarter for them to turn in the two? Loosen the pressure.”
“There is no pressure. Not as far as I can tell. Nobody’s going to move on Witkoff, not without direct orders from the minister.”
“Unless there’s proof they were involved in murder,” Cohen pointed out.
“Which we don’t have,” Shvilli added.
They sat silently for a minute. Suddenly, Cohen realized what Shvilli forgot to tell him. “Why are you in Tel Aviv?” “Yuhewitz is here,” Shvilli said. “I should have told you right away. Sorry. I came up with him. On the flight from Eilat.”
“And you didn’t get anything from him?”
Shvilli scowled at Cohen. “I didn’t think this was the time to press.”
“So where is he?”
Shvilli covered his eyes. “I lost him. I was stupid. He said he was being picked up for a business meeting, so couldn’t offer me a ride. Someone picked him up.”
“Get a license number?”
Shvilli pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and read out the number. Cohen reached into his windbreaker jacket, which he had taken off in the surprising Tel Aviv heat of winter, when there are no clouds and the sun has time to warm the city. He pulled out his little yellow notebook and thumbed through it until he asked, “What’s the number again?”
Shvilli gave it to him.
“That’s one of Witkoff’s cars,” Cohen said with a tone of satisfaction. Finally, something logical was happening.
“You think Zagorksy’s with them?”
“Could be.”
“With the girl?”
“He takes her everywhere.”
“What more do you know about Yosef and Gregory?” Cohen asked.
“Gregory was in the Russian army. Some kind of paratrooper unit. Yosef was a boxer. And I only heard that because of some gossip. Neither is much of a talker.”
“Paratrooper. That means he knows demolitions.”
“You think he had something to do with the bombs?” “Maybe,” he said. But he doubted that either of the bodyguards would have had a reason to kill Suspect. “The girl?” he asked Shvilli. “She’s very sexy?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is she smart?”
“I don’t know.”
“What kind of sexy? Hot? Cold? Does she flirt? Hard to get? What?
“Well, she never flirted with me,” Shvilli said.
“You sound disappointed.”
“You would be, too. I watched her. She could make sure that any man who she talked to wondered if she wanted to do it with him.”
“Did she have any power over Yosef and Gregory?”
“They were Yuhewitz’s boys. He had the power, not her.”
“But could she have used them? Influenced them?”
“I told you, she could wrap a man around her finger.”
“Get back to Yudelstein. See if you can find out where Yuhewitz would meet Witkoff in Tel Aviv.” “You just told me to stay away from them, get out.” “Yes,” Cohen admitted, realizing that once again he had cornered himself into an untenable position, letting Shvilli make the decision. “But we need to know.”
Shvilli looked at his watch. “I need a drink,” he suddenly said, waving to the waiter behind the glass windows overlooking the patio. They waited in silence for the waiter to return with a shot of frozen vodka for Shvilli, a balloon of cognac for Cohen.
“To Nissim,” Shvilli said grimly, then tossed the drink down in one gulp. Cohen took a first sip to prepare his throat for the long swallow of the liquid heat, then tilted back his head for the rest.
It was Cohen who broke the silence. “It’s up to you.”
“We need to know what happened,” Shvilli admitted.
“For Nissim’s sake.”
“It’s not for Nissim. It’s for us. To get the system to confront them, once and for all.”
“They’ll never do it. The politicians will never let them go after them. There’s too much money involved.”
“If there’s evidence, the police will have to act. You know that.”
“Only if it’s hard evidence,” Shvilli said, knocking on the surface of the little table, as if to prove what’s hard.
“Yuhewitz is careful. Witkoff much more so. What about your Zagorksy?” “Is protected,” Cohen admitted, without explaining why. “Yuhewitz is the weakest link. Witkoff must be furious. I would be. The muscle were Yuhewitz’s responsibility.
His soldiers. And they screwed up. Witkoff knows that.” Once again, Witkoff became a key. Cohen picked up his cellular phone, beginning to enjoy its immediacy. He punched in Ephraim Laskoff’s number, then got up and went to the railing to look down on the beach, not needing Shvilli to hear the conversation.
Rose answered. Laskoff had just come in.
“Avram,” Laskoff began, “I think I can close the house deal today.”
“Forget the house, that’s not why I’m calling. I need to know what you have on those names I gave you. Alexander Witkoff … “
“The banker. Or at least wants to own a bank. There’s no way he’s going to get one, not after what I heard this morning.”
“What? What?”
“That the Russian police want to question him about the top three officers at the bank he owns in Moscow getting murdered just before he arrived here as a new immigrant.”
“When did you hear that?” “You asked me to ask around. I did.”
“Why is he a suspect?”
“According to my sources, he wanted to cover his money trail. The managers knew the truth. He didn’t want the truth known.”
“I hear he makes contributions. Lots of contributions.”
“He can afford it. According to my sources, he’s sitting on at least half a billion dollars in his own investments.
Not counting money he’s raised for his finance company.
Can you believe it? They wouldn’t give him a license to open a bank, but they let him open a financing house. For foreign investors.”
“What does that mean?”
“That he can take foreign currency, invest it locally, and pay out in foreign currency. No questions asked.”
“That’s what you do.”
“No, officially I’m a consultant. Remember, you signed powers of attorney. But I don’t guarantee you interest from an account. I just
make professional decisions for you to keep your money. He guarantees interest and can lend, as well as invest.”
“So he can run a laundry.”
“Yes.”
“What about Yuhewitz?”
“Now there’s something interesting.”
“What?”
“Three weeks ago, bids were opened for a coastland project just south of the Eilat port. Bids ranged from seven to fourteen million. Yuhewitz was signed to a twenty-five million bid. They had to accept. Says he’s planning a hotel and entertainment center. The Tourism minister’s in love with the man. We’re talking about a hundred-million-dollar investment on his part. God knows how much the ministry will shovel him in subsidies.”
“South of the port?”
“Just north of the border.”
“You’re sure?”
“Avram? Have I ever told you anything about which I was not certain?”
For the first time that morning, Cohen smiled, barely.
“Thanks, Ephraim.”
“No, wait, wait a minute. What did you mean, ‘ about the house’? What are you talking about?”
“Before that, what about Zagorsky?”
“Nothing on him. Nothing. Nobody heard of him.
Nobody in the city. He’s neither a buyer nor a seller. Not here, at least. Not through the banks here.”
“Makes sense,” Cohen muttered to himself.
“What? What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Are we done on these names?” “Yes,” Cohen said.
“Good. Now, tell me about what you meant.”
Cohen took a deep breath, knowing what would follow.
“I changed my mind,” he said.
There was a long pause, then Laskoff said, “You’re joking, no?”
“Ephraim? Have you ever known me to make jokes?”
“Why? Why? After all we went through on this?”
“I changed my mind. People change. Places change. Life changes.” Cohen stated it bluntly, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing that can be done about it.”
“Just a few weeks ago, you were ready to pay a fortune —”
“You need an explanation?” Cohen demanded, almost angrily. But he trusted Laskoff and valued the man’s friendship, so he quickly added, “I promise I’ll explain. But not now. There are some things I have to take care of. Next week maybe,” he promised. “Lunch.”
An Accidental Murder: An Avram Cohen Mystery Page 22
