My smile widened. Kulaski had no idea how close he'd been to a key piece of evidence in the Shapira murder investigation.
You don't know as much as you think, Inspector, I thought. Not nearly as much.
I put the gun in my coat pocket. The two magazines I buried among the clothes I gathered back into my bag. I felt safer with the gun on me, within easy reach. If Kulaski had a change of heart and tried to prevent me from leaving Jerusalem, I intended to fight.
I returned the drawer to its place—another simple task that caused me great suffering. Then I zipped the bag shut, grabbed the leather handles, and tried to stand. A swirl of dizziness clutched me, spinning the world around me, robbing my equilibrium. I stumbled, flailed around with my left hand, and luckily managed to brace myself against the dresser or I would have fallen on my face. I waited a moment until the world stabilized and, with tentative, old-man steps, headed for the door. Descending the stairs was going to be a trial, especially with one hand monopolized by the bag.
The quick thud of approaching feet greeted me as I stepped into the hall. Someone was bounding up the stairs toward me. I dropped the bag and ducked my right hand into my pocket. My fingers curled around the cold grip of the gun. My forefinger slipped into the trigger guard, pad on the trigger, ready for firing.
I was about to pull out the gun and aim it where the stairs met the hallway when a voice reached my ears: "Mr. Lapid? Mr. Lapid, where are you?"
A second later, the owner of the voice appeared on the landing, panting a little, droplets of rain in his hair.
Dr. Aboulker.
I'd completely forgotten about him. My physical discomfort and the menacing sound of approaching footsteps had wiped him from my mind. I'd been certain it was Kulaski.
I let out a breath. Released the gun grip. "Has it been fifteen minutes already, Doctor?"
"Just about," he said, frowning a little. "What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?"
I'm just happy I didn't shoot you, I thought, saying: "I'm happy to see you, that's all. Thank you for sticking around. Sorry it took me so long."
His frown didn't go away. "You got your things?"
"In the bag."
He looked at it, down at my feet. "Why is it on the floor?"
"I dropped it," I said. "I'm a little weak. Would you do me a favor and carry it down for me?"
He hesitated. Whatever it was I didn't wish him to see might be in this bag.
"Never mind," I said, and started to bend down to pick it up.
"Let me do it," Dr. Aboulker said, rushing forward and grabbing the bag before I could.
I thanked him, and he led the way. For some reason, perhaps because of Dr. Aboulker's presence, or maybe fortified by the reassuring weight of the gun in my pocket, I found the descent easier than the ascent had been.
"So long and go to hell," I said to the clerk, brandishing the key he'd given me before letting it fall to the lobby floor. Dr. Aboulker and I stepped out into the rain. I got into the car. He dumped my bag on the back seat, next to his briefcase, and climbed behind the wheel.
On the drive over to the central bus station, his eyes kept darting to me and then to the rearview mirror, where he could see the bag. He kept rubbing his mouth nervously, which made me feel bad.
After stopping outside the station on Jaffa Street, he asked, "Who are you really, Mr. Lapid?"
I saw no harm in telling him. Besides, now that I was on the cusp of fleeing Kulaski's domain, my anxiety had decreased and my professional curiosity was beginning to reassert itself. "I'm a private investigator. I'm working a case here in Jerusalem. A case pertaining to your hospital, in fact."
"My hospital?"
"Yes. It concerns a nurse by the name of Moria Gafni. Did you know her?"
"Not closely, no. We never worked together, but I know who she was. News of her death was all over the hospital. What does it mean, your case concerns her?"
"I was hired to discover why she killed herself."
"I didn't know her motivation was unknown."
"Quite unknown," I said with bitterness, remembering the obscure suicide note.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't think I can help you. I never said more than two words to her. Just hello, goodbye, that sort of thing."
"What about Dr. Shapira?"
"Kalman Shapira? He's dead."
"I know he's dead. Were you and he friends?"
"I wouldn't say friends, but friendly, sure. We used to work together before he moved to the Pediatric Ward. Why are you asking about him?"
"Two people who work together die unnaturally within a short period of time, it interests me."
A dash of fear played across Dr. Aboulker's face. "What are you implying, Mr. Lapid?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm just gathering information. What was Dr. Shapira like?"
He didn't answer. People sometimes get that way when asked about the dead. They don't want to speak ill.
"He won't mind, Doctor," I said. "It could be important."
He scrutinized my features, looking past the bruises and swellings and trying to see the man behind the injuries. Whatever he saw must have tipped some internal scale, and he said, "He was a good doctor, a talented surgeon, but he could be a bit abrasive. He was sometimes brusque with the nurses."
"Was he the sort of doctor who'd complain about a nurse if she didn't show him the proper respect?"
"It happened. Why?"
"It confirms something I was told about him," I said. "What about Dr. Leitner?"
"What does he have to do with this?"
"He was Moria Gafni's boss. What do you think of him?"
Again he didn't answer, just stared out the rain-streaked windshield. A muscle clenched along his jaw.
"You don't like him very much, do you?"
He turned to me. "Am I that easy to read?"
I smiled. "On that issue, you're an open book. Care to tell me why you dislike him?"
"I probably shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Leitner might become head physician one of these days. He'll run the entire hospital."
"He's that good a doctor?"
Dr. Aboulker huffed, his mouth twisted in bitter contempt. "I wouldn't let him treat my children if he was the only doctor in town."
"That bad, huh?"
He hesitated, scratching the side of his face, tapping the wheel.
I said, "Dr. Leitner will never know what you tell me. You have my word on that."
He looked at me for a moment, then said, "Leitner is one of those doctors who seem to forget that his patients are people. He treats them as though he's a mechanic fixing a machine. And he's not so brilliant at that, either."
"Then how in hell is it possible he'll become head physician?"
"Because he's good at internal politics, and, more crucially, he's a great fundraiser."
"That's more important than being a good doctor?"
"To get appointed head physician? Yes, it is. Sometimes it seems like it's the only skill that matters." He paused for a beat, then added, "Maybe I shouldn't disparage Leitner on that score. Donations are vital for a hospital. A hospital with money becomes more modern, acquires better equipment, can offer a higher level of care to its patients. A hospital needs fundraisers. But with Leitner it has always seemed to me that his main goal is not the well-being of his patients, but the fulfillment of his personal ambition. He wants to be head physician not because he believes he'll do the best job for the patients, but for the status that comes with the title, the boost to his ego."
"I see," I said, thinking that it fit my impression of Leitner.
"Do you know Anat Schlesinger?" I asked. "She's a nurse who worked with Moria Gafni."
"I know who she is, but I don't know her any better than I did Moria."