"We could have checked them all out," Mac went on, "but we didn't have to. We looked for those close enough to your shop so two men could carry that cabinet."
"Block and a half down from his shop," said Stella, remembering.
"Harry Eberhardt, photographer," said Mac. "We found the bloodwood cabinet in the room behind Eberhardt's studio. There's also a darkroom. Detective Flack told him you were facing three charges of murder and that one of the victims was the woman you had shot a few hours ago. Eberhardt gave me the sealed envelope. A representative of the federal government has it now."
Moser looked straight ahead.
Mac turned to Stella to take over.
"We were wrong," she said. "You didn't kill Asher Glick because you owed him money. You killed him because he had come into your shop. You gave him your name, told him you were Bloom, told him where you were supposedly from. He probably asked more questions about your youth. You would have done your homework, given all the right answers, but Glick knew you weren't Bloom. Your bad luck was running into someone who knew the real Arvin Bloom when he was a boy, knew you weren't him, knew he was dead."
"You probably made up a story," said Mac. "A good one, but not good enough. He had told you about the morning minyan. You promised to be there and bring evidence that you were telling the truth about your story."
"You got him alone," said Stella. "Improvised, killed him and tried to make it look like a ritual killing. And then when we came to you as a suspect you were afraid we'd dig and find out you were a fraud. So you decided to kill again, another Jew, in the same ritual way, a victim with whom you had no connection. The Hebrew words in chalk had no meaning. You probably got them off the Internet. Then you found…"
"… a good person to take the fall," said Mac. "Joshua."
None of the three investigators said a word for a full minute. Stella sat unblinking, looking at Moser. Aiden's arms were crossed as she eyed Moser with disgust. Mac laid his palms flat on the table.
There was a knock at the door and Jane Parsons entered. She was wearing her white lab coat and carrying a single sheet of paper, which she handed to Mac, who read it and then handed it to Stella, who, in turn, handed it to Aiden. Jane looked at the bleeding man, but seemed to have no reaction.
Moser showed no interest in what was going on. If he went to trial he would be convicted. The evidence was overwhelming. He would go to prison. That was a certainty. He might even get the death penalty. If he made a deal and confessed to avoid the death penalty, he doubted if they would let him survive more than a few weeks or months in prison, but he had a good deal to make. Even without the evidence Eberhardt had turned over to the police, Moser knew enough- names, dates, events- to cause havoc. They couldn't let that happen, couldn't let him go public. He would either have to escape within the next few days or be killed.
Mac looked at Jane. She looked tired. They were all tired and hot and sweaty.
"Thanks," he said.
Jane smiled. She had been doing that more often recently. Then she left the room.
"Good news," Stella said, looking at Moser, who couldn't keep from looking up.
They've decided to come through for me, Moser thought. He would be back on the street before the day was over and then he would have to hide before someone put two bullets in his head.
"We're removing the charge of murdering your wife from the list of charges," Stella said.
Moser's mouth tightened slightly under the bloody pad.
"Want to know why?" asked Mac.
Silence.
"Because," said Aiden, "the woman you killed in your bedroom wasn't your wife. She was your sister."
Moser probably wouldn't even be safe in an isolated, guarded, secured location, the kind where they put mob hit men who talk to save their lives, have someone ghostwrite their largely invented memoirs, watch television and stay alive. It was worth a try.
"I want to make a deal," Moser said.
"We don't have the authority to make deals," said Mac.
"Find me someone who does," said Moser.
"What do you have to deal with?" asked Aiden.
Moser looked at them individually with a tilt of his head and a ghastly smile and said, "Thirty-seven assassinations for a government agency, assassinations in nine countries, most of them in Korea, North and South."
"One question," said Aiden. "Why cabinetmaking?"
"It's a perfect meditation," said Moser. "Creating objects of utility and beauty with your hands touches the soul and confirms the wonder of the universe."
"We ran your sister's fingerprints and came up with a match for a Lily Drew from Cleveland," said Stella. "The Cleveland police found your aunt and uncle. We're going to have them identify you. You used your sister as a front and when you decided to run, you killed her. Anything you want to say, Evan Drew?"
Mac and Danny had peeled away the identities of the man, enough to find the core.
Evan Drew, a.k.a. Peter Moser, a.k.a. Arvin Bloom sat silently staring at the pale wall, where he made out a face in the plaster, the face of an almost skeletal man, mouth open, crying out. He had seen such things all over the world, mostly in bathroom floors. He did not ask but he was sure others did not see the haunting images.
"I need a doctor," said Drew.
The interrogation was over. Less than an hour later word came that the district attorney's office was not interested in making a deal with Evan Drew.
Sitting in a holding cell, Drew began to rethink his options. There were few. There may not have been any.
14
IN THE MORE THAN FIFTY YEARS he had lived in the neighborhood, it was the first time Rabbi Benzion Mesmur had been in St. Martine's Church, which was no more than a five or ten minute walk from his synagogue and less than that from his home. Father Wosak had invited him for coffee and cookies, which, the priest assured him, had both been purchased at Kauffman's Kosher Bakery.
"If you'd prefer that I come to you…" the young priest had begun when they spoke on the phone.
The rabbi knew from the tone that he was deferring to the older man's age and his position in the community.
Wosak had made the request in Hebrew. He had also given Rabbi Mesmur a choice of times that would not interfere with his duties.
The old rabbi, in a black suit on the hottest day of the year, had walked to the church with two members of his congregation, both of whom were over seventy, both of whom had asked him to allow himself to be driven. The rabbi had said, "No, thank you."
The two men who had accompanied the rabbi remained outside when their rabbi entered St. Martine's.
After they had finished their coffee and cookies, the priest said, in English, "I have a request."
The old man waited.
"I'd like our congregation to pray for Asher Glick at this Sunday's service," Father Wosak said.
"You don't need my permission," said Rabbi Mesmur.
"I do," said the priest.
"Then you have it," said the rabbi.
"My sermon on Saturday will be on Jesus the Jew," said Wosak.
Both men thought about Joshua in the hospital, Joshua who outwardly said he could bridge the massive canyon of belief between the two religions, but inwardly knew he was a false prophet.
"And the other one?" asked the rabbi.
"We'll pray for Joel Besser too," said Wosak.
Rabbi Mesmur stroked his beard once and nodded.
For the next twenty minutes the two men discussed the meaning of God's destruction of the sons of Aaron, who had come too close to the altar. Their interpretations were remarkably close.
A sound beyond the priest's sanctuary door made him rise and say, "Excuse me."
Rabbi Mesmur also rose and followed the priest to the door.