Carmeli was wearing a dark suit and white shirt, no tie, and he reeked of tobacco. His hair had been watered and combed but several cowlicks sprouted.
“This way.” He did an abrupt about-face and led us to the white door of the same conference room. This time we walked through and out the back into the cubicles of the work area. Office machines, a water cooler, corkboard full of memos, the travel posters I'd seen through the reception window. The fluorescent panels in the ceiling were off and light came from a single corner pole lamp. Nothing to distinguish the place from any other site of repetitive-motion injury.
Carmeli kept going, hunched, arms swinging loosely, til he reached a door with his name on it. Twisting the knob, he stood aside and let us enter.
Like Irina Budzhyshyn's apartment, his office was characterless, with blue drapes over what I assumed were windows, a wall of half-empty board-and-bracket shelves, a wooden desk with steel legs, gray sofa and love seat.
A man sat on the love seat and when we came in he stood, keeping his left hand in the pocket of his blue jeans.
Late thirties to forty, five seven, around 140, he wore a black nylon windbreaker, pale blue shirt, black athletic shoes. His tightly kinked hair was black tipped with gray and trimmed to a short Afro. His face was lean, very smooth, cafÉ-au-lait skin stretched tightly over finely molded features. A strong nose was anchored by flared nostrils and his lips were wide, full and bowed. Very light brown eyes- golden, really- and shaded by long, curved lashes. Arched eyebrows gave them the look of permanent surprise but the rest of his face contradicted that: static, unreadable.
Probably Middle-Eastern, but he could have been Latin or American Indian or a light-skinned black man.
Familiar for some reason… had I seen him before?
He met my stare and volleyed it back. No hostility, just the opposite. Pleasant, almost friendly.
Then I realized his expression hadn't changed. Like a Rorschach card, his neutrality had led me to interpret.
Milo was looking at him, too, but his attention shifted to Carmeli as the consul passed behind the desk and sat down.
His big hands were clenched and I saw him open them. Forcing the appearance of relaxation. During the ride over from Holloway Drive, he'd been silent, driving much too fast.
He sat down on the sofa without being invited and I did the same.
The dark man with the golden eyes was still looking at us. Or past us.
Still pleasantly blank.
Suddenly I knew I had seen him. And where.
Driving away from Latvinia Shaver's murder scene. Driving some kind of compact car- a gray Toyota- just as the film crews arrived. Wearing a uniform like that of Montez, the custodian.
Another image clicked in.
A dark-skinned uniformed man had also been at the nature conservancy the day Milo took me to view Irit's murder scene.
Park-worker's uniform. Driving some sort of mowing machine, leaf bags stacked on the grass.
A pith helmet had hidden his face.
Following us? No, in both cases he'd gotten there before.
Anticipating us?
One step ahead because he had access to police information?
Listening in, somehow.
Milo'd said Carmeli's attitude had seemed to change suddenly. More cooperative.
Because he'd kept tabs, knew Milo was serious, working hard?
I nodded at the dark man, expecting no response, but he nodded back. Milo's big face was still full of curiosity and anger.
Zev Carmeli pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Not offering one to the dark man. Knowing the dark man didn't smoke. Knowing the dark man's habits.
The dark man remained still, left hand in pocket.
Carmeli puffed several times, cleared his throat, and sat up straight.
“Gentlemen, this is Superintendent Daniel Sharavi from the Israeli National Police, Southern District.”
“Southern District,” said Milo, very softly. “What does that mean?”
“Jerusalem and the surrounding areas,” said Carmeli.
“So on your map that includes Southern California, too.”
Sharavi leaned back in the love seat. The windbreaker was unzipped and the flaps parted, revealing a thin, flat torso. No shoulder holster, no visible weapon, and the bulge in his pocket was too small to be anything other than five fingers.
Carmeli said, “Several years ago, Superintendent Sharavi headed a major investigation into a series of Jerusalem sex killings called the Butcher murders.”
“Several years ago,” said Milo. “Must have missed that one.”
“Serial murders are almost nonexistent in Israel, Mr. Sturgis. The Butcher was the first in our history. We're a small country, the impact was huge. Superintendent Sharavi solved the killings. There've been none like them since.”
“Congratulations,” said Milo, turning to Sharavi. “Must be nice to have spare time.”
Sharavi didn't move.
Carmeli said, “Superintendent Sharavi is also familiar with Los Angeles because he was part of the security contingent that accompanied our athletes to the L.A. Olympics. We would like you to work with him on the current murders.”
“Murders,” said Milo, still facing Sharavi. “Plural, not just your daughter's. Sounds like you've kept abreast.”
Carmeli smoked and sanded his desk with the palm of his hand. “We are aware of… developments.”
“I'll bet you are,” said Milo. “So where're the bugs? Dashboard of my car? My office phone? Heel of my shoe? All of the above?”
No reply.
“Probably in my house, too,” I said. “The night the burglar alarm went off. By listening in there, they'd have access to lots of information. But the superintendent's been with us well before then.”
I faced Sharavi. “I've seen you twice. At Booker T. Washington Elementary School the day Latvinia Shaver's body was found. And at the nature conservancy the day Milo and I looked over the crime scene. You were driving a mower. Both times you wore a uniform.”
Sharavi's expression didn't change and he didn't answer.
Milo said, “Isn't that interesting.” Striving for calm, too. The air felt ready to implode.
Carmeli smoked hard and fast, stopping only to look at the cigarette, as if the act required concentration.
“Well,” said Milo. “It's sure good to meet a genuine expert. A real back-alley sleuth.”
Sharavi removed his hand from his pocket and placed it in his lap. The upper surface was glossy with grayish-brown scar tissue and deeply caved, as if a chunk of flesh and bone had been scooped out. The thumb was atrophied and curled unnaturally and I'd overestimated the number of fingers: The thumb was intact but all that remained of the index was a one-knuckle stump and the remaining three were wasted, too, not much more than bare bone with a pallid brown sheath.
He said, “I began looking into the case just before you came on, Detective Sturgis.” His voice was youthful, barely accented. “I hope we can put that aside and work together.”
“Sure,” said Milo. “One big happy family, I trust you, already.” Crossing and uncrossing his long legs, he shook his head. “So, how many felonies have you racked up so far, playing James Bond?”
“Superintendent Sharavi is operating under full diplomatic immunity,” said Carmeli. “He's protected from threats and prosecution-”
“Ah,” said Milo.
“So it's arranged, Mr. Sturgis?”
“Arranged?”
“A working agreement to share and collaborate.”
“Share,” said Milo, laughing. “Christ. Show me yours, I show you mine? And if I say no?”
Carmeli didn't answer.
Sharavi pretended to study his ruined hand.
“Let me guess,” said Milo. “You put a call in to the mayor's office and I'm off the case, replaced with some lackey willing to share.”
Carmeli took a deep drag. “My daughter was murdered. I was hoping for a more mature attitude on your part.”