"This isn't likely to be any better," Weinroth assured him, gathering up his cigarettes and pointing at the telescope. "Mostly blank space, and if you see anything sexy, you broadcast it on the security band-the other guys take it from there."
Katz picked up a stack of photographs from the table and shuffled through it. "I'm supposed to commit all of these to memory?"
"These eight are the main ones," said Weinroth, taking the stack and pulling out the permanent Amelia Catherine staff members. He placed them faceup on the table. "The rest are volunteers.] haven't seen one of them come near the place yet."
Katz studied the seven, lingering on a candid of Walid Darousha, whom the camera had caught scowling.
"Nasty-looking character," he said.
"He's in Ramallah with his boyfriend, and according to Major Crimes, he's low priority. So don't play psychoanalyst -just look and log."
"Up yours," said Katz jovially. "Which ones are high priority?"
Weinroth jabbed the photos. "These, for what it's worth."
Katz stared at the pictures, drew a line across his forehead. "Etched permanently on my mind."
"For what that's worth," said Weinroth. "I'm off." He took two steps, turned, and leered. "You want me to look in on your wife and comfort her?"
"Sure, why not? Yours has already been taken care of."
Avi sat low in the unmarked car, strained his eyes, and watched the front door of Wilbur's apartment building on Rehov Alharizi. The moon was a low white crescent, the dark street blinded further by the hovering bulk of the tall buildings that rose from the east. The Chief Rabbinate, the Jewish Agency, Solel Boneh Builders, the Kings Hotel. Important buildings-official buildings.
As a child he'd spent plenty of summer days in official buildings, harbored dim memories of official visits perceived from a waist-high perspective: shiny belt buckles, rippling paunches, jokes he didn't understand. His father convulsing with laughter, his big hand tightening with amusement, threatening to crush Avi's small one
Forget that crap and concentrate.
The hum of an automobile engine, but no headlight flash, no movement up and down the block.
Nothing suspicious in the mailbox or at Wilbur's office at Beit Agron-the latter he could personally verify because he'd delivered the office mail himself, covered the entire press building. No one but the janitor had approached Wilbur's suite all day. At six the reporter left, in shirtsleeves, with no briefcase, and walked toward Fink's for his usual soak. By eight he hadn't returned, and, following the plan, Avi was relieved by one of two Latam men who'd been watching the reporter's flat. He drove to Alharizi and parked half a block down from Wilbur's building, a nicely kept, two-story fourplex. Then he waited.
And waited. For all he knew, the bastard wasn't even coming home tonight, had picked up some chick and was sacking out at her place.
The street was deserted, which meant none of his daytime identities-street cleaner, postman, sausage vendor, yeshiva boy-were of any use; the costume changes lay tangled and unused in the trunk of the unmarked car.
And what an unmarked! His own wheels were out of the question-the red BMW stood out like a fresh bloodstain. In it's place Latam had dredged up a terminally ill Volkswagen, oppressive little box, the gears protesting every nudge of the shift lever, stuffing coming out of the seats in rubbery tufts, the interior smelling of spoiled food, leaking petrol, and stale cigarette smoke.
Not that he could smoke-the glow would give him away. So he sat doing nothing, his only company a plastic two-liter Coke bottle to piss in. Each time he was through with it he emptied it in the gutter.
Sitting for almost four hours, his ass had fallen asleep; he had to pinch himself to get the feeling back.
Nash, the Latam guy at the back of the building, had the better deaclass="underline" run a dry mop up and down the hallway, then stake out the alley. Fresh air, at least. Exercise.
Every half hour the two of them checked in with each other. The last check had been ten minutes ago.
Aleph, here..
Bet, here. Grunt.
Not a very social guy, Nash, but he supposed most undercover types weren't picked for their conversational skills. The opposite, even: They were to be seen and hot heard.
He checked his watch. Eleven-forty. Reached for the Coke bottle.
Midnight, Talbieh, the Sharavi household was silent, the women and children all asleep.
Rather than return to the hotel alone, Luanne had chosen to stay for the night, sleeping in the master bedroom, on Daniel's side of the bed. She and Laura came into the studio, nightgowned and cold-creamed-the borrowed gown half a foot too short on Luanne-and gave their husbands quick kisses before trundling off together. Daniel heard little-girl giggles, conspiratorial whispers through the thin bedroom door before they fell asleep.
A pajama party. Good for them. He was glad they were coping by keeping occupied, had never seen Laura so busy: museum outings, shopping trips to the boutiques on Dizengoff Circle and Jaffa flea-market stalls, lectures, late movies-now that was a change. She'd never been much of a cinema buff, rarely stayed up past ten.
Changes.
And why not? No reason for her to give up her life because the case had turned him into a phantom. Still, a small, selfish part of him wanted her to be more dependent. Need him more.
He finished chewing one of Shoshi's chicken sandwiches- dry, but an architectural masterpiece, so lovingly prepared: the bread trimmed, the pickles quartered and individually wrapped. He'd felt guilty biting into it.
He wiped his mouth.
"Whoa," said Gene. "Whoa, look at this."
Daniel got up and walked to the black man's side. Next to three sandwich wrappers and the Sumbok roster was the newly arrived homicide file on Lilah "Nightwing" Shehadeh, spread out on the table/desk, opened to one of the back pages. The file was thick, stretching the limits of the metal fasteners that bound it to the manila folder, and anchored to the desk top by Gene's large thumb.
"What do you have? Daniel leaned over, saw a page of photocopied murder photos one side, a poorly typed report on the other. The quality of the photocopy was poor, the pictures dark and blurred, some of the printed text swirling and bleeding out to white.
Gene tapped the report. "Hollywood Division never figured it for a serial because there was no follow-up murder. Their working assumption was that it was a phony sex-killing aimed at covering up a power struggle between Shehadeh's pimp and a competitor. The pimp, guy named Bowmont Alvin Johnson, was murdered a few months before Shehadeh; bunch of other fancy boys were interviewed-all had supposed alibis. Shehadeh and Johnson had split up before he was killed, but the same detectives handled both cases and they remembered finding a purse at his apartment that his other girls identified as once belonging to Shehadeh. The purse was stored in the evidence room; after she turned up dead, they took that with her when she left-but the next-best thing: some scraps of paper with names that they figured to be either her dope suppliers or customers. Twenty names. Eight were never identified. One of them was a D.