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"I've got a requisition in for all the missing-kid files," said Daniel. "Sixteen hundred of them. In the meantime, we'll be knocking on doors. The villages are as good a place to start as any. Take Silwan first, Elias. Show the picture around. If nothing clicks, go on to Abu Tor."

Daoud nodded and put the photo in his jacket pocket.

A shout came from across the room:

"All recruits at attention!"

A striking-looking man swaggered toward the table. Well over six feet, bulging and knotted with the heavy musculature of a weight lifter, he wore white shorts, rubber beach sandals, and a red sleeveless mesh shirt that exposed lots of hard saffron skin. His hair was blue-black, straight, parted in the middle and styled with a blow-dryer, his face wholly Asian, broad and flat like that of a Mongolian warrior. Eyes resting on high shelflike cheekbones were twin slits in rice paper. A blue shadow of beard darkened his chin. About thirty years old, with five years latitude on either side of the estimate.

"Shalom, Dani. Nahum." The man's voice was deep and harsh.

"Chinaman." Shmeltzer nodded. "Day off?"

"Till now," said the big man. He looked at Daoud apprais-ingly, then sat down next to him.

"Yossi Lee," he said, extending his hand. "You're Daoud, right? The ace of Kishle."

Daoud took the hand tentatively, as if assessing the greeting for sarcasm. Lee's shake was energetic, his smile an equine flash of long, curving white teeth. Releasing the Arab's hand, he yawned and stretched.

"What do they have to eat in this dump? I'm starved."

"Better this dump than somewhere else," said Shmeltzer.

"Somewhere else would be free," said Lee. "Free always tastes terrific."

"Next time, Chinaman," promised Daniel. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes late and the new man hadn't arrived.

Emil came in with menus.

"A beer," said the Chinaman.

"Goldstar or Maccabee?" asked Emil.

"Goldstar."

The waiter started to leave.

"Stick around," said Daniel. "We'll order now."

Shmeltzer and the Chinaman ordered stuffed marrow appetizers and a double mixed grill each. Daniel noticed Daoud examine the menu, shift his eyes to the price column, and hesitate. Wondering, no doubt, how far a brand-new sergeant's salary would carry him. Daniel had visited Daoud's home in Bethlehem shortly after the bust of the Number Two Gang, bringing news of the promotion and a gift of dried fruit. The poverty had surprised him, though it shouldn't have-most cops had serious money problems. The papers had just run a story about a bunch of new hires applying for welfare. And before joining the force Daoud had worked as a box boy in a souvenir shop, one of those cramped, musty places that sold olive-wood crucifixes and straw mockups of the Nativity to Christian tourists. Earning what-a thousand a year?

Now, watching the Arab scan the menu, the memory of that poverty returned: the Daoud household-three closet-sized rooms in an ancient building, mattresses on the floor, a charcoal stove for heat, prints of Jesus in agony on whitewashed walls. Children everywhere-at least half a dozen, toddling and tripping, in various stages of undress. A shy young wife gone to fat, a crippled mother-in-law knitting silently. Cooking smells and baby squalls.

Putting his own menu down, he said: "I'll have a mint salad."

"Mint salad." said Emil the Waiter, copying. "What else, Pakad?"

"That's it."

The waiter's eyebrows rose.

"Dieting?" said the Chinaman.

"Shabbat tonight," said Daniel. "Big meal."

Daoud handed his menu to Emil the Waiter.

"I'll have a mint salad too," he said.

"What else for you?"

"A coffee."

Emil grew wary, as if expecting to be the butt of a joke.

"Don't tell me," said the Chinaman. "You're eating at his house."

Daoud smiled.

"That'll be all," said Daniel to the waiter, who departed, muttering, "Salads, salads."

Daniel began laying out the case before the food came and continued after its delivery, ignoring his salad and talking while the others ate. Handing a photo of the dead girl to Lee, he placed another in front of the empty chair, and passed on what he'd learned so far. The detectives took notes, holding pens in one hand, forks in the other. Chewing, swallowing, but mechanically. A silent audience.

"Three possibilities come to mind immediately," he said. "One, a psychopathic murder. Two, a crime of passion-in that I include blood revenge. Three, terrorism. Any other suggestions?"

"Gang murder," said Shmeltzer. "She was someone's girl and got in the middle of something."

"The gangs use bullets and they don't kill women," said the Chinaman. He slid cubes of shishlik off a skewer, stared at them, ate one.

"They never used to kill anyone," said Shmeltzer. "There's always a first time."

"They hide their corpses, Nahum," said Lee. "The last thing they want is to make it public." To Daoud: "You guys never found any of the ones The Number Two boys hit, did you?"

Daoud shook his head.

"Any gang wars brewing that you know of?" Daniel asked Lee.

The Chinaman took a swallow of beer and shook his head. "The hashish gangs are stable-heavy supply down from Lebanon with enough to go around for everyone. Zik and the Chain Street Boys have a truce going on stolen goods. Zik's also cornered the opium market but for now it's too small for anyone to challenge him."

"What about the melon gangs?" asked Shmeltzer.

"The crop will be small this summer so we can expect some conflict, but that's a while off and we've never had a melon murder yet."

"All in due time," said the older detective. "We're growing civilized at an alarming rate."

"Look into the gangs, Chinaman," said Daniel. "And investigate the possibility of a pimp-whore thing-that she was a street girl who betrayed her sarsur and he wanted to make an example of her. Show her picture to the lowlifes and see if anyone knew her."

"Will do," said Lee.

"Any other hypotheses?" asked Daniel. When no one answered he said, "Let's go back to the first three, starting with terrorism. On the surface it doesn't look political-there was no message attached to the body and no one's claimed credit. But that may still be coming. We know they've been trying out street crime as a strategy-the one who stabbed Shlomo Mendelsohn shouted slogans, as did the punks who shot at the hikers near Solomon's Pool. Both of those cases were semi-impulsive-opportunistic-and this one looks more premeditated, but so was the job Tutunji's gang did on Talia Gidal, so let's keep our minds open. Nahum, I want you to liaison with Shin Bet and find out if they've picked up word of a sex murder strategy from overseas or any of the territories. Elias, have you heard anything along those lines?"

"There's always talk," said Daoud cautiously.

Shmeltzer's face tightened. "What kind of talk?" he asked.

"Slogans. Nothing specific."