Finally he got away and into the Escort. The Middle Ages, he thought, driving off to the accompaniment of their phlegmy benedictions. For years the government had offered the beggars jobs, welfare, anything to rid the station of their presence. But they were the descendants of generations of beggars who regarded themselves as trained specialists, plying an honorable family trade. Many of them, it was said, made an excellent living-more than that of a policeman-so perhaps he was a fool to have donated. Still, one needed any blessings one could get.
A stop back at Headquarters produced meager rewards: the information on Schlesinger hadn't come in. The troubled watchman, Hajab, had no criminal record, nor had he been treated at any mental institution. Of the other Amelia Catherine people, only Dr. Al Biyadi was known to Records. That knowledge was summed up in four typewritten pages marked official access only and placed on his desk in a sealed envelope. The data within were uninspiring.
It had been, as he'd suspected, a case of immigration complications. After seven years in Detroit, Al Biyadi had applied for and been granted American citizenship. After becoming an American, he'd attended two pro-PLO demonstrations at Wayne State and gotten his name in the FBI computer. The FBI had informed Mossad, and when Al Biyadi had applied for permission to reenter Israel and for a work permit to practice medicine, the computer had spat his name back out. Both requests had been refused pending a background investigation.
The usual paper storm had followed-an exchange of stiffly worded consular letters, U.N. protests, letters of support from Al Biyadi's congressman, and endorsements from medical school professors with Jewish surnames, all assuring the government that Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi was a man of sterling character. Some local newspaper coverage, as well, Daniel noted-personality pieces portraying the young physician as an idealist and a victim of discrimination.
In the end, the summary concluded, Al Biyadi had been determined to be "relatively apolitical," his involvement in PLO affairs confined to attendance at rallies, his primary life interests listed as "expensive sports cars and haberdashery; expensive stereo equipment and electronic gadgetry; amorous relationships with a series of young American women, all of them nurses." Hardly a firebrand. Four months after applying, he'd been granted his papers.
Not bad, thought Daniel. Getting a phone installed in Jerusalem could take twice as long.
He put the envelope in the file he'd begun on the murder, left the office, and tried to put himself in a Sabbath frame of mind.
Five minutes after five and the shops were closing.
It was his custom every Friday to buy the wine, bread, and sweetmeats for Shabbat, and he hadn't called Laura to tell her this Friday would be any different. He sped down Rehov Sokolov toward Lieberman's grocery, got caught in traffic, and sat frustrated, hoping the store would still be open. The other drivers shared his frustration and reacted predictably: The air filled with a storm of curses and klaxon bursts before the jam cleared.
When he pulled to the curb, Lieberman was locking up, a shopping bag at his feet. The grocer saw him, pointed at his watch reproachfully, then smiled, brought the bag to the passenger side, and handed it to Daniel before the detective could get out of the car.
Daniel thanked him and put the groceries on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Lieberman rubbed his paunch and stuck his face into the car.
"I just called your wife and told her you hadn't come by. One of your kids is on the way over here to get it."
"Which one?"
"She didn't say." Laughing: "I could call and ask her."
"Not necessary, Mr. Lieberman. Thank you for saving it for us."
The grocer winked conspiratorially. "Caught up with work?"
"Yes."
"Hot case, eh?"
"The hottest." A longstanding routine. Daniel started the engine, looked down the street for sign of one of his children.
"Anything you want me to look out for, you tell me. Shady characters, saboteurs, anything."
"Thanks for the offer, Mr. Lieberman. If something comes up, I'll let you know."
"Always happy to help," said Lieberman, saluting. "I see a lot sitting behind the counter. The human parade, if you know what I mean."
"I do, Mr. Lieberman. Shabbat shalom."
"Shabbat shalom."
Daniel guided the Escort back onto Sokolov and cruised slowly. A block later he spotted Shoshana, wearing a peach-colored Shabbat dress, half walking, half skipping. Singing to herself, as always.
He knew, without having to listen, what tunes danced across her lips: an odd mixture of pop songs and rope-jumping children's rhymes. An indication, according to Laura, of what it was like to be a twelve-year-old girl-the jumble of needs, the changing body. She'd been there herself, so he supposed she knew. His own memories of twelve were of simple times: lessons at the yeshiva. Playing ball in the alley behind the study hall. Hiding the soccer scores between pages of Talmud. Perhaps for boys it was different
He watched her for a few moments, smiling. Lost in her fantasies. Gazing dreamily at the sky, unaware of her surroundings. He coasted to a stop, gave a gentle honk that lowered her eyes. Initially confused, she looked around, saw him, and her face came alive with glee.
So beautiful, he thought, for the thousandth time. The oval face and brassy golden waves endowed by Laura. The dark skin, his. So, he'd been told, were her facia) features, though it was hard for him to reconcile that kind of delicacy with anything that could have emanated from him. Her eyes were wide with delight-gray-green, enormous, filled with a light of their own. Totally original. In the delivery room, Laura had laughed over her tears: We've created a mongrel, Daniel. A beautiful little mongrel. Daniel had surprised himself by bursting into tears also.
"Abba! Abba!" She ran toward the car on stick-legs, opened the door, and flew in. Throwing her arms around him, she rubbed his chin and laughed. "You need a shave, Abba."
"How's my sweetie?" He nuzzled her, kissed her cheek.
"Terrific, Abba. I helped Eema cook, bathed Dayan, and took the boys to the park."
"Great. I'm proud of you."
"They were wild animals."
"Dayan and the boys?"
"Just the boys. Dayan was a gentleman." She gave a martyr's sign and threw up her hands.
Like a beleaguered parent, thought Daniel; he suppressed a smile so she wouldn't think he was mocking her.
Not that her predicament was laughable. Five and a half years-three miscarriages-between her and Mikey; Benny's birth a year later adding to the insult. Five and a half years of only-childhood shattered by double windstorms. Too much age difference for friendship. She fancied herself a junior mother, demanded respect she never received.
"Wild animals," she repeated.
Daniel nodded and moved the bag of groceries to the rear of the car.