"Goto hell, Lee."
"Shabbat shalom."
Back on his Vespa, he processed what he'd learned. Charlie's recognition had turned the girl from a picture into someone real. But when you got right down to it he didn't know much more than when he'd started.
She was loose, hung around with an Arab guy, which meant she was probably an Arab. Maybe a Christian-some of them were a little more modern. No way would a Muslim daddy allow his girl out at night, unchaperoned, least of all at The Slave Market.
Unless she was an orphan or a whore.
No one at the orphanages had known her.
A whore, probably. Or an unwanted daughter sold by her family-it was against the law, but some of the poorer families still did it. The girls, unwanted baggage, traded for cash to rich families in Amman or one of the oil states. The real slave market. Charlie had said her clothes were cheap
He kicked in the scooter's engine, flipped it around, drove south around the Old City. Past the Border Patrol jeep, which had stopped for a cigarette break near the Jaffa Gate. Swinging away from the walls, up to Keren Hayesod, zipping through the Rehavya district. Toward his flat on Herzl on the west side of town.
A lead, but pitiful. Good-looking, poor Arab girl with a poor Arab boyfriend. Big deal.
It was too late to knock on any more doors-not that that approach was worth much anyway. A day of it had brought him dumb stares, shakes of the head. Some of them pretending his Arabic was too poor to understand-pure crap; he was plenty fluent. Others simply shrugging. Know-nothing Ahmeds. For all he knew, he'd already talked to the right person and had been lied to.
If she had a family, they should have claimed her.
Probably a whore. But none of the pimps or the street girls knew her. Maybe a rookie. Short career.
Maybe the long-haired boyfriend was the killer, or maybe he was just a guy who'd screwed her once or twice, then went on to something else. Thin, medium-sized, with a mustache. Like saying a guy with two arms, two legs. Nothing worth reporting to Dani.
Yossi Lee, ace investigator. He'd been on his feet for twelve hours, with little to show for it. Had gulped down greasy felafel that sat undigested in his stomach. Aliza had said she'd try to wait up for him, but he knew she'd be sleeping, little Rafi curled in the crib by the bed. Yesterday the kid had said "apple," which seemed pretty good for sixteen months. Muscles on him, too; ready for soccer before you knew it. Maybe he'd get a chance to bounce him around a little before hitting the street again. No walk in the park this Saturday, though. Shit.
The wind in his face felt good. He liked the city this way, sweet and empty. As if all of it belonged to him. King Yossi, the Jewish Genghis.
He'd drive around a little more. Give himself time to wind down.
Daniel awoke at three in the morning, troubled by vague remembrances of dark, bloody dreams. Metal through flesh, his hand severed, floating through space, out of reach. Crying like a child, mud-soaked and feeble
He changed positions, hugged the pillow, wrapped himself in the top sheet and tried to relax. But instead, he grew edgier and rolled over again, facing Laura.
She was covered to her chin, breathing shallowly through barely parted lips. A wave of hair fell over one eye; a hint of tapered fingernail extended from beneath the sheet. He touched the nail, brushed away the hair. She stirred, made a throaty, contented sound, and stretched so that the sole of one foot rested on his ankle. He inched closer, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, dry lips tasting faintly of morning.
She smiled in her sleep and he moved up against her and kissed her chin. She opened her eyes, looked at him with confusion, and closed them again. Her body tensed, and she turned away from him. Then her eyes opened again. She mouthed the word oh and wrapped her arms around him.
They embraced, lying on their sides, face to face, kissing, nuzzling, rocking in a tangle of sheets. She raised one leg and rested it on his thigh, took him and guided him inside of her. They made love that way, slowly, sleepily, until climax brought them wide awake.
Afterward, they lay connected for a while. Then Laura said, "Daniel I'm thirsty," with mischief in her voice.
"AH right," he said, extricating himself.
He got out of bed, went into the kitchen, and filled a glass with cold mineral water. When he returned she was sitting up, bare above the waist, her hair pinned up. He handed her the glass and she emptied it in two long drafts.
"Want more?" he asked.
"No, this is fine." She moistened her finger on the rim of the glass, brushed it across her lips.
"Sure?" He smiled. "There's a half-gallon bottle in the refrigerator."
"Tease!" Fanning wet fingers, she splashed him lightly. "Can I help it if I get thirsty? That's the way my body works."
"Your body works just fine." He lay down beside her, put his arm around her shoulder. She set the glass on the nightstand, looked at the clock that rested there, and gave a low moan.
"Oh, no. Three-twenty."
"Sorry for waking you."
She reached beneath the covers, touched him lightly, and laughed. "All's well that ends well. Have you been up long?"
"A few minutes."
"Anything the matter?"
"Just restless," he said, feeling the tension return.
"I'll get up and let you rest."
He began to move away but she touched his wrist and restrained him.
"No. Stay. We've hardly talked since you got that call."
She rested her head on his shoulder, made circles with her palm across his hairless chest. They sat without speaking, listening to night sounds-a faint whistle of wind, the hum of the clock, the synchrony of their heartbeats.
"Tell me about it," she said.
"About what?"
"What you avoided talking about by going to bed at nine."
"You don't want to hear about it."
"Yes, I do."
"It's horrible, believe me."
"Tell me, anyway."
He looked at her, saw the will in her eyes. Shrugged and began talking about the murder, reporting dispassionately, professionally. Leaving out as much as he could without patronizing her. She listened without comment, flinching only once, but when he finished her eyes were moist.
"My God," she said. "Fifteen."
He knew what she was thinking: not much older than Shoshi. He allowed himself to share the thought, and a stab of anxiety pierced him to the core. He defended against it the way he'd been taught to block out pain. Forcing pleasant images into his mind. Fields of wild poppies. The fragrance of orange blossoms.
"Heroin, sex murder, it doesn't fit," Laura was saying. "We're not supposed to have that kind of thing here."
"Well, now we do," he said angrily. A second later: "Sorry. You're right. We're out of our element."
"That's not what I meant. I'm sure you'll solve it."
"Twenty-four-hour shifts until we do."
"It's just " She groped for words. "When I was growing up, I heard about those kinds of things alt the time. It wasn't that we accepted them, but Oh, I don't know. Here, it just seems a heresy, Daniel. Demonic."