More rapid scanning. "This tells me nothing," said the psychologist. "An old man with stomach pains-Kupat Holim claims it's in his head. The classic psychosomatic dodge."
"He was the Hagah man patrolling Scopus the night the first one turned up," said Daniel, "giving him excellent opportunity. An old palmahi, hates Arabs-which could give him a motive. He likes to drive around the city at night and he has psychological problems."
Ben David shook his head, held up the summary.
"There's nothing in here about psychological problems. He has stomach pains and persistent hunger pangs that the doctors can't identify. So they cover for their feelings of inadequacy by using psychology to blame the victim." He gave the folder to Daniel. "I'm not saying this Schlesinger isn't your man. If you have evidence, go for him. But there's nothing in here that's relevant." Ben David looked at his watoh. "Anything else?"
"Not for now," said Daniel. "Thanks."
The two of them stood and Ben David walked him back into the waiting room. A young couple sat at opposite ends of the sofa, arms folded, eyes cast downward. When the door opened, both of them looked up briefly, then returned to staring at the rug. Daniel saw their fear and shame, wondered why Ben David didn't have a separate exit for his patients.
"One moment," the psychologist told the couple. He accompanied Daniel out the front door and to the curb. The morning had filled with traffic and sunshine, the hum of human discourse filtering from Keren Hayesod to the quiet, tree-shaded street. Ben David took a deep breath and stretched.
"Psychopaths can be arrogant to the point of self-destruc-tiveness," he said. "He may get careless, make a mistake, and tell you who he is."
"Gray Man never did."
Ben David tugged at his beard. "Maybe your luck will change."
"And if it doesn't?"
Ben David placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyes softened as-he searched for a response. For the first time, Daniel saw him in a different light-paternal, a therapist.
Then, all at once, he drew away and said,
"If it doesn't, more blood."
He interviewed sex offenders and false confessors all day- wretched men, for the most part, who seemed too downtrodden to plan anything more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other. He'd talked to many of them before. Still, he considered each of them a pathological liar, put them through the entire grilling, reducing some to tears, others to a near-catatonic fatigue.
At seven he returned home to find Gene and Luanne there, the table set for guests. He didn't recall Laura mentioning a visit, but lately he'd been far from attentive, so she might very well have spelled it out for him without its sinking in.
The boys attacked him, along with Dayan, and he wrestled with them, absently, noticing that Shoshi hadn't come forward to greet him.
The reason was soon obvious. She and Gene were playing draw poker in a corner of the living room, using raisins for chips. From the size of the piles it was clear who was winning.
"Flush," she said, clapping her hands.
"Oh, well," said Gene, throwing his cards down.
"Hello, everyone," said Daniel.
"Hello, Abba." Preoccupied.
"'Lo, Danny. Your turn to deal, sugar."
The boys had run to the back of the apartment, taking the dog with them. Daniel stood alone for a moment, put his attache case down, and went into the kitchen.
He found Laura and Luanne at the table, both in light cotton dresses, examining a large white scrapbook-his and Laura's wedding album.
"You were both so young," said Luanne. "Oh, hello, Daniel."
"Hello, Luanne." A smile for Laura.
She smiled back but got up slowly, almost reluctantly, and he felt more like a stranger than ever.
"I just called your office," she said, pecking his cheek. "Dinner's getting cold."
"Sorry."
"No problem." She gave his hand a quick squeeze, released it, and went to examine the roast in the oven.
"You were some couple," said Luanne. "My, my, look at all those coins. That is simply gorgeous."
Daniel looked down at the picture that had captured her attention. The formal wedding portrait: he and Laura, holding hands, next to a ridiculously large wedding cake-his mother-in-law's idea.
He wore a white tuxedo with a silly-looking ruffled shirt, plum-colored cummerbund and bow tie-the rental store had insisted it was all the rage. Smiling but looking baffled, like a child dressed up for a dance party.
Laura looked majestic, nothing silly about her. Swallowed up by the Yemenite wedding gown and headdress that had been in the Zadok family for generations but belonged, really, to the Yemenite community of Jerusalem. A treasure, centuries old, lent to any bride who requested it. A tradition that stretched back to San'a, celebrating social equality: The daughters of rich men and beggars came to the huppah dressed in identical splendor, each bride a queen on her special day.
The gown and headdress and accompanying jewelry were as heavy as chain maiclass="underline" tunic and pantaloons of crisp gold brocade; three rings on every finger, a trio of bracelets around each wrist; scores of necklaces-strings of silver and gold coins, filigree balls glowing like silver gumdrops, amber beads, pearls and gemstones. The headdress high and conical, layered with alternating rows of black and white pearls and topped by a garland of white and scarlet carnations, the pearl chin-piece hanging down to the clavicle like a glittering, shimmering beard; a fringe of tiny turquoise pendants concealing the top half of the brow, so that only the center of Laura's face was visible. The young, beautiful features and enormous pale eyes framed and emphasized.
The night before, she'd had her palms and soles smeared red in the henna ceremony, and now this. She'd barely been able to walk; the merest flick of a wrist elicited a flash of gemfire, the jangle of metal against metal. The old women tended to her, jabbering incomprehensibly, holding her upright. Others scraped out complex rhythms on finger cymbals, coaxed near-melodies from antique goatskin drums. Whooping and chanting and singing women's songs, the Arabic lyrics subtly erotic. Estelle had gotten right in with them, a small woman, like her daughter. Light-footed, laughing, whooping along.
The men sat in a separate room, eating, drinking Chivas Regal and arak and raisin brandy and Turkish coffee augmented with arak, linking arms and dancing in pairs, listening to Mori Zadok sing men's songs in Hebrew and Aramaic. Stories of the Great Ones. The Rambam. Sa'adia Gaon.
Mori Salim Shabazi. The other elders followed him, taking turns delivering blessings and devrei Torah that praised the joys of marriage.
Daniel sat at the center of the table, drinking the liquor that was placed in front of him, remaining clear-headed in the manner of the Yemenites. He was flanked by his father, who sang along in a high, clear tenor, and his new father-in-law, who remained silent.
Al Birnbaum was fading away. The liquor was turning him pinker by degrees. He clapped his hands, wanting to be one of them, but succeeded only in looking baffled, like an explorer cast among primitives. Daniel felt sorry for him, didn't know what to say.