I put both pictures on the table.
"And what do you wish me to do? Is Maryam missing? Do you want me to find her?"
Jamalka shook his head slowly. "That's not it, Mr. Lapid. You see, Maryam is dead. It's her murderer I want you to find."
2
I asked, "How did she die? How long ago?"
"Maryam's body was discovered a month ago in Tel Aviv. The nineteenth of September, to be exact. She'd been stabbed. Don't ask me the particulars. The police would not release their reports to me. But I can tell you that he had cut her face up pretty badly. She was no longer beautiful."
"When did you see her?"
"When I made the formal identification at the morgue. I wanted to see the rest of her injuries, but the medical examiner wouldn't let me. He said that he didn't want me to see the autopsy stitches, but I had a feeling her wounds were what he was trying to keep me from seeing."
"Most people wouldn't handle well seeing a loved one dead and exposed like that."
"Well, I didn't get the chance," he said. "Not that it mattered. Seeing her face was bad enough." His cigarette had burned to a stub, and he crushed it out in the ashtray. "The rest you will need to find out for yourself."
"Murder is a matter for the police to investigate," I said.
"It normally is. But not this time."
"What makes Maryam's murder the exception?"
"I do not want the police involved in the matter. Which suits them fine, I should add, as they don't seem to want to be involved either."
"That doesn't seem right. The police here take murder very seriously, Mr. Jamalka."
"Even that of an Arab woman?"
"Even that," I said.
"Well, if they do, they have little to show for it. The detective in charge, Sergeant Yossi Talmon, has been giving me the runaround for weeks. If I had to guess, no progress has been made, and I doubt any would be made."
"And you? Why don't you want the police involved?"
He gazed at me levelly and in a flat tone said, "When the time comes, when the murderer is discovered, I want to take care of him myself, Mr. Lapid. Rather than see him stand trial and, if he's found guilty, spend a few years in prison. I would like to mete out his punishment myself. It's a matter of family pride. It's the way we do things."
I took a last drag off my cigarette, looking at him through the thinning smoke.
"You want to kill him," I said simply.
"Yes. Is that a problem for you?"
"It is against the law. If I do find out who did this, I would be expected to go to the police with what I know."
"But it's not a moral problem?"
No, I thought. It wasn't. I was not averse to killing murderers, especially not the murderers of women. I had done so before, but only when the authorities would or could not deliver justice themselves. But why should I stick my neck out for this man? I didn't know him. I didn't know that I could trust him. And he was asking me to break the law, to be an accessory to murder. I ran my finger around the rim of my glass and looked at him.
"How far does this go, the way you do things? Your vengeance? Is it limited to the murderer, or does it extend to his family?"
He smiled thinly. "I give you my word that no one but the man or men who killed Maryam will be hurt. Does that satisfy you?"
"No," I said. "It does not. I don't run a killing operation here, Mr. Jamalka. If you do hire me and I discover who killed your sister, I intend to hand him over to the police for trial. Take it or leave it."
He stared at me narrow-eyed and tight-jawed for a moment. "And if I won't be satisfied with a jail sentence and decide to kill him nonetheless?"
"That's your business. Not mine. Let me point out, however, that in that case the police will know to come knocking on your door. Your motive will be clear."
"Do you take this position because you think the killer is a Jew?"
"Why would I think that?" I said.
"She was found dead in Tel Aviv. There aren't a lot of Arabs here."
He was right about that. Tel Aviv was a predominately Jewish city. Even after the merger of Tel Aviv with its southern neighbor Jaffa, a port town with a sizable Arab population, into a single municipality earlier that year, Jews were the distinct majority in the joint city.
"The war is over, Mr. Jamalka. For the moment, at least. I don't care who killed your sister or whether he is a Jew or a Muslim or anything else. A murderer is a murderer in my book. I just don't go around killing people if I can help it. I've done too much of that. So make up your mind. Hire me or not. It's your decision."
He lowered his head, thinking it over. At length he said, "Fine. We'll do it your way. It's not like I have much of a choice. I can't do this myself. I needed a permit just to come to Tel Aviv today."
I nodded and told him I would need a retainer to get started. I stated a sum. He didn't haggle. He put the money on the table. I took it and put it in my pocket. We did not shake hands. He finished his coffee. I asked him whether he would like another one, and he said he wouldn't.
I slid the chessboard to the side of the table and took out my notebook and pen. "When was the last time you saw Maryam?"
"Eight months ago."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why so long ago?"
He shifted in his seat. "She…she and my father had a falling out. Maryam had fallen in love with a man, a Christian from a neighboring village. We are Muslims. My father forbade her to see him. She refused to obey him. I begged her to see reason, told her that besides being a non-Muslim, the man had a reputation as a seducer of young women, but she wouldn't listen. Said she would marry this man, leave our faith, and convert to Christianity to be with him."
"What is the name of this man?"
"He's not important. He's not a suspect."
"Why?"
"He's dead."
"How did he die?"
"My older brothers found him." Jamalka's jaw tightened. "He had taken her honor, you see. It was as I had thought. He was not planning to marry her. He simply used her."
"Is that also part of the way you do things?" I asked.
He looked at me for a moment. Then he simply said, "Yes. That is also part of it."
"And Maryam? Had she not brought shame upon your family? Is killing her part of the way you do things as well?"
Color seeped into his cheeks and his scar burned scarlet. He didn't look gentle any longer. Now he looked like a man who could kill you without losing a moment of sleep. "Don't dare judge our ways, Jew. Is it not your way to mourn a family member who has left the faith as if she were dead?"
"The very religious among us may do so," I allowed, "but it is make-believe. No one actually goes out and kills anyone. There is a difference there. Perhaps it is best for you and your family that the police are not pursuing this as hard as they should."
We stared at each other across the table. There was anger in his eyes, the hatred of the defeated. Israel's War of Independence was not long over, and the wounds of the vanquished and those of the victors were far from healed. But along with the hatred and anger, there was also shame. I was right about his culture's acceptance of honor killings, and he knew it. It was a tense moment, and I thought he might get up and leave. But then his shoulders loosened, and he let out a slow exhalation.
"My brothers did not kill Maryam."
"Are you sure about that? You say that they have killed before and that they wouldn't have a moral inhibition against killing your sister."
"I asked them about it directly. They told me they didn't. And I don't think they would hide this from me."
"You were close to your sister," I said.
"Yes."
"Closer than your older brothers were."
"Yes. They are my half brothers. Born from my father's first and second wives. Maryam and I are the only offspring of his third. Our mother died delivering Maryam. She and I were like a small family within the larger family of my father. That is why we were so close."