The look he was giving me was so earnest, I almost burst out laughing. I had met Rosen's kind before, the mid-level officer—police or army, it didn't matter—who believed the rank he held bestowed upon him the ability to motivate men to do his bidding.
I quenched my smile and said, "The war is over, and I'm not a soldier anymore. And you're not an army officer."
His lips pressed together. "You have a duty as a citizen, and I am a police officer. A good citizen will do what I say."
"A good police officer would find and arrest Maryam Jamalka's killer."
"Don't tell me how to do my job. We know what we're doing."
"We?"
He nodded curtly. "We. This comes from high up."
"From whom?"
He waved a hand. "I cannot say. All you need to know is that it is the wish of people high up, very high up, that this matter is handled with discretion and care. So do what I say. Stay off this case. Stop asking questions about Maryam Jamalka. Leave this thing to us."
"I understand," I said.
"I don't need you to understand. I need you to obey."
"I'll think about it."
He sat back, staring at me. Color had crept into his cheeks. They were a ruddy hue now. One of his hands was on the tabletop, and his fingers were half-curled into a fist. He looked about to burst.
But he didn't lose control. Instead he looked off to the side, and his fingers began drumming on the table. When he turned to look at me again, his eyes were hard flints, and his chin was tilted belligerently toward me.
"Don't play games with me, you imbecile," he said. "Who do you think you are? You think you're untouchable? You think taking a bullet or two in the War of Independence will protect you? You think you're still a hero? As you say, the war is over, and you're no longer a soldier. You're not even a policeman. You're just a civilian. If you keep interfering in this case, I will come down on you hard."
"What happened to all your talk about duty? I thought we were on the same side."
"You think this is funny? Keep this up and you might end up arrested."
"For what? Interfering with police business?" I shook my head. "That will make this case public, which is something you don't want. The people high up will blame you for it."
He put both elbows on the table and leaned forward so his head was halfway across the table to me. He smelled of cologne, and when he opened his mouth, I caught the scent of coffee and milk on his breath, commingled with some other familiar scent that I couldn't place, something rich and deep.
"You think I can't find something on you? Maybe you buy meat or coffee on the black market. Maybe you don't report all of your income. Maybe you keep a stash of illicit material under your bed. Don't push me. I can find something on anybody. Even when there is nothing to find."
I had met his kind of policeman before. They were the sort who saw no problem with planting evidence, writing false reports, employing deceitful witnesses, using force in their interrogations of suspects. They existed on every police force in every country. And the problem was that they knew how to work the system. They knew how to talk in court, how to present their evidence in a way that was hard to refute. They hid behind their immaculate uniform and badge and misused their power. And judges tended to believe every word that came out of their dirty, corrupted mouths.
He leaned back, smiling in satisfaction. "And just to be on the safe side, I will wreck the career of your friend Reuben Tzanani. I don't care whether he managed to convince Talmon to leak the case material to you or not. The mere fact that he went to talk to Talmon about an open case is bad enough in my book. He's a Yemenite, right? They always have lots of children. I wonder how he'll be able to care for them when he's out of work? And it will be your fault, Adam. All your fault. Just because you're a stubborn son of a bitch who can't leave well enough alone, can't follow simple instructions from those who know best."
He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He looked down at me, and now there was just contempt in his eyes.
"She's not worth it, Adam. She was just a cheap whore. Nothing more. Sold her body to whatever stranger would pay her fee. What do you care what happened to her? It's foolish to ruin your life and the career of Reuben Tzanani for her."
"She deserves justice," I said.
He shrugged. "She's dead. She's beyond justice. Now you can either back off and spare yourself and others a whole pile of misery, or you can be stupid and go on an idiotic quest for some moronic young woman who got killed for being a whore."
He put his hands in his pockets, took a deep, chest-puffing breath, looked around him and said, "You like this café? You come here often?"
"Just about every day," I said.
He grinned and looked over his shoulder at where Greta was sitting near the door.
"I wonder if she gets some of her food on the black market. Maybe I should have a few inspectors look into it, what do you say?"
I said nothing. There was nothing to say. Rosen was prepared to use all his power and authority to get me to stop my investigation. And he had no qualms about hurting the people in my life to get his way.
He made a show of checking his watch. Its face was framed in silver and looked expensive. He smiled at me without separating his lips.
"Look at the time. And so much work to do. This is how it is with us real policemen. Busy, busy, busy. I'll leave you to your coffee. Enjoy the rest of your day."
He turned on his heel and strode out of the café. The bastard even made sure to smile at Greta and tell her how lovely the place looked before he stepped out into the street.
I watched him go, fuming. My mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do. I had not expected my investigation to remain secret forever, but I also did not anticipate the breadth of the threats made against me and people I cared about. Placing myself at risk was one thing. Risking others was quite another.
Greta came over to the table. "What was all that about? What did that officer want from you?"
"It's about the case with the Arab," I said. "He wants me to stop working on it."
"Why?"
"You don't want to know."
"Is it a security matter? Is the Arab some sort of terrorist?"
I snorted. "No. Nothing of the kind. Truly, Greta, you're better off not knowing the details."
She looked doubtful and perhaps a bit hurt, so I said, "If you knew, you might get into trouble."
"Trouble? With whom? The Arab?"
"Never mind." I grinned at her. "You can't leave well enough alone, can you? You need to know everything."
"Maybe I should have been a detective, like you."
"Maybe. But then who'd run the best café in Tel Aviv?"
The smile slowly faded from my lips when I recalled Rosen's threat to take action against Greta and her business.
"Tell me, Greta, do you use any black market products in the café?"
She looked at me. "Why do you ask?"
When a moment passed without me answering, she said, "I guess I could tell you it's none of your business, but the very words would feel foreign on my lips. Of course I use the black market. Doesn't everybody? Don't you?"
I nodded.
"Where did your question come from? What does this have to do with the police officer who just left here?"
"Why do you think it has anything to do with him?"
She gave me a pitying look and said, "Adam, if you're trying to hide something from me, it's better to just lie about it instead of evading the issue by answering my question with one of your own. Now you've got me worried. What have you gotten yourself into?"
I mulled over possible answers and discarded them one by one. Greta would not be fooled, and I wouldn't want to lie to her anyway. Leaving out my meeting with Talmon, I told her a little about the case and what Rosen threatened to do to her and the café if I didn't let it go. When I was done, Greta crossed her massive arms under her big breasts, and her lower lip pushed out as she thought over what I had just said.