Cross Bones (25 page)

My back and joints ached from working pretzeled into the cramped space. My feet went numb.

At one point Friedman cal ed down from above, “Everything okay?”

“Hunky-dory,” Ryan answered.

And later, “How long?”

“Soon.”

“Should I make camp?”

“Soon,” Ryan repeated.

Late afternoon was bleeding into dusk when we final y surfaced.

Ryan climbed out first. I handed up the shovel, the crowbar, and the pack containing the remnants of the shroud and the person whom that shroud had once wrapped.

The former lay coiled in a pair of shal ow containers. The latter fil ed two smal tubs. Barely. A third tub held fil from the loculus floor.

Friedman was sitting on the ground, ankles crossed, back to the hil side. He didn’t look irked. He didn’t look bored.

He looked like Gil igan waiting for the Captain.

On seeing us, Friedman drained his bottled water, and cranked to his feet.

“Get your man?”

Good question. I’d taken a peek. The pelvic fragments were broadcasting mixed signals on gender.

I gave a thumbs-up, then brushed dirt from my hands by rubbing them together.

“Going up?” Ryan asked Friedman in an elevator voice.

Friedman nodded, took the shovel, and began climbing. We fel in behind.

Twenty yards from the top we stopped for a group breather. Friedman’s face was crimson. Sweat matted Ryan’s hairline. I was far from ready for close-ups, myself.

Minutes later, we were at Friedman’s car.

“Join us for dinner?” Ryan asked as Friedman pul ed out of Silwan.

Friedman shook his head. “Gotta get home.”

To what? I wondered. A wife? A budgie? A chop defrosting in the kitchen sink?

At the hotel, Ryan and Friedman remained outside. I went straight to the desk. The clerk managed to check out my appearance while avoiding actual eye contact. I was impressed. But not enough to explain why I looked like a train wreck.

Keys in hand, I started back toward the circle drive. Ryan had left Friedman and was walking toward me through the portico. Behind him, I could see Friedman conversing with Mrs. Hanani.

The hotel manager stood stiffly, eyes down, arms wrapping her waist.

Friedman said something. Mrs. Hanani’s head jerked up and shook in negation.

While Friedman spoke again, Mrs. Hanani pul ed cigarettes from a pocket and tried lighting up. The match head jigged around, final y hit its target. Mrs.

Hanani drew smoke into her lungs, exhaled, again shook her head.

Friedman walked away. Mrs. Hanani took a drag and exhaled slowly, squinting through the smoke at his departing back. I couldn’t read her expression.

“What is it?” Ryan asked.

“Nothing.”

I held out his key.

Ryan’s hand closed around mine.

“What chow would you be favorin’, ma’am?”

I knew I wanted a shower. I knew I wanted clean clothes. I knew I wanted food, fol owed by twelve hours of sleep.

I hadn’t a clue what cuisine I favored.

“Got a plan?”

“Fink’s.”

“Fink.”

“On Histadrut. Been there since before Israel was Israel. Friedman tel s me Mouli Azrieli’s an institution.”

“Mouli would be the owner.”

Ryan nodded. “Mouli’s reputed to have turned Kissinger away rather than close the doors to his regulars. But more to the point, Mouli is said to rustle up some mean beef goulash.”

Rustle up? Ryan was going into his cowboy routine.

“Thirty minutes.” I raised one muddy finger. “On one condition.”

Ryan spread his arms. What?

“Lose the lingo.”

I turned toward the stairs.

“Lock the booty in your room safe,” Ryan said to my back. “Rustlers in these parts.”

I stopped. Ryan was right. But my room had been burgled. It wasn’t safe. I’d lost one set of bones, and didn’t want to risk losing another.

I turned.

“Do you think Friedman would secure the bones at police headquarters overnight?”

“Unquestionably.”

I held out my pack. Ryan took it.

Soap and shampoo. Blush and mascara. A half hour later, in soft light, from the right angle, I looked reasonably good.

Fink’s boasted a total of six tables. And a mil ion examples of bric-a-brac. Though the decor was dated, the goulash was excel ent.

And Mouli did join us with his stack of scrapbooks. Golda Meir. Kirk Douglas. John Steinbeck. Shirley MacLaine. His celeb col ection rivaled that at the American Colony.

In the taxi, Ryan asked, “What would you be thinking, lass?” He’d tradedGunsmoke for Galway.

“Mouli needs new curtains. What would you be thinkin’?”

Ryan beamed a smile as wide as Galway Bay.

“Ah, ’tis that,” I said.

“’Tis,” he said.

I needn’t have worried about fretting sleepless alone in the dark.

26

ISLEPT THROUGH THE MUEZZIN’S CALL TO PRAYER. ISLEPTthrough morning rush hour humming by my window. I slept through Ryan slipping off to his room.

I awoke to my jeans playing “A Hard Day’s Night.”

That couldn’t be right.

“I should be sleepin’ like a log…”

The music cut off.

Weird dream. Lying back, I remembered the prior evening’s postprandial romp. The lyrics fast-forwarded in my mind.

“You know I feel al right…”

The tinny music blared again.

Jake’s mobile!

Bolting from bed, I unpocketed the phone, and dropped the jeans back onto the floor.

“Jake?”

“You’vegot my cel .”

“How are you?”

I looked at the clock. Seven-forty.

“Peachy. I love being bled and having thumbs shoved up my butt.”

“Nicely put.”

“I’m outa here before they take another run at me.”

“You’ve been released?”

“Right.” Jake snorted.

“Jake, you have to—”

“Uh. Huh. Did you get it?”

“The bag was gone.”

“Fucking sonovabitch!”

I waited out the explosion.

“What about the other?”

“I have the shrou—”

“Don’t say it over a cel phone! Can you get to my place?”

“When?”

“I’ve got to deal with the truck, then scare up a replacement vehicle.” Pause. “Eleven?”

“Directions?” I darted to the desk.

Jake gave them. The landmarks and street names meant nothing to me.

“I have to cal the IAA, Jake.” To tel them I’d lost the skeleton. I was dreading it.

“First, let me show you what else I recovered from that tomb.”

“I’ve been in Israel for two days. I have to cal Blotnik.”

“When you’ve seen what I have.”

“Today,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he snapped. “And bring my goddamn phone.”

Dead air.

Obviously Jake stil had irritability issues. And paranoia issues? Did he real y believe his cal s were being monitored?

I was standing naked, phone in one hand, pen in the other, when someone kicked my door.

Crap. Now what?

I checked the peephole.

Ryan had returned bearing bagels and coffee. He’d shaved, and his hair was wet from the shower.

Through my morning toilette, I described Jake’s cal .

“We’l finish with Kaplan wel before eleven. Where’s Jake living?”

“Beit Hanina.”

“I’l get you out there.”

“I’ve got directions.”

“How is he?”

“Ferocious.”

Kaplan was being held at a police station in the Russian Compound, one of the first quarters to be established outside the Old City. Original y intended as a residence for Russian pilgrims, it was now a down-at-the-heels piece of inner city deservedly slated for urban renewal.

The district headquarters and attached lockup were a col ection of buildings wedged between Jaffa Street and the Russian church. Stone wal s, iron window grates. Dingy and decrepit, the place blended wel with the hood.

Police units pointed every which way. Friedman parked among them, by a cement barricade flanking the compound. Near it, a massive stone pil ar lay half-exposed in the earth.

The pil ar was fenced off with iron railings, inside of which were mounded thousands of cigarette butts. I pictured policemen and nervous prisoners taking their last open-air drags before heading or being herded inside.

Friedman noticed me eyeing the pil ar.

“First century,” he said.

“Herod strikes again?” Ryan said.

Friedman nodded. “They say it was intended for the royal stoa of Herod’s Temple Mount.”

“The old boy was quite a builder.”

“Quarrymen noticed a crack, so they just left the thing in the ground. Two mil ennia later, it’s stil here.”

We passed through a smal guardhouse where we were electronical y searched, then questioned. Inside the station, we were again quizzed by a sentry who had to have been at least a year out of high school, then led to a recently vacated office.

Smoke fouled the air. Papers littered the desk, topped by a half-drunk mug of coffee. Stacks of reports. A Rolodex flipped toT.

I noted a name on the mug. Solomon.

I wondered how ole Sol felt about being booted from his digs.

The air had that universal police station smel . A smal fan did its best, but it wasn’t enough.

Friedman disappeared, returned. Minutes later, a uniformed cop escorted the prisoner into the office. Kaplan wore black pants and a white shirt. No belt.

No shoelaces.

The cop took up a position outside the door. Ryan leaned on one wal . I leaned on another.

Kaplan flashed Friedman a chamber-of-commerce smile. He was clean-shaven, and his eyes seemed pouchier than I remembered.

“I trust Mr. Litvak has come to his senses.”

You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucil e.

The raspy voice cinched it. Kessler and Kaplan were one and the same.

Friedman pointed to a chair. Kaplan sat.

“This is such a sil y misunderstanding.” Kaplan laughed a sil y-misunderstanding laugh.

Friedman took Sol’s desk chair and inspected his fingernails.

Kaplan turned and got his first good look at me. Something flicked in his eyes, shutter-quick.

Recognition? The first inkling of why he was here?

Ryan stepped forward. Wordlessly, he held up the photo of Max.

Kaplan’s smile faltered, but hung in.

“You remember Dr. Brennan?” Ryan nodded in my direction.

Kaplan didn’t reply.

“Avram Ferris?” Ryan went on. “Al that nasty autopsy business?”

Kaplan swal owed.

“Tel me about it,” Ryan said.

“What’s to tel ?”

“I didn’t travel to Israel to discuss checks, Mr. Kaplan.” Ryan’s voice could have cut polar ice. “Or is it Kessler?”

Kaplan crossed his arms. “Yes, Detective. I knew Avram Ferris. Is that what you came here to ask?”

“Where did you get this?” Ryan tapped the photo.

“From Ferris.”

“I see.”

“It’s true.”

Ryan gave Kaplan silence. Kaplan fil ed it.

“Real y.”

Kaplan flicked a glance at Friedman. Friedman was stil admiring his manicure.

“Ferris and I did occasional business.”

“Business?”

“It’s stuffy in here.” Kaplan’s bonhomie was fading fast. “I need water.”

“Mr. Kaplan.” Deep disappointment in Friedman’s voice. “Is that how we ask?”

“Please.” Exaggerated sigh.

Friedman strode to the door and spoke to someone in the corridor. Returning to his seat, he smiled at Kaplan. The smile held al the warmth of a proto-amphibian.

“Business?” Ryan repeated.

“I bought and sold things for him.”

“What kind of things?”

A smal guy with a big nose arrived and handed Kaplan a grimy glass. The guy was scowling. Sol?

Kaplan gulped, looked up, but didn’t speak.

“What kind of things?” Ryan repeated.

Kaplan shrugged. The water trembled.

“Things.”

“Protecting client confidentiality, Mr. Kaplan?”

Kaplan shrugged again.

“Skeletal things?” Ryan waggled the photo of Max.

Kaplan’s face stiffened. Draining the water, he careful y placed the glass on Sol’s blotter, leaned back, and laced his fingers.

“I want a lawyer.”

“Do you need a lawyer?”

“You don’t intimidate me.”

“You hiding something, Mr. Kaplan?”

Ryan turned to Friedman.

“What do you think, Ira? You suppose Mr. Kaplan was engaged in a little black-marketeering?”

“I think that’s possible, Andy.”

Kaplan’s face remained deadpan.

“Or maybe he decided il icit antiques were kids’ stuff, embarked on a more ambitious career path.”

Kaplan’s fingers were thin. He clasped them so tightly the knuckles went white.

“Could be, Andy. Now that you mention it, he looks like a real Renaissance guy to me.”

Ryan addressed Kaplan.

“That it? You decide to up the ante?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean murder, Hersh. It is Hersh, isn’t it?”

“Jesus Christ.” A flush crept north from Kaplan’s col ar. “Are you crazy?”

“What do you think, Ira? You think Hersh capped Avram Ferris?”

“No!” Kaplan shot forward and twisted from Ryan to Friedman. “No!”

Ryan and Friedman exchanged shrugs.

“This is insane.” The flush detonated across Kaplan’s face. “I didn’t kil anyone. I couldn’t.”

Ryan and Friedman waited.

“Okay.” Kaplan raised both hands. “Look.” Kaplan chose his words careful y. “Occasional y I secure objects of questionable provenance.”

“You did this for Ferris?”

Kaplan nodded. “Ferris phoned, asked if I could find a buyer for something special.”

“Special?”

“Extraordinary. Once-in-a-lifetime.”

More waiting.

“Something that would cause havoc in the Christian world. Those were his words.”

Ryan raised the photo.

Kaplan nodded. “Ferris gave me the photo, said not to tel anyone where I got it.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t know. This winter.”

“That’s a bit vague, Hersh.”

“Early January.”

Ryan and I exchanged glances. Ferris was shot in mid-February.

“What happened?”

“I floated word, found there was interest, told Ferris I’d deal, but first I’d need more than just his word and his photo for validation. He said he’d get me proof of the skeleton’s authenticity. Before we could meet, Ferris was dead.”