“Where is it exactly?” Michael asked, rising from his chair. Eli Bachar and Sergeant Ronen rose to their feet, too. Michael’s eyes were locked on Emmanuel Shorer’s face.
“Here, I’ve got it all written down,” Davidov said as he handed a large piece of paper to Michael on which was written an address in thick pencil. “It’s in the Mekor Haim area, two buildings behind the Oranim gas station. Second floor, the top floor of the building. The entrance is from the rear. The names of the policewoman and the investigator who found him are written on the side, but they asked you not to talk to them by transmitter, only by cell phone if you absolutely have to. The number’s on the paper, too.”
Balilty peered at the paper. “Nina Peretz? You know her?” he asked Michael over Shorer’s shoulder as they raced from the room. Michael had already reached the stairs.
“I know her, and you do too,” Shorer said. “Nina, the redhead. The one with the …” He drew narrow hips with his hands in the air.
“Ah, Nina!” Balilty exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. They were on the stairs heading toward the entrance to the building. “The redhead, from Hatzor Haglilit, right? Wasn’t she relocated to the southern district? I heard she was sent south because—” He looked to the left and right, but one look from Shorer made him shut his mouth.
“They moved her and then moved her back again,” Shorer said.
“There’s a new police commander, so she came back. Why are you so surprised? She was going nuts down in Beersheva. She said there was no one she could relate to, said she didn’t get to meet anyone interesting. She requested a transfer, and we moved her back. Are you riding with me or with Ohayon?”
“What kind of a question is that?” Balilty asked. “With you, of course. You can tell me all about Nina the redhead; what great news that she’s …” He fell silent while Shorer removed the blue flashing light from his car and affixed it to the roof, then sounded the siren and raced after the squad car ahead of him transporting Michael, Eli Bachar, and Lillian, who had somehow squeezed in without being invited.
“Great news? What’s the great news?” Shorer asked in a loud voice to overcome the noise of the siren. But Balilty waved his hand dismissively and said, under his breath, “Nothing. I didn’t say a thing.”
c h a p t e r t h i r t e e n
While the south Jerusalem street that curved away from the gas station was quite dark, the front yard of the dilapidated building, surrounded by towering old cypress trees, was illuminated by two spotlights that had been placed in the entrance. One after the other, the cars driven by Emmanuel Shorer and Michael Ohayon pulled up behind the forensics van that stood by the ambulance in front of the crooked, rusty gate. Jumping out of Shorer’s car, Balilty complained about the bitter cold and raised the fur collar on his jacket.
“Check it out,” said Sergeant Ronen, who emerged after Balilty from the car, “a real Jerusalem winter.” A band of children appeared from behind the gate and quickly dispersed. “Anybody who hasn’t been here can’t know how cold it can get,” he said. Shivering, he glared at the one child who had not run away and was now standing next to the van, hiding behind a group of adults undeterred by the light rain. “Tell me,” Ronen said to no one in particular, “what are these kids doing out here? It’s after ten o’clock; don’t they have parents? Don’t they have to get up for school in the morning?” He watched the children run away and entered the front yard of the building.
Several bearded young men wearing skullcaps and dark clothing stood huddled together under two black umbrellas. “Hey, Mr. Policeman,” one called out to Shorer as he emerged from the car and looked around,
“what happened here? Is it true there’s a dead body inside? Is it a murder?
Did somebody get killed?” Shorer did not even look in their direction; he simply walked quickly inside, his head bent against the rain.
“We’re from the yeshiva next door, we’re the neighbors. We’d like to know,” said another, stepping out from under the umbrella.
“Go on, get lost,” Balilty chided them. “Go back to your yeshiva,”
he said with obvious loathing. He added, when he saw that the young men did not budge: “Like it’s really your yeshiva, like you really own the place. In fact you just move into a place that’s slated to become a neighborhood clubhouse, and then you call it your yeshiva. Take off, get out of here now!” He was shouting. “Go ruin some other part of the city, go fill the place with yeshivas. You’ve already destroyed Jerusalem, the whole city you’ve ruined.”
Michael placed a hand on Balilty’s arm. “Not now, Danny,” he said quietly. “You’ve found just the time to repair the world.”
“Who’s talking about the world?” he grumbled. “They’ve ruined the Mahane Yehuda market and everywhere else they go. Property values tumble to half wherever they show up.”
Michael sighed. He almost said, How many times a day do I have to listen to your lamentations about how religious people have ruined the real estate market in Jerusalem? Instead, he remained silent, watching two women who had rested plastic shopping bags filled with groceries on the fence, close to the narrow path that led from the sidewalk to the entrance of the building, and also the portly man near them with the loud cough. “Please clear out, people,” he told them. “You’re making things difficult for us.” He waited a moment, until one of the women stooped slowly to retrieve her two large bags with a sigh. Without waiting to see whether they had really left the premises, he followed quickly after Balilty and Shorer along the stone path lit up in bluish light by the spotlight.
A policeman stepped out from inside the building. “Over here, sir,”
he called to Shorer, who was near the head of the line. “And watch your step. Make sure you walk along the stone path, it’s muddy on both sides of the pavement.” To Michael he said, “There are stairs at the back of the building that lead straight up to the second floor.” He watched as Eli Bachar hesitated at the end of the path before leading them to the narrow staircase.
A large flashlight had been placed next to the last door on the second floor as well, and it was lighting up the rusty, crumbling banister and two large plants placed on the landing in front of the wide-open door. The harsh light painted the sole surviving geranium a bright bubblegum pink and illuminated the doorbell, which had been ripped
from its place and was dangling from an electrical wire next to the door frame, banging occasionally in the cold wind.
Nina the redhead, in tight blue jeans, was already waiting in the doorway. She’s no longer a redhead, Balilty thought to himself; her hair had been cut short and in the pale light of the hallway he could make out highlights of platinum blond. Balilty also managed to whisper—perhaps to Michael, perhaps to himself—that she seemed to have put on some weight, which did no harm to the charm of her sturdy little body.
“Nina, sweetheart, long time no see,” Balilty said, pressing in before Michael. He patted her shoulder and stooped to kiss her cheek. But she turned her face away, a frown on her full lips, and gently pushed Balilty aside with a small hand sporting a large diamond ring on one finger.
“What have we got here, Nina?” Shorer asked.
“Please step inside, sir, see for yourself. The body’s in the first room on the right.” A moment later she noticed Michael, and her lips widened into a half-smile. “How are you?” she whispered.
He nodded, then shrugged. “You can see for yourself,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” Nina said, casting a furtive glance at Lillian, who had already entered the apartment and was following Shorer toward the room where the body was. She added, “In fact, you look quite good. I’ve heard you’ve given up smoking. Is it true?”
Eli Bachar, who entered at that very moment and heard her question, laughed quietly. He turned to a member of the forensics unit who was leaning over a large bag lying on the floor near the front door, and tapped his shoulder.
“I see rumors reach all the way down to Beersheva,” Michael said, drawing close enough to take in the heavy scent of her sweet perfume, a fragrance that had annoyed him back in that short period of time when she had taken to consulting him on personal matters, when she was still married to a man she despised but from whom she refused to separate for reasons that were never clear to him. Michael had bought her a bottle of perfume then, something light and lemony, but she—
after thanking him, her eyes teary (“You have no idea how touching it is when a man thinks to bring you something”)—had sprayed a little onto her wrist, frowned in her typically doubtful manner, and said she could not dream of giving up on her Estee Lauder.
