Survival Of The Fittest

he's something else. But all that's predicated upon it being a sex crime.”

“You don't think it was?”

“Gorman may be right about its having something to do with Irit's background rather than being just a random thing. When Gorobich and Ramos did something, they were thorough. It's what they didn't do that's off. All those interviews with park neighbors but none in Beverlywood. The father talked to twice, the mother not at all.”

He wiped his face. “A family thing?”

“Most kids are killed by relatives.”

“Something about these parents comes across creepy?”

“Just how little attention they've received. And how little information they've offered.”

“A parent hiding in that forest- it would have to be the father 'cause the mother wouldn't be strong enough to carry Irit that far. And I know for sure it wasn't the father because when the call came in about Irit's being missing, he was at the consulate in a meeting.”

“Okay,” I said. “Any other relatives besides the younger brother?”

“Don't know.” He put his big hands on the side of the box and rocked it. “It's too weird, anyway, Alex. When relatives kill kids you know it's almost always at home. Or some family outing. I've never heard of them stalking like this. I know Gorobich and Ramos didn't turn over every rock but they claim there was nothing off about the Carmelis. Just parents destroyed by the worst possible scenario. Add VIP to the picture and you could see why they wouldn't want to pry too hard.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Get a callback from Mr. Carmeli yet?”

“Nope. And I can't wait to tackle that one. Little old moi crashing the halls of diplomacy.”

The image made me smile.

“What?” he said. “The tie?”

The tie was a limp, narrow strip of blue-green pseudosilk, too short to stretch the hump of his belly and flipped-up at the tip. Perfect with the beige-and-black-striped shirt and the faded olive sportcoat.

I used to think he didn't know better but a month ago, Robin and I had gone with him to the art museum and he had looked at the pictures the way someone who understands pictures does, talking about how much he liked the Ashcan painters, why Fauvism stank because of the vulgar colors. After all these years I was beginning to suspect the way he dressed was intentional. A distraction, so people would think him inept.

“The tie,” I said, “could cause an international incident. Why, are you planning a drop-in?”

“You know me. Mr. Spontaneous.”

“When?”

“Soon as possible. Want to come along? No doubt you've got a diplomatically correct foulard- in fact, do you have one to lend me? More orange juice, too, long as you're up.”

I lent him a conservative paisley and we took the unmarked.

The Israeli Consulate was on Wilshire near Crescent Heights, on the top floor of a faceless seventeen-story tower. The first three floors were parking lot and Milo drove in, ignored the WAIT FOR VALET sign, and pulled into a space near the elevator. Pocketing the keys, he shoved a bill at the flustered attendant, flashed his badge, and called out, “Have a nice day.”

We rode up. The interior halls were narrow, white, free of decoration, topped by a low, gray, water-spotted acoustical ceiling. The carpeting was mint green with a faint dot pattern. Both needed cleaning and wallpaper seams had come loose in spots. Lots of doors, mostly white and blank.

At the end of the corridor was a TV camera aimed at the last door. A brown plastic sign announced the presence of the consulate and the Israeli tourist office and spelled out hours for visa applications. Just to the right was another plaque- the blue-and-white Israeli flag- and below that a plate-glass window with a steel document tray, a call button, and a speaker.

A young black-haired man in a blue blazer, white shirt, and tie sat behind the glass. His features were sharp and his hair was thick and cropped to the skull. He was reading a magazine and didn't look up until Milo pushed the button.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Carmeli.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Middle Eastern accent.

Milo produced the badge again.

“Drop it in, please.”

The badge hit the tray and slid into the reception booth. A steel shutter dropped over the slot. The guard inspected the badge, looked at Milo, held up a finger, got up, and disappeared. The magazine was Sports Illustrated.

Behind the booth was a nest of white cubicles and I could see two women and one man working at computers. A few travel posters hung on the walls. Everything looked just a bit off- cloudy. Refracted through the inch-thick glass.

The young man came back a moment later. “He's in a meeting-”

“This is about-”

The young man smiled and held up a finger again. “But,” he said, “he'll be out soon.”

He sat down and returned to the world of soccer.

“Doing us a big favor,” mumbled Milo.

A low-pitched whine sounded above. The camera rotated, aiming at us.

Milo pushed the button again and the young man looked up.

“My badge?”

“Mr. Carmeli has it.”

We stood in the hall as the guard read. A heavy black woman in blue blazer and gray slacks came from around the corner and walked down the hall, glancing at doors. She saw us and turned around.

Three minutes passed, four, five. The guard picked up a phone, listened, put it back down.

Five more minutes until one of the white doors opened and a tall, pale man came out into the corridor. Stooped, with round shoulders, he wore a gray nailhead double-breasted suit, baby blue shirt, and maroon tie. The shirt's collar was too big and the suit bagged. His cheeks were sunken and the bones of his hawk face were oversized and painfully obvious. Wavy brown hair was neatly trimmed and thinning at the crown. He wore heavy, black-framed eyeglasses.

“Zev Carmeli.”

Handshakes were cursory. His fingers were long and very cold. The glasses were bifocals. Thirty-eight but he looked ten years older.

Milo started to speak but Carmeli interrupted him by returning the badge and turning to point down the hall. Leading us to another of the white doors, he unlocked it and motioned us into a windowless room set up with a brown sofa, Danish teak coffee table with brass ashtray, a pair of chrome and brown-tweed armchairs.

Blue carpeting, still nothing on the walls. Behind the couch was another white door, double-bolted.

Milo and I took the chairs as Carmeli relocked the outer door. Reaching in his coat, he placed a hardpack of Dunhills and a matchbook that said LEARN AT HOME TO BE A COURT REPORTER on the table.

He sat down on the couch and lit up, inhaling for a long time while studying the grain of the tabletop. His movements were slow and steady, as if everything required careful planning. He kept smoking, finally looked at us. His eyes were as black as the eyeglass frames, still and flat as a stain. The room fogged with nicotine, then I heard an air conditioner kick in and smoke began rising toward a duct in the ceiling.

Carmeli hiked his trousers up over black socks. His fingertips were stained amber.

“So,” he said to Milo, “you are the new detective.” Lighter accent than the guard's- Middle East tempered by upper-crust London.

“Milo Sturgis, sir. Pleased to meet you.”

Carmeli glanced at me.

“This is Dr. Delaware,” said Milo. “Our psychological consultant.”