Survival Of The Fittest

Listening in, somehow.

Milo'd said Carmeli's attitude had seemed to change suddenly. More cooperative.

Because he'd kept tabs, knew Milo was serious, working hard?

I nodded at the dark man, expecting no response, but he nodded back. Milo's big face was still full of curiosity and anger.

Zev Carmeli pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Not offering one to the dark man. Knowing the dark man didn't smoke. Knowing the dark man's habits.

The dark man remained still, left hand in pocket.

Carmeli puffed several times, cleared his throat, and sat up straight.

“Gentlemen, this is Superintendent Daniel Sharavi from the Israeli National Police, Southern District.”

“Southern District,” said Milo, very softly. “What does that mean?”

“Jerusalem and the surrounding areas,” said Carmeli.

“So on your map that includes Southern California, too.”

Sharavi leaned back in the love seat. The windbreaker was unzipped and the flaps parted, revealing a thin, flat torso. No shoulder holster, no visible weapon, and the bulge in his pocket was too small to be anything other than five fingers.

Carmeli said, “Several years ago, Superintendent Sharavi headed a major investigation into a series of Jerusalem sex killings called the Butcher murders.”

“Several years ago,” said Milo. “Must have missed that one.”

“Serial murders are almost nonexistent in Israel, Mr. Sturgis. The Butcher was the first in our history. We're a small country, the impact was huge. Superintendent Sharavi solved the killings. There've been none like them since.”

“Congratulations,” said Milo, turning to Sharavi. “Must be nice to have spare time.”

Sharavi didn't move.

Carmeli said, “Superintendent Sharavi is also familiar with Los Angeles because he was part of the security contingent that accompanied our athletes to the L.A. Olympics. We would like you to work with him on the current murders.”

“Murders,” said Milo, still facing Sharavi. “Plural, not just your daughter's. Sounds like you've kept abreast.”

Carmeli smoked and sanded his desk with the palm of his hand. “We are aware of… developments.”

“I'll bet you are,” said Milo. “So where're the bugs? Dashboard of my car? My office phone? Heel of my shoe? All of the above?”

No reply.

“Probably in my house, too,” I said. “The night the burglar alarm went off. By listening in there, they'd have access to lots of information. But the superintendent's been with us well before then.”

I faced Sharavi. “I've seen you twice. At Booker T. Washington Elementary School the day Latvinia Shaver's body was found. And at the nature conservancy the day Milo and I looked over the crime scene. You were driving a mower. Both times you wore a uniform.”

Sharavi's expression didn't change and he didn't answer.

Milo said, “Isn't that interesting.” Striving for calm, too. The air felt ready to implode.

Carmeli smoked hard and fast, stopping only to look at the cigarette, as if the act required concentration.

“Well,” said Milo. “It's sure good to meet a genuine expert. A real back-alley sleuth.”

Sharavi removed his hand from his pocket and placed it in his lap. The upper surface was glossy with grayish- brown scar tissue and deeply caved, as if a chunk of flesh and bone had been scooped out. The thumb was atrophied and curled unnaturally and I'd overestimated the number of fingers: The thumb was intact but all that remained of the index was a one-knuckle stump and the remaining three were wasted, too, not much more than bare bone with a pallid brown sheath.

He said, “I began looking into the case just before you came on, Detective Sturgis.” His voice was youthful, barely accented. “I hope we can put that aside and work together.”

“Sure,” said Milo. “One big happy family, I trust you, already.” Crossing and uncrossing his long legs, he shook his head. “So, how many felonies have you racked up so far, playing James Bond?”

“Superintendent Sharavi is operating under full diplomatic immunity,” said Carmeli. “He's protected from threats and prosecution-”

“Ah,” said Milo.

“So it's arranged, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Arranged?”

“A working agreement to share and collaborate.”

“Share,” said Milo, laughing. “Christ. Show me yours, I show you mine? And if I say no?”

Carmeli didn't answer.

Sharavi pretended to study his ruined hand.

“Let me guess,” said Milo. “You put a call in to the mayor's office and I'm off the case, replaced with some lackey willing to share.”

Carmeli took a deep drag. “My daughter was murdered. I was hoping for a more mature attitude on your part.”

Milo stood. “Let me save you the trouble. Get yourself a mature guy and I'll go back to dealing with ordinary homicides with ordinary obstructions. No big loss to you- since you've been following closely, you know we haven't made much progress. Bye- shalom.”

He started out and I followed.

Carmeli said, “I'd prefer that you remain on the case, Detective Sturgis.”

Milo stopped. “I'm sorry, sir. It just won't work out.”

We left the office and were back at the door into the conference room when Carmeli caught up with us. Milo turned the knob. It wouldn't budge.

“There's a master lock for the entire suite,” said Carmeli.

“Kidnapping, too? I thought you guys rescued hostages.”

“I'm serious, Detective Sturgis. I want you on my daughter's case. You were assigned to it in the first place because I asked for you, personally.”

Milo's hand dropped from the knob.

“I asked for you,” Carmeli repeated, “because things had bogged down. Gorobich and Ramos were nice men, they seemed competent enough for routine cases. But I knew this wasn't routine and it soon became clear that they didn't measure up. Nevertheless, I gave them time. Because contrary to what you believe, it was never my intention to obstruct. All I want is to find the garbage who murdered my daughter. Do you understand that? Do you?”

He'd moved closer to Milo, closing the space between them the way- exactly what I'd seen Milo do with suspects.

“That's all I care about, Mr. Sturgis. Results. Do you understand? Nothing else. Gorobich and Ramos produced none so they-”

“What makes you think-”

“- were removed and you were brought in. I conducted some research. The performance of Robbery-Homicide detectives at the West L.A. station. I wanted to know which detectives avoided the quick and easy and had a record of tackling atypical cases. Of those, which detective had the highest solve rate for the past ten years. Things the department doesn't want made public, the data was hard to obtain, but I managed. And guess what, Mr. Sturgis? Your name kept coming up. Your solve rate is eighteen percent higher than your nearest competitor's, though your popularity rating is considerably lower than his. Which is also fine, I'm not running a social club. In fact-”

“I've never seen statistics like that-”

“I'm sure you haven't.” Carmeli pulled out another cigarette and waved it like a conductor's baton. “Officially, they don't exist. So congratulations. You're the winner. Not that it will help your career advancement… you were also described as someone lacking in polish and good manners, someone who doesn't give a damn about what people think of him. Someone who can be a bully.”