Marcus, cherubic as always, straight-backed and neatly scarfed, was typing up surveillance reports. Liederman was out doing legwork for Micha, and the rest of the expanded unit was either home asleep or on Zevi Graetz waiting for Peretz who, according to Dov, had been acting increasingly nervous and thus might finally be getting ready to make his move.
David spread out the gleanings. Shoshana's delivery of extracts from Peretz's garbage sack had become a mid-morning ritual. Micha came over and together they went through the stuff, pulling out papers, uncrumpling then discussing them, while Shoshana watched, hands on her hips, in order, as she put it, 'to learn detective work.'
'Still scissoring,' Micha said, examining various discarded newspapers from which items on the case had been cut. David scowled.
He'd once read in an American criminology textbook that psychotic murderers often assembled scrapbooks on their crimes. It had rung true to him then, but now it didn't: To clip out articles on the murders was consistent with showing up at the symposium, and thus proved nothing but an interest in the case.
'Angry. Look how he ripped this one in half.' Micha passed David a fund-raising letter from the West Bank settlers' party, Gush Emunim.
'Politically he's sympathetic. 'A Greater Israel for Greater Security.' But we know he hates the mystical religious crap. Never mind the prophets' graves.'
'Wonder if he's considering a political career. Look at this stuff. On every mailing list of everything right of center.'
'He's an ex-officer.'
'Now here's something, David.'
Micha was examining a sheet of paper apparently torn from a pocket-size flip-over spiral notebook. He handed it to David. The name 'Bar-Lev' had been scrawled across the top.
'You or your father?'
'If he's our killer he'd have reason to hate us both.'
Micha scratched his cheek. 'Funny, he puts this in his garbage. I wonder if maybe he knows…'
'What?'
'No, that's impossible.' Micha shook his head. 'He couldn't.' Just then Rebecca called to him. 'Man named Raskov downstairs. Some kind of contractor from Haifa.'
Raskov! Shit! 'Find out what he wants.'
Rebecca listened, then covered her receiver. 'He's asking to see you, David. Says it won't take long.'
He didn't normally receive unofficial visitors in his office-the unit area was for police only, its exhibits and bulletin boards off limits to the press. But Raskov was special, he was in some awful way 'almost family,' and David was extremely curious. He had never met Judith's new husband, now stepfather to Hagith.
The moment Rebecca brought him in, David's first thought was: He looks just the way I knew he would. But then, after a minute in his company, David decided his imagined Raskov had been a lot better than the real thing.
'Hi. Call me Joe. Excuse the English but my Hebrew stinks.'
A short husky individual with lightly greased wavy salt and pepper hair, Raskov had the body of an aging athlete, thick and strong through the chest. He wore the old 1950s Zionist uniform, shirt open, flowing gray chest hairs showing in the triangle, shirt collar worn outside jacket collar and lapels. Yes, the old Labor Party look even down to the tufts of hair David thought he saw sprouting from Raskov's nose and ears. Perhaps he was imagining these tufts. Perhaps he merely wanted to be disgusted by them. One thing, though, he did not imagine and which didn't fit at all with the Zionist image: the blue and white wool knit yarmulke perched on the back of Raskov's head.
'English is okay.'
'Yeah, Judy told me you speak it pretty good. Look, I'm sorry to barge in on you, but I'm in town just for the day. Bunch of damn permits to get signed. So I thought-what the hell, I'll just drop in.' Raskov peered around the office. It was clear he wasn't impressed. Then his eyes fell on the photo of Hagith. He motioned toward it. 'On account of her.'
Already David loathed him, couldn't believe Judith, his slim and elegant mathematician ex-spouse, had actually married this buffoon. But Raskov was rich, in the contracting business he was virtually a tycoon, and in any event the only thing that mattered was the effect living with this cretin might have upon his daughter.
'Don't expect you to fall all over me, Dave. But we're both grownup guys and I think we ought to talk. Guess you know the story. Judy was doing bookkeeping for my company, she had your daughter to take care of, and she wasn't getting much out of life. So, okay, you two got divorced. I'm divorced myself. That's why I moved over here. New start, build a new life, help build a new country too.'
Yeah, I've seen your ticky-tacky housing blocks. So get on with it, Raskov, get to the point.
'… fell in love. And Haggi, too.' Haggi! 'She and I, we got along from the start. Now it isn't easy being ten, eleven years old and your daddy's up in Jerusalem and a new guy comes along and marries your ma. So, okay, we all gotta adjust. I got a twenty-five-year-old son back in the States. An okay kid but he couldn't hack it here. So, okay, we adjust a little bit…'
If only the clown could get his daughter's name right then maybe, David thought, there might be something hopeful in his slobbering good will. Judy, Haggi, Dave-these American-style nicknames grated on his ears. Still he said nothing, just gazed intently at Raskov, waiting for him, as he understood they put it in the construction business, to get to his bottom line.
'Education-no problem. I can give her the best. Bryn Mawr, Vassar, Brandeis if she wants. And I figure being around me these next few years won't hurt her English either.'
'Anything wrong with Hebrew University?'
'Course not. Damn fine place. But you can't beat American training. Look, Dave, no one's trying to cut you out. But let's face it, I can give her advantages. That's why I'm here. Wanted you to see I'm not that bad a guy. Which is why I'm asking you, for your own daughter's sake-'
'What are you asking me?'
Raskov paused. For the first time since he entered the office he seemed to be at a loss for words. 'I thought Judy spoke to you.'
'About what?'
'Adoption.'
'You want to adopt Hagith?'
'Yeah. Look, I thought Judy said-'
'What did she say?'
'Said she spoke to you and you said forget it, you'd never go along.'
'She didn't have to speak to me. She knew that's what I'd say.'
'Okay. I hear you. But think about it, will you? Don't just rule it out.'
David stood up. 'Yeah, I'll think about it, Joe. Meantime, I'm running a murder investigation here.'
After Raskov left, David sat alone in his office depressed because he wasn't a rich and mighty man. But after ten minutes he'd had enough. Okay, he thought, Judith married an asshole, so that's no reason for me to feel bad. And, having decided that, he told Rebecca Marcus he was going out, then stalked down to the corner of Jaffa and King George where he quickly devoured two falafels in a row.
Micha and Liederman were on the phones trying to locate the owners of dark-colored vans. David worked with them a while, then conferred by radio with Uri, in charge of the daytime surveillance, who assured him all was quiet and Peretz was home. Then, near the end of the afternoon, he went back into his office, dialed the Raskov Construction Company in Haifa, and asked to speak to chief accountant Judith Weitz.
'It's me.'
'Who?' She sounded busy. He could hear the clatter of an automatic printer in the background, most likely keeping track of Raskov's billions.
'David.'
'Oh, you.' Her voice was flat. 'I saw you on TV.'
'Bad time to call?'
'No. Joe's away. Things are always quieter when he's away.'
''He came to see me this morning.'
