But even as these arrangements were being made, Peretz reappeared without his bag and set off again on foot.
'Let me bust his room,' Dov begged. 'See what's in that bag.'
'No justification. He hasn't done anything yet.'
'At least let me put in a mike.'
'Forget it, Dov. That could botch the case.'
They followed him to a stop on Allenby, where he boarded a bus that took him up Pinkster to Dizengoff Square. Shoshana and Uri got on the bus with him. The rest of them followed in cars.
'Knows Tel Aviv better than I do.' Dov was keyed up but David tried to relax, staring out at the peeling flat- topped buildings, laundry strung from balconies, roofs forested with TV aerials and solar water-heater tanks. The night sky, he observed, wasn't pure black as in Jerusalem, but faintly tinged with yellow.
Once off the bus Peretz did a complete circle clockwise around the square, pausing at each intersection, waiting patiently for each light to change. Then, when he was finished, he abruptly changed direction and did another circle counter-clockwise the same methodical leisurely way, the way of an animal who fears nothing because he has no predators.
'He's nuts,' Dov said, and David had to agree: They'd never seen Peretz act like this. It was more now than tension; there was something compulsive yet extremely purposeful about the way he moved.
On Dizengoff, David got out of the car. The masses of milling people provided him with protection, and he was happy for a chance to stretch his legs. Cars streaked by. Neon flashed. For all the shabbiness of Tel Aviv he recognized the city was alive. The latest Israeli pop tunes poured out of record shops. Uniformed army kids on leave, rifles slung over their shoulders, strode the wide sidewalks in search of girls. Young couples stood in line at cinemas. Street money changers and dope dealers plied their trades. The cafes were filled – people sat in them gesturing, arguing. He caught tail-ends of conversations: the mess in Lebanon, a deal on diamonds, a place to get a good TV set cheap. No visible religious people. Clothing was lurid. Flesh showed hot and moist. There was an atmosphere of informality, sex, flirtation. The modern hell-bent Israel.
Peretz entered a modest restaurant, took a table facing the street, ordered a blintz, ate it slowly, then sat watching the parade.
'Look how sharp he is. Like a big cat poised to strike.' He and Dov watched from a cafe across the street. Three detectives were in Peretz's restaurant. The others were scattered about on either side of Dizengoff.
'Yeah, he's changed since he did those loops around the square. Street life turns him on. So, what's he up to? What's his move?'
'He's getting ready now to look for what he wants. And then go after it,' David said.
It was more than an hour before Peretz moved again, just after midnight when the crowds began to thin. He called for his check, paid it, then took off fast. The circle formed around him, scurrying to keep up. He led them a little further down Dizengoff, then turned abruptly left on Arlosoroff.
'Shit!' said Dov. 'He's headed for the beach.'
It was the famous bathing beach of Tel Aviv where Halil Ghemaiem had been picked up. Crowded with innocent bathers, mothers and children by day, this long wide stretch of sand became a sordid flesh-market at night. Prostitutes of both sexes congregated, but despite complaints the Tel Aviv police were unable to contain them. Patrols went out, engaged in sweeps, but as soon as they left the whores returned.
Here, on the sand, away from the lights, figures moved like phantoms, dark gray silhouettes against the yellow-tinged night sky. The tide was out, the beach was wide, and something phosphorescent created sparkles in the tiny waves that lapped the shore. A solemn sort of dance, David thought, as he watched the transactions taking place. Figures approached one another, huddled, discussed in quick subdued tones the services required and a range of price. If no arrangement could be made, they separated again. If a bargain was struck, they moved together off the sand.
He felt useless. Peretz was out there searching for a victim and all he could do was stand by and wait. Something frightening too, he thought, about being so close to madness as it filled and drove a man.
Dov kept his back to the water, didn't want his radio seen or heard. 'Contact,' he whispered, 'hundred fifty meters south. Foggy. Difficult to see. Shoshana thinks it's a boy. Okay-Uri says they're walking south together now, edging closer to the road. Says they're headed for the Sheraton taxi stand.'
They exchanged looks, then ran back to their car.
No difficulty tracking the taxi; it drove straight to the Zion on nearly empty streets. The boy got out first, waited while Peretz paid. David got a good look at him: young, Arab, slight, with fine smooth features and dark skin. So, another male, but not a transvestite. This one wore a white tennis shirt, scuffed sneakers, and tight-fitting faded jeans.
'Seems Mr. Meir Shikun likes the boys.' Dov had just returned from the lobby to their room next door to Peretz's. Micha was standing, his ear pressed against the wall. David lay exhausted on the bed.
'How often?'
'Maybe four, five times. Clerk didn't want to talk, but when Uri told him this was homicide he blabbed. Says Peretz always makes the same moves-checks in, goes out, then comes back very late with a 'friend.' '
David turned to Micha. 'Hear anything?'
Micha shook his head. They were talking and laughing, but not anymore.'
'What do you think?' David asked Dov.
'What're we supposed to do? Wait till he kills the kid?' David sat up. 'Okay, let's bust him.'
Dov and Micha smiled, then the three of them stepped into the hall. Uri and Shoshana were waiting. Dov gave them the thumbs up. Everybody grinned.
Uri approached Peretz's door, then walked backward slowly on the tips of his toes counting off the paces in pantomime. He took a deep breath, psyched himself up like a man about to lift an enormous weight. Then, his features set, he ran forward and flung himself against the door.
The lock snapped easily, the door gave way, and all five of them rushed inside. Peretz and the boy, both nude, were embracing on the bed. They turned, there was a moment of silence, the detectives gawking at the lovers, the lovers gaping back. Then pandemonium. The boy panicked. He screamed, jumped up, charged forward, trying to slip between Shoshana and Dov. Uri caught him, grasped him in his arms, then lifted him up, wriggling, off the floor. While he struggled, Peretz sprawled upon the bed, threw his hairy legs apart, and thrust his genitals forward as if they were an offering.
'So garbage men-which one of you is going to suck me off?'
'Fuck yourself, you fuckin' pervert.' Shoshana glared at him and spat.
Seven-thirty A.M. They were back in Jerusalem down in the cellar of the Russian Compound, in a small windowless sound-proofed interrogation room. A single light bulb, protected by a grille, burned brightly overhead. Two straight-backed wooden chairs, one small worn wooden table with microphone, a cement floor slightly slanted toward a drain. A narrow slit of inch-thick safety glass exposed the proceedings to Rafi and the video-camera operator seated in the observation cubicle next door. The dank damp stench from a leaking sewer pipe mingled with the smell of human sweat.
'Tell me about it,' David said.
'The 'tell-your-story' method? Don't be an asshole, Bar-Lev. I used to interrogate guys all the time.'
'So why did you go to the symposium?'
'Hey! Was that a setup?' Peretz gave David a mock two-fingered salute.
'Why did you go?'
'Fascinated.'
'By what?'
'The marks.'
'What about them?'
'Already answered that.'
'You said you heard they were like the marks you used to leave. I want to know who said they were.'
'And I told you I heard it around. You can't keep something like that quiet, not here. Cops tell other cops. Medical examiners tell the wives. Nurses drop in on autopsies. Pretty soon everybody knows.'
'Who told you?'
'An old army friend, and that's all I'm saying. I don't squawk on guys who help me out.'
