Suddenly David caught a glimpse of him, escorted by police, bobbing along behind a phalanx of his supporters, sullen young males in knitted skullcaps bullying their way through the crowd. There was something thug-like, dull and stupid, about this vanguard, but the rabbi's small hard eyes gleamed with calculation.
David watched, fascinated, as Katzer embraced a seller of olives, a seller of fish, an old man with a cane who sewed buttons and hems.
David was surprised at how short he was; although he knew his face well from TV, this was the first time he had seen him in the flesh. Now he was struck by his animal magnetism and rabid quality too: moist eyes, sweaty beard, mouth that twisted as he spoke. Nothing otherworldly about him, nothing pious or Talmudic. This was a politician who thrived on touching faces, patting shoulders, grasping extended hands. His supporters needed him, wanted to feel his power, and Katzer eagerly obliged. But then David noticed something else. The rabbi's eyes squirreled up at the sound of a passing airplane, and then again at the pop of a beer can being opened up. A glimmer of fear: He was political meat and knew the passions he unleashed could also put a bullet in his chest.
The cops blew their whistles, the thugs marched past, and Katzer was swallowed by the mob. Making his way back past the butcher's stalls to find Shoshana and the car, David felt his shirt sticking to his back.
I t was a drainage ditch, dusty, overgrown with brambles, separated by bushes from the narrow access road that led up to Mevasseret. Police stakes tipped with orange fluorescent paint marked the place where the body had been found. David circled the site, careful not to walk upon it, then leaned against the car. There was a constant roar of traffic from the highway, a harsh whirling sound of speeding cars and trucks. Just the sort of spot, he thought, you might pull up to if you were starting down to Tel Aviv and then decided to stop and take a piss.
'She was seen getting into a Tel Aviv car,' Shoshana said. 'Looks like whoever killed her pulled off at the exit, threw her out, then continued on his way.'
The sun was beating down full force. David looked up at the white villas glittering on the barren heights. The people who lived up there were wealthy, the kind who owned two cars. They'd drive past where he was standing several times a day. Someone would notice the body pretty quick.
'If he really wanted to ditch her, he would have taken her into Judea. He didn't care if she was found.'
'Why care? He was done with her.'
'So just pull in the way we did, drag her out, toss an old blanket on top of her, don't even bother to cover her legs, then zip on down to the sunny coast?'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Nothing, if he wasn't trying to hide his workmanship. Maybe the best solution, if he wanted it displayed.'
'Think that's what he wanted?'
David shrugged. 'He couldn't have chosen a better spot. Except for his spot this morning. That was better.' He took a last look at the orange stakes, then turned away.
Back at the Russian Compound, he smiled when he saw them, Micha and Uri in sloppy army jackets, Dov Meltzer in striped track pants sporting an oversized submariner's watch. All three wore the beaten-up runner's shoes that were the trademark of Jerusalem plainclothes cops. They were sprawled out in swivel chairs while prim, smiling, orthodox Rebecca Marcus, clerk of Pattern Crimes, sat upright typing reports on her vintage Royal, her legs and arms nicely covered, her head wrapped neatly in a scarf.
'Murder case?'
'Triple,' Shoshana said.
'Report says the nun was tortured, but no sign of intercourse.'
'Madonna, girl-whore, boy-whore,' said Dov. 'Sounds like psycho-time.'
'It's psycho-time all right.'
He looked at them. They were excited. Detectives in other units sometimes called them 'David's Dogs.' Now they had a new and very disturbing case, perhaps the best they'd gotten in a year.
'Shoshana and Uri work the girl this morning. Micha, you get the Arab boy, and Dov, you take the nun. They say the boy was a drug user, so find out if he dealt. This Sister Susan Mills-was she really a Madonna? How does a woman like that end up in a ditch?'
'What about the marks, David?'
'I'm very interested in those marks.'
'Report on the sister says the cutting was done after she was dead.'
'Ten to one it's the same with the other two.'
'An afterthought?'
'Some kind of ritual?'
'Sarah says you thought it could be some kind of brand,' Dov said.
David nodded. 'A brand says: 'She's mine.' But this could be more. A signature. Signature says: 'I did this work. My work.' Could be either one.'
He ran Pattern Crimes like a small unit in the army-first names, anyone could say what he thought, minimal distinction between commanding officer and men. He felt closest to Dov, whom he considered the smartest, but Uri Schuster was formidable, a tracker, a bloodhound on the streets. Uri, David thought, could have been a criminal, which was why he was so valuable, and why, despite complaints that he was rough, sometimes even brutal, David was determined never to let him go. Micha Benyamani was the unit chess player, sad-faced, gaunt, a thorough paperwork-and-telephone detective. Shoshana Nahon-self-styled fighter, she made up for her inexperience with zest.
He told Rebecca Marcus to telex to the Israeli police liaison in New York. 'The U.S. Justice Department has some kind of serial killer clearinghouse. Send them a straight query: Have they ever seen these kinds of marks?'
Rebecca smiled sweetly. 'Whenever anything horrible happens, Rafi always thinks it's an American.'
'An American Jew.'
'Yes.' She giggled. 'But never an Israeli. Oh no! Never!'
He called in Dov. 'What happened this morning?'
'Found a pair of candlesticks. An Arab trinket dealer on Salah el Din.'
'Good stuff?'
'Nothing special. That blue-dye-job who was robbed last fall says they aren't worth much.'
'How did he get them?'
'Had a story. Flea market in Hebron. But, David, there was other stuff there. Judaica. And that doesn't fit.'
'Good Judaica?'
'I don't think so. It's a pretty dumpy place. I saw some Torah crowns. That bothered me. You don't fence stuff like that in East Jerusalem.'
'You're thinking…?'
'Our scrolls case. It's been months. I practically forgot about it until I saw those crowns. I didn't say anything. Wanted to tell you first. The Rehavia burglaries and the stolen scrolls. We never put the two together.'
David thought about it. He didn't think they belonged together. 'Silver is silver,' he said. 'The people burglarizing fancy houses in Rehavia need a place to unload silver that isn't worth shipping out. Meantime, the people stealing Torahs for resale in America have to get rid of the crowns because the crowns identify the origins of the scrolls. We're talking about items of fairly limited value. East Jerusalem's good for that. What time does this dealer close?'
'Eight o'clock.'
'Okay, let's go over there around a quarter of and have ourselves a little talk.'
At four that afternoon, Shoshana and Uri brought him the girl's name: Ora Goshen, nineteen years old, born of Moroccan-Jewish parents in the settlement town of Bet Shemesh. The boy on the horse had been right-she had indeed been working as a prostitute by the taxi stand at the Damascus Gate. The drivers knew her and a number of her colleagues stepped forward too. She was described as 'attractive' and 'friendly with a seductive timid manner,' a girl who could turn four to six tricks a night and often started work in the early afternoon. She rented half a room in an apartment in Katamon but never took her clients there. Sometimes, when she needed a place, she'd pay an
