Late in the afternoon, Shmeltzer came into Daniel's office with photocopies of the customs material from Ashdod. During the days preceding Fatma's murder, Brickner and Gribetz had picked up an unusually full load of cargo-part of an overflow shipment held up at the docks for three weeks due to a stevedore strike. The parcels were destined for the north-central region-Afula, Hadera, and villages in the Bet She'an valley, a good seventy kilometers above Jerusalem. Which was still driveable if they'd gotten off early.
Daniel, Shmeltzer, and the Chinaman got on the phone, calling each name on the bills of lading, received confirmation that the buddies had been busy for two days straight, so busy that they'd spent the night in Hadera, parking their truck in a date grove belonging to one of the package owners, still asleep when the guy went to check his trees. He remembered them well, he told Daniel, because they'd awoken filthy-mouthed, stood on the truck bed and urinated onto the ground, then demanded breakfast.
'Were there packages in the truck bed?'
'Oh, yeah. Dozens. They stood right on top of them- didn't give a damn.'
Idiots, thought Daniel, they could have supplied themselves with alibis all along, had been too stupid or too contrary to do so. Maybe being thought of as potential murderers fed their egos.
Dangerous, they bore watching, but were no longer his present concern.
The Arab from Gaza, Aljuni, was their last chance-not that probable, really, except that he was a killer who liked Wades and hated women. He'd carved up one wife in a fit of rage over improperly cooked soup, maimed another, and, three months out of prison, was engaged to a third, sixteen years old. Why did women hook up with that type? Latent death wish? Was being alone worse than death?
Irrelevant questions. Daoud had nothing to report on Aljuni: The guy kept regular habits, never went out at night. No doubt he'd come to naught as a prospect. The winnowing of the sex files had been futile.
He looked at his watch. Eight P.M and he hadn't called home. He did so, got no answer, and puzzled, phoned the message operator and asked if Gveret Sharavi had tried to get in touch with him.
'Let me see-yes. Here's one from her that came in at four forty-three, Pakad. She wants to know if you'll be joining her, the children, and? it looks like the Boonkers-' 'Brokers.'
'Whatever. She wanted to know if you'll be joining them for dinner at seven-thirty.'
'Did she say where?'
'No,' said the operator reproachfully. 'She probably expected you to call sooner.'
He hung up, took a swallow of cold coffee from the cup on his desk, and put his head down. A knock on the door raised him up and he saw Shmeltzer enter, looking angry, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.
'Look at this, Dani. I was driving home, noticed a guy plastering this to walls, thought you might want to see it.'
The papers were handbills. At the center was a head-shot photo of a Hassid, fortyish, full-bearded, with extravagant side curls. The man looked fat, with flat features and narrow eyes behind black-framed eyeglasses. He wore a dark jacket and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. Atop his head was a large, square kipah. Hanging around his neck was a sign with the letters NYPD, followed by several numbers.
A mug shot.
BEWARE OF THIS MAN! was emblazoned under the photo, in Hebrew, English, and Yiddish. SENDER MALKOVSKY IS A CRIMINAL AND A CHILD RAPER!!!!!! HIDE YOUR YOUNG ONES!!!!!! Below the warnings were clippings from New York newspapers, reduced to the point where the print was barely legible. Daniel squinted, read with tired eyes.
Malkovsky was from trie Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, a father of six, a teacher of religious studies, and a tutor. A student had accused him of forced molestation and the charge had brought forth similar stories from dozens of other children. Malkovsky had been arrested by the New York Police, arraigned, released on bail, and failed to appear at his trial. One of the articles, from the New York Post, speculated that he'd run off to Israel, citing connections to 'prominent Hassidic rabbis.'
Daniel put the handbill down.
'He's living here, the bastard,' said Shmeltzer. 'In a fancy flat up in Qiryat Wolfson. The guy I found pasting these up is also a longbeard, named Rabinovitch-also from Brooklyn, knew Malkovsky's case well, thought Malkovsky was in jail.
He moves to Israel, buys a flat in the Wolfson complex, and one day he spots Malkovsky coming out of an apartment a hundred meters away. It drove him crazy-he has seven kids of his own. He marches straight to Malkovsky's rebbe and tells him about the shmuck's history, Rebbe nods and says Malkovsky had done repentance, deserves a second chance. Rabinovitch goes crazy and runs to the printer.'
'A tutor,' said Daniel. 'Skips bail and moves into one of the fanciest developments in town. Where does he get that kind of money?'
'That's what Rabinovitch wanted to know. He figured Malkovsky's fellow Hassidim donated it on the rebbe's orders. That may be rivalry talking-Rabinovitch is from a different sect; you know how they like to go at each other-but it makes sense.'
'Why didn't Rabinovitch notify us?'
'I asked him that. He looked at me as if I were crazy. Far as he's concerned the police are in on it-how else could Malkovsky get into the country, be running around free?'
'How else, indeed?'
'It stinks, Dani. I don't remember any Interpol notices or extradition orders, do you?'
'No.' Daniel opened a desk drawer, took out the Interpol bulletins and FBI bulletins and flipped through them. 'No Malkovsky.'
'No immigration warnings, either,' said Shmeltzer. 'Nothing from the brass or Customs. This rebbe must have massive protekzia.'
