'Which rebbe is it?'
The Prostnitzer.'
'He's new,' said Daniel. 'From Brooklyn. Has a small group that broke off from the Satmars-couple of planeloads of them came over last year.'
'To Wolfson, eh? No Mea She'arim for these saints?'
'Most of them live out in the Ramot. The Wolfson thing's probably special for Malkovsky-to keep him under wraps. How long's he been in the country?'
'Three months-enough to do damage. He's a kiddy-diddler, but who knows what a pervert will do? Maybe he's shifted his preferences. In any event, someone's making us look like idiots, Dani.'
Daniel slammed his fist down on the desk. Shmeltzer, surprised at the uncharacteristic display of emotion, took a step backward, then smiled inwardly. At least the guy was human.
Qiryat Wolfson was luxury American-style; a penthouse in the complex had recently sold for over a million dollars. Crisp limestone towers and low-profile town houses, a maze of landscaped walkways and subterranean parking garages, carpeted lobbies and high-speed elevators, all of it perched at the edge of a craggy bluff near the geographical center of the municipality, due west of the Old City. The view from up there was commanding-the Knesset, the Israel Museum, the generous belts of greenery that surrounded the government buildings. To the southwest, an even wider swatch of green-the Ein Qerem forest, where Juliet had been found.
In the darkness the complex jutted skyward like a clutch of stalagmites; from below came the roar of traffic on Rehov Herzl. Daniel drove the Escort into one of the underground lots and parked near the entrance. Some of the spaces were occupied by American cars: huge Buicks, Chevrolets, Chryslers, an old white Cadillac Coupe de Ville sagging on under-inflated tires. Dinosaurs, too wide for Jerusalem streets and alleys. Why had the owners bothered to bring them over?
It took him a while to find his way around, and it was just past nine by the time he reached Malkovsky's flat-a first-floor town-house unit on the west side of the complex, built around a small paved courtyard. The door was unmarked, armored with three locks. Daniel knocked, heard heavy footsteps, the sliding of bolts, and found himself face to face with the man in the handbill.
'Yes?' said Malkovsky. He was huge, bearishly obese, the beard fanning over his chest like some hirsute bib, reaching almost to his waist. A thick reddish-brown pelt that masked his cheekbones and tapered raggedly just beneath the lower rims of his eyeglasses. His complexion was florid, lumpy, dominated by a nose squashed pita-flat and dotted with open pores. His forehead was skimpy, the hair above it dense and curly. He wore the same square skullcap as in the picture, but had pushed it back to the crown.
Swallowed up by hair, thought Daniel. Like Esau. So big, he blocked most of the doorway. Daniel looked past him, peering through slivers of space: a living room still redolent of a boiled chicken supper, the floor littered with toys, newspapers, an empty baby bottle. He saw a blur of motion-children chasing each other, laughing and screaming in Yiddish. A baby wailed, unseen. A kerchiefed woman passed quickly through the sliver and disappeared. Moments later the crying stopped.
'Police,' said Daniel, in English. He took out his identification and held it up to Malkovsky's glasses.
Malkovsky ignored it, unimpressed. A wave of annoyance rumpled the knobby blanket of his face. He cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height.
'A frummer?' he said, focusing on Daniel's kipah.
'May I come in?'
Malkovsky wiped his brow. He was sweating-from ex-ertion, not anxiety-eyeglasses fogged, perspiration stains browning the armpits of a tentlike V-neck undershirt. Over the undershirt he wore a black-striped woolen tallit katan, the ritual fringed garment prescribed for daily use, a rectangle of cloth with a hole cut out for the head, the fringes looped through perforations on each corner. His pants were black and baggy On his feet were black bubble-toed oxfords.
'What do you want?' he demanded, in Hebrew.
'To talk to you.'
'Who is it, Sender?' a female voice called out. 'Gornisht.' Malkovsky stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. When he moved he shook.
Like the cubes of jellied calfs leg in the display case at Pfefferberg's.
'Everything's been arranged,' he said. 'I don't need you.'
'Everything?'
'Everything. Just perfect. Tell your boss I'm perfect.'
When Daniel gave no evidence of moving, Malkovsky nibbled his mustache and asked, 'Nu, what's the problem? More papers?'
'I have no papers for you.'
'What is it, then?'
'I'm conducting a criminal investigation. Your criminal history came to my attention and I thought it best that we talk.'
Malkovsky flushed, sucked in his breath, and his eyes kindled with anger. He started to say something, stopped himself, and wiped his brow again. Turning his hands into fists the size of Shabbat roast, he began bouncing them against the convex surface of his thighs.
'Go away, policeman,' he said. 'My papers are in order! Everything's been arranged!'
'To what arrangement are you referring, Mr? or is it Rabbi Malkovsky?'
Malkovsky folded his arms across his chest. The flush beneath the beard was tinged with purple and his breathing sounded labored.
