'Now, as for you,' Avi told Malkovsky. The fat man groaned.
'What's the matter?' said a new voice. 'What's going on?'
A little bald man with a gray bandage of a mustache had come out into the courtyard. He was wearing a sport coat over pajamas, looked ridiculous. Greenberg, the building manager. Avi had seen him nosing around. 'You,' said Greenberg, staring at the Beretta. 'The one who uses the tennis court and swimming pool all the time.'
'I'm Detective Cohen, on special assignment from police headquarters and I need you to make a call for me.'
'What has he done?'
'Broken the laws of God and man. Go back to your flat, phone 100, and tell the operator that Detective Avraham
Cohen needs a police wagon dispatched to this address.' Malkovsky started praying again. A symphony of window-squeaks and whispers played in counterpoint to his entreaties. 'This is a nice place, very tidy,' said Greenberg, still trying to absorb the reality of the moment.
'Then let's keep it that way. Make that call before everyone finds out you rent to dangerous criminals.'
'Criminals? Never-'
'Call 100,' said Avi. 'Run. Or I'll shoot him right here, leave the mess for you to clean up.'
Malkovsky moaned.
Greenberg ran.
Laufer's secretary liked Pakad Sharavi, had always thought of him as kind of cute, one of the nicer ones. So when he entered the waiting room she smiled at him, ready for small talk. But the smile he offered in return was brittle, a poor excuse for cordiality, and when he brushed past her instead of sitting down, she was caught off guard.
'Pakad-you can't do that! He's in a conference!'
He ignored her, opened the door.
The deputy commander was conferring with his soda water bottle, polishing the metal, peering up the spout. When he saw Daniel he put it down quickly and said, 'What is this, Sharavi!'
'I need to know where he is.'
'I have no time for your nonsense, Sharavi. Leave at once.'
'Not until you tell me where he is, Tat Nitzav.'
The deputy commander bounded out of his chair, came speeding around the desk, and marched up to Daniel, stopping just short of collision.
'Get the hell out.'
'I want to know where Malkovsky is.'
'He's not your concern.'
'He's my suspect. I want to question him.'
'Out.'
Daniel ignored the digression. 'Malkovsky's a suspect in my murder case. I needed to talk to him.'
'That'scrap,' said Laufer. 'He's not the Butcher-I ascer-tained that myself.'
''What evidence did he present to convince you of his innocence?'
'Don't try to interrogate me, Sharavi. Suffice it to say he's out of your bailiwick.'
Daniel struggled with his anger. 'The man's dangerous. If Cohen hadn't caught him, he'd still be raping children under official protection.'
Ah, Cohen,' said the deputy commander. 'Another bit of insubordination that you-and he-will be answering to. |Of course, the charges against him will be mitigated by inex-perience. Improper influence by a commanding officer.'
'Cohen was-'
'Yes. I know, Sharavi. The girlfriend at Wolfson, one of |life's little coincidences.' Laufer extended a finger, poked at the air. 'Don't insult me with your little games, you bastard. You want to play games? Fine. Here's a new one called suspension: You're off the Butcher case-off any case, without pay. pending a disciplinary hearing. When I'm finished with you, you'll be directing traffic in Katamon Tet and feeling grateful about it.'
'No.' said Daniel. 'The case is mine. I'm staying with it.' Laufer stared at him. 'Have you lost your mind?' When Daniel didn't answer, the deputy commander went behind his desk, sat, took out a leather-bound calendar, and began making notes.
'Traffic detail, Sharavi. Try calling the pretty boy in Australia if you think it'll hefp you. Your protekzia's long gone-dead and buried.' The deputy commander laughed out loud. 'Funny thing is, it's your own doing-you fucked yourself, just like now. Nosing into things that don't concern you.' Laufer lifted a pack of English Ovals off the desk, found it empty and tossed it aside. 'Like a little brown rat, rooting in garbage.'
'If I hadn't rooted,' said Daniel, 'you'd still be pushing paper in Beersheva.'
Laufer made a strangling noise and slammed his hand on the desk. His eyes bulged and his complexion turned the color of ripe plums. Daniel watched him inhale deeply, then expel breath through stiffened lips, saw the rise and fall of his barrel chest, the stubby fingers splayed on the desk top, twitching and drumming as if yearning to do violence.
