Wilbur shot out of his chair. 'What the hell are you saying!'

Sharavi closed his attache case, placed it on his lap, and smiled. ?

'Learning by doing, Mr. Wilbur. It ensures realism.'

'This conversation is over.' Wilbur's heart was pounding, his hands shaking. He forced a cool tone: 'Nothing more without my lawyer.'

Sharavi waited a long time before speaking. Let the silence sink in.

'Where were you three Thursdays ago, Mr. Wilbur?'

'I don't know-but I was in Greece when the first one was killed! Across the goddamned Mediterranean!'

'Sit down,' said Shmeitzer.

'Bullshit,' said Wilbur. 'Pure and total bullshit harassment.'

Sharavi waved Shmeitzer away and said, 'Remain on your feet if you like.' The gold eyes remained steady. 'Tell me, Mr. Wilbur, what sharp-bladed instruments do you own besides the Sabatier cutlery in your kitchen and the Swiss Army knife in your desk?'

'Absurd,' said Wilbur. His damned heart wouldn't quiet.

'Do you rent another flat besides the one on Rehov Alharizi?'

'I want a lawyer.'

'You've quoted Samir El Said, extensively. What's the nature of your relationship with him?'

Wilbur didn't answer.

'Talk, shmuck,' said Dry Voice.

'I have nothing to say. This whole thing is a crock.'

'Are you engaged in a homosexual relationship with Professor El Said?'

That took Wilbur by surprise. He tried to maintain a poker face but, from Sharavi's smile, knew he'd been unsuccessful.

'I thought not,' said the little bastard. 'You are a little old for him.'

'I'm not homosexual,' said Wilbur, thinking: Why the hell am I defending myself?

'You like women?'

'Do you?'

'I don't like cutting them up.'

'Oh, Christ.'

'Shmuck's religious,' said Dry Voice.

'I have nothing to say,' said Wilbur.

'Look,' said Sharavi, 'we have plenty of time. When it gets dark, we'll use flashlights to chase away the rats.'

'Suit yourself,' said Wilbur.

But the stonewall didn't work.

Sharavi proceeded to question him for another hour and a half about the murders. Times, places, where he bought his linens, what kind of soap he used, how many kilometers a day he drove. Were his eyes healthy, what drugs he took, did he shower or take baths. What were his views on personal hygiene. Seeming irrelevancies. Picayune details that he'd never thought about. Asking the same questions over and over, but changing the phrasing ever so slightly. Then coming out of left field with something that sounded totally irrelevant and ended up being somehow tied in with something else.

Trying to confuse him.

Treating him like a goddamned murderer.

He was determined to resist, give the little bastard nothing. But eventually he found himself relenting-worn down by the smiles and the repetition, Sharavi's unflappable manner, the way he ignored Wilbur's outbursts, refused to take 'umbrage at Wilbur's insults.

By the time the reporter realized he was losing, he'd already lost, answering questions with numbed docility. His feet tired from standing, but refusing to sit for fear of underscoring his submission.

As the interrogation wore on, he rationalized it away by telling the little bastard was giving in too. Acting nicer.

Treating him like an adviser, not a suspect.

Believing him.

After ninety minutes, Sharavi stopped the questions, chatted with him about trivia. Wilbur felt himself loosen with relief. Sat down, finally, and crossed his legs.

Twenty minutes later, the chatting ceased. The basement cavity had grown darker, colder. Nightfall.

Sharavi said something to Slant-Eye, who came over and offered Wilbur a cigarette. He refused. Finally, Shavari clicked the attache case shut, smiled, and said, 'That's it.'

'Great,' said Wilbur. 'Drop me back at Beit Agron?'

Вы читаете Kellerman, Jonathan
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