The evil bastard couldn't hide deep enough. He'd root him out, put an end to the defilement.
For the first time in a long time he felt lightened with hope. The mastery of the hunter.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
'Yes?'
The door opened a crack and a uniform stuck his head in. Young, gawky, with a peach-fuzz face, he had to be barely out of the training course. He blinked rapidly, bobbed his head, looking everywhere but at Daniel.
'Pakad Sharavi?'
'Yes? Come in.'
The patrolman's body remained in the corridor; only his head bobbed around inside the office, jumpy and vigilant, like a chicken watching out for the shohel's knife.
'What is it?'
The uniform bit his lip and chewed air. When he finally got the words moving, they tumbled out in a rush:
'Pakad, a dead body, they said to call you, you'd know all about it. In Talpiyot, along the industrial stretch. Not far from the lot where we tow the parking violators.'
BOOK THREE
Dr. Levi's promptness was commendable. Within hours of the removal of the body to Abu Kabir, the necropsy findings were phoned to Daniel.
But the pathologist might just as well have taken his time. The wounds on number three were identical to Fatma's and Juliet's, save for one bit of information that Daniel had anticipated: The killer had removed Shahin Barakat's ovaries and her kidneys.
Just as he'd done, ten years ago, to his third American victim. The Indian girl, Shawnee Scoggins.
Shahin's body had been found, dumped like garbage in a stand of eucalyptus, reeking of encroaching decay and menthol. Only meters from the police tow yard.
Thumbing his nose at us.
Shahin. Another pretty face preserved intact above the gaping neck wound. Nineteen years old, black hair lustrous, thick, and wavy. Dainty pierced ears, the earrings missing.
But, unlike the other, married. The husband had been hanging around the Kishle substation for days, dogging the uniforms, begging them to find his wife.
'Ex-wife.' Patrolman Mustafa Habiba had been quick to clarify, the moment Daniel entered the substation, telling his side of the story, then rushing off to fetch the Pakad an unrequested cup of Turkish coffee and a piece of baklava wrapped in wax paper. The Arab policeman was a leftover from the days of Jordanian occupation, unschooled, nearing sixty, and waiting for his pension from the Jews. Allowed to remain on the force because of his familiarity with the black alleys and their denizens, the desire by the brass to maintain the illusion of continuity.
'He kicks her out, give her three times talaq, then changes his mind and wants us to be the marriage counselors. How were we to know, Pakad?'
Habiba needed a shave. His grizzled face twitched with fear; his uniform needed ironing. Daniel had brought him back to Headquarters and he looked out of place in the sterile emptiness of the interrogation room. An antiquity.
Forty years of pocketing petty baksheesh and dishing out bureaucratic indifference, thought Daniel, and now he's terrified that indifference is going to be twisted into something cruel.
'There was no way to know,' Habiba repeated, whining.
'No, there wasn't,' said Daniel. The man's anxiety was starting to wear on him.
'What difference would it have made had we looked for her?' insisted Habiba. 'When this Butcher wants someone, he gets her.'
There was awe in the old policeman's voice when he spoke of the killer. Awe undercoated with contempt for his own police force.
He thinks of the bastard as superhuman, some kind of demon-a Jewish demon. The helplessness-the homage to evil-angered Daniel and he had to restrain himself from dressing the old policeman down.
'Marriage counselors,' muttered Habiba. 'We're too busy for that kind of nonsense.'
Anger overtook restraint.
'Of course you are,' said Daniel. 'Feel free to return to Kishle. Don't let a murder investigation keep you from your pressing business.'
Habiba flushed. 'I didn't mean, Pakad-'
'Forget it, Officer Habiba. Go back to Kishle. Don't worry, your retirement's intact.'
Habiba started to say something, thought better of it, and left the room.
Daniel looked at his watch. Six P.M. Goodbye, family; goodbye, Shabbat. The husband was in another room, being comforted by relatives under the watchful eye of the Chinaman and Shmeltzer. Daniel had tried to get something out of him but the poor guy was too distraught, frozen silent, near catatonic, only the hands moving- scratching his face bloody. The imperviousness to pain chilled Daniel's heart.
