'Been a long time, stud. Cash-in time. I want to go to med school.'
Kikefuck was blown away.
'That's crazy! You haven't even finished two years of junior college!'
Shrug.
'Have you taken any science courses?'
'Some.'
'Are your grades any better?'
'I'm doing fine.'
'Sure you are-oh, great. Terrific. Straight D's and you want to be a doctor.'
'I'm going to be a doctor.'
Fucker slammed his hand on the desk. His eyes were popping out of his ugly purple face. Mad because an Aryan warrior was breaking into the kike medico conspiracy.
'Now you listen-'
'I want an M.D. You're going to fix it for me.'
'Jesus Christ! How the hell do you expect me to pull something like that off!'
'Your problem.' Stare-down, melting the fucker by being totally cool.
He walked away with a spring in his step, ready for a bright new future.
Saturday, seven forty-three P.M. Daniel had just finished praying ma'ariv and havdalah, bidding farewell to a Sabbath that, for all practical purposes, had never existed. Talking to God with all the devotion of a nonbeliever, his mind on the case, chewing on the new information as if it were fine filet steak.
He put away his siddur and had started to assemble his notes for the staff meeting when the operator phoned and said a Mr. Vangidder was on the line.
Unfamiliar name. Foreign. 'Did he say what it was about?'
'No.'
Probably some foreign reporter. Despite Headquarters' blackout on Butcher information, journalists were being their usual persistent selves. 'Take his number and tell him I'll call him back.'
He hung up, made it to the door when the phone rang again. He considered ignoring it, let it ring, finally answered.
'Pakad?' said the same operator. 'It's about this Vangidder. He says he's a policeman calling from the Netherlands, says you'll definitely want to speak to him. It has to be now-he's leaving tonight for a one-week holiday.'
Dutch police? Had the Interpol man finally done his Job?
'Put him on.'
'Okay.'
He waited anxiously through a series of electronic bleeps, hoping he hadn't lost the call. In light of what Shmeltzer and Daoud had found at the Amelia Catherine, information from Europe could narrow the investigation.
The bleeps were followed by a serenade of static, a low, mechanical rumble, then a high-pitched, cheerful voice, speaking in flawless English.
'Chief Inspector Sharavi? This is Joop Van Gelder of the Amsterdam police.'
'Hello? is it Chief Inspector?'
'Commissaris,' said Van Gelder. 'It's similar to a chief inspector.'
It was, Daniel knew, a rank above chief inspector. Joop Van Gelder was unassuming. Instinctively, from thousands of miles away, he liked the man.
'Hello, Commissaris. Thank you for calling and sorry for the delay in putting you through.'
'My fault, really,' said Van Gelder, still cheerful. 'I ne-glected to identify myself as a police officer, was under the impression that your Interpol man had passed my name along.'
Thank you, Friedman.
'No, I'm sorry, Commissaris, he didn't.'
'No matter. We've got more important things to chat about, yes? This morning, your man passed along some homicide data that so clearly matched an unsolved murder in our city that I knew I had to get in touch with you. I'm off-duty, packing for a holiday to England. Mrs. Van Gelder won't tolerate any further postponements, but I did manage to find the file on the case and wished to pass the information along to you before I left.'
Daniel thanked him, again, really meaning it. 'When did your murder take place, Commissaris?'
'Fifteen months ago.'
Fifteen months ago. Friedman had been right about the Interpol computer.
'Ugly affair,' Van Gelder was saying. 'Clearly a sex killing. We never cleared it up. Our consulting psychiatrist thought it had all the characteristics of the first in a series of psychopathic killings. We weren't certain-we don't often get that kind of thing.'
