'No tattoos. The soles of her feet were too soft. And when they kill their own, they bury them in the desert. Besides, a Bedouin girl of this age would have been married already and not allowed far enough out of the tent to get into trouble.' Levi paused. 'Says something for primitive culture, eh?'
At one o'clock Daniel went down to the Forensics lab and received confirmation of Levi's assessment of the sand: nothing unique. Steinfeld had just begun developing photographs of the dead girl. One was a head shot, which revealed none of the wounds. Her face was placid and she could have been asleep. Daniel got the tech to print two dozen. Slipping the pictures in a large envelope, he left Headquarters and-drove to the center of town.
Traffic was slow on Rehov King George, streets and sidewalks crammed with Sabbath shoppers, the babble of vendors and hawkers blending discordantly with diesel rumble, brake squeals, and the earsplitting blasts of auto horns. He got stuck at a red light behind an Egged bus and had to breathe in rancid exhaust mixed with wafts of hot grease from a nearby food stand. Melekh HaFelafel. 'The Felafel King.' Down the block was The Juice King, just around the corner The Emperor of Hamburgers. A nation of mon-archs
The bus moved and he sped forward, hooking a sharp left into the mouth of Rehov Ben Yehuda and parking illegally at the top of the street. Placing a police identification card on the dash of the Escort, he locked the car and left, hoping some under-observant rookie wouldn't clamp a Denver Boot on his tires.
The front door of The Star Restaurant was open, but he was early, so he walked past the restaurant and down the sloping street toward his father's shop.
Once just another auto-choked Jerusalem thoroughfare, Ben Yehuda had been closed to cars several years ago and transformed into a walking mall all the way to the big clock at Zion Square. He made his way through a wash of people-lovers holding hands as they window-shopped and traded dreams; children clinging to parental hands, their buttery faces smeared with pizza and ice cream; soldiers on leave; and artsy types from the Bezalel Institute, drinking iced coffee and eating paper-cradled napoleons at the parasoled tables of sidewalk cafes.
He walked past a shwarma stand, saw customers waiting eagerly as a counterman shaved juicy slices from a spinning, fat-topped cone of spiced lamb. Nearby, long-haired street musicians strummed American folk songs without passion, huddled like empty-eyed scarecrows over open instrument cases speckled with coins. One, a pale, skeletal, lank-haired woman, had brought a battered upright piano on wheels and was pounding out bad Chopin to a derisively grinning audience of taxi drivers. He recognized a Latam officer, Wiesel, at the rear of the group, avoided even momentary eye contact with the undercover man, and walked on.
The sign in his father's window said CLOSED, but he peered in through the front door and saw movement from the back room. A rap on the glass brought his father to the front, and when he saw Daniel, his face lit up and he unlocked it quickly.
'Shalom, Abba.'
'Shalom, son! Come in, come in.'
Standing on tiptoes, the older man embraced him, kissing both his cheeks. In the process, his beret came loose and Daniel caught it for him. His father placed the hat atop his shiny dome and thanked him, laughing. Arm in arm, they entered the shop.
The odor of silver solder permeated the air. An elaborate filigree brooch lay on the workbench. Threadlike wire of silver looped around teardrop-shaped freshwater pearls, the outer perimeter of each loop a delicate braid of gold wire. Wire that seemed too thin to work with, but which his father's hands transformed to objects of strength and beauty. Angel hair, his Uncle Moshe had told him when he was a child. Your abba spins the hair of angels into wondrous forms.
Where does he get it, Dod Moshe?
From the heavens. Like manna. Special manna granted by Hakadosh Baruch Hu to those with magic hands.
Those same hands, nut-brown and hard as olive wood, cupped his chin now. More kisses, the momentary abrasion of the old man's beard. A flash of white-toothed smile through steel-wool whiskers. Black eyes flashing mischievously from a saddle-leather face.
'Something to drink, Daniel?'
'Just some water, please, Abba. I'll get it.'
'Sit.' Staying him with a finger, his father moved quickly to the back room and returned with a bottle of orange juice and two glasses. Taking a stool next to Daniel's, he filled both glasses, recited the shehakol blessing, and the two of them drank, his father sipping, Daniel emptying the glass in three swallows.
'How are Laura and the children?'
'Terrific, Abba. And you?'
'Couldn't be better. Just received a lovely commission from some tourists staying at the King David.' He pointed at the brooch. Daniel picked it up gingerly, ran his index finger over the elaborate ridges and swirls. As fine and unique as fingerprints
'It's beautiful, Abba.'
His father shrugged off the compliment. 'Wealthy couple from London. They saw something like it in the hotel gift shop, asked me what I would charge to make it up, and made their decision on the spot.'
Daniel smiled, placed his hand on the old man's bony shoulder.
'I'm sure the decision was based on more than cost, Abba.'
His father looked away, embarrassed. Busied himself with refilling Daniel's glass.
'Have you eaten? I have pita, hummus, and tomato salad in the refrigerator-'
'Thanks anyway, but I have a lunch appointment at The Star.'
'Business?'
'What else. Tell me, Abba, has anyone tried to sell you a pair of cheap earrings recently?'
'No. The American longhairs try from time to time, but nothing recently. Why?'
