The portrait took on color, depth, achieved photographic realism. A sky-sized mural.
Four giant faces-his own face, smiling now. Beaming down from the heavens.
'Who? he asked, staring at the infants. They seemed to be smiling at him, following him with their eyes.
'Our children.' said the girl. 'One day we'll make beautiful babies together. You'll be the best father in the world.'
'How?' asked Daniel, knowing her, but not knowing her, still dream-baffled. 'How will I know what to do?'
The blond girl smiled, leaned over, and kissed him lightly on the lips. 'When the time comes, you'll know.'
Daniel thought about that. It sounded right. He accepted it.
At eight-thirty, Gene and Luanne arrived with flowers and chocolates. Gene chatted with him, slipped him a cigar, and told him he expected a speedy recovery. Luanne said he looked great. She bent and kissed his forehead. She smelled good, minty and clean. When they left, Laura went with them.
The next afternoon was spent tolerating a visit from Laufer and other members of the brass. Faking drowsiness in the middle of the D.C.'s little speech.
Laura returned at dinnertime with the children and his father, bringing shwarma and steak pitas, cold beer and soda. He hugged and kissed all of them, stroked Mikey's and Benny's buttery cheeks, let them play with the wheelchair and fiddle with the television. Watched Shoshi stare out the window, not knowing what to say.
His father stayed late, taking out a Tehillim and singing psalms to him in a sweet, soothing voice, using ancient nigunim from Yemen that synchronized with his heartbeat.
When he woke up, it was nine forty-five. The room was dim; his father was gone. Only the psalmbook remainded closed on his nightstand. He picked it up, managed to open it one-handed, chanted the old tunes softly.
Shmeltzer burst into the room minutes later. A heavyset nurse followed on his heels, protesting that visiting hours were long over; this patient had already, had too many visitors.
'Off my back, yenta,' said the old detective. 'I've put up with your rules long enough. This is official police business. Tell her, Dani.'
'Official police business.' Daniel smiled. 'It's all right.'
The nurse placed her hands on her hips, adjusted her cap, said, 'It may be all right with you, but you don't make the rules, Pakad. I'm calling the attending doctor.'
'Go, call him,' said Shmeltzer. 'While you're at it, take a tumble with him in the linen closet.'
The nurse advanced on him, fumed, retreated. Shmeltzer dragged a chair to the bed and sat down.
'Bastard's real name was Julian Heymon,' he said. 'American, from Los Angeles, rich parents, both dead. A loser from day one, kicked out of Sumbok-why, we don't know, but a place like that, it had to be serious. He couldn't get into any other medical school and tramped around the U.S., living off inheritance and attending medical conventions using false identities. Our busting him helped the FBI close fourteen murders. There are at least five other possibles. Don't hold your breath waiting for thanks.
'The real Sorrel Baldwin was a medical administrator from Texas, bright young guy on his way up-earned a master's degree at the American University and stayed on to work at their hospital when Beirut was still Zurich East. He stayed a year, returned to the U.S. in '74, took a position running a fancy pathology lab in Houston that catered to heart surgeons-Heymon's father was a heart surgeon, a Yid-do you believe that! So there may have been some weird connection there. In the shit we found in the German Colony house, there are multiple references to another father, some guy named Schwann. We're still trying to sort that out, along with boxes of the preserved animal corpses and Nazi shit that he scrawled on the walls. He filled a couple of notebooks, too, labeled them experimental data: real science, but it was mostly incoherent crap-psycho ravings, torture experiments. From what I can tell, you were right about the racial angle. We found the phrase Project Untermensch several times-something about using the murders to set us against the Arabs, them against us, until we wiped each other out. Finishing off-'
Shmeltzer stopped. Cleared his throat, looked out the window. 'Anyway, that's the long and short of-'
'Finishing off Shoshi was his final ploy,' said Daniel. 'He planned to mutilate her, leave a note next to the body attributing it to an Arab revenge group.'
Shmeltzer nodded. 'According to his notes, his next destination was somewhere in Africa-South Africa or Zimbabwe. Pit whites against blacks. Far as I'm concerned, it was all bullshit. Shmuck enjoyed killing, plain and simple. Tried to gussy it up with political motivation. Whatever you did to him was too good.'
Daniel closed his eyes. 'What happened to the real Baldwin?'
'That's one to feel sorry for,' said Shmeltzer. 'Poor devil was on top of the world until he attended a medical finance convention in New York, back in 75. Had dinner with some other administrators, went out for a stroll, and was never heard from again.'
'Ten years ago,' said Daniel, remembering what Gene had said about America: Big country, big mess. Missing persons who stayed missing.
'Heymon was patient, I'll say that for him,' said Shmeltzer. 'He held on to Baldwin's papers-for four years used them only to get duplicates, transcripts. We found other false IDs in the German Colony house, so the bastard had his pick. In '79 he got a job, as Sorrel Baldwin-an administrator in an abortion clinic in Long Beach, California. Four years later, he hooked up with the U.N.-Baldwin's resume was first-rate, not that they're that picky. He pushed U.N. paper in New York for a while-probably enjoyed working for Waldheim, eh?-studied Arabic, then applied for the Amelia Catherine job and got it. The rest is history.'
'What about Khoury, the girlfriend?'
'She claims to be as shocked as anyone. We've got nothing that proves otherwise. She says she knew Baldwin- Heymon-was a weird one. Never tried to get in bed, happy just to hold hands and gaze at the stars, but she never suspected, blah blah blah. We'll keep an eye on her anyway. Maybe I'll assign Cohen to it-she's a looker, comes on strong.'
