She sat behind a small, antique desk, inlaid with arabesques of mother of pearl, and said, “Detective Papazian said you might be calling. He said you’ve got some interesting things to show me.”
“Do you know much about Japanese art?”
She extended her hand toward the gallery and said, “The westside buyers only want contemporary art. But my knowledge is a little broader. I have a master’s in art history from UCLA. I was in the Ph. D. program, but dropped out. Japanese antiquities are one of my passions.” She dropped her chin and gazed up at me. “Do my qualifications meet with your approval?”
I pulled the jewelry bag out of my pocket, and emptied it on her blotter. She studied the objects through a jeweler’s loupe. Then she picked up the netsuke, flicked on a small flashlight, and examined it and the smaller object. As I leaned over, watching her work, I caught the herbal scent of her hair.
“I don’t want to bore you, Detective Levine, with too much background, so tell me how much you want to know.”
“Take it from the top.”
She carefully set the object at the corner of her desk blotter. “Okay. During the Edo and Meiji periods in Japan everyone wore kimonos.”
“What time period are we talking about?”
“Roughly, from about sixteen hundred to just after nineteen hundred. Kimonos were wonderful. They were exquisite creations, functional works of art. They were only missing one important thing: pockets. Women usually tucked their personal items into their sashes or in their sleeves. Men created their own pockets. They had cases for things like pipes and tobacco, sake, and knives, and hung them from their kimono sashes with a cord. The cord was secured to the sash by a kind of toggle-the netsuke. A bead was used to slip down the cord and secure the pouches.” She picked up the smaller object found at Relovich’s house. “This is that slip-bead. It’s called an ojime.”
“They’re both beautifully made,” I said.
“The Japanese have a very interesting attitude toward beauty, form, and function. They believe the practical should be aesthetic and the aesthetic should be practical.”
“What can you tell me about these particular pieces.”
She picked up the ojime. “See the horns, the fangs, the terrible scowl, the menacing red eyes, the hands with three fingers, the feet with three toes. This is what the Japanese called an Oni. He represents bad luck and sickness and evil. He’s a devil.”
She set the netsuke next to it. “Now look at this stout fellow with his long robe and his sword and his purposeful expression. He’s a demon queller. The Japanese called him Shoki.”
“Were Oni and Shoki always together on the kimono?”
“No. But sometimes they are. These two pieces are probably a set.”
“Are these pieces worth much?”
She held the netsuke and then the ojime to the light. “The most valuable ones can sell for more than thirty thousand dollars. But most of the good ones I’ve seen run between five and ten thousand. These are probably in that range.”
“I checked some computer sites Dave Papazian told me about. But I couldn’t track them.”
“Let me give it a try.” She held up my card and then flicked it down on her desk like a blackjack dealer hitting a player. “If I come up with anything, I’ll call you.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
A bloodcurdling scream suddenly echoed from next door. Then another scream, even louder. And another.
I instinctively tapped the side of my suit coat, over my Beretta.
Haddad reached over and rapped on the wall with her knuckles. “This isn’t another murder case for you. Just primal scream therapy. A hundred bucks an hour. Welcome to Venice, Detective Levine. When I get home, I scream every night for free.”
I placed my hands on my thighs, about to stand up, when I paused and said, “Haddad. A Lebanese name.”
“Very good. How’d you know?”
“I spent a little time in that part of the word.”
She turned her head, studied me with one eye. “Levine. A Jewish name.”
“That’s an easy one.”
“I’m glad to help you with this case so I can do my part for Arab-Jewish relations,” she said, flashing me an arch look.
There was something about her that reminded me of those beautiful Israeli women who had intrigued me, with their black hair, green or deep blue almond eyes, and dusky, flawless, makeup-free complexions. She also had the bold, confrontational demeanor of so many Sabra women I’d met.
“You Muslim or Christian?” I asked.
She patted her hair and gave me a coquettish look. “Do I look like the type who’d ever wear an chador? Lebanese Christian, of course. But now, the way people in this country view the Arab world, I’m reluctant to even tell people I’m Lebanese. I think I should call myself,” she said with an amused expression, “a Phoenician- American.”
I decided to change the subject. The less we discussed Arab or Jewish issues-in light of Israel’s recent history in Lebanon-the better off I would be with her. “Any suggestions on where I can go from here to get a line on that ojime and netsuke?”
“Let me do my own search first.”
“If you come up with anything,” I said, standing up, “let me know.”
I drove home through rush hour traffic and walked up to the roof of my building. The pollution and lights of downtown usually obscured the night skies, but it was unusually clear tonight with a dusting of stars overhead. To the east, I could see the back of the old soot-stained Ross-lyn Hotel, its enormous neon sign buzzing and snapping. A police helicopter zipped by-the whap-whap-whap reminding me of nighttime assaults on Hezbollah garrisons-its spotlight scanning the streets for a dirtbag they probably would never find. When it passed, I could hear the contrapuntal blare of sirens, car horns, and rap and cumbia from the passing cars. Below me, two crackheads argued over a cardboard box, a room for one.
Staring up at the stars, I thought about the Shoki and the Oni. A demon and a demon queller. Isn’t a detective’s job, at its core, to quell demons, or at least chase them? Isn’t it curious that those two objects were found in the house of a retired cop? A retired cop who was killed.
When I was a detective trainee, Bud Carducci, the salty old cop who taught me the rudiments of homicide investigation, once told me: “Rule one of the homicide dick: there are no coincidences. Rule two: there are no rules.” I interpreted that to mean that coincidences are highly unlikely, but not impossible. Was it a coincidence that Relovich, an excop, had a demon and a demon queller in his house? Did these objects have any connection-even tangentially-to his murder?
I then thought about the way Nicole Haddad had tapped me on the chest with her fingernail and that jolt I had felt. But I had always made it a point not to date women I met during the course of an investigation. At least until the investigation was finished. Maybe after this case was cleared I’d give her a call. But I knew I probably wouldn’t. The Jewish-Arab thing might be too much to overcome.
CHAPTER 12
The next morning, I decided I wanted to contact Theresa Martinez, the young Hispanic woman who’d been busted in San Pedro. I had two witnesses. And one was a crackhead. I had to find a way to persuade her to talk.
When I saw her last, I had been reluctant to lean on her. I had leaned on Latisha Patton, and that had got her killed. I didn’t want to pressure another young woman to talk. But I realized that I had to either push every witness to the limit, or give the murder book to a detective more ruthless than me, a detective who was willing to
