Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

  Rachel sat bolt upright in her bed. It took a long moment before she could breathe normally.

  She must talk to Mazzy. She must warn her. A glance at the window confirmed it was already morning. On the nightstand she noticed a jar of night cream she had used before going to sleep. The cream smelled of nuts, milk and wild berries. But the odor of burnt feathers was overwhelming. The combined scent of cream and fear reminded her of distant nights when Mazzy would sneak into her bedroom, frightened and weeping, to complain about monsters in the closet that had invaded her dreams. Rachel was not your average mother, and her solutions were not conventional. She would open the drawer of her nightstand and take out the magic potion, a vial of anise perfume given to her, God knows why, by one of her suitors. This was the anti-monster spray. Sometimes she would pretend to be asleep when she heard the pitter-patter of Mazzy’s bootie-clad feet approaching the bed. A tiny hand would open the drawer and hurry out again. The next day, when she came into her daughter’s room to wake her up for school, a strong smell of licorice would greet her. On those rare mornings, she allowed Mazzy to linger in bed.

  Rachel needed some fresh air, the smell of a new day, or at least a whiff of licorice in an airless room. But when she opened the window, she discovered flakes of ash descending on the city like black snow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Outside the precinct windows, black flakes floated in the morning breeze. But as far as the pair was concerned, the world could go to hell in a handcart. After being cooped up there for two consecutive days, they ignored the ashes raining down like dark cotton candy. The air pollution monitoring stations were reporting unprecedented levels and instructing asthma sufferers and pregnant women to stay home. After several attempts to identify the source and point fingers at possible culprits, it was surmised that the cause was volcanic activity, except that no volcano in the region was smoking. Yariv, on the other hand, was averaging three packs a day.

  He and Mazzy were busy looking for new clues to crack the case, something to connect the dots, or at least steer them in a new direction, away from the data and the witness reports they had gone over dozens of times.

  In an attempt to relieve the tedium, Yariv took his cellphone outside and dialed the number of the crime lab. He waited a few seconds until he heard Doron’s weary voice on the other end of the line.

  “This is the Special Investigations Unit. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Biton, what do you want?”

  “You still owe me an answer.”

  “About the business with Rosolio? I left you a message this morning.”

  “Doron, you know I don’t listen to your messages. Why do you insist on leaving them?”

  “Biton, what do you want from me?”

  “What’s the oddest thing you found in the nightclub where the Judge’s daughter was abducted?”

  “A black feather. Someone on our team said it didn’t belong to any known bird, but it wasn’t synthetic.”

  This was unexpected. And inconvenient. What could he do with this finding?

  “How does this person know that?”

  “His hobby is ornithology.”

  “Tell him to stay away from my dick.”

  “That’s urology, dickhead. Ornithology is the study of birds.”

  “So what d’you call the guy who straightens your teeth?”

  “Give me a break, Biton. I have a whole storehouse to sort out. I don’t have time for this.”

  “OK, hand it over.”

  “What will you do with it?”

  “I have a gut feeling about this feather. Anyway, what do you care, you’ll have one less thing to catalog.”

  “Fine, we’ll save it for you.”

  Yariv hung up and returned to Mazzy’s office. His face was expressionless; he had not yet decided if he should share Doron’s news with her.

  Mazzy lifted her head from the desk that was covered with reports, photos, and drawings. She carved out a square from the clutter and tapped on it to draw his attention.

  Some of the reports had colored tags attached to them, and rubber bands collated others, but a complete picture had not emerged from the pieces of the puzzle.

  “We’re missing something here. It’s like those pictures you see at the mall or at the Central Bus Station.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, those 3D pictures. You have to focus on the dots, on the patterns, and then suddenly something appears. Dolphins.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve been up to my neck in these papers for two and a half days, and nothing. Not even dolphins. Maybe I’m not smoking the right stuff.”

  She let the air out of her lungs. He blew smoke from his.

  “Let’s refresh ourselves.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen you refresh yourself.”

  “Come on, breathe some fresh air.”

  Mazzy ruffled the papers in front of her.

  “Let’s go over it again.”

  Yariv cooperated, reviewing the data in a monotonous voice, clutching at straws, hanging on for dear life.

  “First abduction, nightclub, blond guy, no ransom, no body, no evidence.”

  Mazzy squinted, as if to sharpen her vision.

  “Second abduction, rooftop, a guy with blond hair, no ransom, no body, hail, no evidence except for a partial print.”

  “Maybe it’s weather related?”

  “How come?”

  “Maybe he waits for unusual weather conditions, and they enable him to carry out the abductions? A night of heavy hail, or like today, when people’s windows and shutters are closed. No witnesses, no line of vision. Anything like this the night Estie was kidnapped?”

  Yariv took out a notebook and leafed through its crumpled pages.

  “It was foggy, and there was smoke from smoke generators. Is this what you have in mind?”

  “Could be. Maybe these cinders provide an excellent opportunity for another abduction.”

  “Maybe we’re stuck on this blond guy?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Maybe he’s not blond. Lots of people have light hair, and anyway we don’t have a real suspect that we can confidently place at both scenes. What about your guys?”

  She scrutinized him, trying to gauge his readiness.

  “Itzkovitch says we need to focus on a feather, spring, Passover, or even flowers.”

  “Feather?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He thought it best not to say anything. It was one of those coincidences that become significant only when someone says something at the right moment. Or the wrong one. Yariv needed time to think, to be sure of himself. Over the last few days they had reverted to their old routines. He needed to be in the driving seat for now.

  “You know what, maybe you’re right. Perhaps it’s not the same guy, but two different cases. Which one do we stick with? The Special Investigations team was set up for the Judge’s daughter, but we both know that the chances are slim that she’s still… you know. The second abduction could go in a dozen different ways. It could be criminal; it could be romantic. It’s a bit too elaborate to be political. If we separate the two, what have we got? What can we work on separately that we didn’t cover as one case?”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t leave us much.”

  “We could wait. Eighty percent of our work is waiting.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Another abduction. Two cases don’t make a statistic. Another one will create a series. If your theory is correct, we won’t have long to wait.”

  This made sense, warped sense, but still. It was the toehold they needed to make progress. She was tired of treading water.

  “We need to get out of here. To get something done.”

  “Want to go to the shooting range?”

  “Are you serious?”

  Every couple has their own private therapy, their own method of
relaxation. Some, when things don’t work out and they need to take a break, go to the movies or to a good restaurant.

  Others prefer to take a walk or visit friends. Some go south to the desert, or to a B&B in the Galilee.

  In the old days when Yariv and Mazzy had issues, which were quite often, they went shooting. They were no longer a couple, but therapy is therapy. And they needed some fresh air.

  They shouted hello to the range supervisor as they hurried in, and he bawled them out for being so cavalier about security. There were no other shooters around. Yariv took out his Jericho, then a deep breath, closed one eye and focused the other. He could almost feel the bullets spinning down the barrel as he pulled the trigger. He aimed the first round a little lower, aware of the flinching effect, then fired a cluster. The bullets hit the target a little too high. He wasn’t focused.

  Yariv was not thinking about his own Jericho but about the shooter next to him whose gun emitted measured, regular barks. He stopped and listened to Mazzy in the adjacent booth. When she was his subordinate, she had made a point of flaunting her Jericho, to show everyone she was using a proper gun, not just a .22.

  He fired ten more bullets that tore the bullseye off its wooden frame, but he kept hearing Mazzy, firing furiously. Was she using magazines with more bullets? Even so… Son of a gun, she had switched to a Glock since they were last at the range together. It was a bit of a blow to his ego. He reckoned she had six bullets left.

  Yariv knew what he had to do to restore the balance. He bent down to his holdall, drew out an ancient homemade Double-barreled Beretta, chambered two shells and let loose with both barrels at his target. Splinters shot to the ceiling; the paper target turned to confetti that swirled around the floor. Silence fell on the firing range.

  Yariv took off his ear protectors. Two familiar human sounds filled the air: Mazzy’s cascading laughter that stopped only when she came up for air, and the range supervisor ordering both of them to leave the premises forthwith. Even when they were out, Mazzy could not control herself. It took the entire ride back to the station for Yariv to get a straight answer out of her.

  “You’re completely screwed up.”

  “Why?”

  “You destroyed the entire firing lane. What was that cannon you were using there?”

  “You mean the Lupara.”

  “I don’t care what you call it. What is it anyway?”

  “Double-barreled sawn-off shotgun, the kind favored by Sicilian Mafiosi. It’s homemade. I got it in Naples about two or three years ago.”

  “You were in Italy?” Her smiling voice was tinged with disappointment. When they were together, she had planned a trip to Italy, but Yariv called it off because Europe, he said, was for old folks, and he would go there only when he retired and needed comfy hotels; in the meantime, as long as he could stay in hostels, motels, and guesthouses, he would rather go to more exotic destinations.

  “Rome, Florence, Venice, Naples, Capri. Fourteen days, including shopping. A terrific deal. I was in Rome, too…”

  “You said Rome.”

  “That’s where I had the best time. When I got to Naples, I missed my stazione and had to look for a modest B&B. To cut a long story short, the landlady’s mom, about a hundred years old, eyed me suspiciously. One night, when I was almost asleep, there she was, standing above me, aiming this ancient firearm. I’m lying there, looking these two barrels right in the eye, when the old lady turns the gun around with the butt towards me, and hands it over, then out of her pocket she takes a coarse jute bag with squashed bullets and tosses it on the bedspread. She mutters something in Italian and leaves the room. I check the thing, and, realizing it’s not loaded, put it in my suitcase.

  However, in the middle of the night, I’m consumed with curiosity, so with my Leatherman I open one of the bullets, and inside, mixed with the powder, I find all kinds of ground bones, dried herbs, and pieces of what look like animal entrails. The next day, when I checked out, I asked the landlady, half in English, half in phrasebook Italian, what it was the old lady had said to me. She turned white and said her mother was very old and tended to believe in superstitions, demons, and spirits. She apologized for what had happened. But I insisted, and finally she told me that what her mother said was: This can finish off anything, angel or demon.”

  Mazzy pursed her lips in appreciation. They continued to drive without uttering a word.

  “Tell me, you expect me to believe this nonsense?”

  “Why not?”

  “Where does it really come from?”

  “An old woman sold it to me one Saturday at the flea market in Jaffa. At least that sentence she said is true.”

  “I’m happy for both of you.”

  “I even carried it on me for about a week, while we were together.”

  “Fascinating, Yariv. It really warms my heart.”

  It was clear from her facial expression that he should have left out the last detail, perhaps the entire story. At least he was smart enough not to tell her that the old lady sent regards to Rachel and Mazzy. Enough with all the nostalgia; it would only get him in trouble.

  “But it’s a nice story, isn’t it?”

  “Terrific.”

  When they got to the precinct, they found Sima waiting for them with crossed arms.

  “Goldfinger wants to see you,” she said to Yariv.

  “Me?”

  “No, the other idiot who blew up the shooting range today. When will you grow up, Biton?”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he’s going to dock your salary and, in the disciplinary hearing, you’ll probably get a fine. And that, instead of solving your personal problems, you shoot at things.”

  That was not the image he wanted to project to his boss right now. He was an investigator; his job was to bring things to light, either from the ground or from the air. Perhaps what he heard from Doron might yield something useful. Anything to advance the investigation.

  “When Goldfinger is done razzing me, I have something to tell you,” he said to Mazzy.

  “About what?”

  “About a black feather our plastic friends found.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The minutes Gaby spent meticulously scrubbing his hands were his quiet time. He held the small bar of soap between thumb and finger, rubbing the skin vigorously and shedding dead cells, making way for new ones. He always discerned shapes, patterns, and images in the frothy lather. This was his very private secret.

  When you perform the same ritual more than a hundred times a month, thousands of times a year, and often for nothing because the operation has been canceled or because your role in it is inconsequential, you find special ways to renew your spirit.

  Here he was, retreating back into his work and introspection. Next, he’d blame the long hours and paucity of sleep, the stress and the constant shuttling between the ER and the wards.

  Today he had to talk to her. It was becoming embarrassing. He’d put it off long enough. If you can’t have a conversation with the woman you’re married to, then maybe you do have a problem expressing yourself. Perhaps the gibes about his strict upbringing and his demanding mother had some truth to them.

  But it wasn’t only about him. There were more important things than his hang-ups and his fear of confrontation. Noga needed to learn sign language.

  She was his daughter, too, and her future was at stake. It was time he became proactive, not just a passive participant in her upbringing.

  He had done all the preparation: read the relevant articles, consulted colleagues, spoken on the phone with experts. Now it was time to tell her how simple and obvious the solution was. Noga was smart, this was not just a proud father’s opinion. Even Aurora told him so whenever he picked Noga up from daycare. His cute little girl had no problem absorbing information. The problem was with dishing it out. He knew this trait first hand and blamed himself for having bequeathed it to her.

  Gaby looked at his reflection in the m
irror and saw a confident surgeon in uniform and cap. He rehearsed the prepared speech in his head, focusing on the crucial section.

  “Young children who learn sign language make significant gains and show great progress; they score better on IQ tests, their verbal comprehension is broader, they enrich their vocabulary. Sign language serves also as an incentive to vocal language, encouraging the emergence of the first words. Studies show increased communication, reduction in frustration, improved self-image, a richer inner world and finer, more nuanced connection with the immediate environment.”

  He sounded just like the articles he had read, the explanations and testimonies he had heard. This data should suffice. It was irrefutable.

  Gaby rinsed his hands, folded his elbows and spread his fingers out like a fan. The next stage in the ritual was entering the OR and having his hands dried by a nurse.

  The nurse was a young one, eager to please. She had prepared the right size gloves, the right thickness and no talc, just as he liked it. It was as if he were the master of ceremonies, the chief surgeon. Except that here, too, he played second fiddle. In the background, Gaby heard Pure Souls, the chief surgeon’s favorite CD.

  At a certain point during the operation, he had to restrain an urge to pick up a scalpel and drive it hard into Professor Pomerantz’s palm. If he had to hear the one about “Bertha’s coffee” one more time, he might just succumb to temptation. But for now, he smiled at the professor’s oft-told joke, a feigned smile that employed only his eyes above the surgical mask. Then he bent over the patient, swabbed the slight bleeding, as requested, checked vitals when needed and above all, tried to muster the courage to confront Mazzy.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN