Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

  Something was gnawing at Rachel. She was in the middle of interpreting coffee dregs and was eager to end the session. With a subtle motion, she urged the client to finish her coffee. The latter brought the cup to her lips, drank the liquid and handed it to the reader. Rachel turned the cup upside down on a china plate, and proceeded to examine the dregs.

  Her thoughts, though, drifted to a man’s face reflected in the shiny, dark surface of her own coffee. The stern, chiseled face was surrounded by long black tresses interspersed with a few silver strands.

  Rachel fell silent for a long moment, trying to focus on the task at hand.

  The client, something of a coffee reader herself, was annoyed. It shouldn’t be taking such a long time. Not for someone of Rachel’s stature. Rachel always knew the answer, pure and simple.

  “Do you see anything?”

  Rachel shook off the memory of the man’s face, his burning eyes and ardent determination. The surprise visit of Mazzy’s father would have to be put on hold.

  “He’s all right. Just overworked. That’s the truth; there’s nobody else. You’re the only one.”

  “It’s hard to see straight when it’s so close, when it’s your own family.”

  “That’s why I’m here. If you still have doubts, we can check again. Right now, everything seems fine.”

  Rachel’s client got to her feet, leaving some cash in the straw basket by the door. She wanted to turn around to watch Rachel drink her coffee, but something stopped her, so she made her way to the main entrance and left.

  A shudder coursed through Rachel’s body, followed by a sudden stinging cold. An unmistaken sensation, shattering, gut-wrenching.

  The first time she had experienced this feeling was when she met Mazzy’s father. This time it was a little vaguer, but still scary. She knew something was going to happen, something bigger than herself and Mazzy combined.

  She grabbed the phone.

  A curt, impatient voice answered.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s another one.”

  “I know. Sima just told me about the actress. I’m on my way there.”

  “There’ll be others.”

  “How do you know?”

  “From the coffee, and that’s what worrying.”

  “Who visited you?”

  “You must let me help with this investigation.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “I will, but it’s a bit ambiguous. Apart from the fact that this is much bigger than we thought.”

  “You’re welcome to come to the precinct whenever you like. After the crime scene, I’ll come back here.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “OK.”

  “And, Mazzy, double check everything.”

  “It’s my job; I’ll manage. Is there a connection to the ash that came down earlier?”

  Rachel hung up without answering. She believed her daughter when she said she’d manage, but she still worried. She looked outside the window and realized that Mazzy had been right about the falling ashes. But her mother’s instincts were on high alert. Something was threatening her daughter, casting a shadow over her, a large heavy shadow. Like an eclipse obscuring the sun.

  Rachel walked over to the big mirror and removed the cloth that covered it. Israel’s image was reflected in the shiny surface. It lingered for a long moment before evaporating, leaving behind a blazing message:

  For three things the earth is disquieted, and for four which it cannot bear.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Almost three hundred people sat facing the stage, and not one of them could bear witness. Some thought they had seen something, but most repeated the same vague story: the swirling smoke and dry ice turned the drama on stage into an impenetrable conundrum.

  Backstage too, there were no great revelations. The spotlights were positioned exactly as they had been during the abduction. Mazzy stood in the middle of the stage, and Yariv could not take his eyes off her. She was not doing anything out of the ordinary – marking various locations and trying not to disrupt Doron and his team who were staging a sound and light show of their own. Mazzy had just finished a phone call, and to Yariv, the motion of returning her phone to its case was the most charming sight he had ever seen. Then she started leafing through her notes and the magic was gone.

  Yariv felt in his pocket for the black feather Doron had given him. There was something comforting in it, something novel. He wasn’t sure why he found it necessary to keep it so close to him. Yariv hastened down the stairs to the stalls, skipping steps. Mazzy looked agitated, which only added to her charm.

  “What happened?”

  “What happened? Everybody is nuts. A theater full of people, and no one sees anything. Doron and the Plastics are already spouting conspiracy theories about an alien abduction. They found hair scattered around. Hair that does not belong to the victim and without roots, as if it had been cut. And it’s not just the regular investigation. My unit’s gone crazy, too. Rachel calls to offer her help; Izzy insists on checking out the witness. Larissa is nowhere to be found, and Itzkovitch, who you can normally call at four am, on his way to the mikvah or the synagogue, is suddenly unavailable. Have you got anything?”

  “Sort of. We got lucky with the invitations. We checked the list of people who didn’t show up. There’s only one, a critic who scalped his ticket. He asked us not to tell his editor, but he just couldn’t say no.”

  “Someone threatened him to get the ticket?”

  “Someone offered an incredible sum. Must have wanted to see Macbeth really bad.”

  “We have a name?”

  “Yes. The critic left the invitation at the box office, and the guy picked it up there.”

  “Should we go?”

  He was eager for them to get into the police car, where just the two of them would fill the space, without the noise and commotion of the crime scene. Even though Mazzy did not spend much time in her official car, she treated herself to a superior sound system, with sub-woofers and an equilizer. This was her way of personalizing the car, after being penalized by Goldfinger for decorating the dashboard with fluffy pink fur and hanging a voodoo doll on the rearview mirror. Since then she had to make do with this funked-up sound system and a huge Hamsa charm glued to the dash. Let the boss try to chew her out for a Hamsa!

  As she tapped on the steering wheel to the rhythm of some track he didn’t recognize, Yariv reminisced about a trip they had taken to the desert in a rental car. When the radio died, Mazzy said that from now on, she would be their station. If only they had continued their duet, he thought.

  A few turns and junctions later, they arrived in the neighborhood where the critic lived. The address was in an area that looked deliberately designed to have no distinctive character, an architectural conglomeration of cottages, terraced houses, condos, and single-family homes. None of them left any impression or possessed any individual traits. They reminded Yariv of witnesses trying to describe a totally unremarkable scene.

  “I think that’s the address.”

  “How can you tell them apart?”

  “Numbers help.”

  Mazzy exhaled through flared nostrils, like a thoroughbred mare, and got out of the car. They were in front of a cookie cutter duplex, with a manicured lawn. A few steps later they were standing by a ceramic sign and on a squeaky clean doormat. Mazzy rang the bell. A tall, handsome man with short-cropped hair opened the door.

  The moment he laid eyes on him, Yariv decided he couldn’t stand him. He ascribed it to a detective’s gut feeling. The fact that the stranger was taller, stronger and handsomer did not help, either. He was the type Yariv saw at the gym, admiring his own reflection in the mirror.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Yariv Biton, and this is my partner. We’re investigating the incident at the theater.”

  “I already spoke to one of your people at the theater.”

  “We’d like to go over a few details.”

  Th
e tall man moved away from the door, letting the detectives in. As soon as she entered, Mazzy detected a whiff of anise; the strange smell afforded her a sense of security she had not felt in years. She hastened to give the man her hand.

  “Mazzy Simantov.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you are?”

  The routine question made him raise his shoulders, as if someone had stuck a stave between his blades.

  “You’ve got it written down, don’t you?”

  “It says Barak Almadon.”

  “If that’s what it says, then that’s what it is.”

  “Are you related to Almadon from Haifa?” Yariv tried smalltalk.

  “I doubt it. We’re a very small family.”

  Mazzy looked around. There was something weird about the room, as if a designer had worked hard to invest it with a “natural” look and achieved the opposite effect. And in spite of the soothing anise smell, the décor gave the impression of something strained, ominous even. She tried to be nice.

  “You have a lovely house.”

  “Thank you, but you didn’t come to look at my house, right?”

  “No.”

  Something in the quick repartee did not sit well with Yariv. Ditto for the aroma. He smelled shakshuka being prepared with fresh tomatoes and herbs, except that Almadon did not look like a candidate for Master Chef. This, too, registered with Yariv.

  “Sometimes people remember things after the fact, all kinds of details that didn’t occur to them at the time.”

  “Not me.”

  “Have you witnessed such events before?”

  “No, but I deal in details. I’m an information broker.”

  Mazzy and Yariv exchanged inquiring looks. This Barak was obviously a strange duck. He wanted to be questioned, but his answers were selective. He would make an excellent witness in court.

  “Pardon my ignorance, but what does that mean?” Mazzy said.

  “I collect information and analyze it for companies and individuals.”

  “Like a search engine, a sort of human Google?” Yariv suggested with a hint of mockery. Mazzy shot him a menacing look.

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “So there’s nothing new you can tell us?”

  “Not really. I’ve already said everything I had to say.”

  “Do you earn a lot of money from this job?”

  “I make ends meet.”

  “And yet you shelled out two thousand shekels for a theater ticket.”

  “Is it a crime to pay for a good show?”

  “Every ticket has a price, and yours was just too steep.”

  A flash of anger passed over Almadon’s face. He quickly resumed his serene look.

  “Would you mind coming to the police station with us?”

  “Am I being charged with something?”

  Mazzy took the reins.

  “No, no. It’s just that we have experts there who might be able to obtain more information from you.” She hoped that her use of “obtain” would do the trick. She continued:

  “These are people with good ears. It’s very helpful when they hear something first hand. The more info we get and the sooner, the sooner we can make progress in the investigation and find the missing Ms Umilzaban.”

  “It’s pronounced Umm-Alzabian. The Umm is separate, as in Umm-Kulthum.”

  Names were important to him, Mazzy noted. He made a point of pronouncing them correctly, insisting on every detail.

  Yariv was not interested. “Umm-Shmumm. Do you know her?”

  “No. But I read about her. I always read about the actors before I see a play. There was some write-up in the brochure they handed out. Didn’t you read it?”

  “Tell me, BA-rak,” Yariv deliberately mispronounced his name. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  “It’s pronounced Ba-RAK,” corrected the witness.

  “And when you were little, what did they call you?”

  “That was such a long time ago. Seems like it never happened.”

  Mazzy was becoming impatient. Both with this man’s evasions and Yariv’s time wasting.

  “So, will you come with us to the station?”

  “Can I drive myself?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do I need to call a lawyer?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because if I do, I need to find one.”

  “There is no need, really.”

  “When people say ‘no need,’ it usually means ‘you’d better do it.’”

  Mazzy thought of all the times that Naomi, Gaby’s mother, said, ‘No need to worry,’ or ‘you don’t need to work so hard,’ or ‘you needn’t always prove you’re right.’ The guy was pretty perceptive.

  “Well, you can get one if you want.”

  He gave them a distrustful look. If they didn’t leave soon, they’d need a warrant to summon him to testify a second time at the police station, after he had given a written statement at the theater.

  “We’ll wait for you.”

  Barak nodded and, without a word, showed them the door. Yariv shot out of the house, almost running to the police car, but Mazzy took her time.

  “C’mon,” he urged her.

  “If you don’t want to walk to the precinct, you’d better calm down. Someone once taught me that it’s best to keep the cards close to your chest and not just throw them on the table. Do you know who it was? Yariv Biton.”

  “When you’re holding a full house, the timing doesn’t really matter. The actress’s clock is ticking.”

  “But now, because of the pressure you put on him, he’ll lawyer up. Why do you have to complicate everything?”

  Yariv got in the car and didn’t say a word during the ride. He didn’t share with Mazzy his gut feeling about the witness, and his pulse was racing from being cooped up with her in an enclosed space. He’d have to do something about this soon.

  Mazzy wondered who the best person would be to interrogate this Barak Almadon. She knew the answer and it displeased her. Her cellphone rang.

  “Well, when are you getting here?” Rachel’s exhortation was just as disagreeable to her as Yariv’s was earlier.

  “Where are you?” Mazzy wanted to know.

  “At the station. Waiting for you and Almadon. Your hippie is here too.”

  There was no point asking Rachel how she knew his name, nor rebuking her about Izzy.

  “We’re on our way.”

  Sima greeted Mazzy and Yariv with a sulk.

  “Next time you open a Situation Room here, let me know beforehand.”

  Mazzy glanced at the crowd waiting in the room and, to her surprise, saw not only Rachel and Izzy, but also Ashling and Aelina. Doron from the crime lab was sitting on the edge of the bench, trying to keep his distance from the clairvoyants. When he saw Mazzy and Yariv, his face lit up.

  “Which room is available?” Mazzy asked.

  “Three. And Goldfinger would like you to coordinate such things with him, if possible.”

  Yariv entered the interrogation room and began his usual meditation. He stared at the empty chair across the table, imagining Barak Almadon sitting in it. Outside the room, pandemonium reigned, but Yariv heard nothing but his intuition. He’d only just met the witness and already couldn’t stand him. But this feeling was easier to deal with than his other trouble.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “How did they get to me so fast?”

  “Technical error. Will be corrected.”

  “Yes, you paid far too much for the ticket.”

  “Happens. That’s not important right now. Calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!”

  “How are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think you’ll manage?”

  “I’ll manage. Do I need a lawyer?”

  “It will only take longer. Just play dumb. Cooperate and they’ll have to let you go. It’s not a crime to see a play.”

  “The woman
– there’s something grating about her.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “No, does it matter?”

  He thought he felt Saharel’s lips stretch into a grin on the other end of the line. Barakiel was still perturbed.

  “When do we go collect the next one?”

  “In a day or two.”

  “The professor?”

  “What do you care? Right now, all you need to do is give them a few simple answers and bide your time.”

  “When this whole affair is over, we’re going to have a long talk.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.”

  Barakiel called a cab to take him to the police station.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Almadon was too calm for someone who was clean. Yariv could tell the difference between a nabbed perpetrator under pressure and an innocent man in the same situation. Those who were guilty without showing any sign of stress were the toughest clients.

  “So you have no objection?”

  “Do what you want. I have done nothing wrong. You can bring in all the Uri Gellers in the world. It won’t bother me.”

  Mazzy thanked Almadon for his open-mindedness and, as a gesture of good will, ordered him a cup of coffee. Surely, an innocent witness would not refuse a cup of coffee. Rachel and Doron were eagerly awaiting the findings, and when they arrived, they each hastened to apply their craft. Rachel emptied the dregs onto a saucer, and Doron took the cup straight to the lab.

  Goldfinger sat in the observation room as the responsible adult, making sure that nobody overstepped their bounds.

  Izzy came out of the interrogation room and entered the observation room in a state of great agitation. Yariv and Goldfinger were watching Ashling as she felt the witness’s temples. Goldfinger was about to protest when Barak Almadon calmly turned his face to the camera, smiling beatifically.

  Ashling left Almadon and flapped her hands, as if trying to dry them. It was now Aelina’s turn to face him.

  “I hope she’s not trying to hypnotize him. No judge in the world will admit such evidence in court, especially if it’s self-incriminating, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  Yariv tried to allay his boss’s fears, even though he himself was just as disconcerted by the scene.