Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Southern District,” said Milo, very softly. “What does that mean?”

  “Jerusalem and the surrounding areas,” said Carmeli.

  “So on your map that includes Southern California, too.”

  Sharavi leaned back in the love seat. The windbreaker was unzipped and the flaps parted, revealing a thin, flat torso. No shoulder holster, no visible weapon, and the bulge in his pocket was too small to be anything other than five fingers.

  Carmeli said, “Several years ago, Superintendent Sharavi headed a major investigation into a series of Jerusalem sex killings called the Butcher murders.”

  “Several years ago,” said Milo. “Must have missed that one.”

  “Serial murders are almost nonexistent in Israel, Mr. Sturgis. The Butcher was the first in our history. We're a small country, the impact was huge. Superintendent Sharavi solved the killings. There've been none like them since.”

  “Congratulations,” said Milo, turning to Sharavi. “Must be nice to have spare time.”

  Sharavi didn't move.

  Carmeli said, “Superintendent Sharavi is also familiar with Los Angeles because he was part of the security contingent that accompanied our athletes to the L.A. Olympics. We would like you to work with him on the current murders.”

  “Murders,” said Milo, still facing Sharavi. “Plural, not just your daughter's. Sounds like you've kept abreast.”

  Carmeli smoked and sanded his desk with the palm of his hand. “We are aware of . . . developments.”

  “I'll bet you are,” said Milo. “So where're the bugs? Dashboard of my car? My office phone? Heel of my shoe? All of the above?”

  No reply.

  “Probably in my house, too,” I said. “The night the burglar alarm went off. By listening in there, they'd have access to lots of information. But the superintendent's been with us well before then.”

  I faced Sharavi. “I've seen you twice. At Booker T. Washington Elementary School the day Latvinia Shaver's body was found. And at the nature conservancy the day Milo and I looked over the crime scene. You were driving a mower. Both times you wore a uniform.”

  Sharavi's expression didn't change and he didn't answer.

  Milo said, “Isn't that interesting.” Striving for calm, too. The air felt ready to implode.

  Carmeli smoked hard and fast, stopping only to look at the cigarette, as if the act required concentration.

  “Well,” said Milo. “It's sure good to meet a genuine expert. A real back-alley sleuth.”

  Sharavi removed his hand from his pocket and placed it in his lap. The upper surface was glossy with grayish-brown scar tissue and deeply caved, as if a chunk of flesh and bone had been scooped out. The thumb was atrophied and curled unnaturally and I'd overestimated the number of fingers: The thumb was intact but all that remained of the index was a one-knuckle stump and the remaining three were wasted, too, not much more than bare bone with a pallid brown sheath.

  He said, “I began looking into the case just before you came on, Detective Sturgis.” His voice was youthful, barely accented. “I hope we can put that aside and work together.”

  “Sure,” said Milo. “One big happy family, I trust you, already.” Crossing and uncrossing his long legs, he shook his head. “So, how many felonies have you racked up so far, playing James Bond?”

  “Superintendent Sharavi is operating under full diplomatic immunity,” said Carmeli. “He's protected from threats and prosecution—”

  “Ah,” said Milo.

  “So it's arranged, Mr. Sturgis?”

  “Arranged?”

  “A working agreement to share and collaborate.”

  “Share,” said Milo, laughing. “Christ. Show me yours, I show you mine? And if I say no?”

  Carmeli didn't answer.

  Sharavi pretended to study his ruined hand.

  “Let me guess,” said Milo. “You put a call in to the mayor's office and I'm off the case, replaced with some lackey willing to share.”

  Carmeli took a deep drag. “My daughter was murdered. I was hoping for a more mature attitude on your part.”

  Milo stood. “Let me save you the trouble. Get yourself a mature guy and I'll go back to dealing with ordinary homicides with ordinary obstructions. No big loss to you— since you've been following closely, you know we haven't made much progress. Bye— shalom.”

  He started out and I followed.

  Carmeli said, “I'd prefer that you remain on the case, Detective Sturgis.”

  Milo stopped. “I'm sorry, sir. It just won't work out.”

  We left the office and were back at the door into the conference room when Carmeli caught up with us. Milo turned the knob. It wouldn't budge.

  “There's a master lock for the entire suite,” said Carmeli.

  “Kidnapping, too? I thought you guys rescued hostages.”

  “I'm serious, Detective Sturgis. I want you on my daughter's case. You were assigned to it in the first place because I asked for you, personally.”

  Milo's hand dropped from the knob.

  “I asked for you,” Carmeli repeated, “because things had bogged down. Gorobich and Ramos were nice men, they seemed competent enough for routine cases. But I knew this wasn't routine and it soon became clear that they didn't measure up. Nevertheless, I gave them time. Because contrary to what you believe, it was never my intention to obstruct. All I want is to find the garbage who murdered my daughter. Do you understand that? Do you?”

  He'd moved closer to Milo, closing the space between them the way— exactly what I'd seen Milo do with suspects.

  “That's all I care about, Mr. Sturgis. Results. Do you understand? Nothing else. Gorobich and Ramos produced none so they—”

  “What makes you think—”

  “— were removed and you were brought in. I conducted some research. The performance of Robbery-Homicide detectives at the West L.A. station. I wanted to know which detectives avoided the quick and easy and had a record of tackling atypical cases. Of those, which detective had the highest solve rate for the past ten years. Things the department doesn't want made public, the data was hard to obtain, but I managed. And guess what, Mr. Sturgis? Your name kept coming up. Your solve rate is eighteen percent higher than your nearest competitor's, though your popularity rating is considerably lower than his. Which is also fine, I'm not running a social club. In fact—”

  “I've never seen statistics like that—”

  “I'm sure you haven't.” Carmeli pulled out another cigarette and waved it like a conductor's baton. “Officially, they don't exist. So congratulations. You're the winner. Not that it will help your career advancement . . . you were also described as someone lacking in polish and good manners, someone who doesn't give a damn about what people think of him. Someone who can be a bully.”

  Puff, puff. “There are also people in the department who believe you harbor violent tendencies. I know about the incident in which you broke a superior's jaw. My reading of that was that you were morally justified but that nonetheless it was a stupid, impulsive act. It bothered me, but the fact that you haven't done anything like that in over four years encourages me.”

  He came even closer, looking Milo straight in the eye. “The fact that you are gay encourages me, as well, because it's clear that no matter how liberal a line the police department takes in public, no matter how high the caliber of your work remains, you'll always be an outcast.”

  Another long drag. “This is as high as you'll go, Mr. Sturgis. Which, for my needs, is perfect. Someone aiming for the top— someone cautious, a careerist—is exactly what I don't want. Some ambition-blinded monkey scampering up the administrative ladder, looking over his shoulder every other second, keeping his buttocks shielded.”

  He blinked. “My daughter was taken from me. Bureaucracy is the last thing I need. Do you understand? Do you?”

  “If you're after results, why make it so difficult for me to get info—”

  “No, no, no,” said Carmeli, smoking an
d blinking through the haze. “In terms of reading my motivations, you're not as astute as you think you are. I haven't hidden anything important from you. I'd strip naked and parade down Wilshire Boulevard if it would bring the garbage who murdered my Iriti to justice. Do you understand that?”

  “I—”

  “Life has its ups and downs, no one knows that better than Israelis. But losing a young child is an unnatural occurrence and losing one violently is an abomination. One can never be prepared for it and one finds oneself unable to help those who—” He shook his head violently. “I don't want a team player, Milo.”

  Using the first name as if used to it. “On the contrary. Come to me and inform me that you've found him, that you've shot him or cut his throat, and I'll be a far happier man, Milo. Not happy, not jocular or sunny or optimistic. I've never been that sort, even as a child I had a pessimistic worldview. That's why I smoke sixty cigarettes a day. That's why I work for a government. But happier. Partial healing of the wound. Staunching the pus.”

  He touched Milo's lapel and Milo allowed it.

  “You saw my wife. Being married to me, holding things in— has always been difficult for her. Now she finds herself unwilling to live a shadow life, to put up with even the most trivial impositions. She works and comes home and won't leave, won't accompany me to functions. Even though I know she can't be blamed, I get angry. We fight. My work helps me escape but hers forces her to look at other people's children, day after day. I've told her to quit but she won't. Won't stop punishing herself.”

  He rocked on his heels.

  “It took thirty-three hours to give birth to Irit. There were complications, she always felt guilty because of Irit's disabilities, even though a fever caused them, months later. Now, her feelings are— when I go home I don't know what to expect. Do you think I want a team player, Milo?”

  He let go of the lapel. Milo's face was white as moonlight, the skin around his mouth so tight the acne pits had compressed to hash marks.

  “The stress,” said Carmeli, “has already taken its toll. Some things can't be fixed. But my— I want to know. I want resolution—”

  “So you want to use me as an executioner—”

  “No. God forbid. Stop reading between lines that bear no interpretation. What I want is simple: knowledge. Justice. And now, you'll admit, it's not just for me and my family, is it? That girl on the schoolyard, possibly the poor little boy in East L.A. Why should this . . . monster kill more children?”

  “Final justice?” said Milo. “I find him, your boys finish him off?”

  Carmeli stepped back, stubbed out the cigarette, and fumbled in his jacket for yet another one. “I'll grant you your moment of outrage. No one likes being watched, least of all a detective. But put your ego aside and stop being obstinate.”

  He lit up. “We bent some rules to obtain information— fine, now we've confessed. I'm a diplomat, not a terrorist. I've seen what terrorists do and I respect the rule of law. Catch this piece of garbage and bring him to the bar of justice.”

  “And if I can't?”

  “Then your solve rate drops and I seek other solutions.”

  As Milo regarded him, Carmeli took in lungfuls of smoke and tapped his foot. His eyes had turned wild and, as if realizing it, he closed them.

  When they opened, they were dead, and the look on his face chilled me.

  “If you refuse me, Milo, I will not make vengeful phone calls to the mayor or anyone else. Because vengeance is personal and you hold no interest for me personally, only as a means to an end. You might do well to adopt the same attitude. Think of me as a bureaucratic idiot, curse me every morning for listening in on your conversations. I'll live with your curses. But does your opinion of me mean Irit's murder doesn't deserve your best efforts?”

  “That's the point, Mr. Carmeli. You've been hampering my best efforts.”

  “No, I reject that. I reject that absolutely, and if you analyze the situation honestly, you will, too. If the Ortiz boy's shoes were left with the police to get attention, would giving the garbage more attention solve the problem? Be honest.”

  Looking for an ashtray, he found one in a nearby cubicle, picked it up, flicked.

  I thought of the kitchen conversation he'd heard. My theories, Milo's procedures.

  Now he was face-to-face with Milo again, inches away, holding his cigarette next to his trouser leg.

  Milo said, “Listen, I'm not gonna stand here and make a big deal out of this, because you've been through it, you've got serious rights, here. But I'm also not gonna let you control the investigation because of your outrage or who you happen to be. You're out of your element. You don't know what the hell you're doing.”

  “Granted.”

  “The point is, Mr. Carmeli, my job is a lot more perspiration than inspiration and if I do solve a few more cases than someone else it's probably because I try not to get distracted. And you've been distracting me. Right from the beginning, you've been trying to call the shots. And now all this espionage shit. I just spent hours of investigative time chasing down your boy in there, instead of looking for Irit's killer. Now, you order me to adopt him and just—”

  “Not an order, a request. And one that could help you. He's a very able detective—”

  “I'm sure he is,” said Milo. “But one case, in a country where violent crime is rare, has nothing to do with what we're dealing with. And now I've got to take time off from the investigation to figure out where he stuck his goddamn bugs—”

  “Not necessary,” said a quiet, boyish voice. I hadn't heard Sharavi come out of the office but he was there, hand in pocket again. “I'll tell you exactly where they are.”

  “Great,” said Milo, wheeling on him. “Very comforting.” He gave a disgusted look.

  Carmeli said, “We meant no harm, Milo. The intention was always to be open, eventually—”

  “How eventually?”

  “The surveillance was nothing personal. And if you must blame someone, blame me. Superintendent Sharavi happened to be in the States on other business and I had him brought to L.A. because Gorobich and Ramos were getting nowhere. They talked to me, those two, but they never told me anything. I'm sure you know what I mean.”

  Milo didn't answer.

  Carmeli said, “I needed a starting point. Some basic information. In my position, can you honestly say you would have done any differently? The idea, all along, was that if Superintendent Sharavi came up with something, you'd be the first to—”

  “Eventually? What if Dr. Delaware hadn't noticed that van in the alley? Would we have ever been told anything?” He faced Sharavi. “Screwed up, didn't you, James Bond?”

  Sharavi said, “Yes,” with an utter lack of defensiveness.

  Milo shook his head. “License-plate switches, mail drop, and a phony language teacher to hide your trail? What's Irina, a full-fledged secret agent or just some free-lance? And who the hell is P. L. Almoni?”

  Carmeli smiled and hid it behind his smoking hand.

  “My mistake,” said Sharavi. “I didn't appreciate Dr. Delaware's powers of observation.”

  “Underestimating Dr. Delaware is no way to win at blackjack,” said Milo. “He's a detail guy, attuned to all the nuances.”

  “Obviously,” said Sharavi. “He was the one who urged pursuing the DVLL angle.”

  “Our first real break,” said Carmeli, waving his cigarette. “Finally. We've plugged it into all our databases. Here, back in Israel, Asia, Europe. We have resources you don't. If we pool— this is no time to let egos get in—”

  “Learn anything from your databases?” Milo asked him.

  “Not yet, but the point is, the wider the net—”

  “Sometimes the wider the net, the bigger the tangles, Mr. Carmeli.” He turned to Sharavi. “So tell me, Superintendent, is this conversation being taped, too?”

  Sharavi's eyebrows arched higher. He glanced at Carmeli.

  Carmeli said, “No, we've disconnected the recorders in
the suite. However, you were recorded the first time we met.”

  Milo allowed himself a tiny smile. Gut instincts confirmed.

  “From now on,” Carmeli continued, “you have my word that no further surveillance will be conducted without your—”

  “Assuming there is a “from now on,' ” said Milo.

  “Are you that egotistical?” said Carmeli. He turned to me. “When I address Milo, I'm including you, Doctor. In light of the DVLL angle and two other related murders, we're clearly faced with a psychopathologic killer, so psychological input is called for. I'm not trying to get between you and Milo, but whatever he decides, the Israeli consulate is willing to reimburse you for your time at a very generous rate. The consulate is also willing to extend itself to you considerably. Because we know the deck is stacked against success and anything we can do to—”