Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 07

by Sanctuary

  And what stones they were! Diamonds! Thousands of them! Their worth just too staggering to contemplate. Piles spilling carelessly onto blotters, being freely passed from one hand to another. How easy it would be to palm a stone. And no one did. What a sense of trust!

  Rina suddenly laughed inwardly at her naïveté.

  It wasn’t trust that prevented theft, it was all the security. Lots and lots of security—unobtrusive, but a constant presence. She caught Peter’s eye. “It’s something else, isn’t it? Kind of like a stock exchange only without the suits and ties.”

  Decker nodded. It was a good observation. There was little diversity in the population. Most were men and they were all dressed casually—dark pants, white shirt, no tie. Except for the occasional sleek-garbed woman, everyone looked the same. Even the religious seemed to blend in once they took off their long black coats.

  His eyes went to the tables. Dozens of men sitting across from one another, opening briefcases and photographers’ bags filled with folded blue tissue paper. The valises were attached to metal chains, the chains were anchored around the vendors’ waists. The noise level was surprisingly civil. It was easy to hear conversation. Too bad Decker couldn’t understand any of it. But he was good at reading body language. He could tell at a glance who was making a deal, who was not.

  Rina was wide-eyed. The old man looked at her face, smiled, then whispered something into her ear.

  “What?” Decker said.

  Rina moved in close. “He said there’s enough wealth in this room to buy all of Israel.”

  Decker inched closer to the action, caught prisms of sunlight bouncing off the tabletops. Stones strewn over the blotters of white calender paper. A young man opened up a shoe-sized box stuffed with the blue tissue paper. He unwrapped one of the pieces of paper. A heart-shaped gem winked flirtatiously at Decker.

  Yalom caught them staring and said, “You want see close? Come.” He walked over to a vendor and tapped him on the shoulder. The man looked up, then placed something in Yalom’s hand. The old man showed it to Decker. It was a raw stone and had an odd shape—two triangles fused at the base. It also looked like bottle glass.

  The old man hefted the diamond and spoke in English. “Maybe three and half carat. They make two.” He made a slicing motion with his empty hand and spoke in Hebrew to Rina, showing her the stone as he talked.

  Rina said, “The cutter will cleave the diamond at the base where the two triangles meet. That way he’ll have two nearly identical gems which will be set for earrings.”

  “Tell him it looks like glass. That I’d pass it up without a second glance.”

  Yalom nodded to Decker and smiled.

  Rina said, “I think he understood you.”

  The old man talked to Rina. “He says usually the buyers sit on one side of the table, the sellers opposite them. The buyers, even if they have offices, often come down here to see the action. If it’s real busy, the buyers will take their ‘want’ lists of what they need to the floor, sit down at a table, and place the list in front of them. The sellers walk down the aisles and look over the lists. If there’s a match, it’s a mazel und b’racha—a luck and a blessing. That means they cut a deal.”

  The old man continued to talk.

  Rina translated, “If it’s not that busy or if the buyers are occupied with other business, they’ll post their lists on the front doors of their offices. The sellers also go floor to floor and read the lists. Anything to strike a deal.”

  Yalom cased the room, then spoke again.

  Rina said, “He says Joseph Menkovitz usually sits on the other side of the room. Very far away. He likes people to come to him.”

  “Let’s go,” Decker said.

  Yalom led them through the crowd, Decker’s eyes scanning the area as he walked. People all around, the men blending together in a black-and-white tableau. It was the few women who stood out. They dressed sharply in gross contrast to the men. Bold jackets accented with colorful scarves, miniskirts showing lots of good-looking leg, jewelry dangling from ears and from around necks.

  The old man pointed to the far corner. The spot had attracted a considerable crowd, lots of white shirts bending over the table. Yalom said, “Yosef’s there.”

  A shock of color suddenly drifted away from the sea of white cotton.

  It hit him as hard as a sock in the jaw.

  Speak to my secretary and I’ll get back to you.

  So much for the big case that was keeping Milligan in Los Angeles. Decker took a dozen steps backward, pulling Rina with him. Yalom was still walking toward the crowd when he realized he’d lost his companions. He turned around and looked over his shoulder. Decker motioned him back, then pressed them all against the wall.

  “What is it?” Rina asked.

  “Ask him who that woman is,” Decker said.

  “Which woman?”

  “The one in the bright blue dress with curly copper-colored hair and the big handbag.”

  The old man understood. “Kate Milligan.” He spread his arms wide out. “Macher…shot big.”

  “He means big shot,” Rina answered.

  Milligan took a notebook out of her purse and briskly flipped through the pages. Decker said, “Ask him if he sees her at the Bursa a lot.”

  Rina did, then translated Yalom’s answer. “He said it’s unusual. But everyone knows who she is because she’s a macher—a big shot—with VerHauten. You know about VerHauten?”

  “Yes, I know about VerHauten. Ask him, why does he think she’d be here talking to Yosef Menkovitz.”

  Rina asked the question, then translated Yalom’s answer as best she could. “She wants to see how many stones come from VerHauten…I don’t know exactly what he means.”

  “I think I do,” Decker said. “Ask him if stones from sources other than VerHauten’s pipes have been showing up in the Bursa?”

  Rina stared at him. “Repeat that again, slowly.”

  Decker did and Rina translated. It took a few moments, Decker’s eyes fixed upon Milligan. She was still thumbing through her notebook. Then she checked her watch.

  Yalom’s answer deepened Rina’s frown. “I don’t know if I’m getting this right. He said something like…the stones come from all over. Most come from VerHauten. But some dealers go to Russia and buy stones there.”

  The old man continued to talk. Rina knitted her brow as she listened.

  She said, “There are also some stones that…go around. I think he means float around. People don’t ask questions about them.”

  Yalom continued talking.

  Rina said, “People are afraid of Milligan. The dealers must buy a certain amount of stones from VerHauten. If it gets back that they are buying diamonds from other places, she can make trouble.”

  Decker said, “Ask him if it’s rare to see her on the floor.”

  Rina asked the question, then listened to Yalom’s answer. “Yes, it’s rare to see her on the floor. She mostly goes to offices or to the lounge upstairs where it’s quieter and more private. VerHauten likes privacy.”

  “So why is she on the floor?”

  The old man shrugged a response.

  Milligan moved back into the sea of white shirts.

  Yalom talked. Rina said, “Milligan has dealt with Menkovitz in the past. He’s big and VerHauten knows all the big dealers.”

  “Does he know Milligan no longer works for VerHauten?”

  Rina translated. The old man’s eyes grew wide. Decker said, “Guess he didn’t.”

  Again, Milligan withdrew from the crowd. She snapped her book shut and walked crisply down the Bursa, all eyes watching the click of her heels.

  Decker lurched forward, then pulled back.

  Rina said, “You want to follow her, Peter?”

  “I can’t. She’s met me before and I’m too conspicuous in this country to tail her without her noticing me.”

  “Then I’ll do—”

  “Forget it.”

  Rina fished the c
ar keys out of her purse. “I’ve got three kids at home, including a baby. I promise I won’t do anything dumb. I’ll call you later at Mr. Yalom’s house.”

  With that, she jogged to catch up to Milligan. Decker started forward, then bit his lip and let her go.

  There was no point in trying to change Rina’s mind. She wouldn’t listen and it would just create an argument. She’d seen him on stakeouts. Hopefully, she’d picked up a couple of salient tips. And she looked innocuous enough, clad in a simple blue dress and flats, her hair braided and tucked under a blue tam. She looked about as threatening as a bunny rabbit.

  Stomach in a knot, Decker took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Why was he so interested in Kate Milligan? What evidence did he have that she was a player in this case? Then again, what was she doing here when she was supposed to be working on a case in Los Angeles? She had told him specifically that she’d be in town. Obviously, she had had a change of plans. It could happen.

  Decker rubbed his eyes.

  The boys were missing and so was Gold; then Milligan popped up from nowhere. And now Rina was on the loose. He would have never involved her if it weren’t for the Yalom kids. Goddamn boys. They’d sucked him into it. He cared about the kids just like Rina cared about Honey’s kids.

  Why was he so concerned?

  He knew Rina was at home in the country. In fact, she knew Israel better than either Milligan or he did. She knew what was dangerous and how to avoid it. And Decker did want to know what the woman was up to. Besides, how much possible harm could come from one woman following another?

  Don’t answer that question, Deck.

  Decker continued to rationalize. Rina had told him she wouldn’t do anything dumb. She had three kids at home. He knew what Hannah and the boys meant to his wife. He tossed negative thoughts out of his head and decided to believe her promise.

  28

  The woman had clout. Rina saw her being led by security to the front of the line. And while procedure wasn’t suspended, it did seem abbreviated. Milligan left the building in record time while Rina cooled her heels in a line of testy working stiffs. At that point, she had two choices—give up the chase or try her luck at the front with a sob story.

  Lucky for her, the Israelis had hearts of gold. Who would dare restrain a mother rushing off to pick up her sick baby from the sitter? Whisked ahead to the front window, Rina turned in the necessary tags and papers, secured her passport, and bolted out the door. She reached the parking lot just in time to see Milligan unlocking the door to a Volvo Sedan parked three rows away from Rina’s rental.

  Rina smiled. A Volvo 740 was a high ticket out here. The car would be a snap to follow, easily standing out in a country of subcompacts. Quickly, Rina slid into the driver’s seat of her diminutive Subaru. She turned on the ignition. The Volvo took off and so did Rina, following Milligan to the on ramp on the ayalon. They headed southeast toward Jerusalem.

  Safe on the freeway, cruising at a comfortable speed, Rina felt a bit smug as she tailed Milligan. Jerusalem put her on solid ground, since she’d lived in that area for a number of years. True, the City of Gold had changed, grown, and modernized, but it was still tiny compared to LA.

  Rina turned on the radio, tuning in to Hebrew chatter. A talk show—just as stupid here as it was in the States. She switched to one of the many Arabic stations, hearing the modal octaves of native music. Traditional Arabic songs were a form of storytelling: They could go on for hours. About two minutes was enough for her. She changed the dial. This time she found contemporary rock music. Pearl Jam had made it to Jordan.

  After riding for twenty minutes through long stretches of cultivated fields, the mountains hovering in the distance, Rina felt a cooler nip in the air. Ten minutes later, the hills began to close in, the roadway becoming a narrow strand cut through stone. Oncoming traffic was obscured by the numerous bends in the ascending roadway. But that didn’t stop the Israelis from leaning on the horn, freely passing vehicles going too slowly for their liking. What’s a head-on between friends?

  The Israeli drivers were frustrating Rina. One minute she would have the Volvo in plain view; the next moment some obnoxious would-be racer would honk, then pass her at record speed. Fortunately, Milligan didn’t appear to be in a hurry.

  As the road climbed higher, the mountainside became thick with green and the smell of pine. The last curves upward finally brought a bright wall of golden stone into view. Rocks arranged in Hebrew letters placed in the mountainside. B’ruchim Habayim leYerushalim—Welcome to Jerusalem!

  Rina felt her heart race, her body tingle, imbued with spirituality. And as magically as the aura enveloped her every time she entered the holy city—her own personal aliya—so did it drain whenever she left—her personal yerida.

  Yerida—going down. Israelis who emigrated from the Holy Land were called Yordim, because they had declined a level spiritually.

  At this moment, Rina couldn’t fathom ever leaving. With the shining sun, rays gilding the city, she felt giddy. Everywhere her eye fell on native Jerusalem bedrock. Everything had been fashioned from the amber and rose limestone—the buildings, the sidewalks, even some of the streets. Dispersed among the palette of bronzes, pinks, and reds were the parks, allowing a tinge of greenery to seep through. Beautiful to Rina’s eye, even though she knew that she had entered the city through the older, industrial area. So caught up in being there, Rina had forgotten why she had come. When she brought herself back to earth, the Volvo had disappeared.

  Angrily, Rina checked around for the 740. Milligan must have moved quickly even though Weizmann Boulevard was heavily congested. Rina tried to speed up but the artery was just too clogged. Attempting to pass a bus to gain a little visibility, she jerked her head over her shoulder to check for lane clearance. She suddenly spotted the Volvo. It had fallen behind her.

  She slowed, ignoring the blares of the horns, allowing the 740 to chug ahead. Rina allowed herself a moment to stare at the panoply of people on the sidewalks. Lots and lots of Black Hats. The city kept getting more and more religious because the Religious were the ones reproducing at record-breaking rates. The men in their long, black coats, the women in long skirts and shaytels piloting their broods down the walkway. There were modern Israelis in tight jeans and denim jackets, Arabs in kafias and chadors, Coptic priests in flowing gowns and pointed hats, nuns in full habit. The pushcarts, the open-air stands flanking an ultra-modern high-rise kanyoneet—the mall.

  Rina returned her eyes to the Volvo and not a moment too soon. The 740 hooked a right down HaNasi Ben Zvi—a multilaned boulevard that provided a good view of the Knesset. As the seat of the Israeli government, the Knesset was architecturally modeled after the Acropolis, the ancient seat of Greek government. Why Jews would deliberately copy Greek architecture was beyond Rina’s comprehension. For the past eighteen hundred years, the religion had assiduously celebrated Channukah—a festival commemorating the Jewish overthrow of enforced Hellenic rule.

  HaNasi Ben Zvi was a psychological dividing line. East of the boulevard was the heavily populated area of Jerusalem—a nest of apartment buildings and businesses. West of the highway evoked memories of a different time, a quieter time—a few major government structures bleeding into broad stretches of rolling hillsides.

  Rina felt her thoughts elsewhere when, abruptly, Milligan turned right onto a side street. The maneuver had been so fast and sharp that Rina missed the turnoff. Retracing her steps, Rina took the car onto a dirt lane. Up ahead, she spied the Volvo bouncing precariously along the road. The potholes were much harder on the 740 than on the Subaru.

  The Volvo slowed, pulled over, and parked.

  Rina braked and made a U-turn in the middle of the lane, not wanting to pass the Volvo. She took her rental off the road, away from Milligan’s line of vision. The Subaru handled remarkably well on the grass. She parked next to a tree, straining to keep an eye on the Volvo from her distant vantage point.

  The Volvo sat. Rina sat.

/>   Twenty minutes passed before an old blue Fiat subcompact came by, crawling along the pitted lane until it came to the Volvo. Then it pulled over and parked.

  Two men got out—thin young men with lots of curly dark hair. One had a mustache. He knocked on the driver’s window of the Volvo and the door opened. Milligan got out of the car, a Chanel purse slung over her shoulder.

  The men started talking to her. She appeared uninterested, but she did give a perfunctory nod as she rummaged through her purse. She took out a tube of lipstick, applying a sultry red heavily to thick, cupid-shaped lips.

  The men spoke with a great deal of animation. Rina wanted to know what they were talking about. As if it had a life of its own, Rina’s hand slowly reached for the car door handle. Next thing she knew, she was outside, creeping and sneaking her way into a private conversation.

  Heart racing in her chest, grateful for her flat shoes, she tiptoed from tree to tree until she nested behind a thick tree trunk within hearing distance. Milligan had finished with her lipstick. She dropped it into her purse, zipped the handbag shut, and curtailed Mr. Mustache’s speech.

  “Ibri, I don’t care about your problems. I care about my investment. If your idea of heroism is gunning down a bus full of schoolchildren, you’re with the wrong people. Either you’re working for me or you’re not. Which is it?”

  Ibri, Rina heard. The men were Arabs, ergo, natives, and that made her nervous. It ruined her advantage over Milligan.

  Ibri folded his arms across his chest and took up a defensive posture. “I work for Mr. Donald.”

  “Well, Mr. Donald works for me,” Milligan snapped back. “He is my underling, do you understand that?”

  Ibri rocked on his feet and said nothing. The other thin man piped in. “We take you to Mr. Donald. He tell you problems.”