by Liad Shoham
He couldn’t really blame them. He’d just now arrived at that conclusion himself, while he was on suspension. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t have gotten there if he was still carrying a badge. But when you’re on the force, the considerations are different, the thinking is different. It’s easy to join in the consensus, to go with the flow. Much easier than taking an unpopular stance and expressing doubts. One guy says something, another seconds it, and then two more add their voices to the choir and they all make perfect harmony. Even if the fifth guy down the line thinks differently and decides to say so, who’s going to listen?
If he gave them the information, chances are they wouldn’t give it the proper weight. They’d probably focus on the facts of secondary importance: How come he was conducting a private investigation? Where did he meet with Nevo? Why did he let him get away?
NACHUM lowered himself onto a chair in the waiting room. The sharp pain in his side forced a groan out of him. Michael Aronov took his eyes from the TV screen and looked at him suspiciously. There were only five other people in the room, leaving plenty of empty seats farther away that he could’ve chosen. He imagined his battered face wasn’t a pretty sight either.
He watched Michael Aronov in silence. Part of a detective’s job description is knowing how to cope with the tragedies he encounters on a daily basis, how to steel himself to the pain and focus on the investigation. He’d sat opposite parents like the Aronovs too many times to count. But this time he felt ill at ease because he wasn’t officially a policeman. He was conducting an independent investigation. But he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t ignore the connections between the Adi Regev case and the rape of Dana Aronov. Like the ring, for instance. The more he found out, the closer he’d come to the rapist.
He saw Aronov’s leg twitching and the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. The only way he’d have any chance of drawing him out and getting him to tell him what happened to his daughter would be to take him somewhere private. And he couldn’t reveal his identity. After all, if it weren’t for his own mistakes, they might have caught the real perp in time and prevented the attack on Dana.
He glanced again at the cigarettes making a bulge in Aronov’s pocket. He hadn’t smoked in twenty years.
“Can I buy a cigarette? The pain is killing me,” he said, nodding to the small balcony outside.
Aronov held out the pack without looking at him.
“Would you mind helping me get the door open?”
Aronov stood up.
NACHUM watched him walk back inside. In a minute, he’d get up and start the trek back to the ward.
It hadn’t been easy, but in the end he’d managed to get Dana’s father to open up. He wasn’t sure what triggered it. It could be that he mentioned his own daughter, or that he groaned about his pain and the man took pity on him, or that, having grown up in the USSR, Aronov felt more comfortable talking to a stranger than to anyone in uniform. Maybe it was simply boredom, a way to pass the time or ease the hurt a little. And it could have been all those things together.
He didn’t have much to say. He and his wife lived and worked in Beersheba, remote from their daughter’s life in Tel Aviv. The police called to inform him of what happened to Dana. He was at work, in the bank, when they got the horrendous news. She was unconscious when they found her, and she’d been that way ever since. The doctors couldn’t say when she’d wake up, or if she ever would. His wife had gone to Dana’s apartment to get a few hours’ sleep. She’d be back soon and then it would be his turn to get some rest.
Dana was a receptionist in the Weizmann Fitness Center, right near the hospital. She didn’t tell him a lot about her life in the city. As far as he knew, she didn’t have a boyfriend. She was closer to her mother, but she didn’t know about anyone in particular her daughter was seeing either. They had no idea who could have done it. That’s what they told the police, and the two reporters who came to pester them too.
Nevertheless, Nachum’s excruciating journey from the ward might not have been wasted. Aronov told him that before she got the job at the gym, Dana had worked as a waitress at the Zodiac Café, a popular local coffee shop. As a rule, he wouldn’t give much weight to her previous place of employment, but he’d heard that name before. Yaron Regev told him that Adi spent a lot of time there. Nachum had even questioned the servers about anyone matching the description Adi had given of her attacker, but nothing came of it. “A lot of people who come here match that description,” he was told.
This might be the connection he was looking for. Dana was in a coma and couldn’t provide any further details about the rapist, but now that he had a clearer picture of his personality, the questions put to the servers could be more focused.
He stood up, biting down on his lip to stifle the yelp of pain. He’d call Ohad tomorrow and tell him what he’d found out. If he could, he’d continue the investigation on his own. But for the time being, that was impossible, considering the shape he was in. Anyway, the cops had more resources.
He made his way tortuously through the empty corridors smelling of illness and pain. Yes, he’d call Ohad tomorrow and tell him everything. Or would he?
Chapter 40
ZIV was about to give up hope. He’d been waiting at the top of the highway ramp for half an hour, and no one had showed up. A few cars slowed down, but none of them stopped. Why didn’t they come? Whoever “they” were.
The cold of the early December night reached down to his bones. He shifted his weight from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm. Then a squad car came by and he turned his back to the road. The last thing he needed now was to be picked up again for a rape he didn’t commit and miss his meeting with Faro.
When he saw the silver Land Rover slowing down around the curve, he figured it was another false alarm. But he was wrong. The car pulled up beside him, the front door was thrown open, and a man he didn’t recognize ordered him to get in. He spoke with an Arabic accent.
This time, the man in the back wasn’t Meshulam. Ziv’s relief was nipped in the bud when he heard the click of the doors locking. There was no chance he’d be able to get away again. There was no trick he could pull that would get him out of here.
A shiver went through him when he saw they were on the road to Shaar Ephraim. Why the hell were they taking him to the West Bank?
He hoped the soldier at the border crossing would order them to stop, or at least ask where they were going, but he just gave them a bored look and waved them through. He didn’t seem to care why an Israeli car was heading to a place no more than spitting distance from Tulkarem at one thirty in the morning. He looked at the winding road up ahead. At this time of night, it was totally deserted. This wasn’t the first time he’d been here. He’d passed through the same border crossing dozens of times as a soldier. But then he’d been traveling in an armored military jeep and carrying a weapon, not riding unarmed and unprotected in a civilian car, being transported to an unknown destination. Back then he thought he was invincible, that the difference between wishing for something and making it happen was only a matter of believing in yourself. What a naive fool he’d been.
A car was coming toward them at high speed, its headlights blinding him. He knew that what he was doing was crazy, but what choice did he have? What other course of action could he take? If he didn’t do what they wanted, they’d hurt Gili. The only way to get them off his back was to convince them he hadn’t informed on them to the cops, that the fact they were looking to charge him with another rape was proof enough he hadn’t said anything.
A car appeared behind them, sitting on their tail. The driver leaned on the horn. Was he going to end up getting killed in a car crash? He turned to look at the man beside him, but he kept his eyes focused indifferently straight ahead, apparently unconcerned by the car no more than a couple of yards back.
All of a sudden, the second car sped up and passed them, disappearing arou
nd the next bend in the road. Ziv peered out the window. All he saw was darkness. What would he do if they ordered him out of the car here in the middle of nowhere? Or worse, they could order him to get out and then shoot him, leaving his dead body by the side of the road. Maybe that’s what Faro wanted, to stage his death to look like the work of terrorists.
They passed a sign showing the distance to Shufa, Safarin, and Beit Lid. Not far beyond was the settlement Einav. Where were they taking him? The sound of a ringtone made him jump. The driver answered, speaking rapidly in Arabic. After disconnecting the call, he said a few words to the man in the back, and Ziv saw him nod in response through the rearview mirror.
Another car appeared close behind them, blinking its lights. The driver slowed and stopped on the side of the road. The second car passed them and pulled up in front. It was a Subaru van. Clearly, the operation had been mapped out very carefully. Nothing was being left to chance.
“Get out,” the driver commanded. Ziv heard the sound of the doors unlocking.
He stepped outside, his body trembling from fear and cold. This was his last opportunity to change his mind. He wouldn’t get another one. He might still be able to make a run for it and try to lose them in the darkness. Why was he doing this? Why the fuck was he sticking his head in the lion’s mouth?
He knew why. He had no choice. He’d been over it a million times in his head and each time he reached the same conclusion.
Taking a deep breath, he strode quickly toward the van. The back door was open, a sign for him to get in.
Chapter 41
MESHULAM figured he must be hearing things when he thought he recognized Nevo’s name in a phone conversation one of George’s guys was conducting in Arabic. Impossible. What did they know about Nevo?
He hadn’t been here long, but he was already climbing the walls. He was forced to sit like a prisoner in a tiny room in a godforsaken village in the middle of the West Bank, surrounded by Arabs. In an endless cycle, he paced back and forth, sat down on the bed, got up, and paced again. He didn’t have a moment of peace. The idea that he was responsible for Faro being under arrest was driving him crazy. The worst part was that there was nothing he could do about it.
The man was still talking on the phone. Meshulam lay down on the bed. It was late. Maybe he could get some sleep. At least it would be a way to pass the time. Tomorrow or the next day he’d go back and resume the search for Nevo. He was closing his eyes when he heard Nevo’s name again. What was wrong with him? When did he start hearing voices? Was the hunt for Nevo fucking with his brain?
He got up and opened the door. Samir, at least he thought that was his name, stopped in midsentence and stared at him, the phone still pressed to his ear. The two organizations had an efficient working relationship, what Faro liked to call “synergy.” George brought the drugs in from Lebanon to the West Bank, and Faro sold them in Israel.
Meshulam motioned for him to ignore him. He wanted to be sure he’d heard right, that he hadn’t imagined it. But Samir was obviously surprised to see him there, probably thinking he was asleep. He ended his conversation with an abrupt “yalla.”
“Who were you talking about?” Meshulam asked.
Samir didn’t answer. To be honest, he hadn’t expected an answer. He knew very well that wasn’t the sort of question he was allowed to ask.
“Did I hear you mention Ziv Nevo?” He had to know.
Samir turned his back and walked away in silence.
Meshulam knew he shouldn’t be doing this, that he was taking a big risk, but he couldn’t stop himself. He called the attorney, Shuki Borochov, to try to find out why George’s people were talking about Nevo. If anyone knew the answer, it would be Borochov.
“You won’t believe it,” Borochov said when Meshulam made the call from a public phone half an hour later. The tense wait for an opportunity to slip away almost drove him out of his mind. “All the cops in the country are looking for the stupid motherfucker, and out of the blue he contacts Noam and says he wants to talk to Faro.”
“Faro? What about?” Meshulam asked, stunned. Why would Nevo want to talk to Faro? Did he know the bomb was his idea?
“The asshole didn’t even know that Faro was arrested.” Borochov laughed maliciously.
“What did he want to talk to him about?” Meshulam asked, cutting off the lawyer’s hearty laughter.
“Noam says the guy’s clueless. Nevo told him he’s innocent, he didn’t rape anyone, he needs help.”
“What kind of help?” Meshulam was still having a hard time making sense of it all.
“Maybe he needs money, an attorney, you know, help. What difference does it make what he wants? Noam’s got a brain in his head. He called me right away, and I did the math,” the lawyer said, sounding very pleased with himself.
“What do you mean?” Meshulam couldn’t stand the way Borochov was always patting himself on the back.
“We can use the idiot to negotiate with the cops. He gives us leverage. They’re dying to get their hands on him.”
“So he’s coming here?” Meshulam was beginning to understand.
“You got it. It’s a good thing you’re there. A real stroke of luck. You keep an eye on him. Faro needs him. He could be his ticket out.”
Chapter 42
NACHUM was lying on his side on the lumpy hospital bed, gazing out the window at the city below. Despite the splendid view of the low-rise buildings crowded together in the foreground and the blue sea beyond, he was anxious and restless. For the twenty years he’d been a cop, no one had ever questioned his loyalty. He’d always seen himself as a company man. Although he himself was critical of certain procedures, he’d steadfastly defended the force whenever it was attacked, emphasizing the good work they did that never made it into the papers and proudly wearing the shield. And now he of all people was about to do something that could only be defined as the exact opposite of loyalty.
He stared in frustration at his bandaged knee. If only he could, he’d go it alone. But that wasn’t possible. He needed help. All morning he’d debated whether or not to make the call. He still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing.
Yes, he could call Ohad and tell him what he’d found out. But the simple truth was, he didn’t want to. This was his investigation, and he intended to see it through. He’d show Ohad and Navon and all the other backstabbers in the precinct that he wasn’t dead yet. He could still do his job. They didn’t deserve to have the fruits of his labor fall into their lap so easily. His ribs were aching, impelling him to change position. Besides, it was his mistake and his responsibility to fix it. Being on suspension made it that much harder for him. He didn’t have any authority or the resources of the system to rely on. But it also helped him see things from a fresh perspective, without any vested interest. He wouldn’t get in the cops’ way, but he wouldn’t give them a leg up either. We’ll see who gets to the finish line first, he thought.
There was a soft rapping on the door. He turned his head quickly, flinching from the pain.
Before he could say, “Come in,” Amit Giladi walked through the door and stood by the bed, shocked at the sight of his battered face.
“What happened to you?” he asked incredulously.
THE last time they’d met had been in his office, when he’d tried to convince Giladi that the Regev case was still a high priority and they were making every effort to find the rapist. The reporter had been skeptical. His questions were pointed and snide, and he’d refused to accept his explanations. There was something disconcerting about Giladi. A pale, skinny guy, he looked harmless and insubstantial, but when Nachum tried to brush him off with vague answers, he proved to be very determined.
Other reporters tried to ingratiate themselves with him in the hope of gaining his cooperation, but Giladi never made an effort to be likable. He asked probing questions with dogged persistence. Nachum despi
sed him as much as he despised every other journalist he’d ever come into contact with, but he had to admire this quality in him. In a way, he reminded him of himself.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Nachum said, gesturing to the bright orange plastic chair by his bed.
Amit didn’t take him up on the invitation to sit. He just stood where he was, staring at Nachum, waiting for the answer to his question. The detective had no intention of satisfying his curiosity.
“I want you to help me catch the north Tel Aviv rapist,” he said quietly.
Giladi looked at him in surprise. “You mean Ziv Nevo?” he asked.
“No,” Eli said, shaking his head. A wave a pain shot through his jaw. “The real sonofabitch.”
The reporter listened in silence as Nachum expounded on his theory of the rapist’s personality. He debated whether to tell him about Mrs. Glazer and the tattoo she’d seen or about the rings taken from the two victims but decided to keep the information to himself for the time being. He’d share those facts with Giladi if he showed himself to be reliable. And it was a good idea to hold on to a few things he could use later as incentives to keep the reporter going if their independent investigation got bogged down, as investigations often did. “Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?” Amit asked when Nachum was done.
The plan had taken shape in his mind last night after he talked with Michael Aronov. Since he was incapacitated, he needed someone else to be his eyes, legs, and mouth. Amit Giladi was the most viable option on the meager list of candidates for the job. Besides, even if he didn’t like to admit it, there was a certain similarity between the work of the cops and the press, particularly when it came to investigative reporters.
“I’ll tell you what to do. Together, we can solve this case. It needs a fresh pair of eyes. And with your energy and hunger for a scoop, the role fits you like a glove.”