Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 12 - Survival of the Fittest

by Survival Of The Fittest(Lit)

  'I can't tell you until after I make the call. You're not a county sheriff so I don't even have to cooperate with you.'

  Statement of fact, no defiance.

  'But you're cooperating anyway.'

  'Yes. It's... practical. I'm going to call now. You may watch me.'

  They went into the kitchen and he stayed right next to her, towering over her, as she punched numbers. She said something in a foreign language, listened, said something else, then handed the receiver to him.

  As he pressed it to his ear, his jaws bunched.

  'What? When?' He was growling now. 'I don't... okay, all right. Where?'

  He hung up.

  Irina Budzhyshyn left the kitchen and sat on a couch, looking content.

  Milo turned to me. He was flushed and his shirt looked tight. 'That was Deputy Consul Carmeli. We're to meet him at his office in fifteen minutes. Sharp. Maybe this time we'll actually get past the goddamn hall.'

  Wilshire was empty as we pulled up in front of the consulate building. By the time we were out of the car, someone was standing in front of the unlit lobby door.

  He studied us, then came forward into the streetlight. Young man in a sportcoat and slacks. Big shoulders, big hands, one of them carrying a walkie-talkie. His hair was dark and very short, just like that of the guard behind the consulate reception window. It could have even been the same man.

  'I'll take you up,' he said in a flat voice.

  Striding ahead of us, he unlocked the door and walked across the echoing lobby. The three of us rode up to the seventeenth floor. He looked bored.

  The door opened on Zev Carmeli standing in the corridor. He said, 'B'seder', and the young man remained in the elevator and rode down.

  Carmeli was wearing a dark suit and white shirt, no tie, and he reeked of tobacco. His hair had been watered and combed but several cowlicks had sprouted.

  'This way.' He did an abrupt about-face and led us to the white door of the same conference room. This time we walked through and out the back into the cubicles of the work area. Office machines, a water cooler, corkboard full of memos, the travel posters I'd seen through the reception window. The fluorescent panels in the ceiling were off and light came from a single corner pole lamp. Nothing to distinguish the place from any other site of repetitive-motion injury.

  Carmeli kept going, hunched, arms swinging loosely, til he reached a door with his name on it. Twisting the knob, he stood aside and let us enter.

  Like Irina Budzhyshyn's apartment, his office was characterless, with blue drapes over what I assumed were windows, a wall of half-empty board-and-bracket shelves, a wooden desk with steel legs, gray sofa and love seat.

  A man sat on the love seat and when we came in he stood, keeping his left hand in the pocket of his blue jeans.

  Late thirties to forty, five seven, around 140, he wore a black nylon windbreaker, pale blue shirt, black athletic shoes. His tightly kinked hair was black tipped with gray and trimmed to a short Afro. His face was lean, very smooth, cafe-au-lait skin stretched tightly over finely molded features. A strong nose was anchored by flared nostrils and his lips were wide, full and bowed. Very light brown eyes - golden, really - and shaded by long, curved lashes. Arched eyebrows gave them the look of permanent surprise but the rest of his face contradicted that: static, unreadable.

  Probably Middle Eastern, but he could have been Latin or American Indian or a light-skinned black man.

  Familiar for some reason... had I seen him before?

  He met my stare and volleyed it back. No hostility, just the opposite. Pleasant, almost friendly.

  Then I realized his expression hadn't changed. Like a Rorschach card, his neutrality had led me to interpret.

  Milo was looking at him too, but his attention shifted to Carmeli as the consul passed behind the desk and sat down.

  His big hands were clenched and I saw him open them. Forcing the appearance of relaxation. During the ride over from Holloway Drive, he'd been silent, driving much too fast.

  He sat down on the sofa without being invited and I did the same.

  The dark man with the golden eyes was still looking at us. Or past us.

  Still pleasantly blank.

  Suddenly I knew I had seen him. And where.

  Driving away from Latvinia Shaver's murder scene. Driving some kind of compact car - a gray Toyota - just as the film crews arrived. Wearing a uniform like that of Montez, the custodian.

  Another image clicked in.

  A dark-skinned uniformed man had also been at the nature conservancy the day Milo took me to view Irit's murder scene.

  Park-worker's uniform. Driving some sort of mowing machine, leaf bags stacked on the grass.

  A pith helmet had hidden his face.

  Following us? No, in both cases he'd gotten there before.

  Anticipating us?

  One step ahead because he had access to police information?

  Listening in, somehow.

  Milo'd said Carmeli's attitude had seemed to change suddenly. More cooperative.

  Because he'd kept tabs, knew Milo was serious, working hard?

  I nodded at the dark man, expecting no response, but he nodded back. Milo's big face was still full of curiosity and anger.

  Zev Carmeli pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Not offering one to the dark man. Knowing the dark man didn't smoke. Knowing the dark man's habits.

  The dark man remained still, left hand in pocket.

  Carmeli puffed several times, cleared his throat, and sat up straight

  'Gentlemen, this is Superintendent Daniel Sharavi from the Israeli National Police, Southern District.'

  '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 cracked 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 and blinking through the ha2e. '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.'