An Accidental Murder: An Avram Cohen Mystery

by Robert Rosenberg

  “You want to sit down?” the hostess asked him in Hebrew heavily accented by Russian.

  He ignored her, scanning the smoky crowd for Shvilli.

  Finally he spotted him, at one of the long tables in the center of the room, sitting on a chair pulled up to the head of the table but slightly away from it, beside a squat, neckless man who was concentrating on pouring a shot of vodka into a short glass. Shvilli was leaning forward, whispering something into the fat man’s ear. The man finished pouring, put down the bottle, and then, still listening to Shvilli, picked up the glass. Shvilli suddenly sat back, keeping his eyes on the man, who held up the glass, and appeared to shout something in Russian. Cohen wouldn’t have been able to understand it, but he also couldn’t hear it because of the crowd’s enthusiasm for the song. But he saw the lively party sitting around the length of the long table in front of the fat man gradually turn to him. So did the people at two other tables nearby. The man was making a toast.

  Many at his table picked up their glasses. From almost twenty meters away, Cohen could see that nobody cheered as the fat man downed his glass in one shot, followed by everyone else at the table—including Shvilli.

  “You Russian?” the hostess now asked Cohen, in Russian.

  But he was concentrating on his former undercover man. As Shvilli lowered the glass he had been holding, he noticed Cohen waiting at the entrance to the restaurant.

  Shvilli said something to the fat man, then stood up, patted him on the back, and wound through the crowd, clapping over his head with the crowd, encouraging the singer.

  The hostess must have noticed Cohen’s reaction, for suddenly she was much more interested in him. “You know him?” she asked in Russian. At least that’s what he assumed she asked from the tone of her voice.

  But he didn’t answer, watching Shvilli’s face for a clue of whether to greet him or ignore him. The truth was that Cohen did not know the details of Shvilli’s cover. So he shrugged, with honest ignorance and feigned apathy.

  Shvilli waltzed past like a slightly drunk celebrant regretfully on his way out to his car to go home, grabbing Cohen at the neck like a dancer in time to the tune, and turning the older man, who nearly stumbled.

  But as they made the turn, Shvilli said in a low voice, “make sure nobody’s watching and follow me out as soon as I’m gone,” and then he was, indeed, gone, out the front door.

  Cohen stayed at the doorway for another ten seconds and then handed the menu back to the waitress and said, in English she barely understood, that he was a tourist and was looking for a “quiet cup of coffee before the drive to Eilat” before he slipped out the door after Shvilli.

  Grateful for the night air and the drop in decibel level— the music could still be heard out in the parking lot off the road to Mitzpe—he found Shvilli in the shadow of a lonely palm tree a few strides away from Cohen’s car.

  “Who was that?” he asked Shvilli about the bald fat man.

  “Yvgeny Yudelstein. An arbitrator. Solves problems between gangs.”

  “Does he know anything?”

  “He knew a little. Not much. Now he’ll find out more.”

  “Why?”

  “You see him give that toast?”

  Cohen nodded.

  Shvilli said something in Russian, mimicking a hoarse, high-pitched voice.

  “I’m sure it’s a precise replica of the original,” Cohen said. “But what does it mean?”

  ” ‘ the State of Israel, where there is rule of law/ “

  Shvilli translated, adding, ” ‘ people know that there are limits.’ ” He translated for Cohen.

  “A real patriot,” Cohen said.

  “He thinks if it’s a Russian, it’ll give the community a bad name.”

  “Does he know you’re police?” “I trust him,” said Shvilli.

  “Don’t be foolish, Misha.”

  “It’s not that he knows. For sure, I mean. He suspects maybe. He likes to joke, that’s all. And only when it’s just the two of us. Never in public. And he’s the only one who’s ever even hinted about it. Like I said, privately, between us.”

  “And what does he say privately to others, about you?”

  “Well, that’s it. He’ll never say a word to any of them.

  Not directly. And never anything bad. Not in public.” “See?” Cohen , worried for Shvilli.

  “Look, if they can trust him, I can trust him.”

  Cohen pulled out his flask. All day he had been careful not to take it out. But now, the cold desert at night made his shiver of fear for Shvilli turn into a physical shudder.

  “Want some?” he offered his former junior officer.

  “Cognac?”

  Cohen nodded.

  Shvilli scowled. “I’ve been drinking vodka. I don’t mix grape and grain.”

  Cohen smirked. “What about this Yuhewitz?” he asked.

  “We were closing in on him. He’s a regular slave owner.

  Promises girls work as models in Israel, lends them the money for their tickets, gets them ID—even immigration grants—but when they arrive, he puts them to work on their back. They have to pay for their tickets if they want to get their passports, and their passports are usually forged. It’s a vicious circle.”

  “Why haven’t you busted him?” “We’re working on it,” Shvilli said angrily. “What do you think we’ve been doing? We’ve closed down his houses three times in the last two months. The girls are thrown out of the country. His lawyers keep getting him out. The last time Yuhewitz got out, Nissim took it personally … ” Shvilli paused, waiting for Cohen to fill in the blank. Worried, Cohen didn’t.

  “He made a scene. At the yacht. In front of a lot of people. I know. I was there.” “What did he do?” asked Cohen.

  “It was a party. Six weeks ago. Nissim would never get away with that kind of behavior in Moscow. At least not in public.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s one of Yuhewitz’s parties. Maybe a hundred guests.

  Russians, mostly, from around the country. Some with wives, some with their girls. There’s a casino onboard and enough girls to keep the juices flowing. Just before they raise the steps for the sunset cruise, Nissim shows up.

  Stands on the dock shouting, not letting the sailors loose the ropes, shouting for Boris to get out on deck.”

  “Does he come out?”

  “Yes.”

  “People are watching?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does Nissim say?”

  “That it was ‘ last time.’ “

  “The what?”

  “That it was the last time Nissim would let him get away with it.”

  “Why? What happened the last time?”

  “A house gets busted. Three girls get arrested. Boris isn’t touched, of course. The girls are deported. A few days go by. One night, the border patrol comes in with one of the girls. Dehydrated, almost dead. She went to Cairo, flew back to Sharm el Sheikh, took a bus up to Taba, and then walked north, looking for a place to cross the border. She had to go far past Eilat. Turns out she had a niece, a child, who depended on her. Yuhewitz’s lawyers could have helped her, at least. Nobody told the judge … “

  “Why didn’t Nissim know?”

  “We found out too late.” Cohen sighed. “So he feels guilty and makes a bigger mistake as a result.”

  It was Shvilli’s turn to sigh. “Yes. He let all his anger show. I was downstairs, already in the casino. I heard the shouting. Everyone heard it.”

  “More about who was at the party?”

  “Friends, hangers-on.”

  “How did Yuhewitz respond?”

  “Nissim was shouting in Hebrew. Called Boris a murderer. I thought the guns would come out. But instead, Boris just smiled and said his Hebrew was not good enough to understand everything Nissim was saying. People laughed. ‘ on board,’ Yuhewitz invited him.”

  “And?”

  “Nissim suddenly caught hold of himself. He just tu
rned around and walked away.”

  “Did Nissim write a report? Tell Bendor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you?”

  “I reported only to Nissim.”

  “Afterward, when Nissim left … did people talk about it? What did Yuhewitz say?”

  “Some of the wives were a little shocked at first. But his people kept things smooth for the rest of the ride and the weather was great—clear, cool skies. Nobody got seasick.

  But I know Yuhewitz was mad.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There was someone important there. Alex Witkoff. It’s said he owns three banks in Moscow. Made aliyah a few years ago. Brought a lot of money. A very lot. And it bought him some very high windows. He shows up with the main players we’ve spotted. But it’s hands off when it comes to Witkoff. He’s a real success story, no? By the time we spotted him with Yuhewitz, he was already getting press as an example of a successful immigrant making use of his connections back there and here to make business.

  Big business. And he’s got at least three ministers on his side. Hands off. He’s in and out of the country at least three times a month.”

  “What else?” “At first, I thought he was just another newly rich Russian enjoying his money. He played the tables and used the girls—the best, of course. He lives in Tel Aviv, so we don’t see him often. But he’s been showing up more often, and not for gambling. He and Yuhewitz spent a long time talking privately that night.”

  “Would he want Nissim dead? You say he’s a banker.”

  “I’m not saying he did. Want Nissim dead. But he’s big.

  Very big. You want to know about the Russian Mafia? I’ll tell you. It’s all about banking. Money laundering. You know how much money was stolen in Russia since the wall came down?”

  “No.”

  “Some say it was a hundred billion dollars. Some say a trillion. Finance scams. All sorts of scams. Forge some fake payment documents for money due. Get credit from a bank for those documents. Send the money overseas into bogus companies that send the money on into a third layer of foreign accounts. Disappear. It’s as simple as that. Or get a letter of guarantee from another bank and use it to open an account. How much do you think you have to bribe a bank manager somewhere, working for a couple of hundred dollars a month, to sign a letter of credit? Or pay someone to forge such a letter?”

  “What about verification systems?” Cohen asked.

  “They’re starting from scratch. Things are improving.

  But it’s taking time. Meanwhile, we know how Yuhewitz makes his money. But we don’t really know where Witkoff’s came from.”

  “Does he know he’s a target of investigation?” “I don’t know,” Shvilli admitted. “I’ve never been able to get very close to him.” “What’s your cover?” Cohen asked.

  “All they know is that I’m here since the seventies. Came right before the Yom Kippur War. Made money in real estate up north and am enjoying a very early retirement. I’m around because I like the action. Girls, gambling.”

  “Do you?”

  “What?” “Like the action?” Cohen asked.

  “Dont’t worry, I know which side I’m on. And I know my limits.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “I’m neither a seller nor buyer, don’t like junkies, and at parties I pass the joints politely. It’s worked for almost a year.”

  “That’s a long time, Misha. A year.”

  “It got me close.”

  “But being at the house today probably won’t help keep it safe.”

  “What was I going to do? Pretend nothing happened?

  We were as close as this,” Shvilli said, rubbing his two forefingers together.

  “What about your family?” he asked.

  “I see them.”

  “How often?”

  “Once, twice a week. You know what it’s like … “

  “When this is over, you’re done with the assignment.”

  “So we’re going into business?”

  “I’m not becoming a private investigator.”

  “You do it anyway,” Shvilli pointed out.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Cohen demanded.

  Shvilli remained silent, obviously embarrassed. Cohen didn’t press any further. Now at least he knew. But he disappointed Shvilli with his next question. “What about Kobi Alper? Maybe he really did manage the hit?”

  Shvilli glared at the cigarette burnt to a stub between his fingers. “Look, maybe they’re right and I’m wrong,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t know. I do know one thing. These boys play in a different league than Kobi. Much bigger.

  Maybe Caspi’s right. Maybe Kobi arranged it. But I’m betting it was one of mine.”

  18.

  Cohen reached Ahuva’s just after midnight. She was sitting on the four-seat sofa opposite the television, which was playing CNN special coverage of a massacre in Africa while she read a thick typed manuscript of an opinion in draft form, marking it with a red pen for retyping.

  “I heard about Nissim,” she said.

  “Thank you for not asking why I didn’t call,” he said, not taking off his windbreaker and going directly to the liquor cabinet beside the television to take a tall water glass that he filled halfway with cognac. He raised it to his lips, watching a distant star in the night sky over the sea become a plane coming into Israel from Europe. The plane was still at least a minute away from the coastline. He drank only half the glass then looked at her, blinked, and sat down in the matching chair beside the sofa, facing the horizon out the window. “The radio still says it was an accident,” Cohen said.

  “It wasn’t?”

  He shook his head. “At first it looked like an accident.

  But he was shot.” He took another sip from the cognac and put the glass on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa.

  “I can read your face, Avram Cohen. There’s something else, isn’t there?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Hagit had a baby. Three weeks premature.

  A boy.”

  “As a result of the death?”

  He nodded. “Four hours of labor. Baby’s fine. They’re at Soroka maternity. Hagit’s mother hates me. When she wakes up, Hagit will probably hate me, too.”

  Ahuva remained silent, waiting for the rest of his testimony.

  “She was fragile at first. When we thought it was an accident.

  But when she heard it was a shooting, the water broke.” “Better that than her mind,” Ahuva said.

  He shook his head sadly. “She answered the call from some young chief superintendent. He told her on the phone. An idiot.”

  Ahuva pursed her lips then plucked at her earlobe. “You were once a young chief superintendent.”

  “Who at least had the brains to know how to break news like that to someone,” he said angrily. “We were all there.

  People who knew Nissim, who know Hagit. Especially Jacki and Shvilli. Either one of them could have told her so much easier. We thought we would when she woke up.

  Instead, she answered the phone.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “The worst of it is that this Shuki Caspi is locked on a theory, which will make them blind to what’s in front of them. It makes me very unsure that they’re going to find Nissim’s killer. At least not quickly.”

  “You think it might be someone else?”

  “I don’t know. I do know that you don’t decide who did it before you look at the evidence. We still don’t know where Nissim was when he was killed. We know there was shooting, but did it cause the crash? Was he trying to avoid it or was he surprised? It’s all in forensics. And I don’t have access. But meanwhile, I have a trustworthy source who has listed a lot of good reasons why it might be Russians.

  He’s going down to Eilat looking for one. I’m supposed to find another one up here.”

  “And then what?”

  “Find out if they did it.”
/>
  “Just like that?”

  He nodded.

  “Maybe you’re locked onto a theory, too?” she asked quietly.

  “Don’t think I’m not aware of that,” he said, a slight moan in his voice.

  “Are you sure you should be doing this?” she asked.

  “On your own? If this man is so ready to kill a police officer … “

  “He didn’t. But he might have arranged for it to happen.

  Paid someone to do it. He was one of Nissim’s targets, and my source says he probably knew it. But if they chose assassination as a method, it meant Nissim was getting too close to something. But I don’t know what—even if—he knew what it was. And I can’t trust a blind system to find out for me.”

  She set aside the paper on her lap and stood up. She was wearing a satin three-button nightgown that Cohen loved to open, each undone button revealing a stretch of lush warm skin. She came around the coffee table and kneeled beside him, picking up his cognac glass and taking a sip, then passing it to him. He finished it and put it back on the table.

  They sat that way in silence for a while, her arm on his thigh, her hand on his stomach, his hand over her shoulder, resting lightly on her breast.

  “Avram,” she asked softly. “First that bomb in Frankfurt, now this? Should I be worried that they are connected?”

  “I don’t see how,” he said truthfully. He grinned at her, then leaned forward to kiss her.

  “Just be careful,” she said, just before their lips touched.

  “I promise,” he said, while his hand reached for the nightgown’s top mother of pearl button and then reached into the warmth of her body as their lips met in a deep kiss.

  After Ahuva was asleep he got out of bed. He pulled on his trousers and bare-chested and barefoot went down the stairs to the first floor of the apartment. He took a cigarette from the packet in his jacket pocket and went to the broad picture window, slid open the glass, and stood in the cold night air watching the traffic six stories down on the north-south boulevard. Nobody was out on the beach-side boardwalk. The storm that had raged over the eastern end of the Mediterranean had created a new measure of relativity regarding how cold that winter could become.