Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (8 page)

“I don’t think so. The man told Ari he went to great lengths to make sure.”

“What does that mean?” said Dahan.

“I’m not sure. Ari’s language from the cable is in quotes.” Tal looked down to check the words on the page one more time.

“We can’t afford to have an international incident,” said Dahan. “If the Americans find out . . . if local authorities pick him up, he is on his own. Does he understand that? We cannot come to his aid.”

“He has been told,” said Tal. “There’s nothing in writing that can be traced back to us. And even if he talks, the man has a record of arrest for burglary. They’re not likely to believe anything he says. A dog crapping in the park once is likely to do it again.”

Dahan nodded. Even if the man tried to finger Ari, it would be his word against an attaché to the consul general of Israel in Los Angeles, an Israeli citizen with diplomatic immunity whom they could not arrest in any event. So why make a stink? They were probably safe.

“The guy wants to go in again. Should we let him?” asked Tal.

The man was being paid a bonus if he succeeded. No doubt this was motivating him. “I don’t know. For the moment tell him to hold off. I need to think about it. How did Ari send the cable?” Dahan was worried about eavesdropping.

“Just as you instructed. Diplomatic pouch to the embassy in Mexico City, encoded and sent by way of secure channel to the institute.” The institute was Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv. “They relayed it here. That’s why it took so long.”

“That’s all right. Better to be safe.” Dahan didn’t trust the normal encrypted channels out of the States any longer. The US National Security Agency had long ears and a nose that was in the middle of everyone else’s business. To Dahan and his colleagues at the Mossad, the White House no longer cared about Israel or its security. They paid lip service to get Jewish votes and money. But if the administration got caught snooping at the embassies in Mexico City, that could carry serious domestic political implications for the Hispanic vote in the United States.

It was the world gone upside down. On the domestic side, after nearly sixty years of relative racial peace, the United States was beginning to pick at the wounds, and sores were starting to open once again. On the foreign front the supposed leader of the free world was going through a foreign policy convulsion on the order of a Venusian eruption. No one, not even its closest allies, had a clue as to what it might do next.

Some observers believed there was a mad grab for power going on inside the country, a naked attempt at permanent one-party rule that involved a rapid, almost overnight change in the nation’s demographics, the theory being to open the southern border and invite in the flood, one massive final push to get the party over the top.

Dahan didn’t know if this assessment was accurate. What he did know was that he and others at the Mossad could not alter the course of US history. They would be far too busy in the maelstrom that was coming, doing everything they could just trying to save their own country.

For a long moment he stood there staring at his own reflection in the dark glass.

“What are you thinking?” said Tal.

“I’m thinking there’s a lot of chaos out there. Enough problems for a troubled world that it doesn’t need this one. Suppose it was ISIS.”

“What?”

“Whoever was at the house,” said Dahan. “With a few connections over the Internet and some domestic on-site help they could have mounted an attempt.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. Of course, that assumes they have a lead on it,” said Tal.

“We did. They could have gotten the information from the same dark sources. If they get their hands on it, you can be sure they’ll use it, the masters of manipulation that they are. Given what’s happening in the US and elsewhere, the deep political divisions, the pent-up emotions, the racial angst, the armies of tattooed lunatics searching to find some point of ignition, if ISIS finds it, they’ll use it to try to set the world on fire.”

“Do you think the Americans know it’s out there?” asked Tal.

Dahan shook his head slowly. “They think it was destroyed in a bombing raid.”

“Why don’t we tell them?”

“They’ll laugh at us,” said Dahan. “Even if they believe us, they won’t see the danger.”

“They’re about to get a rude awakening. So what do we do?”

“We follow our marching orders. We find it as quickly as we can,” said Dahan. “And we destroy it!”

ELEVEN

O
nce the two sheriff’s detectives started questioning our staff, word of Sofia’s murder spread through the office like a kerosene-fueled fire. There was sobbing in the hallway outside my door. Secretaries and some of the part-timers were reduced to tears.

Everyone had the same questions—above all, how did it happen and why? For the moment there are no answers. Harry and I can be sure that the minute they find out where Sofia worked, the media hounds will be jamming our phone lines and knocking on our door. As it is, Sally is having a difficult time keeping it together just to answer the phones.

The detectives pitch the usual questions about Sofia, who were her friends, where did she party, was she aware of any threats, were there stories of unrequited affections or twisted admirers? One by one, as the cops finish with them, I send our people home. Harry and I have decided to close the office. We figure to give it a day or two, let things die down, give everyone time to adjust to the awful news.

I have Sally roll the phone lines over to the answering service and tell them to take messages. Harry and I have a mission. We need to get out of here, over to Brauer’s house to see if there’s any connection between it and Sofia’s murder.

Noland, the detective, is dragging his feet, refusing to say whether he will allow us to visit the crime scene.

Coward that I am, I send a text message to Joselyn telling her that her dinner with Sofia is off, canceled, that something has come up and that I will explain later. I tell her I am tied up outside the office all afternoon, unavailable. “See you at home later this evening. Love you!” I sign off. I dread the moment.

Joselyn isn’t likely to hear about Sofia’s murder over the airwaves since the police won’t release the victim’s name until they notify next of kin. That will take a while. According to our records, Sofia’s mother and father live up north, somewhere off the beaten path in the gold country near the small town of Sutter Creek. I would call them, but to what purpose? I have never met them, and the authorities have no doubt already informed them or are in the process of doing so.

I envision it in my mind’s eye, the creeping black-and-white as it pulls up slowly to the sidewalk in front. A uniform, perhaps two of them, will get out. Then the solemn trek to the door as if marching to the meter of a funeral dirge. They may doff their hats as they ring the bell, anything to telegraph the message before they have to deliver it. I want to warn the people inside. “Don’t open it!” But they will, only to be consumed by the blast of the life-altering message. Your child is no more. Sofia is dead.

I think to myself, What if it was Sarah? What if it was my own? I expel the thought from my brain, stamp it out before it can take root. Even in the abstract the pain is too great. Hollowed out as I am by the death of Sofia, how could I ever bear that? How can any parent?

The detectives save Harry for last. They question him as to his whereabouts on Friday evening. It seems that Harry was having dinner and drinks until late into the night with a friend. When they press him, Harry finally admits that he was with a woman. Noland and Owen take this in stride. But you could have knocked me over with a feather. They demand to know the lady’s name. Harry tells them to jam it.

Noland launches into him instantly: “In other words, she’s married.”

Harry says no.

“So then why not give us her name?”

Harry refuses. He says he has his reasons.

“What you’re telling us is you don’t have an alibi?” says Noland.

“You asked me what I was doing. I’m telling you.”

“Where did all this take place?” Noland pushes him.

“At a restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter. We had dinner.”

“Maybe you can give us the name of this restaurant?”

Harry does, and Owen writes it down.

“Where did you go after dinner?” says Noland.

“Her place.” As Harry says it, he glances at me sitting on the couch in his office.

“Which is where?” Noland is standing, leaning over Harry’s desk. Owen, the other detective, sits in one of the client chairs quietly observing.

“Up near La Jolla.” Harry is in his chair behind the desk.

“That’s a big area. Maybe you can narrow it down with an address?” says Noland.

“Can’t do that,” says Harry.

Noland turns toward me and says, “You might want to advise your partner to cooperate. It’ll go a lot easier and faster. That is, if he has nothing to hide.”

“His interview,” I tell him.

“Fine!” He turns back to Harry. “So what’s the problem here? You tryin’ to tell us you don’t kiss and tell? The gentleman’s code? That you’re trying to protect the lady’s honor? Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s a luxury you can’t afford. Not in a situation like this. You say she’s not married. So what has she got to hide?” says Noland. He thinks for a moment, then turns back to me and asks, “Could it be that your partner is humping a client? That is a no-no, correct? I’m told the bar frowns on it, right?”

He doesn’t really expect an answer and I don’t give him one. Besides, I know better. What’s beginning to bother me more is Harry’s silence. I’d expect him to be on top of the desk with both feet by now, snarling in the cop’s face. A lawyer who suddenly goes quiet when confronted with this kind of an accusation has a reason for biting his tongue, especially if it’s Harry. Like the cops, I’m left to wonder what he’s hiding. I shudder to think.

Noland looks Harry up and down, the wrinkled shirt, a spotted trail of grease across his tie like a map of the Sandwich Islands, the shadowed beard under Harry’s repentant gaze, lawyer looking for a rock to crawl under. Suddenly it dawns on him. You can see it like a lightbulb as it flashes on over his head.

Who the hell would ever go out with this guy? What woman in her right mind? To the blond cop, the blue-eyed trendsetter, it is obvious. If Harry had a date, especially if he is trying to keep it quiet, it could only mean one thing: Harry had paid for it. “Did you find her on one of the services or did you pick her up in a bar? How much did she cost you, counselor?” Noland smiles and waits for an answer.

There is none. Harry looks down at the surface of his desk as he nibbles a little on his upper lip. It is a nervous tic Harry falls into whenever he is in trouble. I am beginning to worry.

“Seems we caught him in the act.” Noland turns and glances toward his partner. “How’s that for bad timing? Man needs an alibi and all he has is Shady Sadie who, for a few dollars more, will spin any lie you want.” Back to Harry. “If that’s your alibi, it ain’t worth spit. That’s not an alibi a jury is likely to believe.”

“You’re not gonna tell us the lady’s a hooker?” says Owen.

“That or a high-priced call girl,” says Noland.

I’m thinking, No! Not Harry! He would never . . . But Harry is saying nothing. Instead he just sits there chewing on his lip. I start to think. For the first time in his life, Harry has more money than he knows what to do with. I slap myself for the thought. But it’s true. People with too much money do stupid things. All too often it doesn’t buy happiness. But Harry with a call girl?

Noland bears down: “How much did you pay her? You know it’s gonna come out sooner or later.”

Harry gives me a soulful look, and then before I can think he says, “What do I do? Should I tell them?”

The moment he says it, my heart drops into my stomach. “I don’t know. Up to you.” Finally I recover and say, “Maybe you shouldn’t say anything. Just keep quiet.”

“I knew it,” said Noland. “Don’t you love it? The mouthpiece needs a mouthpiece. Come on, cough it up. Gimme her name, otherwise you’ve got nothing,” he tells Harry. “You go right to the top of the list, number one on the hit parade, person of interest. Like a thirsty dog I’m sure it’s not the first one you hired. We’ll find ’em. We’ll dig ’em up. Get their names. Do you have their numbers in a little black book? Or maybe they’re in your computer? Try this on. Let’s say you get tired of paying for it. You see this young new stuff in the office. You make a move to dip your quill. And she says no. You don’t like it. Maybe it’s the way she says it. You left the office early Friday, didn’t you?” They already know he did. It’s on the calendar. Harry left the office at about three. “Let’s say you followed her. Caught her somewhere off the road. She fought back. You panicked. Is that what happened?”

“Go screw yourself,” says Harry.

“In a situation like that, a guy’s gonna panic. I can understand that,” says Noland.

“Don’t say another word,” I tell Harry.

“An alibi, even a bad one, is better than nothing,” says Noland. “Who knows, maybe we’ll even believe her. And even if you lose your ticket for pandering, there are worse things.”

“Don’t say anything,” I tell him. “Keep quiet.”

But Harry’s not listening. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I call her, and you can talk to her over the phone, but no names. How’s that?”

“What, do you think I’m nuts? I’m gonna swallow an anonymous alibi from some bimbo who sells herself a trick at a time over the telephone? Not on your life,” says Noland. “Not a chance.”

“What do I do?” Harry looks at me, mournful eyes, then turns to Owen and says, “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell my partner.”

“It’s time to pay the piper,” says Owen. “Besides, you’ll feel better when it’s over. You know you will.”

Harry falls silent for a moment, then looks at me and says, “I blew it.”

“Shut up!” I tell him.

“I’m sorry.” Then he turns to Noland and asks, “Can’t we keep this private?”

“Her name?” says Noland. He has one cheek on the corner of Harry’s desk, pen poised ready to take notes on the little pad in his hand.