Survival of the Fittest (6 page)

“When?”

“Soon as possible. Want to come along? No doubt
you’ve
got a diplomatically correct foulard—in fact, do you have one to lend me? More orange juice, too, long as you’re up.”

I lent him a conservative paisley and we took the unmarked.

The Israeli Consulate was on Wilshire near Crescent Heights, on the top floor of a faceless seventeen-story tower. The first three floors were parking lot and Milo drove in, ignored the
WAIT FOR VALET
sign, and pulled into a space near the elevator. Pocketing the keys, he shoved a bill at the flustered attendant, flashed his badge, and called out, “Have a nice day.”

We rode up. The interior halls were narrow, white, free of decoration, topped by a low, gray, water-spotted acoustical ceiling. The carpeting was mint green with a faint dot pattern. Both needed cleaning and wallpaper seams had come loose in spots. Lots of doors, mostly white and blank.

At the end of the corridor was a TV camera aimed at the last door. A brown plastic sign announced the presence of the consulate and the Israeli tourist office and spelled out hours for visa applications. Just to the right was another plaque—the blue-and-white Israeli flag—and below that a plate-glass window with a steel document tray, a call button, and a speaker.

A young black-haired man in a blue blazer, white shirt, and tie sat behind the glass. His features were sharp and his hair was thick and cropped to the skull. He was reading a magazine and didn’t look up until Milo pushed the button.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Carmeli.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Middle Eastern accent.

Milo produced the badge again.

“Drop it in, please.”

The badge hit the tray and slid into the reception booth. A steel shutter dropped over the slot. The guard inspected the badge, looked at Milo, held up a finger, got up, and disappeared. The magazine was
Sports Illustrated.

Behind the booth was a nest of white cubicles and I could see two women and one man working at computers. A few travel posters hung on the walls. Everything looked just a bit off—cloudy. Refracted through the inch-thick glass.

The young man came back a moment later. “He’s in a meeting—”

“This is about—”

The young man smiled and held up a finger again.
“But,”
he said, “he’ll be out soon.”

He sat down and returned to the world of soccer.

“Doing us a big favor,” mumbled Milo.

A low-pitched whine sounded above. The camera rotated, aiming at us.

Milo pushed the button again and the young man looked up.

“My badge?”

“Mr. Carmeli has it.”

We stood in the hall as the guard read. A heavy black woman in blue blazer and gray slacks came from around the corner and walked down the hall, glancing at doors. She saw us and turned around.

Three minutes passed, four, five. The guard picked up a phone, listened, put it back down.

Five more minutes until one of the white doors opened and a tall, pale man came out into the corridor. Stooped, with round shoulders, he wore a gray nailhead double-breasted suit, baby blue shirt, and maroon tie. The shirt’s collar was too big and the suit bagged. His cheeks were sunken and the bones of his hawk face were oversized and painfully obvious. Wavy brown hair was neatly trimmed and thinning at the crown. He wore heavy, black-framed eyeglasses.

“Zev Carmeli.”

Handshakes were cursory. His fingers were long and very cold. The glasses were bifocals. Thirty-eight but he looked ten years older.

Milo started to speak but Carmeli interrupted him by returning the badge and turning to point down the hall. Leading us to another of the white doors, he unlocked it and motioned us into a windowless room set up with a brown sofa, Danish teak coffee table with brass ashtray, a pair of chrome and brown-tweed armchairs.

Blue carpeting, still nothing on the walls. Behind the couch was another white door, double-bolted.

Milo and I took the chairs as Carmeli relocked the outer door. Reaching in his coat, he placed a hardpack of Dunhills and a matchbook that said
LEARN AT HOME TO BE A COURT REPORTER
on the table.

He sat down on the couch and lit up, inhaling for a long time while studying the grain of the tabletop. His movements were slow and steady, as if everything required careful planning. He kept smoking, finally looked at us. His eyes were as black as the eyeglass frames, still and flat as a stain. The room fogged with nicotine, then I heard an air conditioner kick in and smoke began rising toward a duct in the ceiling.

Carmeli hiked his trousers up over black socks. His fingertips were stained amber.

“So,” he said to Milo, “you are the new detective.” Lighter accent than the guard’s—Middle East tempered by upper-crust London.

“Milo Sturgis, sir. Pleased to meet you.”

Carmeli glanced at me.

“This is Dr. Delaware,” said Milo. “Our psychological consultant.”

I expected some reaction but Carmeli gave none. Finally he raised the flat, black eyes til they met mine. Another lungful of smoke.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

Everything on delay. Everything an effort. I’d met too many families of dead children to be surprised.

“You will be analyzing the murderer, Doctor?”

I nodded.

“And anything else that bears analyzing,” said Milo.

Carmeli didn’t react.

“We’re sorry for your loss, sir.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“Not yet, sir, I just got the files. I thought I’d start by touching base and—”

“Touching base,” said Carmeli, softly. “We are playing baseball.   .   .   . Your predecessors touched base with me, as well. Unfortunately, they struck out.”

Milo didn’t answer.

The cigarette was only half-smoked but Carmeli crushed it out. Both of his feet were flat on the ground. He drew them closer to the couch and his knees pointed sharply through his trousers. The shirt collar at least one full size too big, his Adam’s apple unusually sharp-edged, like a blade threatening to rip through his neck. A thin man who’d lost lots of weight.

New cigarette. I noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, his fingers squeezing the paper cylinder so tightly it was almost an L. The other hand rested on the couch, curled into a fist.

“A no-hitter,” he said. “So .   .   . we are touching base. What would you like to know, Mr. Sturgis?”

“First of all, is there anything you want to tell me?”

Carmeli stared at him.

“Anything,” said Milo, “that’s occurred to you since Detectives Gorobich and Ramos spoke to you.”

Continuing to stare, Carmeli straightened the bent cigarette, then lit up and shook his head. A very soft “No,” emerged from clenched lips. “Nothing.”

“Then I’ll ask a few questions, sir. Please understand that some of them may be repet—”

Carmeli cut him off with a wave of the cigarette. Smoke ribboned. “Ask, ask, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Your work, sir. The Middle East situation. I’m sure you receive threats—”

Carmeli laughed without changing the shape of his mouth. “I’m not James Bond, Detective. My title is deputy consul for community liaison. Did your predecessors tell you what that means?”

“They said something about organizing events. The Israel Independence Day parade.”

“Parades, Israel-bond luncheons, meetings at synagogues, talking to Hadassah ladies—do you know what Hadassah is?”

Milo nodded.

“Dear ladies,” said Carmeli. “Lovely people who plant trees in Israel. When wealthy donors want to have lunch with the consul general, I arrange it. When the prime minister comes to town to meet with the wealthiest of donors, I organize his itinerary. Double-O-Eight. License to cater.”

The free hand shot through his thinning hair.

“So you’re saying you never encounter—”

“I’m saying there’s nothing controversial or dangerous about my work, Mr. Sturgis. I’m saying what happened to my daughter had nothing to do with my work or my wife’s work or our family and I don’t understand why the police simply can’t accept that.”

His voice had risen but remained soft. He leaned his head to the right as if loosening a neck kink. The black eyes were unflinching. He smoked some more, hungrily.

“Then again,” he said, “I’ve dealt with your department in the course of my duties.”

“Oh?”

Instead of elaborating, Carmeli smoked aggressively.

“Sometimes,” said Milo, “we have to be annoying to do our job properly.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I’m afraid. Asking the same questions over and over.”

“Ask whatever you please but if you persist in emphasizing my work the answer will be the same: I’m a bureaucrat. No exploding pens.”

“Still, sir. Being Israeli, you have enemies—”

“Two hundred million of them. Though we’re now on the road to peace, right?” Now, Carmeli smiled.

“Then how can you be sure this wasn’t political? Despite your duties, you’re a representative of the Israeli government.”

Carmeli didn’t answer for several moments. Looking at his shoes, he rubbed the toe of the left one. “Political crimes are based upon hatred and the Arabs hate us. And there are thousands of Arabs in this city, some of them with strong political views. But the goal of even the most violent terrorist is to send a message in a way that will attract attention. Not
one
dead child, Mr. Sturgis. A
busload
of children. Copious amounts of blood, disarticulated limbs, TV cameras recording every agonized cry. Bombs that make noise, Mr. Sturgis. Literally and figuratively. Several years ago when the Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank discovered that throwing rocks at our soldiers made them international heroes they began phoning the wire services to give journalists advance notice of impending riots. Once the film crews showed up   .   .   .” He clapped his hands and ash scattered, landing on the table, his trousers, the floor.

“Your predecessors, Detective, informed me that the .   .   . crime was unusual in its
lack
of violence. Do you agree with that?”

Milo nodded.

Carmeli said, “That alone convinces me there was nothing political about it.”

“That alone?” said Milo. “Is there something else that convinces you?”

“Interpreting my phrasing, Mr. Sturgis? I thought
he
was the psychologist—speaking of which, have you developed any theories, yet, Doctor?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Are we dealing with a madman?”

I glanced at Milo. He nodded.

“Outwardly,” I said, “the killer probably looks quite sane.”

“And internally?”

“He’s a mess. But clinically he’s not mad, Mr. Carmeli. More likely he’s what we call a psychopath—someone with a serious character disorder. Self-centered, lacking normal emotional responses, no empathy, an incomplete conscience.”

“Incomplete? He
has
a conscience?”

“He knows right from wrong but chooses to ignore the rules when it suits him.”

He rubbed his shoe again and sat up. The black eyes narrowed. “You’re describing evil—and you’re telling me he could be any man on the street?”

I nodded.

“Why does he kill, Doctor? What’s in it for him?”

“Relief of tension,” I said.

He flinched. Smoked. “Everyone experiences tension.”

“His tension may be especially strong and his wiring’s off. But these are just guesses, Mr. Carmeli. No one really understands what leads—”

“What causes this supposed
tension
?”

A sexual warp, but I didn’t say that. “Possibly a gap between who he thinks he is and the way he lives. He may pride himself on being brilliant, believe he’s entitled to fame and fortune. But he’s probably an underachiever.”

“You’re saying he kills to feel
competent
?”

“It’s possible, Mr. Carmeli. But—”

“Killing a child makes him feel
competent
?”

“Killing makes him feel powerful. As does eluding capture.”

“But why a
child
?”

“At root, he’s a coward, so he preys upon the weak.”

His head snapped back, as if struck. The cigarette shook and he jammed it into his mouth. Smoking, he played with a cuff button, stared at me again. “As you said, these are guesses.”

“Yes.”

“But if there’s any truth to them, the killing won’t stop, will it? Because his
tension
won’t simply disappear.”

“It’s possible.”

“Also,” said Carmeli, “he may have murdered before.” He turned to Milo. “If that’s so, why haven’t the police discovered similar crimes?”

His voice had risen and the words tumbled out. Snubbing out the second cigarette, he used his index finger to shape the ashes on the table into a thin gray line.

Milo said, “This may be a beginning, sir. A first crime.”

“The killer
began
with my Irit?”

“It’s possible.”

“Why?” said Carmeli, suddenly plaintive. “Why
Irit
?”

“We don’t know yet, sir. That’s one of the reasons I’m here to—”

“How extensively have you
looked
for other murders, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Very extensively, but we’re still in the process—”

“The process, the process—your predecessors said there’s no central crime computer in California. I was incredulous so I checked. And verified it.” Carmeli shook his head. “Absurd. Your department claims to be .   .   . Israel has a population of five million and our crime situation is much less severe than yours and we centralize our files. Excepting political incidents, we experience fewer than a hundred murders per year. That’s comparable to a busy weekend in Los Angeles, right?”

Milo smiled. “Not quite.”

“A bad month, then. According to the mayor’s office, Los Angeles had one thousand and four murders last year. Other American cities are even worse. Thousands and thousands of murders in this vast country. Without centralized files how can you hope to access information?”

“It’s tough, sir. We do have some central—”

“I know, I know, the FBI,” said Carmeli. “NCIC, various state logs, I know. But reporting procedures are slipshod and inconsistent and there’s tremendous variation from city to city.”