An Accidental Murder: An Avram Cohen Mystery (13 page)

Cohen watched as Hagit passed Jacki. The police woman raised an arm to put around Hagit’s shoulder, but the widow raised her hand and seemed to pat the air, repelling Jacki’s offer. The policewoman looked at Cohen. He nodded to her, so Jacki followed the pregnant woman into the house, while Cohen and the DC met in the middle of the lawn.

“Do you know what Nissim was doing this weekend?” Cohen asked.

The DC frowned and shook his head no. “But I’m sure we can find out.”

“Bezek should check his home phone for Friday and Saturday,” Cohen said automatically.

“We know what to do,” the DC cracked back.

Cohen stared at the oversize man. “I want to know exactly what happened,” he said slowly, the words sawing the air.

“We all do,” said Bendor. “But from what I hear, it looks like an accident.”

It was a standoff, broken by The Beast’s beeper going off, a second before Bendor’s cellular phone, strapped in a holster on his waistband like a second pistol, rang. The photographer drew his communication device first. The DC reached for his little phone like a gunslinger.

The district commander said “yes … ” paused to listen, and then, glancing at Cohen for a second before moving away, said “yes” again. Cellular phone to his ear, Bendor scowled and walked to a corner of the garden, to keep secret any more specific dialogue with his caller. The mayor and principal huddled momentarily, and then left via the backyard’s wrought iron gate to a pavement stretching the length of the row of houses facing the empty desert. The pedestrian path took them around the house.

“You,” Cohen called to the photographer. “Phillipe,” he added, making The Beast’s naturally mean expression suddenly soften into a smile. “Come here.” The photographer approached. “I heard you were at the scene,” Cohen said.

“That’s right,” said the photographer, his brown eyes narrowing into two thin openings in a sun-and windburned face that itself was buried beneath a black beard just on the edge of being either brand new or fully grown.

“Some good snaps.” “Good,” Cohen said.

“I don’t sell pictures to the cops. Except wedding pictures.

I’ll do them if I need the bread. What are you, Internal Investigations? National HQ?” “My name’s Cohen,” said Avram. “Avram Cohen.”

“Ah,” Bensione responded. “Are you the one with the book? The bomb? In Germany?”

“I used to be Nissim’s commander,” Cohen answered.

“In Jerusalem. You have a card?” he asked.

The photographer just stared at him resentfully. From his windbreaker pocket Cohen pulled out a plastic pen and a palm-size pad of thin paper with a yellow cover made of thin cardboard. “Your number?” he asked.

“Why?” Bensione demanded.

“In case I need to see your pictures. I’ll pay double what any newspaper pays for your pictures.”

Cohen could see greed in the photographer’s eyes, but suspicion, as well.

“You sure you’re not going to give ‘ to the cops?”

Just then Bendor approached, holstering his cellular phone. “Cohen? A word.” The district commander officiously repeated the name when Cohen ignored him. Bendor grabbed Cohen’s biceps to get his attention. “In private.” “You see?” said Cohen, his eyes still locked with the photographer’s. “I am not from the police,” he managed to get in before Bendor led him away from the photographer.

The DC dropped his grip after a long stride that nearly made Cohen stumble.

“That was the inspector general,” Bendor said, again using force—this time the position of the highest-ranking police officer in the country—to hold Cohen’s attention.

“He sends condolences,” said Bendor, “but he asks that you—” “Leave this to the system to take care of,” said Cohen.

From the corner of his eye he noticed the photographer watching carefully from the distance.

” ‘ the personal nature of his relationship to the deceased’ were his exact words.” “I’m sure,” said Cohen.

“Please, Mr. Cohen,” said the former paratrooper, emphasizing the mister, “don’t make this harder for us.”

“Never crossed my mind,” Cohen answered. Even he wasn’t sure if he meant it. Just then, he was aware of The Beast holding a camera up to take their picture. Cohen turned instinctively away from the camera while Bendor turned just as spontaneously toward the lens.

“About the memorial ceremony,” said the senior officer, “he’ll get a salute, of course. Fulfilling his duty, and so forth.”

“Of course.”

“My office can make the arrangements.”

“It can wait,” Cohen ordered. “Let Hagit decide.

There’s time.” “Good,” said the former paratrooper, suddenly patting Cohen’s arm.

“We’re coordinated.” The Beast approached the two men, and Bender’s tone changed and he checked his watch.

“I’m due at the border to meet my Jordanian counterpart.

His first visit. I’m putting out a red carpet for him.” “Shit,” said The Beast, who now arrived beside them, smacking his palm against his forehead as if to punish his brain. “I completely forgot. I’m supposed to cover that.”

“I’d better not see you on your bike trying to pass me, trying to get there first,” the big man laughed as he left The Beast with Cohen.

“Here’s my card,” the photographer said, stuffing it into Cohen’s hand. “Call me around five. I’ll have pictures for you.” He then trotted out of the garden on the heels of the district commander, leaving Cohen in the garden, alone with his memories of Nissim Levy.

His first two years as chief of investigations, Cohen worked without a full-time assistant. But Jerusalem had grown overnight after the Six Day War, and then steadily with both the country’s highest birthrate—and the pilgrims.

The more difficult life had become, the more people had wanted God to give them answers, and anyone moving to Jerusalem knows God’s supposed to be just around the corner.

He had gone through half a dozen aides, assistants, and helpers until Levy had asked for the job. Cohen had known little about Levy when the dark-haired junior officer in uniform had approached him that day in the hall.

Levy’s name had already been mentioned at a staff session by Schwartz, the patrol chief, who had complimented Levy for spotting drug traffic at a newspaper kiosk in Kiryat Yovel. Schwartz had called Levy “a good cop,” a few weeks before Cohen had fired Gershon Yalowitz with a bellow heard all the way to the holding cells.

“If you have the brains to match your courage,” Cohen had said to Levy that day in the hall, “you can try it.” For the first few years, Cohen would tell Levy that it was his handwriting that had saved him his job. He had joined Cohen’s office in the years before computers. Even typewriters were rare in the system. Everything had been done by hand, from taking down witness and suspect statements to court transcripts—often in the hand of the judge.

In addition to his street smarts, Levy had handled paper better than anyone in the system Cohen had seen. Cohen had hated handling administration as much as he had loved reading the case files. They were a perfect match—even if Levy’s ambitions sometimes had outrun his abilities.

As Levy had learned, and as Cohen had kept raising the standards, something more than the loyalty of a trusted assistant had taken over their relationship. Cohen’s only child had died unborn with its mother less than a year after Cohen’s marriage, right after the Six Day War in one of the PLO bombings in the city. It had never been said directly between them, but for Cohen, Nissim had been the closest he had ever had to a son. Nissim’s own loyalty meant that when Cohen had fallen out of favor, so had Nissim. And when Cohen’s star had risen again—even if he was no longer on the force—so had Nissim’s.

So more than anything else, Nissim’s suffering for Cohen’s failures or successes was the reason for the sadness the old man felt that morning alone in the bright green garden at the edge of the desert. He lay down on the grass and listened to the sound of his heart beating and the wind, closing his eyes against the warming sun, thinking about Nissim.

“Boss?”

Daydreaming, dozing, or sound asleep, Cohen had been thinking back to his last investigation for the police, when Nissim had taken a knife in the shoulder blade from a suspect trying to get away. In his hospital bed, Nissim had opened his eyes and smiled at Cohen, saying, “Boss?” But this voice was different. “Boss, you okay?” it asked.

Cohen pulled his hand away from his brow, where it had been shading his eyes. Shvilli was looking down at him.

From the grim expression, Cohen had the feeling it was more bad news. He looked at his watch. He had slept nearly two hours.

“What happened?” he asked.

“They got the body out of the car.” “And?” Cohen demanded.

“It wasn’t an accident. Nine-millimeter slugs. At least one in the head.”

Cohen sat up straight, gasping for air, coughing until he could say, “Who could have done it, Misha?”

“I’m going down to Eilat to find out. I thought you might want to come.”

Cohen rubbed at his forehead. “Do we know for sure that he was in Eilat?” he asked. He crossed his legs, sitting like a Buddha, while Shvilli dropped a knee to the ground before him.

“I’ve been over the map a dozen times,” Shvilli said.

“The nearest settlement is Kibbutz Haran. The only thing going on there for us was a pair of Australian volunteers caught growing some grass last summer. Nothing else. My bet? He was either ambushed at the corner where he went off the road, or dumped there. But he came out of Eilat.”

The assassination of a policeman was extremely rare in Israel. Years could go by without an attempt, and suddenly there would be a flurry of armed attacks. Twice while in office, Cohen had been targeted by his own targets. Once it was shots fired at him near his home. The other time, he luckily decided that day to bring his car in for a lube job, and the mechanic found the tampered rear-wheel brakes.

Usually, underworld assassins used car bombs, as well as drive-by shootings and ambushes. And, like police everywhere, the security establishment took such attacks personally.

In those two cases where Cohen was targeted the investigation went quickly, with the entire security network of the country thrown into the case. The same thing would happen now. The Shabak would attach an officer to the special investigating team, to be appointed by Bendor, and vetted by the inspector general.

Cohen wanted to be involved. And he knew it was impossible. Yes, there might be some on the fifth floor ready to vote for him, but he knew none would dare nominate him. Should he call the inspector general and volunteer?

He knew the answer. “No,” the IG would say, and for good reason that could be summed up in one word: Policy.

So how long, Cohen wondered, could he investigate on his own without the police finding out? A few days perhaps. A week. He could trust Shvilli and had no choice but to trust Jacki.

“Who would put out a hit on Nissim?”

“If you ask me, it was one of my Russians. There’s big Russian action down there. Run by a pig named Yuhewitz.

We know he’s got three whorehouses and at least two floating casinos. When he’s in town, he stays on his glamor ship at the marina.”

“But was he down there this weekend?”

“I’ve been putting out some calls.”

“Would Yuhewitz order a hit on Nissim?”

Shvilli’s face turned grim. “He knows Nissim had an eye on him. He has a lot to protect. Maybe Nissim was-down there spying and got caught. Cowboying it.”

Was that like Nissim? Cohen wondered. Yes, by learning from Cohen, Nissim had learned to act on his own when necessary. No, because unlike Cohen, Nissim’s loyalties were to his career as a professional within the system, and not to the truth for its own sake.

So he asked Shvilli, why would Nissim be down there, on his own, in danger, alone? If he was going down for a confrontation, why alone? And if it was a long-standing contract, why did the killer wait until a wintry night on a weekend? Shvilli had no answers.

“Help me up,” Cohen said, holding out a hand to his former junior officer. He had sent Shvilli into dangerous places alone in the past. He had done the same to Nissim.

He had gone alone into dangerous places more times than he cared to remember. But in the months since Frankfurt, he had often brooded over why he had run. Had he been afraid that night? No, he had decided. Not of bombs. But of the exposure. He had resolved not to get involved in the investigation of that strange incident in Frankfurt because, he said, he was done with investigating, done with that life.

He lied. To himself, mostly, as usually happens with liars.

Ahuva had shown him that. But it took Shvilli telling him that Nissim was murdered to finally make him see through the lie. For a few moments, just before dozing off in the cool fresh air at midday in the desert winter, he had indeed considered letting the system handle it all.

The traffic forensics and the autopsy, the clarification of what Nissim was doing south that wintry night; his thoughts raced, coming back to the realization that the inspector general would be correct. He had no right to get involved. He had reason perhaps, but he didn’t have the privilege and the authority—and responsibility—that comes with it.

“What’s going on?” Jacki asked, coming into the garden.

Cohen looked at Shvilli. The Georgian-born boxer with a talent for languages and disguise had an expectant look on his face, as if much more had been said between them than actually was turned into words.

Jacki was impatient. “Nu!” she demanded. “Tell me.” “On the other hand,” Shvilli said, grinning a pair of gold teeth at Cohen, “you could give me a job.”

“Michael!” Jacki hissed, shocked. “You are so rude.”

“C’mon, sir,” Shvilli said. “It could be great. Privatization?

No? Isn’t that the keyword nowadays? What do you say?”

“Michael Shvilli, have you gone out of your mind?” Jacki cried out.

“Shh,” Cohen ruled. “Is Hagit sleeping?” he asked. Jacki nodded. The master bedroom window, he remembered, overlooked the garden.

“Does she know about the shooting?” he asked, looking up to the second floor. A pale blue curtain billowed slightly in the soft breeze.