Dimiter

  And with this, he turned slowly away and lay down on a mattress on the floor against a wall, with his face turned away, in silence.

  Meral stared at his back. “What does that mean?” he asked.

  He waited, then at last said quietly, “God be with you.”

  He then turned away and left, convinced that he was never going to get an answer. And he wouldn’t.

  At least not from the soldier.

  The nurse at the reception desk watched with folded arms as Meral carefully signed out in a ledger. “I can’t help feeling sorry for him,” she said. “He’s so young. And he seems so wounded.”

  She picked up the ledger to put it away.

  “I’m really glad that he’s got another visitor,” she added.

  About to turn away, Meral stared.

  “Someone else visits him?”

  “Oh, yes. Fairly often.”

  “Who?”

  “Forgot his name. Do you want me to look it up for you?”

  “Oh, would you? Yes, thank you. Thank you very much.”

  The nurse retrieved the ledger, opened it, flipped through its pages to a recent date, and then stopped and ran her finger down the page.

  “Oh, yes, here. Here, I’ve got it. Last name’s Wilson.”

  His thoughts a sudden whirlpool of conjecture, Meral returned to the Casa Nova where Samia the nurse was sitting in the entry lobby. The moment Meral walked in she stood up and then waited for him to approach her.

  “Why, Samia! What is it? Something’s wrong?”

  ”No, I just need to tell you something very important.”

  “What is it?”

  “Not in here,” she said, lowering her voice. “Outside.”

  Meral turned to see Patience watching them intently from behind the reception counter. Leaned over, he was resting his weight on folded arms.

  “Yes, come on. We’ll take a walk.”

  Once down the few steps to the Casa Nova Road, they stopped.

  “Yes, now tell me, Samia. What is it?”

  “Well, you remember that day that you were working on a case in my neighborhood and you showed me a picture of someone and you asked me if I’d seen him before?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, I lied.”

  “I remember that, too.”

  “You knew I lied? I guess I’m not a good liar!”

  “And that’s good. And now you’ve come to tell the truth?”

  “Look, I just didn’t want him to get into any trouble.”

  “Who?”

  “Wilson. I think I’ve seen him with the man in that picture you showed me.”

  Meral looked incredulous.

  “Wilson?”

  “Yeah, Wilson. I mean, he wasn’t just with this guy. I think the guy lived with him for a while. I’d see him staring out the window now and then.”

  “Samia, the photo I showed you is blurry. Are you positive?”

  “Positive? No. But I think so. Oh, well, now I’m not sure.”

  Meral slipped a notepad and pencil from a pocket of his shirt.

  “Let’s assume that you are.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “For how long?”

  “How long what?”

  “How long might the two of them been living together?”

  “Couple of months. Started January.”

  “Date?”

  “Around the middle of the month.”

  “The fourteenth, by any chance?”

  This was the date of the Remle Street incident.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Someone opened the hostel front door and was coming down the steps to the street. Meral put a hand on the nurse’s shoulder, turning her to walk with him a little, and then stopped. “Yes, go on,” Meral urged her.

  “Well, when I’d see him at the market he’d be buying almost twice as many groceries as usual. You know? Like for two. Those creepy people at the market, by the way. They’re really snots. A bunch of racists. Oh, well, forget it. You want to know where you can find him? Find Wilson?”

  “Oh, I know,” Meral told her. “He does handyman work here at the Casa.” He lifted an arm and glanced at his watch.

  “But not this late,” he said. “Too late.”

  “I can tell you where he likes to hang out.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Meral walked through the quiet dark streets to the flashing colored lights of the Club 2000, a disreputable coffee parlor with video and pinball machines, which at night was filled with boisterous and largely unemployed young men, as well as others with nefarious pursuits. Wilson was sitting with a group of them, laughing and talking and in very high spirits, but seeing Meral approaching in uniform, the group’s lively conversation fell away to silence. “It’s alright,” Meral told them, “I have come to have a coffee, nothing more.” The group’s chatter resumed, although at a level that was just above an undertone. When Meral saw Wilson looking up at him, smiling, he lifted his eyebrows and gestured toward the tables and chairs outside the club. Wilson nodded, then stood up and followed Meral outside. There was no one else there. Meral pointed to a table that was furthest from the door.

  “Over here?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  They sat down.

  “Nice seeing you, Wilson.”

  “You, too. So what’s up?”

  “Oh, well, we just need to talk a little bit.”

  “Oh, well, sure.”

  “Incidentally, you’re a relative newcomer here. You should know that this club is a hangout for criminals. Some of the men you were sitting with, in fact. So be careful.”

  “Oh, I know about that.”

  “You know?”

  “Healthy people aren’t the ones who need a doctor.”

  Meral stared for a moment.

  “I’m afraid I’m having trouble understanding your meaning.”

  Wilson smiled and looked off to the side.

  “That’s just me,” he said amiably. “Can’t have people understanding me until they’re really ready.”

  Before the baffled policeman could speak or react, a slender waiter named Yunis had come out of the club and now hovered. Two coffees were ordered.

  “Sichar wasat,” Wilson specified: medium sugar.

  Then he turned back to Meral with an archangel’s smile.

  “I’m really so glad to be with you like this,” he said effusively, a seeming honest gladness glowing in his face. “You have some questions, Sergeant Meral? Sure, what are they? Go ahead. Is this police work or something about the Casa Nova again?”

  “Oh, well, police work. A case I’ve been on. Someone told me that you might be somewhat helpful.”

  “Oh, really? Who was that?” Wilson asked

  “It’s not important,” Meral answered.

  He had slipped out a photo from an inside jacket pocket. He held it out to Wilson’s view. It was a blowup of the soft-focused photo on Joseph Temescu’s driver’s license.

  “Have you seen this man before? I think you have.”

  Wilson took the photo and studied it gravely, his smile now faded away. “It’s rather hard to make out.”

  “Although not to the eye of truth. His name is Joseph Temescu. It’s been reported that he lived in your apartment for a time.”

  Wilson looked up and met a steady, strong gaze.

  “Alright,” he said. “I did take a few things from Hadassah. Is that it? Is that what this is about?”

  Meral’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  “What are you talking about, Wilson? What things?”

  “Oh, come on now. The bandages. The morphine. Dressings. Syringes. Antibiotics.”

  “These are things you say you pilfered from the hospital?”

  “You knew that.”

  “No, I didn’t. Was the pilferage on January fourteenth?”

  “Why then?”

  “Please just answer, Wilson. Was it?

  “No. No, I
don’t think so. It was later. Maybe two or three days. I didn’t have the money to buy them and I really had to have them. I had to!”

  “Why? Do you sell them?”

  Wilson stared at Meral worriedly.

  “Am I going to be in trouble? In a way I think I’ve paid for those things. I mean, really. All the hours that I donate over there. Over there at Hadassah. Are you going to charge me with something?”

  Meral stared with a distant bemusement in his eyes. Despite his strong rugged features and an almost imposing physical presence, Wilson seemed a little boy caught stealing pencils and erasers from a schoolbag.

  “Hadassah is not my jurisdiction,” Meral told him, “and the supplies are of no interest to me. The thing I am interested in is Temescu. I want to hear everything you know about the man. Everything. Your impressions. His habits. Whatever he divulged to you about himself.”

  Meral slipped the photo out of Wilson’s hand.

  “Will you cooperate?”

  “There won’t be any trouble about the hospital supplies?”

  “There will not.”

  “Well, okay, then. I’ll tell you. I will. But not now. I’m with these guys.” Wilson lifted his thumb back toward the club’s interior. “Can we do this tomorrow, Sergeant Meral?”

  “Yes, we can. And we will talk in great depth. You have quite a lot to tell me, I think.”

  “Yes, I do. You need to hear it.”

  For a moment Meral measured him in silence. Wilson had a way of making the most ordinary statements sound cryptic, as if they had a hidden and deeper meaning. Or was he just imagining this?

  He stood up and Wilson followed.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Meral said. “Nine o’clock?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. At your office?”

  “No, why not Fuad’s for a coffee? It’s close to the Station and right across the street from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.”

  Wilson flashed a brilliant smile

  “Oh, that’s a fine place to meet!”

  Meral nodded. “Yes, that would be best.”

  Meral watched as Wilson hurried back into the club. Morphine. Bandages. Antibiotics. Was it possible that Wilson was Temescu’s rescuer from the burning Land Rover that night? And if so, might there not also be at least some degree of probability that he’d been with him when he died in the Tomb of Christ?

  And done what? wondered Meral.

  A chilling possibility entered his mind.

  Nothing was out of the question. Not in this world.

  He started walking toward the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

  He had to speak to Tariq.

  Now.

  CHAPTER 21

  Seated at his desk with a hand against his stomach, Mayo grimaced as if he had tasted sour wine. “I don’t know what it could be,” he groaned softly, “but I’m suddenly feeling so punky.”

  “And so what did you eat today that was different?”

  Samia was seated in her favorite low position on the faded green Naugahyde chair. “This is funny,” she added. “I mean, I’m asking you.”

  “I ate latkes with sour cream and apple sauce, Doctor, and it’s never affected me like this my whole life.”

  “And so what have you got, Moses? What do you think it could be?”

  “Must you stare without blinking from that low-down position? You look like a white anaconda with feet.”

  “Don’t change the subject. What is it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, if you don’t, who would?”

  “Very true.”

  “Want to hear my opinion?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re getting it. You’re lonely and depressed and that’s how that stuff shows.”

  “I’ve been lonely and depressed all my life.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “I don’t care what you heard.”

  Mayo turned to stare pensively out through the window.

  “Samia, why would a priest have a radical face-lift?”

  “Is this a joke? Does it have a joke answer?”

  “I hope so,” Mayo murmured broodingly.

  “What do you mean?” Samia pressed him.

  “Nothing.”

  Mayo turned back to her.

  “Would you take a little blood and run it down to the lab for me, darling?” he said weakly. “I’m feeling really, really rotten,”

  Samia struggled to her feet.

  “Poor guy. Yes, of course.”

  “This is really just the worst,” Mayo said.

  He was wrong.

  CHAPTER 22

  You shaved off your beard, Wilson. Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Sergeant. Spring cleaning, I guess.”

  They were sitting having coffee in front of Fuad’s. The massive door to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher across the way had been pushed wide open and tourists and pilgrims were already walking in.

  “How old are you, Wilson? You look so very young.”

  “I’m fifty-two.”

  “Fifty-two? I can’t believe it!”

  Wilson grinned.

  “You know, in bright sunlight and without that beard . . .” began Meral.

  “Without the beard, what?”

  “Well, your eyes. They’re blue. I always thought they were dark. Almost black. Wilson, where do you come from?”

  “California. Didn’t you know that?”

  Meral’s demitasse coffee cup was halfway to his lips when he stopped to study Wilson’s face. He was simple, he decided. But hardly dull-witted.

  Meral sipped and then set down his cup.

  “Yes, I did. I did know that. Of course. And you’ve been here six months. A little more. So what brought you here, Wilson?”

  “Guess I’m searching.”

  “For what?”

  “For the meaning of my life, I suppose.”

  Meral quickly turned away, his look of tolerance putting up a brave but futile fight against a spasm of impatience. “Yes, one can have romantic illusions about this place. But the reality is envy and noise and hostility and squabbling over coins and cold hardness of heart. Just the same as it’s always been.” He turned back to look at Wilson. “You haven’t learned that yet?”

  “No.”

  “Good for you. Or too bad. How do you live, by the way? You do volunteer work.”

  Wilson shrugged.

  “I’ve got a little bit of money saved up. Just enough. I guess I’m lucky.”

  “Lucky how?”

  “Money keeps you from seeing.”

  “Seeing what?”

  “What’s really there.” Wilson picked up his coffee cup, took a sip and then put it down. “Are we going to talk about the hospital supplies?”

  “As I told you, they aren’t a concern of mine, Wilson. Although at some point I’ll certainly want to know why you took them.”

  “Ahlan! May I sit?”

  It was Tariq. He was standing by their table.

  “Yes, of course, my friend, sit,” Meral told him. “Have a coffee.”

  “You don’t mind?” he asked Wilson.

  “Why would I?”

  Wilson gestured at an empty chair.

  “Come on, join us.”

  Tariq sat and immediately started staring at Wilson intently.

  Wilson smiled and said, “It’s Tariq. Isn’t that right?”

  Meral stared without expression, trying not to give away his surprise.

  His mousetrap hadn’t failed; it was unnecessary.

  “You know Tariq, Wilson?”

  “Yes. Yes, we met the other day when I was visiting the church. We had a chat about falafel.”

  Befuddled, Tariq’s eyes were now open wide as they shifted back and forth between Meral and Wilson. “I had a beard then,” Wilson told him. “A big bushy red beard. You remember?”

  Meral looked toward the church.

  “Tariq, I think someone’s waving for you to come ba
ck.”

  Without a word Tariq bolted from his chair and began to walk swiftly across the street toward the church, his arms swinging and his heart filled with gladness and relief to get away from it. Whatever it was.

  Wilson watched him.

  “He didn’t get to have his coffee.”

  “He won’t mind.”

  Wilson turned back to Meral. The policeman was studying him appraisingly, his head tilted slightly to the side as he measured Wilson’s questioning look of innocence and utter lack of guile.

  “You were in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher on the seventh of March?”

  “Oh, what day of the week was that?”

  “A Tuesday.”

  “Oh, I was, then. Yes. I was there when they were closing.”

  “You were alone?”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “You want to help me, don’t you Wilson?”

  “Oh, so much, Sergeant Meral! So very much!”

  Meral paused for a moment, surprised by the fervor in Wilson’s voice.

  “Well, then tell me: Were you with someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it the man who once lived with you? Joseph Temescu?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you enter the Tomb of Christ with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing with him there?”

  “He wanted me to help him die.”

  “What was that?”

  “He wanted me to help him die. He asked me to inject him with chloral hydrate to help knock him out and make the end come quicker. He’d brought it all along himself: the syringe, the chloral, morphine.”

  Taken aback, Meral didn’t know what to say next.

  And then his stare began to narrow.

  “He could have injected himself though, could he not?”

  “Sure, he could have.”

  “Then what need was there for you to be present?”

  “Listen, Sergeant, I’d have to explain things for an hour before I could tell you and know you’d believe me. It’s just too complicated. Too weird.”

  “Is that so? Very well. We’ll put that off to another time. Meantime, why did he want to die in Christ’s Tomb? Or is that too complicated as well?”

  “He said he wanted his death to be all over the news.”