“Jesus followers on Masada, one of them with biological ties to the tomb in the Kidron. One of them a member of the Holy Family. And to prove that I’ve got to prove the James ossuary came from that tomb.”
Jake turned, eyes burning with something that froze my response.
“I thought we had two unrelated first-century finds, each mind-blowing on its own. That’s not true. It’s all connected. The missing Masada skeleton and the Kidron tomb are all part of the same story. And it’s mega, maybe the biggest discovery of the century. Hell, the millennium.”
Jake strode back to the table, picked up the physical anthropology report, laid it down, touched an ossuary photo, then another, stacked the photos, laid the report on top of the stack, ran his finger around its edge.
“This is bigger than even I imagined, Tempe. And more dangerous.”
“Dangerous? But we no longer have Max. And no one knows about the shroud bones.”
“Not yet.”
“It’s time we tell Blotnik.”
Jake spun on me. “No!”
I jerked as though shocked by live current.
Jake raised an apologetic hand.
“Sorry. My head’s cranking up again. It’s just. I—Not Blotnik.”
“Jake, are you allowing personal feelings to cloud your judgment?”
“Blotnik’s a has-been. No.” Jake snorted. “That’s being charitable. He’s a never-was. And a real asshole.”
“Blotnik could be Caligula, but he heads the IAA. The man must have done something to earn that position.”
“He published a few brilliant articles back in the sixties, got the academic world shitting its fancy French shorts, got a lot of plum offers, then sat back and never wrote another thing of merit. Now he rides on the backs of others.”
“Despite your view of Blotnik, the IAA has authority over antiquities in this country.”
Outside, a car door slammed. Jake’s eyes skittered to the window, to the locked cabinet, then back to mine. Sighing, he picked up and began clicking a ballpoint pen.
“I’ll visit Ruth Anne Bloom this afternoon.”
“Bloom is the physical anthropologist attached to the IAA?”
Jake nodded.
“You’ll tell her about the shroud bones?”
“Yes.” With his free hand, Jake squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“You’re not just saying that?”
“I’m not just saying that.” Jake threw down the pen. “You’re right. It’s too risky to keep the bones here.”
Risky for whom? I wondered, watching Jake cross back to the window. The bones? Jake? Jake’s future career? I knew my friend. He, too, had academic ambitions.
“Would you like me to go with you to the Rockefeller?”
Jake shook his head. “I’ve got to swing by the dig and warn my crew about the Hevrat Kadisha. They know the drill, but I want to be sure the damn bone police don’t take them by surprise.”
I looked at my watch.
“I’m supposed to meet Ryan at the hotel at four. But I can change that.”
“No need. I’ll call you in a couple of hours.”
“You’ll have dinner with us tonight?”
Jake nodded, thinking, no longer listening.
* * *
Ryan arrived at my room shortly after I did. I must have looked unhappy.
“You okay?”
I nodded, not wanting to go into details of my spat with Jake.
“How’s your pal?”
“His head’s hurting, but he’s fine.” I slammed the door on the minibar. “Judgmental, but fine.”
Ryan let it go.
“Learn anything useful at the Post?”
Popping a Diet Coke, I told Ryan about the articles in which Yadin contradicted himself concerning the use of radiocarbon dating.
“So the old boy did send materials out of the country. Why wouldn’t he do that with the Masada skeletons?”
“Why not indeed.”
“But listen to this. I got DNA results. A number of individuals in the Kidron tomb had identical sequencing.”
“Meaning they’re related.”
“Yes. But that’s no big deal. It’s a family tomb. You’d expect the people buried there to be related. What is a big deal is that mitochondrial DNA links Max’s odd tooth to that family.”
“Meaning someone buried in Cave 2001 was a member of the family buried in the Kidron tomb.”
I love Ryan’s quickness.
“Exactly. And since Jake’s convinced the Kidron tomb held the members of the Holy Family, that would place early Christians on Masada at the time of the siege.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. The Israelis will be antagonistic to any such suggestion.”
“Jesus people at Masada, maybe even a member of the Holy Family.”
“Exactly. But I still have no idea who Max is.” I took a swig. “Was. His DNA sequencing was unique. If he was related to those in the Kidron tomb, it wasn’t through any of the ladies Jake recovered.”
“Kaplan was dancing around the subject this morning.”
That got my attention.
“Claimed Ferris was on a first-name basis with Max.”
“He had proof of identity?”
“The world according to Kaplan.”
A tingle of excitement ran up my spine. I’d spent a month trying to attach a label to the Masada skeleton. It’d been like chasing smoke in a pitch-black tunnel. If I was honest with myself, I’d come to suspect all hope of individualization had evaporated with time.
“For God’s sake, Ryan. Tell me what Kaplan said.”
“Kaplan claims he never found out. But word on the street was, the bones were big.”
“The street of illegal antiquities?”
Ryan nodded. “Here’s the bad news. Friedman had to cut Kaplan loose.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Kaplan lawyered up. Counsel suggested, ever so politely, that his client’s rights were being violated in that he’d been held well past the legal limit. I believe the term ‘constitutionally impaired’ was directed at Friedman.”
“What about the shoplifting?”
“Litvak dropped his complaint. And I’ve got zilch to tie Kaplan to the Ferris hit.”
“Kaplan admitted he was hired to shoot the guy.”
“He says he didn’t do it.”
“He planned to sell a stolen skeleton.” My voice sounded shrill in the quiet room.
“Intent isn’t a crime. Besides, he’s now claiming he never really intended to hawk the thing. Just made some calls out of curiosity.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Here’s another interesting development. Courtney Purviance is in the wind.”
“Ferris’s secretary has disappeared?”
“When Kaplan first told us about the Masada skeleton, we asked why Ferris decided to sell after hiding the bones for more than thirty years.”
I’d wondered that myself.
“He claimed Ferris’s business was tanking.”
“That’s not what Purviance told you.”
“Not at all. So somebody’s lying. That’s why we wanted to ask Purviance some more questions. I fired off a query. Guy named Birch is working this with me.”
“The blond detective I saw at the Ferris autopsy.”
Ryan nodded. “Birch has been trying to contact Purviance for several days now. She’s not at Ferris’s warehouse. She’s not at home. The lady appears to have vanished.”
“Did anyone tell her not to leave town?”
“She isn’t a suspect. I couldn’t order her to stay put. I did suggest it would be useful to be able to touch base, but I doubt Purviance plays by any rule-book but her own.”
“Any evidence of a planned trip?”
Ryan shook his head.
“That’s not good,” I said.
“No. It’s not. Birch is on it.”
Ryan came to me and placed a hand on each of my shoulders.
r />
“Friedman and I are going to stick to Kaplan like white on rice. We’ll know every place this turkey goes, everything he does, everyone he sees.”
“Friedman’s rope.”
“We’re betting Kaplan’ll tie himself a noose.”
Ryan drew me close.
“You’ll be on your own for a while.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got my mobile number.”
I broke free and gave Ryan a falsely bright smile. “Don’t hold your breath, handsome. I’m dining with a tall, debonair man tonight.”
“Bit bald.”
“Bald is the new beautiful.”
Ryan smiled. “I hate it when you get all weepy over me.”
“Go.” I turned Ryan toward the door. “Heart-pumping surveillance awaits.”
When Ryan had gone, I phoned Jake to settle on a restaurant. No answer.
My watch said five. I’d been up since dawn, and was starting to fade.
Power nap? Why not. Jake would call within the hour.
Seconds later I was awakened by a noise at my door.
A key? A rattling knob?
Disoriented, I looked at the clock.
Seven thirty-two.
I flew across the room.
“Jake?”
No answer.
“Ryan?
Something swished on the tile at my feet. Looking down, I saw a folded paper slide through the crack.
I opened the door.
A young woman was scurrying down the corridor. She wore a hijab, dark dress, and oxfords.
“Miss?”
Without stopping the woman spoke over her shoulder. “This man hurt your room.”
With that the woman rounded the corner, and her footsteps receded down the stone steps.
I closed and locked my door. Outside, traffic hummed. Inside, the room screamed silence.
Bending, I picked up and unfolded the paper. On it were the same words the woman had spoken. And a single name. Hossam al-Ahmed.
Was the woman a maid? Had she witnessed the break-in to my room? Why come forward now? Why in this manner?
Snatching up the phone, I asked for Mrs. Hanani. I was told the manager had gone for the day. I left a message, asking that she call me.
Placing the note in my purse, I called Jake. Still no answer. Was he still out? Had he tried to contact me? Had I slept through his call?
I tried again at seven forty-five, eight, and eight-fifteen. At eight-thirty I gave up and went down to the Cellar Bar.
Though my dinner was good, I was too agitated to appreciate the chef’s efforts. I kept wondering why Jake hadn’t returned my calls.
Could he still be at the Rockefeller?
But hadn’t Jake planned to swing by his site first, then visit Bloom at the Rockefeller? Had he changed his mind about visiting Bloom? Maybe decided against driving alone with the shroud bones?
But he couldn’t still be at the dig. It was dark.
Maybe he’d called my room, gotten no answer, and decided to dine with his crew.
Had I been so tired I’d slept through the ring? I doubted it.
The more I mulled it over, the more worried I became.
Across the bar, I could see two dark-skinned men seated at another alcove table. One was short and wiry, with skull-tight hair and a gap between his front teeth. The other was a beluga, with long, thin wisps pulled into a ponytail.
I thought of Hossam al-Ahmed. Who was he? Had he really ransacked my room? Why?
The men in the alcove were drinking juice, not speaking. A yellow candle lit their table. Shadows slid upward, morphing their features into Halloween masks.
Were the men watching me? Was my imagination in overdrive?
I snuck a peek.
The beluga removed shades from a pocket, slipped them on, and gave me an oily smile.
My eyes snapped back to my plate.
Signing for my meal, I hurried to my room and again called Jake.
No answer.
Maybe the headache had intensified, so he’d pulled the plug on his phone and crashed.
For lack of a better plan, I took a bath. My usual remedy for agitation. No go.
Who were the guys in the bar?
Who was Hossam al-Ahmed?
What had happened to Courtney Purviance?
Where was Jake?
How was Jake? Was he having a relapse? Had he thrown an embolism? Developed a subdural hematoma?
Mother Mary! I was going completely schizoid.
While toweling off, my eyes fell on Ryan’s phone records, dry now, but browned and rippled from their encounter with the Coke.
Why not? It would keep my mind from worrying about Jake.
Propping myself in bed, I turned on the lamp and stared out the window. Thin wisps of fog blurred the minaret’s top.
While not the full, majestic sweep of Jerusalem, my view was reassuring. Night sky. Lots of it. The same sky that had hung in this place forever.
My focus moved inward.
Arrows of light played on my dimmed ceiling. The day’s heat had waned, and the room was pleasantly cool. A perfumed dampness permeated the air.
I closed my eyes and listened, the printouts lying on my upraised knees.
Traffic. The tinkle of a shopkeeper’s bell. Cats meeting cats in the courtyard.
A car alarm cut the night with staccato beeps.
Opening my eyes, I took up Ryan’s printouts.
I was faster than I’d been on my first go-round. I could see patterns now, and recognized more numbers.
But the bath had been more calming than I’d thought. My lids grew heavy. More than once, I lost my place.
I was about to kill the light when a number caught my attention. Was it drowsiness, or was something wrong there?
I ran the sequence again and again.
I felt blood making the rounds in my brain.
Grabbing the phone, I dialed Ryan.
36
“RYAN HERE.”
“It’s Tempe.”
“How was dinner?” Subdued.
“Jake never showed.”
Slight hitch. Surprise.
“I’ll have the cad flogged.”
“Turned out for the better. I may have found something in the phone records.”
“I’m listening.”
“When did Ferris take Miriam to Boca?” I asked.
“Mid-January.” Ryan was keeping his answers short. I pictured him and Friedman folded like pretzels in a darkened car.
“Okay. Here’s the sequence as I’ve been able to piece it together. On December twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth, calls were made from the Mirabel warehouse to the Renaissance Boca Raton Hotel. That was Ferris making arrangements.”
“Okay.”
“On January fourth a call was placed to l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges. That was Ferris giving Morissonneau a heads-up on his plan to collect Max.”
“Go on.”
“On January seventh a call was made to Kaplan’s home. That was Ferris contacting his middleman. Kaplan was called again on January tenth. Then, from the sixteenth through the twenty-third, there’s a marked drop-off in outgoing calls from Mirabel.”
“Ferris was down south with Miriam.”
“Right. Two calls were made to the Boca resort. Probably Purviance with questions for the boss. But get this. On January nineteenth, Kaplan’s home number was again dialed from the warehouse.”
Ryan got it right away. “Ferris was in Florida. It couldn’t have been him. So who’s calling Kaplan?”
“Purviance?” I suggested.
“She ran the business when Ferris was gone. But why would Purviance call Kaplan? He’s not a customer or a supplier. And Ferris’s dealings with Kaplan weren’t exactly kosher. Purviance wouldn’t have been tuned into those transactions.” Pause. “Could Purviance have been responding to a message?”
“I thought of that. The warehouse records show no incoming calls from Kaplan’
s home or shop.”
“So someone phoned Kaplan’s home from Ferris’s warehouse while Ferris was in Florida. But Kaplan hadn’t phoned the warehouse, either from his home or his shop, making it unlikely that Purviance was calling Kaplan in response to a message he’d left for Ferris. So who the hell made the call? And why?”
“Someone else with access? A family member?”
“Again, why?”
“Astute questions, Detective.”
“Sonovabitch.”
“Sonovabitch. Any word from Birch?”
I heard rustling, imagined Ryan seeking a more comfortable position.
“Purviance is still missing.”
“That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“If the lady overheard or saw something, the perp might have clipped her to keep her from talking.”
“Jesus.”
“But ballistics caught a break on the Jericho nine-mil that killed Ferris. Piece was reported stolen by a seventy-four-year-old plumber named Ozols. Car break-in in Saint-Léonard.”
“When?”
“January twenty-second, less than three weeks before Ferris was shot. Birch is thinking street thugs. Score a gun, hit a warehouse, things go south, Ferris gets popped.”
Something stirred in my unconscious.
“According to Purviance, nothing of value was taken,” I said, distracted by the heads-up from my hindbrain.
“Mopes may have panicked and split.”
“The gun theft could also suggest pre-planning. Someone wanted a hit and needed a firearm. Also, Ferris took two bullets to the back of the head. That suggests a professional job, not a panic shooting.”
“Miriam was in Florida.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “She was.”
I heard a voice in the background.
“Kaplan’s on the move,” Ryan said, then disconnected.
No longer sleepy, I went back to the call records. This time, I began with the dump on Kaplan’s home phone. The January and February lists were short.
Almost immediately, I got another shocker.
February first. Nine seventy-two. The international exchange for Israel. Zero-two. The area code for Jerusalem and Hebron. I knew the number.
The Rockefeller. And not the main switchboard this time.
Kaplan had dialed the office of Tovya Blotnik. The call had lasted twenty-three minutes.
Blotnik had been in the loop for at least ten days when Ferris died.