Metered talk. BBC voices. Radio on a credenza beside Blotnik’s desk.
Hint of cordite in the air. Something else. Coppery. Salty.
The small hairs rose on my neck and arms. My eyes jumped to the desktop.
A banker’s lamp emitting an eerie green glow. Stacked papers sheared across the blotter. Scattered books, pens. An upended pot, broken in two, the small cactus still rooted in the uncontained soil.
Blotnik’s chair was swiveled at an odd angle. Though the overheads were off, behind and above I could see blood droplets, as though the wall had been mortally wounded.
High-velocity spatter!
Dear God. Who’d been shot? Jake? Blotnik?
I didn’t want to see.
I had to see.
Stepping softly to the desk, I peeked behind.
No corpse.
Relief? Confusion?
To the right rear, I noticed a closet. A dim radiance spilled between the door and jamb.
Edging past the desk, I crossed and pushed with my fingertips.
More image assimilation. Dark wood, smooth from generations of too much varnish.
Metal shelving stacked with office supplies, boxes, and labeled containers. Weak light coming from an ell ahead and to the left.
I inched forward, one hand trailing the edge of a shelf.
Five steps in, my foot slid on something sticky and wet.
I looked down.
A dark rivulet was snaking around the corner of the ell.
Like the screech before the crash. The shadow before the hawk strike. The mental alarm sounded. I was too late.
Too late for whom?
I forced my legs to make the turn.
Blotnik lay on his belly, blood-soaked yarmulke driven into a hole in his skull. There was another wound in his back, and another in his shoulder. Blood was congealing in the puddle haloing his body, and in the tributaries oozing from it.
My hand flew to my mouth. I felt woozy, almost sick.
I slumped to the wall, one phrase winging through my head.
Not Jake. Not Jake. Tell me you didn’t do this, Jake.
Then who? Ultra-Orthodox radicals? Christian fanatics? Islamic fundamentalists?
One second. Five. Ten.
My senses returned.
Skirting the blood, I squatted and placed fingers on Blotnik’s neck. No pulse. The skin felt cool, not cold.
Blotnik hadn’t been dead long. Of course not. I knew that. I’d spoken to him less than an hour ago.
Was the killer still here?
Stumbling back to the office, I grabbed up the phone.
No dial tone.
My eyes traveled the cord. Three inches from the mouthpiece, it ended cleanly.
High-voltage fear.
My gaze danced the desktop, fell on a paper.
Why that one?
It was centered on the blotter, square and neat. Despite the chaos. Below the chaos.
Before the chaos?
Had Blotnik been reading it? Might it lead me to Jake?
Crime scene! Don’t touch! my left brain hollered.
Find Jake! My right brain countered.
I wiggled the paper free. It was Getz’s report on the shroud. Addressed to Jake.
Should Blotnik have had Getz’s report? Had he filched it from Getz’s office? Or were such reports routinely routed to him? Getz worked for the Rockefeller, not for the IAA. Wasn’t that why Jake had gone to her though he’d refused to talk to Blotnik?
Or did Getz work for the museum? She’d offered to take possession of the shroud for the IAA. Was she actually on Blotnik’s staff? Did she work for the Rockefeller and the IAA? I’d never asked Jake to clarify.
Was Getz somehow in collusion with Blotnik? Did it involve the shroud bones? But Jake hadn’t told Getz about the shroud bones. Or had he? Getz’s name and number were on the Post-it in Jake’s office. Had they spoken since we’d left her the shroud?
Jake hated Blotnik. He would never have given him the report.
A terrible thought.
Someone had stolen the shroud bones. Suspecting Blotnik, Jake had stormed over here to demand their return. Jake owned a gun. Had things gotten out of hand? Had he killed Blotnik in a rage?
I skimmed the report. Two words leaped out. “Skeletal remains.”
I read the paragraph. Getz had found microscopic bone embedded in the shroud. Her report suggested larger skeletal remains might exist.
Blotnik knew!
I quick-scanned the office. No shroud bones. I was checking the closet when I heard a soft creak.
My breath froze in my throat.
The door hinge!
Someone was in Blotnik’s office!
Footsteps crossed the office floor. Papers rustled. More footsteps. At the credenza?
Without thinking, I skittered backward toward the ell.
One shoe hit the pooled blood and shot sideways. I pitched forward.
Instinct took control. I threw out my hands, clawing for a lifeline. My fingers closed on a metal upright.
The shelving wobbled.
Time fractured.
A bundle of paper hand towels teetered then tumbled to the floor.
Whump.
Sudden silence in the office.
Total silence in the closet.
Predator and prey sniffed the air.
Then, hurried footsteps.
Departing?
Relief.
Then fear, like a fist pressing my chest.
The footsteps were moving in my direction.
I crouched, paralyzed, maxed to every sound.
My mind hiccupped some forgotten caveat.
Never yield the advantage of lighting.
Blotnik’s visitor could see me better than I could see him.
Grabbing a book, I twisted and aimed at the fixture behind me. The bulb shattered, raining glass onto Blotnik’s body.
A silhouette filled the doorway, lumpy bag hanging from its left shoulder, right arm flexed, pointing a dark object from chest level. A brimmed cap shadowed the face so I couldn’t make out the features.
Throat-clearing, then, “Mi sham?” Who’s there?
The voice was female.
I held rigid.
The woman cleared her throat again and tried Arabic.
In the office, a tinny voice announced the BBC news.
The woman retreated one step. In the emerald backlighting I could see she wore boots, jeans, and a khaki shirt. Her armpits were stained. One blond tendril looped from the side of her cap.
The woman was heavy, and way too short to be Getz. And blonde.
Ruth Anne Bloom?
I felt sweat on my face. Cold heat in my chest. Had this woman killed Blotnik? Would she kill me?
One thought rose up from the base of my brain.
Stall!
“Who are you?”
“I’m asking the questions.” The woman answered my English with English.
It wasn’t Ruth Anne Bloom. Bloom’s English was heavily accented.
I didn’t reply.
“Answer me. Or you’re in the frame for a lot of hurt.” Hard. But agitated. Unsure.
“Who I am doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll decide what matters.” Louder. A threat of violence.
“Dr. Blotnik’s dead.”
“And I’ll park some rounds in your ass just as quick.”
Cop talk? Was this woman on the job? Or one of the millions watching too much TV?
Before I could respond, she spoke again.
“Wait a minute. I know that accent. I know you.”
And I’d heard her voice. But when? Where? Had we crossed paths here? At the hotel? The museum? Police headquarters? I hadn’t met many women in Israel.
Sudden thought. The caller to Jake’s flat had talked of a woman pestering the Hevrat Kadisha.
A number of the “harassing” calls had been made by a woman.
Could this be the woman? Did she have her own
agenda for Max? Had she stolen the shroud bones?
I had no idea as to motive. She spoke English, Hebrew, and Arabic. Was she Christian? Jewish? Muslim?
“Confiscating bones in the name of the Lord?” I threw out.
No response.
“Question is, which Lord?”
“Oh, please.”
Wet sniffing. The woman’s free hand darted to her face.
I wasn’t sure how to probe.
“I know about the Masada skeleton.”
“You don’t know jack.” Sniff. “On your feet.”
I rose.
“Reach and grab your skull.”
I rose and laced my fingers on top of my head. Senses buzzing, I tried a new line of questioning.
“Why kill Blotnik?”
“Collateral damage.”
Ferris? Why not?
“Why shoot Ferris?”
The woman stiffened. “I don’t have time for this.”
Sensing I’d struck a chord, I dug deeper.
“Two bullets to the brain. That’s cold.”
“Shut up!” The woman sniffed, cleared her throat.
“You should have seen what the cats did to him.”
“Stinking little bastards.”
When things fall into place, they often do so rapidly.
I can’t say what my senses took in. The cadence of her speech. The nasal drip. The blonde hair. The trilingualism. The fact that this woman knew me. Knew the cats.
Suddenly, disparate facts toggled.
The bad police dialogue.
A Law & Order rerun. Briscoe telling a suspect he didn’t know jack.
A woman hired Hersh Kaplan to kill Avram Ferris.
Kaplan said she sounded like a cokehead.
The sniffing. The throat-clearing.
“I have sinus problems.”
Kaplan was phoned from the Mirabel warehouse the week the boss was vacationing with Miriam.
“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?”
Ferris was shot with a Jericho nine-millimeter semiautomatic. That gun was reported stolen by a man named Ozols. In Saint-Léonard.
“That’s ‘oak’ in Latvian. We’ve got an international arborist convention, right here in Saint-Léonard.”
Ozols. Oak. The Latvian name I’d seen in a lobby in Saint-Léonard.
The lobby of Courtney Purviance’s building.
“And here’s another interesting development. Courtney Purviance is in the wind.”
My subconscious blossomed into a full-color map.
Courtney Purviance had killed Avram Ferris. She hadn’t been abducted. She was standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at my chest.
Of course. Purviance knew the warehouse and its contents. Probably knew about Max. Travel to Israel was a regular part of her job. Flying here was routine.
But why kill Ferris? Blotnik?
Religious conviction? Greed? Some deranged personal vendetta?
Would she kill me with equal callousness?
I felt a rush of fear, then anger, then an almost trancelike calm. I would have to talk my way out. There was no getting past the gun.
“What happened, Courtney? Ferris didn’t cut you in for a big enough piece of the pie?”
The gun dipped, then the muzzle straightened.
“Or did you just want more?”
“Zip it.”
“Did you have to steal another gun?”
Again, Purviance tensed.
“Or is it easier to score a piece in Israel?”
“I’m warning you.”
“Poor old Mr. Ozols. That wasn’t a nice thing to do to a neighbor.”
“Why are you here? Why did you have to get involved in this?”
I could see Purviance’s finger stroking the trigger. She was nervous. I decided to bluff.
“I’m with the SQ.”
“Move.” The gun waggled me forward. “Easy.”
I took two steps. As I approached, Purviance backed off.
We sized each other up in the dim green glow.
“Yeah. You came to my house with that crime dick.”
“The cops are liking you for the Ferris hit.” I went with Purviance’s Hollywood cop talk.
“And you’re one of them.” Sarcastic.
“You’re a collar.”
“Really?” Sniff. “And there’s a whole squad waiting for your call or they’ll storm this museum.”
She’d read my bluff. Okay. I stayed with the station-house lingo, but tried a new tack.
“Ask me? You’re getting a bum rap. Ferris was hawking merchandise he shouldn’t have been. God be damned. History be damned. Bring on the bucks.”
Purviance wet her lips, but didn’t speak.
“You got wise, right? Told him not to wholesale those bones. At least not without cutting you in. He blew you off.”
The conflict inside her played out in her features. Purviance was angry and hurt. And jumpy as hell. A bad combination.
“Who are we to lip the boss? We’re just the secretary. The maid. The chick who irons his shorts. Prick probably treated you like a field hand.”
“That’s not how it was.”
I pushed.
“That Ferris was one stone-cold bastard.”
“Avram was a good man.”
“Yeah. And Hitler liked dogs.”
“Avram loved me.” Blurted.
Something else clicked for me.
Purviance lived alone. All those calls from the Mirabel warehouse to her home. Ferris and Purviance weren’t just coworkers. They were lovers.
“He had it coming. Bastard was running a game on you. Probably fed you the old saw about leaving his old lady.”
“Avram loved me.” Repeated. “He knew I was ten times smarter than that cow of a wife.”
“That why he snuck south with ole Miriam? You’re not dumb. You figured out he was never leaving her.”
“She didn’t love him.” Bitter. “He was just too weak to deal with it.”
“Strike one. Miriam’s doing Coppertone while you’re stuck in your cold-weather flat. You’re his favorite squeeze, but who’s left behind to answer the phones? And the cheap son of a bitch won’t even cut you in on the skeleton.”
Purviance wiped her nose on the back of the gun hand.
“Then, strike two. Kaplan screwed you over. First your lover, then your hit man. You were having a bad run.”
Purviance jerked the gun so the muzzle was now on my face. Easy. Don’t antagonize her.
“Ferris owed you. Kaplan owed you. You knew that skeleton would put you bucks up. Why not take it?”
“Why not.” Defiant.
“Then the bones disappeared. Strike three. Screwed again.”
“Shut up.”
“You come all the way to Israel to steal them back. No bones found. Strike four. Screwed again.”
“Screwed? I think this will do.”
Purviance tapped her bag. I heard the hollow thunk of a plastic container.
“Gutsy. You already capped the boss. Why not Blotnik?”
“Blotnik was a thief.”
“Saved you all that nuisance of breaking and entering.”
A smile crawled Purviance’s face. “I hadn’t a clue about these bones until Blotnik blabbed. Old fool hadn’t had them two hours.”
“How did he know about them?”
“Some old bat found fragments while scoping the shroud they’d been in. What the hell.” Purviance again tapped the bag. “This could be crap. Or it could be the Holy Grail. This time I’m taking no chances.”
“What did you offer Blotnik? Did he think you had the Masada skeleton?”
Again the cold smile. “Just conning the con man.”
She’d killed B
lotnik, snatched the shroud bones, and gotten away. What was she doing back here?
“You were moving under the radar. Why double back?”
“We both know a relic’s worth zip without paper.”
We heard it at the same instant. The soft squeak of a rubber sole.
Purviance’s trigger finger twitched. She hesitated, undecided.
“Move!” she hissed.
I stepped back into the closet, eyes focused on Purviance’s gun.
The closet door slammed. A bolt clicked.
Hurried footsteps, then silence.
I put my ear to the wood.
A sound like surf, overridden by the drone of a radio commentator.
Stay quiet? Draw attention?
What the hell.
I pounded.
I called out.
Seconds later the office door slammed inward against a wall.
Heart plowing, I shrank deeper back toward the ell.
A strip of light under the closet door.
Rubber soles.
The bolt clicked open.
The door swung in.
39
I’D NEVER BEEN SO GLAD TO SEE ANYONE IN MY life.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jake’s tone was all shock.
“Did you see her?”
“Who?”
“Purviance.”
“Who’s Purviance?”
“Never mind.” I pushed past him and grabbed an arm. “We’ve got to stop her.”
I tugged. We both ran.
“She’s got no more than a three-minute lead.”
Out the office. Down the hall.
“Who’s Purviance?”
“The lady with your shroud bones.”
Gripping the rail, I took three stairs at a time. Jake stayed with me.
“You drove?” I threw over my shoulder.
“I’ve got the crew truck. Tempe—”
“Where?” I was breathing hard.
“In the drive.”
As we flew out the door, a car blew past, driver’s head barely clearing the wheel.
“That’s her,” I panted.
The car shot the gate.
“Move!”
Yanking the doors, Jake and I threw ourselves into the truck.
Jake turned the key and flooded the engine. It roared in neutral. Jake threw the gearshift, then tacked a triangle of short turns.
As we came about, Purviance’s car was disappearing from the foot of the drive.
“She’s turned left onto Sultan Suleiman.”
Jake jammed the gas. Our tires spit gravel and we rocketed forward.