Part 29 (1/2)
Ryan waggled his mug at an attendant and pointed to me. I set up my tray. Coffee appeared on it.
”Thanks, Audrey.”
Audrey?
”Pleasure, Detective.” Audrey's smile left last night's in the dental dust.
Security at Ben-Gurion wasn't as rigorous as it had been at Pearson. Maybe Ryan's badge. Maybe the coroner's detailed paperwork. Maybe confidence that if we'd had nitro in our blow-dryers they'd have found it by now.
Exiting customs, I noticed a man wall-leaning ahead and to our left. He had s.h.a.ggy hair and wore an argyle sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Except for bushy brows and a few more years, the man was a Gilligan double.
Gilligan was following our progress.
I elbowed Ryan.
”I see him,” Ryan said, not breaking pace.
”Guy looks like Gilligan.”
Ryan looked at me.
”Gilligan's Island.”
”I hated Gilligan's Island. Gilligan's Island.”
”But you're acquainted with the character.”
”Except Ginger,” Ryan amended. ”Ginger had talent.”
Gilligan pushed from the wall, dropped his hands and spread his feet, making no attempt to mask his interest in us.
When we drew within yards, Gilligan made his move.
”Shalom.” The voice was deeper than you'd expect from a guy Gilligan's size. The voice was deeper than you'd expect from a guy Gilligan's size.
”Shalom,” Ryan said. Ryan said.
”Detective Ryan?”
”Who's asking?”
”Ira Friedman.”
Friedman stuck out a hand. Ryan shook it.
”Welcome to Israel.”
Ryan introduced me. I shook Friedman's hand. The grip was more powerful than you'd expect from a guy Gilligan's size.
Friedman led us outside to a white Ford Escort illegally parked in a taxi zone. Ryan loaded the luggage, opened the front door and offered the pa.s.senger seat.
Ryan's six-two. I'm five-five. I opted for the back.
I pushed aside papers, a manual of some kind, balled-up food wrappers, boots, a motorcycle helmet, a baseball cap, and a nylon jacket. There were French fries in the crack. I left them there.
”Sorry about the car,” Friedman said.
”No problem.” Brus.h.i.+ng crumbs from the upholstery, I crawled in, wondering if declining Jake's offer of airport pickup had been a mistake.
As we drove, Friedman brought Ryan up-to-date.
”Someone up your food chain contacted one of your external affairs guys, who contacted one of our senior police representatives for the U.S. and Canada. Seems your guy knew our guy at the consulate in New York.”
”A personal touch can mean so much.”
Friedman stole a sideways glance, obviously unfamiliar with Ryan's sense of humor. ”Our guy in New York sent paper to the International Relations Unit at national headquarters here in Jerusalem. IRU bounced the request down to major crimes. I caught it.”
Friedman merged onto Highway 1.
”Normally this kind of request goes nowhere. We'd have nothing to ask your suspect, no knowledge of the crime. That's a.s.suming we could even find him. Once a tourist enters the country, he's pretty much invisible. If we did locate him, legally he could refuse to talk to us.”
”But Kaplan was kind enough to palm a choker,” Ryan said.
”Herodian shekel on a gold chain.” Friedman snorted. ”Dumb a.s.s. Thing wasn't even real.”
”How long can you hold him?”
”Twenty-four hours, and we've already eaten that. I can push it to forty-eight with some fancy talking. Then it's charge him or kick him.”
”Will the shopkeeper press charges?”
Friedman shrugged. ”Who knows? Guy got his coin back. But if Kaplan walks, I'll keep him on a very short leash.”
Now and then Friedman would glance in the rearview. Our eyes would meet. We'd both smile.
Between rounds of collegiality, I tried taking in the landscape. I knew from Winston's book that the route from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem was taking us from the coastal plain, through the Shephelah, or lowlands, into the Judean hill country, and up into the mountains.
Night had fallen. I couldn't see much.
We rounded curve after curve, then suddenly Jerusalem was twinkling before us. A vanilla-wafer moon grazed the top of the Temple Mount, lighting the Old City with an amber glow.
I've observed few scenes that triggered a physical reaction. Haleakala volcano at dawn. The Taj Mahal at sunset. The Masai Mara during wildebeest migration.
Moonlit Jerusalem stopped my breath. Friedman picked up on it, and our eyes met again.
”Awesome, isn't it?”
I nodded in the dark.
”Lived here fifteen years. I still get goose b.u.mps.”