Part 62 (1/2)

Car keys?

I began shuffling papers, poking through trays, opening and closing drawers.

No keys.

I checked the bedroom, the kitchen, the workroom.

No keys.

And no info on the crew. No list of names. No task rotation sheet. No ledger with check stubs. Zip.

Returning to the computer, I noticed a yellow Post-it poking from below the keyboard. I s.n.a.t.c.hed it up.

Jake's scrawl. The name Esther Getz, and a phone number four digits off Blotnik's at the Rockefeller.

Sudden thought. Could the Getzster be the woman phoning the Hevrat Kadisha?

I hadn't a molecule of evidence to suggest that. Nothing. Unless you count gender. And what did calls to the Hevrat Kadisha have to do with anything anyway?

Okay. Jake had intended to see Getz or Bloom or both. Had he?

I stared at the number. Calling at this hour would be futile. Rude.

”Screw rude.” I wanted Bloom to know I was looking for Jake.

Four rings. Voice mail. Message.

I stood a moment, fingers locked on the receiver.

Getz?

Why not?

Voice mail. Message.

Now what? Who else to ring?

I knew the calls were pointless, but I was frustrated and had no better ideas.

Again, the flas.h.i.+ng cursor from my id. There. Gone. There. Gone.

Indicating what? When nothing is making sense, I often repeat known facts over and over in the hope that a pattern may emerge.

Think.

Masada skeleton. Stolen.

Shroud bones. Missing.

Jake. Missing.

Courtney Purviance. Missing.

Avram Ferris. Dead.

Sylvain Morissonneau. Dead.

Hershel Kaplan. Solicited for a hit. By a woman. Maybe. Now in Israel. Was trying to sell bones?

My hotel room trashed.

My car followed.

Ferris-Kaplan-Blotnik telephone calls.

Ruth Anne Bloom. I don't trust her. Why? Jake's early-on admonitions not to contact the IAA?

Tovya Blotnik. Jake doesn't trust him.

Cave 2001 bones linked to Kidron tomb bones.

Was there a pattern?

Yeah. Everything led back to Max.

Why the itchy id? Was there a piece that didn't fit?

If so, I wasn't seeing it.

My gaze wandered to a snapshot above the monitor. Jake, smiling, holding a stone vessel in one hand.

My mind looped.

Jake. Missing.

I dialed another number. I was stunned when a voice answered.

”I'm here.” m.u.f.fled, as though spoken into a hand-cupped mouthpiece.

I identified myself.

”The American?” Surprised.

”I'm sorry to call at this hour, Dr. Blotnik.”

”I-I'm working late.” Off-balance. Mine was not the voice Blotnik expected to hear. ”It's my habit.”