Asylum City (10 page)

The refugees, illegal aliens, asylum seekers—or whatever you chose to call them depending on your politics—were hard for law enforcement, or anyone else for that matter, to get their hands on. “A black hole that's getting bigger, in every sense of the word,” the district intelligence officer, Gilad, had described the situation.

“What about the community leaders? Have you spoken to them?” Yochai asked, breaking into her thoughts. “It's in their interest to cooperate with us. They want to demonstrate that they're law-abiding people. Especially now with all the clashes with the Israelis in the neighborhood. We're protecting their butts.”

“Yes, I spoke to everyone I could find. They promised to help,” Anat answered. “The thing is there's a good chance the guy we're looking for is Eritrean, so there's no community to speak of. The Eritreans keep to themselves. They're not as organized as the Sudanese.”

Yochai grimaced.

“We showed the sketch around the old bus station, asked people if they recognized him, told them to contact us if they see him. We offered a reward for information. A few tips came in from people who claimed to have seen him. We sent a squad out to Levinsky Park last night on the basis of one anonymous tip, but no luck yet.”

“Okay, keep the pressure on. You can always find informants in places like that where there's no strong community and money is hard to come by. Eventually someone will see him and rat him out,” the DC said, turning his attention to his computer screen to signal the end of the meeting.

“If I may, Yochai,” Anat said, not yet ready to leave. “There are a few more things I'd like to run by you.”

“Go on.” He raised his eyes to her with obvious reluctance, passing his tongue over his upper lip again.

Anat took a deep breath. It was clear to her that it was no accident she hadn't heard back from him yesterday.

“The theory that the African killed her,” she began, “is based entirely on Shmuel Gonen's statement. But there are problems with that. He admitted he wasn't on good terms with Michal, but he forgot to mention that she filed two harassment complaints against him in the past year. In addition, the medical examiner's report rules out the African he saw as the perp. I'm sure you noticed that.”

Yochai gazed at her in silence with an expression she couldn't read.

“Besides,” she went on quickly, knowing the time he was willing to allot to her was running out, “nobody else saw an African fleeing the building. We checked the whole area for cameras, questioned the neighbors. We didn't turn up any other evidence that he was there. And that's not a neighborhood where the presence of an African man would go unnoticed.”

“So what are you saying, Nachmias? Gonen made it up? Maybe he killed her himself because of the complaints?” Yochai's tone was disdainful.

“No, that's not what I'm saying. I don't think he assaulted Michal and I don't think he made up the story. He doesn't give the impression of being clever or cold-blooded enough for that. I believe he saw an African man leaving her apartment, but what he was doing there I don't know. I think we have to check other possibilities, not just concentrate on that one guy. We might be looking under the streetlight.” Anat sat up straighter, trying to project confidence and professionalism.

“Okay, let's say you're right. What else have you got?” The DC's lack of patience was apparent.

“First of all, there's her family. There wasn't a lot of love lost between them. The grandmother left everything to Michal, including the apartment on Stricker Street. The family contested the will. Her younger brother told me how furious they were when the will was read. They claimed in court that Michal exerted undue influence on the grandmother. According to her brother, the son-in-law was the ringleader. He's the one who convinced the family to take it to court. Michal didn't leave a will, so now her family gets its hands on the apartment.”

Yochai gestured for her to continue. Clearly, he wasn't buying the story about the family.

“There's also the matter of the blood on the outside of the door . . .”

“Which could belong to our guy. We won't know until we catch him,” Yochai cut in.

“True, but in any case it's odd that it wasn't found anywhere else.”

Yochai's scowl persuaded her to move on. He was right. The blood would only figure into it when they had a suspect.

“We can't forget the message she left on Itai Fisher's phone. She said she was assaulted, that she found out something. Fisher says she got on the wrong side of a crime syndicate. In my opinion, it's definitely worth checking into. The poor woman went through hell the last week of her life.”

“Yaron told me it was all nonsense. There's no evidence,” Yochai interrupted.

“I know, but . . . ,” Anat went on, filing away for future use the information that Yaron had gone to the DC behind her back.

“But what? Where do you want to go with this? What's your theory, Nachmias?” Yochai didn't even try to disguise his irritation.

“I don't have one yet,” she replied, stressing the final word. “And I don't think I need one at this early stage. We have to keep gathering evidence, not eliminate any options at this point. The African is one possibility, but in my opinion . . .”

“I heard your opinion.” Yochai cut her off abruptly, looking back down at his computer. “I'll make a deal with you. First find the African and then we'll talk about other options.”

“I'm not saying that finding him isn't a priority. I told you, we're getting closer. I'm just asking not to devote all our resources to him. Let me . . .” Anat didn't want to leave the meeting empty-handed.

“You're not trying hard enough, Nachmias,” Yochai declared. “I want results, not speculations. The African first, then we'll talk about whatever you want, if there's still anything to talk about. The time you're wasting here would be better spent working the case.”

ITAI'S
voice was shaking. He'd rewritten his eulogy over and over again last night, typing and deleting, struggling to come to terms with the fact that he was writing it for her.

He cleared his throat. There were a lot of people there. His mother, who ranked funerals by the number of mourners, would call it a “respectable turnout.” The sun was shining after a string of rainy days and the sky was a clear blue. He was pleased to see several Africans in the crowd. He looked for Gabriel among them but didn't spot him.

Itai suddenly caught sight of Yaron, the tall bearded cop who had questioned him. Were they any closer to finding Michal's murderer, he wondered. He knew the information he'd given them was sketchy. He'd said the same thing to Michal when she outlined for him what she intended to tell the police about the “Banker.” Just like in the complaint she filed against Yariv Ninio with the Bar Association, she produced a litany of allegations but not a shred of evidence. He suspected the police wouldn't do anything about it, but he didn't want to say so. He knew that if he convinced her there was no point in going to the cops, she'd revert to her original plan and take a more direct approach. But things had changed. Now the police could no longer ignore him, ignore her. If only Michal didn't have to die to make them listen.

At two o'clock in the morning, he'd tossed out the final version of the eulogy. Michal deserved more than a speech filled with clichés about a caring woman who wasn't afraid to swim against the tide, who lived by her principles and was prepared to pay the price.

“I want to tell you a story about a man who was saved and the woman who saved him,” Itai began.

There were a lot of stories he could tell, but in the end he'd decided to talk about Mahadir Alfadel. Itai was in the office with Michal that night when a cabdriver knocked on the door around eight thirty and said he had a “package” for them from Soroka Hospital. They went downstairs and were shocked to see a man in hospital pajamas sitting on the curb. His left arm and leg were paralyzed, and in his right hand he was holding a bag of urine attached to a catheter. Before they had a chance to get any details, the cabdriver waved good-bye and took off. A crumpled piece of paper was sticking out of one of the man's pockets—his discharge form. It turned out he was an asylum seeker from northern Sudan who had been shot by Egyptian soldiers close to the Israeli border. He'd managed to make it across the border and was picked up by an army unit and transferred to the hospital in Beersheba. Since asylum seekers were only entitled to emergency treatment, the man's condition was stabilized and he was discharged. There was no one to talk to at Soroka at this hour of the night, and no one left to answer the phone in any government office, either. What were they going to do with him? OMA didn't have the budget or the facilities to house asylum seekers in need of medical care. They were a tiny organization struggling to keep their head above water. Michal didn't hesitate for a moment. She took Mahadir home with her, and for the next few weeks she took care of him—gave him food, clothing, and shelter, and made sure he got the medical attention he required. During that time, she got to know him. After all, in Michal's eyes, everyone was first and foremost a human being, not just another refugee, another story, another problem. At first, the “package” hardly uttered a word, still in shock from the trauma he had undergone. But in time he opened up, and she learned he was a lawyer who had gotten his degree in England and then returned to Sudan to help his people. As soon as he got back to his homeland, he was targeted by the government. Fearing for his life, he fled, making his way to Egypt and from there to Israel.

Out of the corner of his eye, Itai saw one of the cops talking on his cell phone. He looked away, indignant. The cops are vulgar brutes, he thought to himself.

Clearing his throat again, he went on to recount the conversation he'd had with Mahadir that very morning. The lawyer had called him from London with a request: “When you go to the cemetery today, say thank you for me one last time to the woman who saved my life.”

He had planned to say more, to speak about Michal's unique personality, her militant pacifism, her refusal to learn to drive because she was afraid of hurting someone by accident, how unthinkable it was that a woman like her could be the victim of a violent act, but he was too choked with emotion. He handed the microphone back to Michal's father.

Silence fell over the graveside.

ON
his way out of the cemetery, Itai passed the huddle of cops. He noticed that one was a short, slender woman with an attractive face. She reminded him of Michal, maybe because they were both so petite. “You spoke very well,” the policewoman said with the hint of a smile as he walked by.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, hesitantly returning the smile. Michal's family had stood there frozen throughout his eulogy. He couldn't tell what they were thinking.

Then Itai recognized the unmistakable voice of Yaron, standing next to the policewoman. He snapped out of his reverie. “We'll be in touch very soon, Fisher,” the tall cop said. There was nothing subtle about the threatening tenor of his words.

ANAT
scanned the crowd at the funeral. The cops liked to say that the criminal might not always return to the scene of the crime, but a murderer always shows up at the cemetery to be sure the victim is dead. She estimated the number of people at around two hundred. Unfortunately, she didn't have her mother's skill at funeral profiling. She could always tell you exactly how many were there, who had come and who hadn't bothered to turn up, and the most pertinent fact of all: whose absence was scandalous.

The sunshine was deceptive. Anat was cold, and she needed to pee.

Michal's father recited the prayer for the dead tonelessly. As she told Yochai, there wasn't much love lost in Michal's family. Her parents had taken the news of their daughter's murder stoically. When Anat told them that Michal had been beaten up a few days earlier, her mother said it didn't surprise her. “Michal liked to get under people's skin,” was how she put it. That was one of the reasons Anat was glad to learn that her parents' attempt to challenge the validity of the grandmother's will had been thrown out of court. She was shocked by the way this supposedly “normative” family treated her like a black sheep. But there was another reason, too. Anat knew that Michal had spent most of her life fighting big battles she was destined to lose. She was glad that she'd been able to win at least one of them.

She was dutifully following Yochai's orders and concentrating all the team's efforts on finding the migrant. David told her to do the same thing, although he agreed with her that the theory that he was the murderer was full of holes. In their last phone conversation, David had made it very plain that MK Ehud Regev was putting a lot of pressure on the brass to find the “black brute.” Regev's sources on the force had leaked to him the information that the neighbor had seen an African man kill Michal. If they pursued other leads at this moment in time, it would only lend credence to Regev's claim that the police weren't doing enough to solve the problem, that they were going easy on the migrants in order to ensure quiet on the ground. “Do whatever you have to to find him. We'll reassess the situation when I get back,” he'd instructed her just before he left for the airport. “We'll get the right guy in the end, whether Regev likes it or not. And don't let Yochai get to you. He wants the same thing we do, but he's got the brass on his back. He's taking a lot of heat. Keep looking for the African. When I get back I'll talk to Yochai about expanding the investigation.”

Anat was pretty sure the man they were looking for was the kid called Gabriel. When she questioned the OMA workers about the people Michal was in close contact with, his name came up again and again. That also fit with the letter “G” at the bottom of the portrait on Michal's wall.