Dark Waters (7 page)

J
ordan’s phone woke her in the middle of the night. “Jordan.”

“It’s Detective Weizman.”

Her first thought was that something had happened to the judge and Lucy, but if something had happened at the Dizengoff Apartments, she would be getting a call from the Marines or Daugherty.

“Is everything all right?” Sitting on the edge of her bed, she fumbled with the light.

“That depends. I’m standing at a crime scene I think may be tied to the shooting in Dizengoff Square. I thought you might want to come take a look.”

She glanced at the clock. It was 1:30 a.m. “What makes you think the crimes are connected?”

“I have two twentysomethings—one an Israeli Arab, the other a Palestinian—killed very efficiently. Witnesses claim they saw a woman fleeing the building.”

“Our shooter?”

“Possibly.”

*

It took Jordan thirty minutes to get to the address Weizman had given her on Rumman Street in al-Ajami. She turned into the
neighborhood, headlights skimming the run-down buildings and illuminating brightly colored graffiti on most of the outside walls. Men still loitered in packs, near doorways streaming pale light onto hardened earth. There was a notable paucity of women and children. Except for the washboarded dirt roads and the Middle Eastern faces, it reminded her of places she had driven in D.C., places where even the cats ran in pairs.

Her skin crawled under the hard, hostile stares that followed her progress through the streets. She checked to make sure her doors were locked and tried imagining how the people who lived here felt.

Safe? Doubtful.

Desperate? Likely.

Resentful? Rhetorical, plus it seemed like an understatement. The Palestinians who lived in al-Ajami had been driven out of their homes, pushed from the finer neighborhoods to the north and west and discarded in squalor. It was exactly what had happened to the Jews throughout Europe. How many times did history have to repeat itself?

The five-story apartment building was easy to spot when she turned onto the correct street. A number of police cars with flashing blue lights fanned out across the entrance. With a tentative glance at the growing crowd, she bundled her hair into a ponytail and made a mental note to carry a scarf in her car in the future that she could use to cover her head. Locking the car, she pulled on her Kevlar vest before braving the throng of men who had come out to gawk and throw taunts at the Israelis manning the yellow crime scene tape.

“
Ana aasifah
,” excuse me, she said in Arabic, trying to be respectful as she pushed her way through. Reaching the cordoned-off area, she flashed her ID for a guard. The officer scrutinized her credentials.

“Let her go up,” a man yelled. Jordan looked up to see Gidon Lotner walking toward them. “Detective Weizman expects her.”

The officer handed back her ID, and Jordan dipped her head in thanks.

“Are you leaving?” she asked Lotner.

“The crime scene technicians are here. Unlike some, I have no interest in working outside of my purview.”

Jordan figured she was the intended target of that dig. No way was she taking the bait. “Have a good night, Detective.”

Turning her back on the man, Jordan headed for the building. At the entrance, she slowed and made a mental assessment of the hall and the stairwell. The turquoise paint was chipping, and most surfaces were covered in dark graffiti that spewed hatred for the Jews. When she reached the third-floor landing, Weizman greeted her.

“Come in.”

Cool air flowed from the apartment into the hallway.

“Air conditioner?”

“It’s a good thing,” Weizman said, “Otherwise the smell would be driving us out.” He pointed to the bodies lying on the floor. “That one is Najm Tibi. He rents the place. This one is Mansoor Rahman. Both are known associates of the PLC.”

Jordan took in the furnishings—the Persian carpets, the overstuffed couch and ottoman, the state-of-the-art TV and stereo equipment. “Tibi lived well.”

“Don’t let the outside of these buildings fool you. Inside, many of the Arabs live like sheiks.” Weizman consulted his notes. “He worked in the maintenance department of GG&B Engineering in Haifa.”

Jordan looked at Weizman. “That’s quite a commute.”

He shrugged. “An hour tops. A lot of people drive that far to work every day.”

They did where Jordan grew up, also. In fact, some drove farther. “What kind of engineering?”

“Agricultural planning and infrastructure, water, energy, and industrial engineering. According to their own press, GG&B is a billion-dollar international firm.”

Squatting beside Tibi’s body, Jordan ducked down to get a look at his face. “I’ve seen this man before.”

“Where?” Weizman asked.

“He walked past me on the day of the shooting.” She remembered the hairs on the back of her neck sending off warning signals.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. He ducked into the Postal Authority. There was something off about him. I almost followed him, but I went to find you instead.”

“Do you recognize his friend?” Weizman pointed at the other body. Tall, thin, and brown-skinned, his face was turned toward her, his arms tucked beneath him in a futile attempt to staunch the blood.

“He doesn’t look familiar.” She studied his clothes and the stipple of brown. “Did you notice the blood spatter on his shirt?”

“I imagine forensics will tie him to the murder of Ofer Federman at the Dizengoff Apartments. Here.” He tossed her a brown wallet. Inside were his ID card, some money, and a picture of him with another man wearing a
hattah
, or Palestinian scarf. Jordan turned the picture over. On the back was written a series of thirteen numbers.

“Do you see the mark on his neck?” Weizman asked.

The bright red mark at the base of his Adam’s apple stood out so anyone could have seen it.

“She crushed his larynx.”

“A difficult feat, indicative of training. We know she left through the bedroom.” Weizman signaled for Jordan to follow him,
leading her through the apartment to a pair of sliding-glass doors. Outside, a narrow metal balcony hung precariously from the side of the building. “If you look, you can see where the bolts separated from the plaster. The marks are fresh. The question is, how did she get into the apartment? There is no fire escape to climb up.”

“Maybe she was already inside, waiting here for Tibi and his friend to come home.” Jordan pulled a flashlight off her belt and checked out the damage to the metal balcony. It hung at an angle, attached by only one rusted bar. Directing the light to the walls on either side, she played the beam along the steep plaster until she hit a shallow ledge about six inches below.

“Check this out, Detective.”

Weizman poked his head out beside hers and she danced the light beam along the ledge, stopping where a chip had been broken away and white plaster gleamed. Beyond the chip was the stairwell window.

“I’d say she climbed along here.” Jordan pulled her head back inside. “Has anyone dusted the balcony for prints?”

Weizman turned to a crime scene tech.

The tech shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Get it done,” Weizman ordered.

Jordan headed for the front door and was halfway through the apartment when Weizman caught up to her.

“Where are you going, Agent Jordan?”

“To check out the stairwell.” She kept moving until she reached the third-floor window. “She had to have gotten onto the ledge through here.” Jordan pulled a pair of latex gloves from her jacket pocket and donned them before she carefully gripped the window handle and pulled up. The window slid open easily. Climbing up on the sill, she studied the window track. Touching her finger to the sash, she jumped down and showed Weizman the tip of her glove.

“Lip gloss,” said Jordan. “She used lip gloss to grease the skids.”

“So she came up the stairs, climbed out this window, and made her way along the side of the building to the balcony?”

“That would my theory,” Jordan said. Bending over, she stuck her head back out of the window and studied the ledge. Taking in the angle of the balcony, she guessed it would have been impossible for the assassin to have backtracked this way. She tracked from the lower edge of the balcony platform to the ground, pulled her head inside, pushed past Weizman, and took the stairs two at a time to the ground floor.

“Where are we going now?” he asked, dogging her heels.

“Just follow.”

At the ground floor, Jordan turned toward the alley entrance and shoved open the door. Looking in both directions, she spotted two men smoking cigarettes at the end of the building. Otherwise, the alley was empty.

“We should wait for one of my officers,” Weizman said.

“We’ll be fine.” Jordan wasn’t worried about two men. Across the alley, a deserted lot stretched to another rise of broken-down apartments. There wasn’t a sign of anyone else in sight.

“What are we looking for?” Weizman asked, following her outside.

Jordan stopped in front of the dumpster.

Weizman checked out the metal bin and then shined his flashlight up toward the balcony. “Ah, I see what you’re thinking.”

“It would’ve made for a soft landing.”

“Softer than the ground, anyway.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted upward. “Hey, Akim!”

The crime scene tech stuck his head out the window. “
Ken
.”

“Cordon off this dumpster. We’ll need to take prints and search the contents.”

“Why?”

“In case our suspect dropped something.”

While Weizman talked with Akim, Jordan let her senses take the night’s pulse. The warm air vibrated with the song of the cicadas, like the angry rhythm of a guitar strum. She wondered if it always felt like this here.

“Why was she here?” Jordan mused, walking the perimeter of the dumpster and stopping at a set of footprints.

“Excuse me?” said Weizman.

“She was here for a reason. What did she come for?”

“To kill the men.”

“Because they killed the apartment manager and tossed the Taylors’ apartment?” Jordan asked. “I doubt that. She could have killed them anywhere, but instead she tracked them here.”

“Why?”

“Exactly,” Jordan said. “We need to find this woman and find out what she knows.”

W
ith fewer than four hours of sleep, Jordan parked in front of the Dizengoff Apartments and was surprised to see Detective Lotner pulling away. Flashing her credentials to the Marines on duty, she bounded up the stairs and into the Taylors’ apartment. The Marine at the door let her in.

“Everything okay here?” she asked.

Taylor stood in the kitchen and looked at her over his shoulder. “Fine. Why do you ask?”

“I just saw the detective leave.”

“He had a few follow-up questions,” Taylor said. “He wanted to check to make sure things were secure, and he brought Lucy a game.”

“That seems a little out of character.”

“How so?”

“He doesn’t seem the type, that’s all. I get the feeling he doesn’t really like Americans.”

“He likes me,” Lucy said, holding up a game board. “It’s called
shachmat
. Do you know how to play?”

Chess. Jordan’s father had taught her the game when she was a few years younger than Lucy. “Yes, I do.”

“Will you play with me?” Lucy reached for a box under the coffee table. “I have to warn you. I’m very good.”

“After breakfast,” Taylor said, wielding a spatula in their direction. “Eggs or pancakes?”

Jordan realized he was speaking to her. “Coffee?”

“Coming right up.”

Thirty minutes later, after feeding Lucy and putting the last dish back in the cupboard, Taylor excused himself.

“He’s calling Mom back,” Lucy said, retrieving the chess board and setting it up on the coffee table in the living room. “We’ll have plenty of time to play.”

Jordan watched as Lucy set up the pieces. The circles under her eyes looked darker today, her skin paler. Maybe the ex–Mrs. Taylor could talk some sense into the judge and get him to take Lucy home.

“I’ll bet you miss your mom,” Jordan said.

Lucy shrugged. “She can be a little smothery.”

“That’s a mom’s job,” Jordan said. “Why else would you just add an
s
to mother?” Still, she understood the feeling. She had been young when her mother, following her father’s death, had brought her and her younger brother, Oleksander Jr., back to the States. Changing their last names to her maiden name, their mother had tucked them away in their grandparents’ house outside of Denver and cocooned them from the world. If it hadn’t been for her grandfather, a kind and intelligent man, Jordan might never have gotten away.

“I’m white,” Lucy said, drawing Jordan back to the game. “I go first.”

“Not so fast.” Jordan picked up two pawns, one white, one black. Mixing them behind her back, she cupped one in each hand and extended her arms. “You pick.”

Lucy eeny-meeny-miny-moed and then pointed to Jordan’s left hand. “That one.”

“White. Okay, you
do
go first.” Jordan lowered herself into the easy chair. “Prepare to get beaten.”

“That’s big talk,” Lucy said.

As they played, Jordan was surprised at how easily Lucy’s mind processed the game, picking up on moves that hadn’t been made and planning ahead. Standard moves didn’t work against her either. When Jordan tried tricking Lucy into capturing the black bishop, leaving her open to capturing Lucy’s queen, Lucy dodged and made an unexpected move with her knight.

“Smart,” Jordan said. “But do you really think I’m going to let you pull off a knight’s fork?”

Lucy looked confused.

“If I don’t stop you, what’s your next move?” Jordan asked.

Lucy pointed to the board. “My knight goes here.”

“Ne3 plus.”

“What?”

“Lucy, if you’re going to become a master at chess, you need to learn the language.” Running her finger along the edge of the board, Jordan could hear her father’s voice in her ear. “Chessboards are numbered one to eight, starting on the white side. Sideways, the rows are lettered in lowercase, from
a
to
h
, starting on white’s left.”

Lucy concentrated on the board.

“You moved your bishop here, capital
B
for bishop to b8,” Jordan said, pointing. Grabbing a pad and pen from the end table, she wrote,
Bb8
. “See?”

Lucy nodded.

“I expected you to capture my bishop with your rook, moving
R
for rook to b8.” Jordan wrote,
Rxb8
. “The
x
stands for capture. Are you following me so far?”

Lucy nodded again.

“But you fooled me,” Jordan said, “and played a
zwischenzug
by moving Nd5.”

“What’s the
N
stand for?”

“Knight. The
K
is already being used for the king.”

Lucy scrunched up her face. “I
kinda
get it.”

“Then tell me, if I don’t stop you, what’s your next move?”

Lucy got up on her knees, studied the board, and then pointed to a square.

“Ne3+,” said Jordan, writing it on the pad at the same time. “The plus stands for check.”

Lucy nodded but looked unsure.

Jordan laughed. “The point is, if I take your bishop, you’re going to move your knight here, right? If I let you do that, what happens?”

“Your king is in check and you have to move him, and then I can capture your queen.”

“Right. That’s called a fork. You used one piece to put two of my pieces in jeopardy. It’s called a knight’s fork because you’re using your knight to do it.”

Lucy sat back on her heels. “But if I captured your bishop, you would have moved your queen there.” She pointed again. “Then I would be in check and you would capture
my
bishop.”

“She told you she was good,” Taylor said.

Jordan glanced up. In the heat of the game, she hadn’t heard him return.

Lucy leaned over the board. “You’re going to pull a zwischen-thing too, aren’t you?”

“A
zwischenzug
. Yes, I am. I’m moving my king to f2.”

Jordan prevented the fork and the game continued, but Lucy had more tricks up her sleeve and won in ten more moves.

“Wanna play again?” she asked, resetting the board.

“How old did you say she was, Judge?” Jordan asked.

“Eleven.”

“How many games have you played?”

“Six.”

Jordan had been beaten by a preteen who had only just learned to play.

Taylor chuckled. “Ask her how many games she’s won.”

“Five,” Lucy said. “I got beat my first one.”

“Seriously?” Jordan said. Either the child was a chess prodigy or her opponents were letting her win. “One more.”

“Game on.” Lucy moved her pawn. Jordan countered and Lucy took her pawn
en passé
. The kid was a quick study. Fifteen moves later, she won again.

“I give.” Jordan leaned back in her seat.
Damn
.

“Wanna play again?”

“What, and let you whip my butt a third time? No thanks.”

Lucy sighed.

Jordan hated disappointing her. “How about tomorrow?”

Lucy brightened. “Pinky swear?” She held up her hand with her pinky crooked. Jordan hooked fingers and promised.

Lucy put away the pieces and the board and shoved the box back under the coffee table. Her skin looked pasty white except for two bright red circles dotting her cheeks. Jordan reached out and brushed her hand across Lucy’s forehead. Her head felt warm. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m just tired.” Lucy looked at her dad. “What time are we going to Alena’s?”

“The usual, Luce.” Taylor consulted his watch. “We have to leave in a little over an hour.”

“Then I’m going to go lie down.”

Jordan flashed what she hoped was an encouraging smile and pushed herself up from the chair. “And I need to hit the loo.” She touched Taylor’s arm. “Then we need to talk.”

The night before, he had outlined their normal schedule for her. Every day, he and Lucy left in time to watch the fountain, walked to the doctor’s office, and then walked back. That was not
going to happen today. Jordan had floated the idea of bringing the doctor to Lucy, but the judge had nixed it outright. It might be worth another attempt at reasoning with him.

The whole thing with Dr. Petrenko seemed a little woo-woo to her, but after hearing the story about his son, Jordan understood his stubbornness. Besides, she couldn’t force him to do anything. There was nothing official about this whole operation. The only reason she was here was because his ex-wife was friendly with the ambassador. She might be in charge of the detail, but the DSS was on precarious ground. The judge had never asked for protection.

At the sink, she flipped on the faucet, washed her hands, and then squeezed a dollop of toothpaste onto her finger and rubbed it vigorously against her teeth and gums. Regardless of what she advised, if Taylor insisted on taking Lucy to Petrenko’s office, she needed to ensure them a safe trip.

Jordan sucked up a handful of water, rinsed her mouth, and spit into the bowl. Finger-combing her unruly curls, she smoothed her wrinkled white tee. From now on, she would carry essentials—deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, hair-tie, and a change of underwear.

Back in the living area, Jordan found Taylor sitting at the kitchen table. She pulled up a chair.

“Is there any chance I can get you to change your mind?” she asked.

“We’ve been over this.”

“I’m not suggesting you cancel. Just have her come here.”

“I told you, she won’t come.”

“Why? What harm could there be in asking?”

Taylor squared off with Jordan. “She would just want to work on Lucy from there.”

“From a distance? She can do that?” Jordan heard the skepticism in her voice. “How is that possible?”

“She finds her energy.”

Jordan wondered if he realized how ridiculous that sounded. “If that’s true, if she can do that, why not let her? Why not just stay here today? Or, for that matter, why not go back to the States where it’s safer for you?”

“It’s better if she treats Lucy in person.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s stronger.”

The expression on his face said it all. This was a losing battle, and Jordan knew enough to surrender. “Fine.”

A few minutes later, the Marine guard changed. Once new guards were positioned, Jordan spread out a map of Tel Aviv and called the new leader, Master Gunnery Sergeant Walker, over to the table. The night before, she had chosen their planned route. Now she laid it out for Taylor and the Master Gunny.

“One way there, another way back.” There were plenty of options. The office was on Arlozoroff Street, one block east of Adam HaCohen. Because of all the one-way streets, the quickest, easiest, and most dangerous route was to take Dizengoff Street to Ibn Gevirol and then west on Arlozorov. Her plan was to cut south.

“I won’t ride a bus,” Lucy said. She was standing in the doorway to her bedroom. Jordan glanced over. Lucy’s emotions were hard to read, but Jordan thought she detected fear in her eyes. Considering the circumstances, Jordan didn’t blame her for being scared.

“No problem. We’re going by car.” Jordan said. “I’ve arranged for an unmarked vehicle to pick us up in the alley.”

Taylor flashed a thumb’s up. “Sounds like a plan.”