The Bar Mitzvah Murder (12 page)

“You're taking the kids to a pottery place?” Hal said.

“My kids are very well behaved.” Mel seemed hurt by his implied suggestion. “So are yours.”

He smiled. “Then let's do it.”

17

“You got what?” my unbelieving husband said in my ear.

“The plate number. This woman copied it down. I'm not even sure she's literate, but she had a pencil, with a thick, smudgy point, and a piece of paper and she wrote it down.”

“Can you make it out?”

I read it off to him as best I could. “Can you find someone to run it?”

He laughed. “You're telling me you want to stay one giant step ahead of the cops.”

“That's what I'm telling you. Can you do it?”

“I'll give it my best shot. Where are you?”

I told him, and told him what the plan was with the Grosses. “If you get anything, leave a message here at the hotel. I'll check back after we destroy the pottery shop and have lunch.”

“Keep my name out of the destruction, OK?”

“You bet.”

When I got off, I started to think about the little man in the hotel lobby this morning. Perhaps I had been too abrupt. If he came back to talk to me, we might be out to dinner. I decided to call and leave a message if he didn't answer. I wouldn't mind talking to him with Jack around; in fact, I'd prefer it.

I called Mel's hotel and asked for Simon Kaplan's room. The operator came back and said, “I'm sorry. No one by that name is registered.”

“He's checked out?” I asked in surprise.

“One moment, I'll transfer you.”

A man answered this time and I repeated my request. He assured me Mr. Kaplan was not registered. I asked when he had checked out.

“I have no record that he was registered here in the last week.”

I was stunned. “Thank you,” I said. Now what? I thought. Either he isn't who he said he was or he's registered under another name. Or maybe . . . I reached for the telephone book to look up the hotel the Bar Mitzvah party had been held in and realized, once again, that the book was printed in Hebrew. I called the operator and she got the number and connected me.

No, I was told, there was no Simon Kaplan registered. I asked her to check the date of the kidnapping. No, she said tiredly when she returned, he had not been registered on that day, either.

Something very strange was going on, but I couldn't pursue it at the moment. The four Grosses were downstairs waiting for me. I picked up my bag and went to find them.

“Looks like they have a great outdoor restaurant,” Hal said when I got off the elevator.

“They do. Maybe we can have lunch here when we get finished looking at pottery.”

He laughed. “Looking? Are you kidding?”

We rounded up Mel and the kids, who were peeking into the shop across from the hotel entrance, and drove a couple of blocks to the street where the potter was. Just before we reached the American consulate, Hal spotted what was probably the only open space at the curb and somehow managed to back into it, meriting applause from the two adult women in the car. We got out and walked down the block to the Palestinian Potter and went inside.

It was a large place divided by a corridor the length of the business. On the right side were windows beyond which were mostly women hand-painting pieces of pottery. We stopped and watched, the children absolutely transfixed.

“I could do that,” Sari said almost in a whisper.

“Maybe we'll sign you up for a ceramics class when we get back,” Mel said.

“What's sramics?”

“It's making things out of clay. There are classes for kids at the temple.”

“Ohh,” Sari said dreamily, and I smiled. She was an artistic child, making pictures that seemed well beyond her years, and I thought Mel's suggestion was a really good one.

Across the corridor was a door to the shop. Hal cautioned the younger Grosses to keep their hands at their sides and walk slowly, and we went in. It was a very long store with tables and shelves filled with beautiful things. Some of them were similar to the pieces we had seen at the shop in the Old City; some were very different and much larger.

Hal was as taken with the pottery as Mel and I were. He agreed they should get several small bowls and divided dishes that they could serve chips and dips in. I thought hummus was a better idea and said so.

“Ah, Chris, you may never go home after this experience.” Hal handed me one of the divided dishes and I agreed we could use one, too. I liked the dark blue with the fish pattern and found one on a table.

But what Mel and I really fell in love with were the two large plates that hung high on the wall. They had religious and symbolic drawings on them and typical Armenian border designs. Mel said she had to have one, and a very willing shop owner got a ladder and took them down. Eventually, I decided to splurge and take whichever one Mel left behind, as I liked them equally.

“We can trade off,” she said breezily. “Six months here, six months there. I just love them.”

Hal persuaded me to use my credit card, as I would get the best rate that way, and I set aside my inborn prejudice against charging. When we left, Mel and I each had one huge package wrapped in bubble wrap and a smaller one besides, and we were thrilled.

We had lunch in the garden, the adults all ordering the platter of various salads that was served on a dish not too different from what Mel and I had both just bought. There were hummus and orzo and several other delectable items.

“I think I'm in love with hummus,” Mel said, wiping the last of it up with a piece of pita bread.

“And you pronounce it so well,” I said. “I just can't get that back-of-the-throat sound.”

“You will. Just keep eating it.”

We parted and I went upstairs to find a message from Jack that said to call him back.

“Here's the deal,” he said. “Joshua's not around, so I feel sort of OK giving you the info. But the minute I find him, I tell him.”

“Sure.”

“This plate is on a van that has not been reported missing, so I'm a little reluctant to have you chase it down. You could be dealing with the guys that kidnapped Gabe.”

“I'll watch myself,” I promised.

“Where have I heard that before? Anyway, it's a store that sells touristy things downtown, not too far from Ben Yehuda Street.” That was the name of the famous walking street. He dictated the address and the name of the store owner, Moshe Karpen.

“I'm on my way,” I said.

“I've been told parking's almost impossible there, Chris. Why don't you get a taxi?”

“OK. I'll practice what I learned from Mel.”

“Yeah, sure. Take care of yourself.”

I went downstairs and had the doorman get me a taxi. I was a little nervous getting in, remembering the last time and Mel's vendetta against the driver. But to my happy surprise, the driver turned the meter on as soon as I closed the door and told him where I wanted to go. He let me out at the intersection of Ben Yehuda Street, which sloped downhill, and King George Street. I was so pleased, I gave the driver an extra shekel for his honesty, but I didn't say why.

I got my bearings and found the shop. It was one of those stores with a million objects for sale, everything from postcards to olive wood camels and key rings with crosses or stars of David—an equal opportunity vendor.

Outside there were a couple of people looking at postcards and inside there was one woman looking at all the things for sale, several already in her hand. I went to the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

“Yes?” she said, observing that I was holding nothing to buy and probably assuming I needed directions.

“Mrs. Karpen?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“I want to ask you about your truck, your van.”

Her face darkened. “What about it?”

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Of course I know. It's at my house.”

“It is?”

“What is this about?” She spoke good English but with a slight accent that I could not identify. It was obvious my questions had disturbed her.

“I think your van may have been used in a crime.”

Her look turned to one of fear. She called toward the back of the store, “Moshe?” and added some words in Hebrew. An older man came out, a skullcap on his head. They exchanged a few sentences in Hebrew. Then he took his place behind the counter.

“Come with me,” the woman said, moving toward the back of the shop.

I followed her into a small crowded room with a desk and an open door to a bathroom.

“What are you saying?” she said.

“You have a van with this license plate number.” I showed her the slip of paper the woman from the crime scene had given me.

Mrs. Karpen moaned.

“That's your van?”

She nodded.

“Where is it, Mrs. Karpen?”

“I don't know. I don't know.”

“It's not at your house?”

She shook her head.

“Where do you think it is?” I didn't want to suggest that it was stolen. If she believed it was, let her come up with that herself.

“Maybe someone took it.”

“Who?”

“This is terrible. You said a crime. What kind of crime?”

“A very serious one. The police are searching for the van. They'll probably be here later.”

“Oh, my God.” It was almost a whimper.

“You know where the van is, don't you?”

“I don't know. I swear I don't know. I haven't seen it for weeks.”

“Why didn't you report it stolen to the police?”

“I couldn't.”

“Do you know who has it?”

She nodded.

“You should tell me, Mrs. Karpen.”

“Why you? Who are you?”

“I'm looking into a crime. I have to turn my information over to the police. It's better if you admit it now than if they find out later.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes and took a breath.

Neither of us had sat down in the crowded little room. There was a chair behind the desk and a second chair, a molded plastic one that took up little space, but we had both stood. Now she sank into the chair behind the desk, put her head in her hands, and said nothing. I waited, hoping she would tell me what I needed to know.

“It's my nephew,” she said, looking up. “He's a good boy, but he gets into trouble sometimes. He took it once before, a couple of years ago, but he brought it back. I couldn't report it to the police; he's my sister's only child.” She seemed near tears.

“And you're sure he has the van?”

“What else could it be? It's not such a great van anyone on the street would want it.”

“Have you talked to your nephew?”

“I talked to my sister. She said he doesn't have it.”

I wasn't all that surprised that a mother would respond that way. “Will you give me their names and addresses?”

“Oh, my God. My sister will kill me.”

I said nothing. She opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a piece of paper, then grabbed a pencil and wrote on the paper from right to left.

“In English, please,” I said.

“Oh, of course.” She wrote underneath the Hebrew and I marveled at how she could switch languages and alphabets in a second. What a feat, I thought. She handed me the paper. “Will you go now?”

I tucked the paper in my bag. “What color is your van?”

“Light brown. Tan.”

“Does it have writing on it?”

“Like the name of the store? No. It's just a van. It has a good motor and we take good care of it.”

“When did you notice it was missing?”

She sighed. “What's today? Tuesday? Before last week. Maybe two weeks ago, maybe on Wednesday or Thursday of that week.”

Which gave them time to paint the van with several coats of white so it would look like an ambulance. “Thank you, Mrs. Karpen.”

“You're gonna talk to my sister?”

“I'm going to try.”

“Don't tell her I told you. Please.”

My next taxi gave me a little trouble. He took off from the curb and I asked him to turn on the meter. He started to say he would make me a special price, but I told him I didn't want a special price, I wanted the meter. Growling, he flicked it on.

This trip took me to Bethlehem Road. It was a street of houses and stores, groceries and dress shops. The driver let me off in front of a building that looked the same as the ones on either side, and I went inside and rang the doorbell marked “Schloss” in English letters and in Hebrew as well.

Someone inside called that she was coming and then the door opened. The woman looked remarkably like the one I had just left in the center of town, but this one was slightly plumper and wore her hair pulled back, more as though she wanted it out of the way than as a fashion statement.

“You're the woman about the van.”

“I—” I was startled.

“My sister called me. What do you want to know?” She made no move to invite me in.

“The van is missing.”

“That's what my sister said.”

“There's a chance your son may have borrowed it.”

“Borrowed? Is that what she said to you?” She gave me a grim smile.

“The police are looking for the van.”

“Well, I hope they find it. Is there anything else?”

“A crime was committed, Mrs. Schloss. The van may have been involved in that crime.”

“Let the police prove it then. Is there anything else?”

I had started to say something when I heard a male voice call from somewhere in the apartment, “Hey, Mom?”

“Is your son home?” I asked.

“It's none of your business.”

A young man in his twenties appeared behind her. He was dressed in jeans and a tight black shirt that showed bare, muscular arms. He was eating something and had a bottle of beer in his hand.