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"We will, but first let's watch him for a while. And keep our ears open. Both of you, circulate among the villagers and try to learn more about the family. See if you can find out whether Fatma ran away or was banished. And the specific nature of her rebellion. Find out what she was wearing, if anyone can describe the earrings. What about the Nasif woman, Elias? Do you think she's still holding back?"
"Maybe. But she's in a difficult position-a widow, socially vulnerable. Let me see what I can get from others before I lean on her again."
"All right, but keep her in mind. If we need to, we can arrange an interview away from prying eyes-a shopping trip, something like that."
A loud cry came from the Rashmawi house. Daniel looked at the unadorned building, noticed the empty land surrounding it.
"No neighbors," he said. "They keep to themselves. That kind of isolation breeds gossip. See if you can tap into any of it. Call Shmeltzer and find out if any family member has popped up in a file. Keep an eye out, also, for the other two brothers. Far as we know they're on a job and should be getting back before sundown. Get to them before they reach home. If Anwar leaves the house, have a chat with him too. Be persistent but respectful-don't lean too heavily on anyone. Until we know any different, everyone's a potential source of help. Good luck, and if you need me, I'll be at Saint Saviour's."
Daniel walked west along the southern perimeter of the Old City, passing worshippers of three faiths, locals, tourists, hikers, and hangers-on, until he reached the northwest corner and entered the Christian Quarter through the New Gate.
The Saint Saviour's compound dominated the mouth of the quarter, with its high walls and green-tiled steeple. Double metal doors decorated with Christian symbols marked the service entry on Bab el Jadid Road; the arch above the door was filled by a blood-red crucifix; below the cross strong black letters proclaimed: terra sancta. Above the doors the steeple topped a four-sided pastry-white tower, exquisitely molded, ringed doubly with iron balconies and set with marble-faced clocks on all sides. As Daniel entered, the bells of the monastery rang out the quarter hour.
The courtyard within was modest and quiet. Inset into one of the i
A trio of young Franciscan monks exited the compound and crossed his path, brown-robed and white-belted, their lowered hoods exposing pale, introspective faces. He asked them, in Hebrew, where Father Bernardo could be found, and when they looked perplexed, thought: new arrivals, and repeated the question in English.
"Infirmary," said the tallest of the three, a blue-chi
"Is he ill?" asked Daniel, aware now of his own accent. A Babel of a conversation
"No," said the monk. "He is not. He is caring for those who are the ill." He paused, spoke to his comrades in Spanish, then turned back to Daniel. "I take you to him."
The infirmary was a bright, clean room smelling of fresh paint and containing a dozen narrow iron beds, half of them occupied by inert old men. Large wood-framed windows afforded a view of Old City rooftops: clay domes, centuries old, crowned by TV ante
Daniel waited by the doorway and watched Father Bernardo tend to an ancient monk. Only the monk's head was visible above the covers, the skull hairless and veined with blue, the face sunken, near-translucent, the body so withered it was barely discernible beneath the sheets. On the nightstand next to the bed were a set of false teeth in a glass and a large, leather-bound Bible. On the wall above the headboard Jesus writhed on a polished metal crucifix.
Father Bernardo bent at the waist, wet a towel with water, and used it to moisten the monk's lips. Talking softly, he rearranged the pillows so that the monk could recline more comfortably. The monk's eyes closed, and Bernardo watched him sleep for several minutes before turning and noticing the detective. Smiling, he walked forward, bouncing silently on sandaled feet, the crucifix around his neck swinging in counterpoint.
"Pakad Sharavi," he said in Hebrew, and smiled. "It's been a long time."
Bernardo's waist had thickened since they'd last met. Otherwise he looked the same. The fleshy pink face of a prosperous Tuscan merchant, inquisitive gray eyes, large, rosy, shell-like ears. Snowy puffs of white hair covered a strong, broad head, the snowfall repeating itself below-in eyebrows, mustache, and Vandyke beard.
"Two years," said Daniel. "Two Easters."
"Two Passovers," Bernardo said with a smile, ushering him out of the infirmary into a dim, quiet corridor. "You're in Major Crimes now-I read about you. How have you been?"
"Very well. And you, Father?"
The priest patted his paunch and smiled. "A little too well, I'm afraid. What brings you here on a Shabbat?"
"The girl," said Daniel, showing him the photo. "I've been told she worked here."
Bernardo took the picture and examined it.
"This is little Fatma! What's happened to her!"
"I'm sorry, I can't discuss that, Father," said Daniel. But the priest heard the unspoken message and his thick fingers closed around the crucifix.
"Oh, no, Daniel."
"When's the last time you saw her, Father?" asked Daniel gently.
The fingers left the crucifix, floated upward, and began twisting white strands of beard.
"Not long ago, at all-last Wednesday afternoon. She didn't show up for breakfast Thursday morning and that's the last we saw of her."
A day and a half before the body had been found.
"When did you hire her?"