Yalom bent down to whisper something in Menkovitz’s ear. Menkovitz was much older than Yalom, in his late eighties. His arms were thin and bony, sticking out of short white sleeves. But when Menkovitz stood, Decker noticed not only was he taller than the average man, but he sported a sizable gut. Like many old men, Menkovitz was high-waisted, his black pants stretched over his belly and supported by suspenders. He had thin, white hair and a long face specked with liver spots.

After Yalom was done with the whispering act, Menkovitz looked Decker over, dark eyes not missing a trick. Then with much deliberation, he picked up a shoebox-sized leather case and chained it around his waist. Slowly, he put on his black jacket and walked away.

Yalom followed and so did Decker.

“Where are we going?” Decker asked Yalom.

“Savlanoot,” Yalom said. “Pacien.”

Decker assumed he meant patience and kept silent. Menkovitz kept his eyes straight on, not even bothering to grace Decker with the merest of courtesy nods. But Decker knew it wasn’t out of rudeness, it was out of numbness. Menkovitz had the look-old man going through the motions. They took the elevator back to the fifteenth floor, back to Menkovitz’s office. The old man walked into the sally port, the secretary buzzing them through without Menkovitz’s uttering a word.

The old man’s office was spacious, holding a panoramic view of what Decker assumed was industrial Tel Aviv. He saw factories, smokestacks, warehouses, train tracks, and lots of commercial buildings. The day was clear, the sun was bright, but the mood inside was dim. Menkovitz spoke to Decker in Hebrew. Feeling like a dunce, Decker asked him if he spoke English.

Angrily Menkovitz turned to Yalom and fired off some rapid gutteral speech. Yalom fired back a response. Menkovitz waved his hand in the air.

Decker said, “Excuse me, Mr. Menkovitz. If there is a problem, I can come back later with my wife. She speaks Hebrew.”

No one responded.

Decker said, “Uh, ani can come back.” He realized he was speaking with his hands. Something he had never done before. “Uh, ani ba-”

“I understand you,” Menkovitz broke in. “Don’t break your teeth. Sit.” The old man took the chair behind his desk and motioned Yalom and Decker to two office chairs.

Decker sat. “Thank you.”

Menkovitz said, “Moshe tells me you are mishtarah-police, nachon? So what news have you to make an embittered old man feel better.”

Decker said, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Menkovitz’s eyes narrowed and homed in on Decker. “So tell me, Mr. Policeman, what the hell do you know about loss?”

“Not much.”

“That’s right, not much! You are just like all spoiled Americans led by a draft-dodging president. You know nothing of loss because you don’t know what is dear. Because America is the land of plenty and everything’s cheap. Even life.”

“Not to me,” Decker said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you here?” Menkovitz gave him a dubious look. “You here because someone pays for you. A free holiday.”

“I’m here on business,” Decker said, calmly. “Your daughter’s death.”

“That’s what you say,” Menkovitz said. “You lie through your teeth.”

Decker was silent.

Menkovitz rubbed his face. “When do you ship my Dalia back to me so I can give her decent burial?”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Decker said.

“It’s not very good.”

“You’re right.” Decker leaned forward. “It’s not very good. The whole thing stinks and again, I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean much, but it is the truth. I have four kids of my own and there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t worry about them.”

Menkovitz was silent, then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I come to Palestine, I fight in ’48 and I fight in ’56. In ’67, I’m too old, they give me civil duty-haggah. I watch streets as Jordanian soldiers pour into the city like a mabul. You know what is mabul?”

“Flood,” Decker said.

“Right. Like flood, they come into the city,” Menkovitz said.

“Much soldiers,” Yalom agreed. “Like mabul.”

“You were scared, Moshe?” Menkovitz asked.

“Lo,” Yalom stated curtly. “After Treblinka…” He waved his hand in the air.

Menkovitz said, “I was not scared. I am a fighter. But this…” He lowered his head. “I have no more fighter, Mr. Policeman. I just want my daughter home so we can bury her on our land. That is all.”

Decker had no other answer except silence. Then he said. “We’re on the same side, Mr. Menkovitz. Help me.”

Menkovitz stared at Decker, then said, “You want some tea? I do. Moshe, rotzeh teh?”

“Betach,” Yalom answered back.

Menkovitz put in requests over the intercom. Then he turned to Decker and said, “What do you want to know? Dalia was always a good girl. A little spoiled. That’s why she liked America. There it is not a crime to be spoiled. Here people don’t like it. She married young. And she married a mean man.”

Yalom spoke up and pointed an accusing finger at Menkovitz. “She marry man like papa.”

Menkovitz allowed himself a brief smile. “Yes, Arik was like me…too much like me. He was short-tempered and a hondler. Even at times, a gonif.”

Decker knew gonif meant thief. He raised his eyes.

Menkovitz said, “You don’t think Arik is a thief? Let me tell you something, Mr. Policeman. You see Bursa, today. You see all the people. They are all thieves. If not thief today, then tomorrow they will be thief. Arik was a tomorrow thief.”

The two old men began to quarrel. Decker suspected the cantankerous routine predated the death of their children. He waited them out.

Finally, Menkovitz said, “Yalom don’t like me calling Arik a thief.” The argument with Moshe seemed to have revived him. “So ask you questions. That is why you’re here.”

Decker said, “Mr. Menkovitz, what were you and Kate Milligan talking about?”

Menkovitz stared at Decker. There was a knock on the door, then it opened.

Teatime. The secretary came in carrying an oversized salver. She set it down on Menkovitz’s desk, poured tea, then passed around a plate of finger sandwiches. Menkovitz picked up a sandwich of olive and cream cheese and popped it into his mouth. Yalom chose egg salad. Decker passed the first round.

The secretary smiled at her boss, then kissed the mezuzah, and left. Menkovitz asked, “Why you want to know about Kate Milligan?”

“She and Arik Yalom weren’t on good terms.”

Moshe Yalom sat up in his seat. “What you mean?”

Decker said, “The two of them had exchanged a series of angry letters.”

“Ma?” Yalom turned to Menkovitz. “Ani lo mayveen.”

Menkovitz translated. Both men seemed confused.

Decker said, “I had just spoken to Milligan in the States. She claimed to be working on a big case in Los Angeles that took up a great deal of her time. So I’m surprised she’s here.”

“Me, too,” Menkovitz said. “She don’t come to Bursa many times. She don’t like Jews.”

Decker paused, remembering how she had told them that diamond cutters were clannish and gossipy. He had told Marge that she had meant the Jews. “Why do you think Milligan doesn’t like Jews?”

“Because she don’t like Jews.” He translated his conversation for Moshe Yalom, then went on. “She thinks they are dirty thieves. So we are thieves. We are little thieves. VerHauten is big thief-anak. You know what is anak? Goliath is anak. Og is anak.”

“A giant,” Decker said.

“Yes, a giant. VerHauten is giant thief,” Menkovitz continued. “Like a mix-up Robin the Hood. Steal from the poor, give to the rich.” He shrugged. “I don’t like it, but so what? I’m not in Dachau, I am a happy man.”

“Did she ever have a problem with the Jews specifically?”

Menkovitz shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe yes, maybe no. Who needs excuse to hate Jews?”

Decker said, “Why is Milligan here, Mr. Menkovitz?”

“She looks at the stones. How many come from VerHauten, how many come from Russia, how many come from other African country.” He hesitated, then said, “Why was Arik mad at Milligan?”