He hung up, took a swallow of cold coffee from the cup on his desk, and put his head down. A knock on the door raised him up and he saw Shmeltzer enter, looking angry, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.

"Look at this, Dani. I was driving home, noticed a guy plastering this to walls, thought you might want to see it."

The papers were handbills. At the center was a head-shot photo of a Hassid, fortyish, full-bearded, with extravagant side curls. The man looked fat, with flat features and narrow eyes behind black-framed eyeglasses. He wore a dark jacket and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. Atop his head was a large, square kipah. Hanging around his neck was a sign with the letters NYPD, followed by several numbers.

A mug shot.

BEWARE OF THIS MAN! was emblazoned under the photo, in Hebrew, English, and Yiddish. SENDER MALKOVSKY IS A CRIMINAL AND A CHILD RAPER!!!!!! HIDE YOUR YOUNG ONES!!!!!! Below the warnings were clippings from New York newspapers, reduced to the point where the print was barely legible. Daniel squinted, read with tired eyes.

Malkovsky was from trie Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, a father of six, a teacher of religious studies, and a tutor. A student had accused him of forced molestation and the charge had brought forth similar stories from dozens of other children. Malkovsky had been arrested by the New York Police, arraigned, released on bail, and failed to appear at his trial. One of the articles, from the New York Post, speculated that he'd run off to Israel, citing connections to "prominent Hassidic rabbis."

Daniel put the handbill down.

"He's living here, the bastard," said Shmeltzer. "In a fancy flat up in Qiryat Wolfson. The guy I found pasting these up is also a longbeard, named Rabinovitch-also from Brooklyn, knew Malkovsky's case well, thought Malkovsky was in jail.

He moves to Israel, buys a flat in the Wolfson complex, and one day he spots Malkovsky coming out of an apartment a hundred meters away. It drove him crazy-he has seven kids of his own. He marches straight to Malkovsky's rebbe and tells him about the shmuck's history, Rebbe nods and says Malkovsky had done repentance, deserves a second chance. Rabinovitch goes crazy and runs to the printer."

"A tutor," said Daniel. "Skips bail and moves into one of the fanciest developments in town. Where does he get that kind of money?"

"That's what Rabinovitch wanted to know. He figured Malkovsky's fellow Hassidim donated it on the rebbe's orders. That may be rivalry talking-Rabinovitch is from a different sect; you know how they like to go at each other-but it makes sense."

"Why didn't Rabinovitch notify us?"

"I asked him that. He looked at me as if I were crazy. Far as he's concerned the police are in on it-how else could Malkovsky get into the country, be running around free?"

"How else, indeed?"

"It stinks, Dani. I don't remember any Interpol notices or extradition orders, do you?"

"No." Daniel opened a desk drawer, took out the Interpol bulletins and FBI bulletins and flipped through them. "No Malkovsky."

"No immigration warnings, either," said Shmeltzer. "Nothing from the brass or Customs. This rebbe must have massive protekzia."

"Which rebbe is it?"

The Prostnitzer."

"He's new," said Daniel. "From Brooklyn. Has a small group that broke off from the Satmars-couple of planeloads of them came over last year."

"To Wolfson, eh? No Mea She'arim for these saints?"

"Most of them live out in the Ramot. The Wolfson thing's probably special for Malkovsky-to keep him under wraps. How long's he been in the country?"

"Three months-enough to do damage. He's a kiddy-diddler, but who knows what a pervert will do? Maybe he's shifted his preferences. In any event, someone's making us look like idiots, Dani."

Daniel slammed his fist down on the desk. Shmeltzer, surprised at the uncharacteristic display of emotion, took a step backward, then smiled inwardly. At least the guy was human.

Qiryat Wolfson was luxury American-style; a penthouse in the complex had recently sold for over a million dollars. Crisp limestone towers and low-profile town houses, a maze of landscaped walkways and subterranean parking garages, carpeted lobbies and high-speed elevators, all of it perched at the edge of a craggy bluff near the geographical center of the municipality, due west of the Old City. The view from up there was commanding-the Knesset, the Israel Museum, the generous belts of greenery that surrounded the government buildings. To the southwest, an even wider swatch of green-the Ein Qerem forest, where Juliet had been found.

In the darkness the complex jutted skyward like a clutch of stalagmites; from below came the roar of traffic on Rehov Herzl. Daniel drove the Escort into one of the underground lots and parked near the entrance. Some of the spaces were occupied by American cars: huge Buicks, Chevrolets, Chryslers, an old white Cadillac Coupe de Ville sagging on under-inflated tires. Dinosaurs, too wide for Jerusalem streets and alleys. Why had the owners bothered to bring them over?

It took him a while to find his way around, and it was just past nine by the time he reached Malkovsky's flat-a first-floor town-house unit on the west side of the complex, built around a small paved courtyard. The door was unmarked, armored with three locks. Daniel knocked, heard heavy footsteps, the sliding of bolts, and found himself face to face with the man in the handbill.

"Yes?" said Malkovsky. He was huge, bearishly obese, the beard fanning over his chest like some hirsute bib, reaching almost to his waist. A thick reddish-brown pelt that masked his cheekbones and tapered raggedly just beneath the lower rims of his eyeglasses. His complexion was florid, lumpy, dominated by a nose squashed pita-flat and dotted with open pores. His forehead was skimpy, the hair above it dense and curly. He wore the same square skullcap as in the picture, but had pushed it back to the crown.

Swallowed up by hair, thought Daniel. Like Esau. So big, he blocked most of the doorway. Daniel looked past him, peering through slivers of space: a living room still redolent of a boiled chicken supper, the floor littered with toys, newspapers, an empty baby bottle. He saw a blur of motion-children chasing each other, laughing and screaming in Yiddish. A baby wailed, unseen. A kerchiefed woman passed quickly through the sliver and disappeared. Moments later the crying stopped.

"Police," said Daniel, in English. He took out his identification and held it up to Malkovsky's glasses.

Malkovsky ignored it, unimpressed. A wave of annoyance rumpled the knobby blanket of his face. He cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height.