Free The Butcher's Theatre by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

back to him and he said, “Perfect. There’s one more, a Samal Avi Cohen. New hire. Try Personnel and if they don’t know where he can be reached, Tat Nitzav Laufer’s office will. Give him the same message.”
    “Okay. Shalom.”
    “Shalom.”
    The next number he tried was busy. Rather than wait, he left and climbed to the fourth floor.
    The office he entered was one-third larger than his, but it housed two people. A pair of desks had been placed in an L. On the wall behind them, a single shelf held books, a collection of straw dolls, and a sachet that emitted a light aroma of patchouli.
    Both youth officers were on the phone, talking to bureaucrats. Both wore pastel short-sleeved blouses over jeans.
    Otherwise, physically and stylistically, they were a study in contrasts.
    Hanna Shalvi sat nearer to the door, diminutive, dark, be-spectacled; baby-faced, so that she didn’t look much older than the children she worked with. She asked a question about a family’s fitness, nodded as she listened, said “yes” and “hmm” several times, repeated the question, waited, repeated.
    A few feet away, Alice Yanushevsky hunched over her desk, jabbing her pencil in the air and smoking like a chimney. Tall and moon-faced, with straw-colored hair cut in a Dutch-boy, she demanded fast action from a recalcitrant pencil-pusher in a voice tight with impatience.
    “This is a girl in jeopardy! We’ll have no more delays! Am I understood?” Slam.
    A sweet smile for Daniel. A drop in vocal pitch: “Good morning, Dani.” She picked up a cardboard tube, opened it, and unfolded the contents. “Like my new poster?”
    It was a blowup of the American rock band Fleetwood Mac.
    “Very nice.”
    “Avner gave it to me because he says I look like one of them”—she swiveled and pointed—“the English girl, Christine. What do you think?”
    “A little,” he conceded. “You’re younger.”
    Alice laughed heartily, smoked, laughed again.
    “Sit down, Pakad Sharavi. Just what is it that you need?”
    “Photographs of missing girls. Brunettes, probably fifteen or sixteen, but let’s play it safe and go twelve to nineteen.”
    Alice’s green eyes jumped with alarm.
    “Something happened to one of them?”
    “Possibly.”
    “What?” she demanded.
    “Can’t say anything right now. Laufer’s put a gag on.”
    “Oh, come on.”
    “Sorry.”
    “All take, no give, eh? That should make your job easy.” She shook her head scornfully. “Laufer. Who does he think he’s kidding, trying to keep anything quiet around here?”
    “True. But I need to humor him.”
    Alice stubbed out her cigarette. Another shake of the head.
    “The girl in question has dark skin, dark hair,” said Daniel. “Roundish face, pretty features, chipped teeth, one missing upper tooth. Anyone come to mind?”
    “Pretty genera! except for the teeth,” said Alice, “and that could have happened after the disappearance.” She opened one of her desk drawers, pulled out a pile of about a dozen folders, and thumbed through them, selecting three, putting the rest away.
    “All our open cases are being entered into the computer, but I have a few here that just came in recently. All runaways—these are the ones in your age range.”
    He examined the photographs, shook his head, gave them back.
    “Let’s see if she has any.” said Alice. Rising, she stood over Hanna, who was still nodding and questioning. Tapping her on the shoulder, she said: “Come on, enough.”
    Hanna held up one hand, palm inward, thumb touching index finger. Signaling savlanul. Patience.
    “If you haven’t convinced them yet, you never will,” said Alice. She ran her fingers through her hair, stretched. “Come on, enough.”
    Hanna conversed a bit more, said thank you, and got off the phone.
    “Finally,” said Alice. “Take out your recent files. Dani needs to look at them.”
    “Good morning, Dani,” said Hanna. “What’s up?”
    “He can’t tell you but you have to help