Kaplan shrugged. The water trembled.

"Things."

"Protecting client confidentiality, Mr. Kaplan?"

Kaplan shrugged again.

"Skeletal things?" Ryan waggled the photo of Max.

Kaplan's face stiffened. Draining the water, he carefully placed the gla.s.s on Sol's blotter, leaned back, and laced his fingers.

"I want a lawyer."

"Do you need a lawyer?"

"You don't intimidate me."

"You hiding something, Mr. Kaplan?"

Ryan turned to Friedman.

"What do you think, Ira? You suppose Mr. Kaplan was engaged in a little black-marketeering?"

"I think that's possible, Andy."

Kaplan's face remained deadpan.

"Or maybe he decided illicit antiques were kids' stuff, embarked on a more ambitious career path."

Kaplan's fingers were thin. He clasped them so tightly the knuckles went white.

"Could be, Andy. Now that you mention it, he looks like a real Renaissance guy to me."

Ryan addressed Kaplan.

"That it? You decide to up the ante?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean murder, Hersh. It is Hersh, isn't it?"

"Jesus Christ." A flush crept north from Kaplan's collar. "Are you crazy?"

"What do you think, Ira? You think Hersh capped Avram Ferris?"

"No!" Kaplan shot forward and twisted from Ryan to Friedman. "No!"

Ryan and Friedman exchanged shrugs.

"This is insane." The flush detonated across Kaplan's face. "I didn't kill anyone. I couldn't."

Ryan and Friedman waited.

"Okay." Kaplan raised both hands. "Look." Kaplan chose his words carefully. "Occasionally I secure objects of questionable provenance."

"You did this for Ferris?"

Kaplan nodded. "Ferris phoned, asked if I could find a buyer for something special."

"Special?"

"Extraordinary. Once-in-a-lifetime."

More waiting.

"Something that would cause havoc in the Christian world. Those were his words."

Ryan raised the photo.

Kaplan nodded. "Ferris gave me the photo, said not to tell anyone where I got it."

"When was this?"

"I don't know. This winter."

"That's a bit vague, Hersh."

"Early January."

Ryan and I exchanged glances. Ferris was shot in mid-February.

"What happened?"

"I floated word, found there was interest, told Ferris I'd deal, but first I'd need more than just his word and his photo for validation. He said he'd get me proof of the skeleton's authenticity. Before we could meet, Ferris was dead."

"What did Ferris tell you about the skeleton?" I asked.

Kaplan turned to me. His eyes showed something for a moment, then went neutral.

"It came from Masada."

"How'd Ferris get it?'

"He didn't say."

"Anything else?"

"He said it was a person of historic importance, and claimed to have proof."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

We all thought about that. What proof might Ferris have had? Statements from Lerner? Le Musee de l'Homme? The museum file that Lerner had stolen? Maybe the original paperwork from Israel?

In the corridor, I heard someone talking to the cop. Poor, displaced Sol?

"What about Miriam Ferris?" Ryan changed tack.

"What about her?"

"Are you acquainted with Mrs. Ferris?"

Kaplan shrugged.

"Is that a yes?"

"I know her."

"In the biblical sense?"

"That's disgusting."

"Let me rephrase, Hersh. I did ask if it was Hersh, didn't I? Did you have an affair with Miriam Ferris?"

"What?"

"First I asked confirmation of your given name. Then I asked if you were doing Miriam. Two-part questions too tough for you?"

"Miriam was married to my ex-wife's brother."

"After your brother-in-law's death, you two kept in touch?"

Kaplan didn't answer. Ryan waited. Kaplan folded.

"Yes."

"That how you hooked up with Ferris?"

Again the silence. Again the wait. Again Kaplan crumbled.

"Miriam is a good person."

"Answer my question, Hersh."

"Yes." Bitter.

"Why pony up the photo at Ferris's autopsy?"

Kaplan shrugged one shoulder. "Just trying to help."

Ryan went over it and over it. Kaplan grew restless, but stuck to his story. He knew Miriam through his former brother-in-law, and Ferris through Miriam. From time to time, he did some minor-league buying and selling of illegal goods. He'd agreed to unload the skeleton for Ferris. Before he got full background on the bones, Ferris was killed. He didn't do it. His conscience told him to surrender the photo.

Kaplan's version never changed.

That time.

27.

AT HALF PAST TEN, RYAN AND I I RECLAIMED POSSESSION OF THE RECLAIMED POSSESSION OF THE shroud and bones, then climbed into Friedman's personal car, an '84 Tempo with a duct tape shroud and bones, then climbed into Friedman's personal car, an '84 Tempo with a duct tape K K on the right rear window. Friedman stayed with Kaplan. on the right rear window. Friedman stayed with Kaplan.

"What's his plan?" I asked "Give the gentleman time to reconsider his tale."

"And then?"

"Ask him to repeat it."

"Repet.i.tion is good," I said.

"Brings out inconsistencies."

"And forgotten details."

"Case in point, Mama Ferris," Ryan said.

"Got us hooked into Yossi Lerner and Sylvain Morissonneau," I agreed.

Beit Hanina is an Arab village with the timely good fortune to find itself within modern Jerusalem's new munic.i.p.al boundaries. It is now Beit Hanina Hadashah, or New Beit Hanina. Jake had kept a flat here for as long as I'd known him.

Jake's directions sent us into territory that was Jordan from 1948 until 1967. Ten minutes after leaving the Russian Compound, we hit the Neve Yakov checkpoint on the Ramallah, formerly the Nablus, Road. Good timing. The queue only stretched a block and a half.

Ryan joined the line and we crept forward, car length by car length. On our trip to the Kidron, Jake had told me that the wall designed to coc.o.o.n Israel from the rest of the world would shoot down the center of the road we were on. I scanned the stores flanking each side.

Pizza parlors. Dry cleaners. Sweet shops. Florists. We could have been in St-Lambert. Scarsdale. Pontiac. Elmhurst.

But this was Israel. To my left lay the insiders, those whose businesses would prosper despite the wall. To my right lay the outsiders, those whose businesses would wither because of the wall. Sad, I thought. These, the common folk humping to feed their families, were the real winners and losers in this disputed land.

Without Friedman, Ryan and I had antic.i.p.ated a grilling. Au contraire. Au contraire. The guard glanced at our pa.s.sports and Ryan's badge, bent for a look, and waved us through. Crossing into the West Bank, we made an immediate left, then another onto Jake's street. The guard glanced at our pa.s.sports and Ryan's badge, bent for a look, and waved us through. Crossing into the West Bank, we made an immediate left, then another onto Jake's street.

Jake rented the top floor of a small stucco home owned by an Italian archaeologist named Antonia Fiorelli. Jake lived up. Fiorelli lived down, with seven cats.

Ryan announced our arrival via a cracked speaker in the property wall. Seconds later Jake opened the gate, led us past a chicken-wire coop housing goats and rabbits, down a winding pebble walk, and up an outer staircase. By the second floor, we'd picked up a three-cat escort.