An Accidental Murder: An Avram Cohen Mystery by Robert Rosenberg Page A
Authors: Robert Rosenberg
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Darom.
Just a month ago, Levy had been in Jerusalem for a meeting and had dropped by to see Cohen’s plans for the house. Nissim had been proud that all the homes in the neighborhood had been bought. “People are already coming around asking if we’re selling,” Nissim had announced, pleased with his investment.
Cohen turned into the street where Nissim and Hagit had planned to have their first baby. It was wide enough to park at an angle in front of the houses. Their house was on the corner, first on the left. About half the houses on the street had a car parked in front. Outside Levy’s house stood half a dozen cars, including an empty blue-and-white, a van, and an upper-range Peugeot, its three-digit license plate identifying it to Cohen as a district commander’s. Cohen scowled, guessing the identity of the owner. A uniformed driver slouched in the front seat, reading the sports pages.
He walked on to the front gate, a low-slung iron arabesque set into a low stucco wall already traced by ivy.
“I’m gardening,” Nissim had told Cohen proudly. He paused for a second and looked up at the black bunting of the storm to the north. To the south, the blue was almost white in its clarity, without even a wisp of cloud in the sky.
He knew that he might never know what really had happened when the flood took Levy to his death, because the storm would have washed away the evidence.
He looked around. The last time he had been there, half the homes had still stood empty. Now, parked cars, tricycles, and other children’s toys, and a pair of spaniels and a poodle playing in the middle of the street gave life to the short, wide block. The sidewalks, however, were not completely paved. Three stacks of bricks, stacked on wooden palettes and still wrapped in their steel band, stood like sentries to the desert at the end of the street. Almost every front yard had at least one sapling and some shrubs. Levy had planted ficus on one side of the walk and a pair of palms on the other.
Finally, hesitantly, he looked at the house and found himself in the wide-eyed sights of a uniformed police woman with dyed yellow hair and a nose beaked into a sculpture on her flat face, heading down the walkway toward him, hand outstretched. “Yoheved Ginsburg,” she said, sticking out her hand, “but everyone calls me Jacki.”
“I know,” he mumbled. Shvilli—unshaven, in sneakers, jeans, and a sweater under a blue police-issued bombardier’s jacket—appeared in the doorway. His face confirmed what Cohen had hoped against hope he would not have to hear. It was indeed Levy who had died in the car.
“How’s Hagit?” Cohen asked.
“Her mother wants the funeral in Jerusalem,” said Jacki, “and wants Hagit back in Jerusalem for the shivah.”
Cohen had met Hagit’s parents twice—first at the wedding, then, two years later, at the housewarming when the young couple had bought the house in the desert town, and made public the announcement Cohen already knew, that Hagit was pregnant. At the wedding her parents had seemed proud of their daughter. At the housewarming, they kept to themselves, unable to hide their disappointment in their daughter’s decision to make a home in the desert town so far from the family, unable to understand why Nissim had been sent so far south, unable to fight the transfer. They ran a small makolet, a mom-and-pop grocery store, on the border between Jerusalem’s upper middle class Rehavia and working-class Nahlaot. “With a university education, she decides to live in this place,” the mother had complained to Cohen at the housewarming. He had used his empty glass as an excuse to get away from the embittered woman and her meek, silent husband.
“She’d rather stay down here,” Shvilli pointed out.
“They made a lot of friends here.” Just then, as if to confirm his assessment, a blonde in her early thirties came out of the front door of the next house carrying a platter of food. Because of the
Just a month ago, Levy had been in Jerusalem for a meeting and had dropped by to see Cohen’s plans for the house. Nissim had been proud that all the homes in the neighborhood had been bought. “People are already coming around asking if we’re selling,” Nissim had announced, pleased with his investment.
Cohen turned into the street where Nissim and Hagit had planned to have their first baby. It was wide enough to park at an angle in front of the houses. Their house was on the corner, first on the left. About half the houses on the street had a car parked in front. Outside Levy’s house stood half a dozen cars, including an empty blue-and-white, a van, and an upper-range Peugeot, its three-digit license plate identifying it to Cohen as a district commander’s. Cohen scowled, guessing the identity of the owner. A uniformed driver slouched in the front seat, reading the sports pages.
He walked on to the front gate, a low-slung iron arabesque set into a low stucco wall already traced by ivy.
“I’m gardening,” Nissim had told Cohen proudly. He paused for a second and looked up at the black bunting of the storm to the north. To the south, the blue was almost white in its clarity, without even a wisp of cloud in the sky.
He knew that he might never know what really had happened when the flood took Levy to his death, because the storm would have washed away the evidence.
He looked around. The last time he had been there, half the homes had still stood empty. Now, parked cars, tricycles, and other children’s toys, and a pair of spaniels and a poodle playing in the middle of the street gave life to the short, wide block. The sidewalks, however, were not completely paved. Three stacks of bricks, stacked on wooden palettes and still wrapped in their steel band, stood like sentries to the desert at the end of the street. Almost every front yard had at least one sapling and some shrubs. Levy had planted ficus on one side of the walk and a pair of palms on the other.
Finally, hesitantly, he looked at the house and found himself in the wide-eyed sights of a uniformed police woman with dyed yellow hair and a nose beaked into a sculpture on her flat face, heading down the walkway toward him, hand outstretched. “Yoheved Ginsburg,” she said, sticking out her hand, “but everyone calls me Jacki.”
“I know,” he mumbled. Shvilli—unshaven, in sneakers, jeans, and a sweater under a blue police-issued bombardier’s jacket—appeared in the doorway. His face confirmed what Cohen had hoped against hope he would not have to hear. It was indeed Levy who had died in the car.
“How’s Hagit?” Cohen asked.
“Her mother wants the funeral in Jerusalem,” said Jacki, “and wants Hagit back in Jerusalem for the shivah.”
Cohen had met Hagit’s parents twice—first at the wedding, then, two years later, at the housewarming when the young couple had bought the house in the desert town, and made public the announcement Cohen already knew, that Hagit was pregnant. At the wedding her parents had seemed proud of their daughter. At the housewarming, they kept to themselves, unable to hide their disappointment in their daughter’s decision to make a home in the desert town so far from the family, unable to understand why Nissim had been sent so far south, unable to fight the transfer. They ran a small makolet, a mom-and-pop grocery store, on the border between Jerusalem’s upper middle class Rehavia and working-class Nahlaot. “With a university education, she decides to live in this place,” the mother had complained to Cohen at the housewarming. He had used his empty glass as an excuse to get away from the embittered woman and her meek, silent husband.
“She’d rather stay down here,” Shvilli pointed out.
“They made a lot of friends here.” Just then, as if to confirm his assessment, a blonde in her early thirties came out of the front door of the next house carrying a platter of food. Because of the
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