“Sexual psychopath, organized, a careful planner. He murdered Arab women- runaways and prostitutes at first, then he progressed to less-marginal victims- a woman who'd just left her husband and was socially vulnerable. He gained their trust, anesthetized them, then dissected them and dumped their bodies in hilly areas around Jerusalem, sometimes accompanied by pages from the Bible.”

“Another case with messages,” I said. “What was his?”

“We never had a chance to interview him but we suspect he had some kind of racist agenda, possibly trying to cause a race war between Arabs and Jews. The FBI was informed fully. If you'd like, I'll get you copies of the VICAP case file.”

“You never had a chance to interview him,” said Milo. “Meaning he's dead.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I killed him.” The golden eyes blinked. “Self-defense.”

Milo looked down at the damaged hand.

Sharavi raised his arm and the limp flesh bobbed. “He doesn't get all the credit for this. I was partially disabled in the Six-Day War. He destroyed what function was left. I would have preferred capturing him alive in order to learn from him. But…” Another blink. “After it was over, I read all I could about people like him. There wasn't much, the FBI was just getting the VICAP program started. Now, they offer profiles but Dr. Delaware's point about profiles relying upon the past is well-taken. What's to stop some clever boy from doing his reading, too, and using it against us?”

“Us?” said Milo.

“Policemen. There is a certain… contrived feeling to these killings, don't you think?”

“Self-defense,” said Milo. “So now you've been brought over to “defend' yourself against our guy.”

“No,” said Sharavi. “I'm not a hired assassin. I'm here to investigate Irit Carmeli's death because Consul Carmeli thought I could be of use.”

“And Consul Carmeli gets what he wants.”

“Sometimes.”

“He said you were in the States. Where?”

“New York.”

“Doing what?”

“Security work at the embassy.”

“Self-defense work?”

“Security work.”

“You speak excellent English,” I said.

“My wife is American.”

“Is she here with you?” said Milo.

Sharavi gave a low, soft laugh. “No.”

“Where's she from?”

“L.A.”

“Lots of L.A. connections,” said Milo.

“Another point in my favor. Shall I disconnect the bugs?”

“Ever been tapped yourself?”

“Probably.”

“You don't mind?”

“No one likes the loss of privacy,” said Sharavi.

“You guys are big on that, aren't you? Gadgetry, top security, high tech. But all the Mossad crap didn't help your prime minister, did it?”

“No,” said Sharavi. “It didn't.”

“That was an interesting one,” said Milo. “I'm no conspiracy buff, but it made me wonder: The guy shoots Rabin in the back, from two feet away. Next day there's video footage on TV showing him heckling Rabin at a bunch of rallies, frothing at the mouth, having to be carried away. And within hours of the assassination all his confederates are rounded up. So he was well known to the authorities, but the security guards let him get right next to the target.”

“Interesting, isn't it?” said Sharavi. “What's your theory?”

“Someone didn't like the boss.”

“There are people who agree with you. Another theory is that even experienced security people couldn't imagine a Jewish assassin. Yet another is that the original plan was to use blanks, make a public statement, and the assassin changed his mind at the last minute. In any case, it's a national disgrace. And it's caused me additional pain because the assassin was of Yemenite descent and so am I- shall I disconnect now or later? Or would you care to do it yourself?”

“Later,” said Milo. “I think I'd rather look at your place, first.”

Sharavi was surprised. “Why?”

“See how the high-tech half lives.”

“Will we be working together?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“There are always choices,” said the dark man.

“Then my choice right now is to see your setup. If you can't even give on that, I'll know what I'm dealing with.”

Sharavi touched his lip with his good hand and gazed up at Milo. The surprised eyes looked innocent.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

He gave us an address on the 1500 block of Livonia Street and told us to see ourselves out and meet him. Then he slipped behind a partition and disappeared.

We drove south on La Cienega, passing one dark restaurant after another, heading for Olympic. Milo said, “He uses that hand as a prop.”

“Handicapped detective on a case full of handicapped victims. It could give the case another dimension for him.”

“Despite what he says, think he's really here to clean up the mess?”

“I don't know.”

“Just between you and me and the dashboard, Alex, that doesn't sound half-bad. We catch the bastard, the Israelis finish him off, no publicity, no media bullshit, no goddamn lawyers, and the Carmelis and God-knows-how-many other parents get some closure.”

He laughed. “Some public servant I am. The rule of law. But someone who'd do that to retarded kids…” He cursed. “Painting with blood. DVLL in the shoes. So Raymond's a match, too. What bugs me is that it's only luck that led us to the message. And your hawkeye.”

He laughed and it jarred me.

“What?”

“You ever come across this Butcher in your readings?”

“No.”

“Bringing in a one-case homeboy.” He ran his hand over his face and looked at the dashboard clock. “Jesus, it's after two already. Robin gonna be worried?”

“Hopefully she's sleeping. When I left for the meeting with the other cops I told her I'd be late.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping for progress.”

“Well, we got some, all right.”

“Are you going to stay on the case if it means working with Sharavi?”

“Why should I give it up just because Carmeli's a control freak- oh hell, forget my righteous indignation. The guy lost his daughter, he's flexing whatever muscle he's got. Would I do differently if I had the clout? Not on your life. And it's bigger than just Irit, now.”

“Another thing,” I said, “by working with Sharavi, you can coopt him. Those resources Carmeli talked about.”

“Yeah. All sorts of surveillance toys. But first we need someone to surveil.”

We were south on Robertson now. At Cashio, he turned right and laughed again. “Besides, who better than me to work this puzzler, right? I do have the top solve rate in West L.A.”

“Eighteen percent higher than the competition,” I said. “Hoo-hah.”

“My mommy always told me I'd be tops.”

“Mom knows best.”

“Actually,” he said, “what she said was, “Milo, honey, how come you stay in your room all day and don't go out anymore? And what ever happened to that nice girl you used to date?' ”

Livonia was the first block west of Robertson. The 1500 block meant a left turn. He cruised slowly.

“Only a mile or so from the Carmelis' house,” I said.

“Maybe the boss drops in for briefings?”

“He probably does. That's why Carmeli's attitude changed. Sharavi told him you knew what you were doing. Or played him the surveillance tapes.”

“Endorsement from Big Brother,” he said. “Wonder if the neighbors know they're living with James Freaking Bond.”

The neighbors lived in small, seventy-year-old Spanish houses. Nearly obscured by a twisted hedge of Hollywood juniper, Sharavi's pink bungalow sat behind a tiny lawn shaved to the dirt. In the driveway was the gray Toyota I'd seen at the schoolyard.

A porch light yellowed the wooden front door. A small olive-wood mezuzah was nailed to the sidepost. Before we could ring, Sharavi opened the door and let us in.

He'd removed his windbreaker and was wearing the pale blue shirt and jeans. The shirt was short-sleeved and his forearms were hairless, thin but muscled, laced with veins. A wedding band circled the ring finger of the good hand.