An Accidental Murder: An Avram Cohen Mystery Read online

  The bed and bathroom both seemed oversized, the furnishings combined both ultramodern fixtures such as the bathroom faucets and the telephone with baroque decorations, like the tapestrylike curtain covering the window view to the street below, the park, and the convention center across the street. As much as the hotel seemed aglow as he approached, the fairgrounds across the street now seemed ablaze with lights. He opened the window.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, kicking off the wet shoes he had bought for the trip, then testing the mattress.

  The bed had too much of a bounce, making him scowl. But he lay down and soon was dozing, vaguely aware that by the time he fell asleep, the phone would ring him awake.

  That awareness stayed in the back of his mind so that he didn’t actually reach deep sleep, just touching the edges of where he could hear his breathing become rhythmic. Sure enough, just reaching that sweet slide to sleep, the phone rang with his wake-up call and he was back on his feet, in the shower, shaving, and finally dressing for the banquet.

  He decided to leave the blue necktie Ahuva packed for another time, and wearing a clean white shirt, gray twill trousers, and the still-damp loafers, he headed down the long corridor from his room overlooking the park and the convention center beyond.

  The elevator doors opened to an old man sitting in a wheelchair, while in the corner, her back to the elevator doors, a tall brunette, her hair in a large bun, peered at the mirror, checking her makeup.

  The lift was slow enough for Cohen to realize the man in the wheelchair was staring at him.

  “You’re that Cohen fellow,” the elderly man said with a voice as hoarse as tearing cloth.

  Cohen nodded. The woman turned away from the mirror.

  “Frank,” said the man in the wheelchair, ignoring her.

  “Frank Kaplan,” the man repeated, watching Cohen’s face for a reaction, curious to see if Cohen recognized the name. When there was no response, the older man looked down at his blanket-covered lap and shook his head, then snorted a laugh. “If I were fifteen years younger,” he finally said, “I’d beat the shit out of you.”

  The comment stunned Cohen. “Pardon me?” he said, “I do not know what you are talking about … “

  “He thinks you wrote about him in your book,” the woman tried explaining to Cohen, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair as if trying to take control over the elderly man.

  “And it’s a good book,” the old man added, suddenly cheerful, almost friendly, instead of resentful. “I’ve got to admit. It’s a very good book.” “Where? When?” Cohen asked, not worried but curious.

  He had no memory of writing about anyone named Frank Kaplan.

  “You didn’t mention my name. Just called me and some friends of mine, crazy. Fanatics. Terrorists.”

  Cohen racked his brain.

  “This elevator moves faster than you think,” Kaplan mocked him.

  “It wasn’t just you,” Cohen said, finally remembering.

  “There were many of you. A fund-raising banquet in New York for people with fantasies about religious war in Jerusalem.” Cohen didn’t know all the names of the contributors at the banquet, but he knew how much money was raised and what bank accounts it went through to reach causes that wanted an ideological offensive up to the destruction of the Moslem mosques on the Temple Mount, to make way for the Third Temple.

  “No,” Kaplan protested, “people standing up for the rights of the Jews.”

  Cohen shook his head and would have argued that in the sovereign state of Israel, the law, as promulgated by the Knesset, determined the rights of the citizenry. But just then, the elevator came abruptly to a stop at the first floor. The woman turned Kaplan’s chair abruptly to face the doors.

  “Jesus, Francine,” Kaplan moaned. “Not so fast.”

  As the elevator doors slid open, and Francine moved the chair forward, Cohen added, “And you’re not even religious,” feeling foolish immediately afterward, sounding to himself like a kid calling someone a name, not even sure Kaplan heard. Worse, the remark seemed to cut the commotion in the lobby, which dropped a beat in deference to the man in the wheelchair’s arrival.

  A few eyes fell on Cohen, still standing in the elevator as a circle quickly closed around Kaplan in the wheelchair.

  Cohen didn’t like the feeling of being watched, and for a moment considered hitting the elevator button again.

  Instead, he slipped through a clearing that bypassed Kaplan at the center of attention in the lobby, and went into the banquet hall, where Koethe’s festive dinner for five hundred valued guests was taking shape.

  He spotted Lassman leaning close to a brunette at a table at the far end of the hall. Cohen found his name tag at the head of a table at which he was flanked on one side by a man who introduced himself as the owner of the largest bookstore in Switzerland, and on the other by an author who specialized in counterespionage.

  Tina came by his table before the speeches that preceded the dinner, to whisper to Cohen that she was making progress with a French publisher and hoped to have good news by the end of the fair. “But I’m still worried about TMC,” she said. “Maybe it will help that you’re on CNN.”

  “What?!” Cohen exclaimed.

  “Their item on the fair. The chancellor shook your hand.”

  “They couldn’t find anything else to use?”

  His question and its tone made Tina sigh. “I’ll never understand you,” she said. “I know authors who would cut off their right arms for a chance to be seen on CNN. Your friend Benny would, easy. Anyway, I’m hoping Herb Wang sees that, and realizes that you plan to be cooperative now.

  We’re seeing him tomorrow at five o’clock.” She paused, before adding, “You are, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Going to cooperate?” she asked.

  “I’m trying,” he said half-heartedly, giving her a smile that calmed her enough to continue her tablehopping onward.

  But very quickly it became apparent that the Swiss bookstore owner wanted to talk about money and the German author wanted to talk about the Mossad. Cohen wanted to sleep, and excused himself after the soup, shocking the Swiss bookstore owner—though making his wife smile— and leaving the espionage expert convinced that Cohen indeed was an agent for the Israeli secret service.

  4.

  “You missed an amazing night,” Lassman bragged the next morning when, bleary-eyed, the translator showed up at the Koethe pavilion. “After dinner we went to a discotheque, and then back to another hotel. Amazing scene.

  Agents, publishers, editors. Everyone getting drunk.

  And,” he paused for effect. “I got lucky.” “Good for you,” Cohen said, not meaning it.

  He had slept badly through most of the night, only finding sleep with a final cognac alone in his room near dawn, and then needing the wake-up call at nine in the morning. He spent the morning wandering around the fair on his own.

  Occasionally, he’d be stopped by a stranger, and asked for an autograph. Twice, a small crowd grew around him, strangers all, smiling, eager, wanting. It frightened him each time a little more. In Jerusalem, even the strangers were familiar to Cohen, who knew every alleyway and courtyard in the heart of the city, both east and west. For the first time in a long time, he felt himself fighting the feeling of being lost.

  He was twenty minutes late for the Koethe luncheon, arriving at their pavilion only to find a nervous Kristina Scheller waiting for him.

  “You are late,” she complained.

  “I’m sorry, I got lost.”

  She shook her head, as disappointed as the day before, when he turned down her advances. “Well, we can go join them, or go have lunch on our own,” she suggested.

  “I’m not very hungry,” he admitted. It was only partly true. He had fallen to the temptation of two different sausages sold at two different refreshment stands between the halls. And with each sausage and sauerkraut, he had a tall beer. He was full, for now, and secretly gla
d he had missed another heavy luncheon.

  “Well, what would you like to do?” she asked.

  “I like cookbooks,” he admitted.

  She beamed at him, and took his arm. For the rest of the afternoon, she led him from one pavilion to another, as he looked through the newest cookbooks the worldwide book industry had to offer that year. But at five, he was back at his hotel, waiting in the lobby for Tina and Lass man, Carey Mccloskey and Herbert Wang, the president of TMC. He was finally going to meet the voice from the other end of the planet.

  Around him now in the hotel lobby, men and women air kissed and embraced, shook hands and stood in small circles, briefcases and handbags in hand, talking. A few held drinks— wineglasses or whiskey glasses. Behind the reception desk, four uniformed clerks overseen by a worsted-suited manager were handling a crush of guests.

  Through the plate glass window to the street, Cohen could see the busy traffic of a boulevard divided by a large park. A waitress walked by carrying a tray of drinks. He stopped and pointed to one of the tall glasses with white wine. She smiled at him. He took a glass, and then, before she could move on, he took another glass. He drained one, turning slowly as he drank, looking for Tina.

  “Avram?” said a voice behind him. The voice was familiar.

  He turned.

  “Avram Cohen?” asked the young man in the blue suit with a yellow and red polka-dotted bow tie hanging under a sharp Adam’s apple. His pinched features included a narrow nose, squinty eyes, and an almost lipless mouth.

  “Carey?” Cohen guessed.

  “You’re just what I thought you would be,” the editor exclaimed, grabbing Cohen’s arms with both hands and pulling him forward to air-kiss. With a glass in each hand, Cohen took the embrace passively, careful not to spill the full, second glass he had taken from the waitress.

  Mccloskey backed away from Cohen as if to inspect him, and then clucked his tongue and shook his head.

  “You’re gorgeous. Just what I expected. Fantastic.” Suddenly, his tone changed to disappointment, “If only you had agreed to go on tour,” he said. “We would have had a hit, a real hit on our hands. Now we have to play catch up.”

  “Now Carey,” Tina’s buzz saw voice interrupted, coming from behind Cohen, “don’t get bitchy.”

  She was not a pretty or even handsome woman. But she carried herself with a low-key but constant sexual energy that Cohen figured probably played a part in her success as an agent—though with Mccloskey, Cohen suspected, the voice was more persuasive than a peek at her cleavage.

  “What’s done is done. We’re here to fix things, aren’t we, Avram?” she said.

  “Tina, darling,” said Carey, welcoming her effusively with the same air-kissing with which he greeted Cohen.

  “I’m so glad to hear that.” He suddenly smiled to someone beyond the circle and waved a few fingers, not far from Cohen’s face. The detective noticed a large gold ring, inscribed with a florid script and studded with a dark stone. Then just as suddenly, Carey was smiling at Cohen.

  “Good,” the editor continued. “Can I be frank?” he suddenly asked, lowering his voice.

  “Please,” said Tina, icily.

  “The truth is,” Carey said, “Mr. Wang is not very happy, and asked me to find out just what’s going on before he meets with you, Avram. So, shall we go find a quiet corner?” he suggested. “And find out?”

  “What about Benny?” Cohen asked.

  Carey looked at Tina. “Do we need him, you think?”

  She shrugged.

  “I’d prefer to wait for him,” said Cohen. “After all, if not for him, there would be no book.”

  “Yes, yes,” Carey relented, making no effort to hide his impatience, “you’re right.” He pursed his lips for a moment, thinking, and then excused himself to say hello to a friend. “You know, I’ll be right back,” he promised, “or you come get me when Benny shows up,” he offered, and without waiting for a response, joined a short fat man in a tailored suit. Arm and arm, the two went off to huddle in a corner, the little fat man looking over his shoulder once at Cohen and then laughing at something Carey said.

  “You are, you know,” Tina said when they were gone.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Well, maybe not gorgeous,” she admitted, “but definitely attractive.”

  “I’m an old man,” he protested, not wanting to explain Ahuva.

  “I’m sorry you think so,” she shot back. “How’s the wine?” she asked, reaching for the full glass he was still holding. While she sipped, she scanned the crowd.

  He answered her anyway. “A Riesling,” he said. “Too sweet for my taste. Keep it.”

  “Ah, yes, you prefer cognac.”

  Across the lobby, Cohen watched the elevator doors open and close twice. Still no sign of Lassman. But Carey came back. “No Benny?” he asked impatiently.

  Cohen shook his head. Carey checked his watch. So did Tina.

  “Avram,” she said first, “we really have to be at Koethe on time. And Carey’s probably … “

  “I’ve got to be at the Intercontinental … ” Carey said.

  “I’ll call up to him,” suggested Cohen.

  “Avram, really, I’m sure he can find us,” Tina promised.

  “Of course,” said Carey, putting his hand on Cohen’s broad back and steering him through the crowd to an alcove where a corner of red leather chairs around a low coffee table covered with leftover cups of coffee and pastry, liquor glasses, and cigarettes, was being vacated by a party of six.

  Carey took the seat Cohen would have preferred—facing the lobby—and Tina sat on a sofa between the two men who were in chairs at opposite ends of the coffee table.

  Cohen had a view of the glass entrance to the hotel, but the weather had changed from a misty drizzle to a more intense rain that created trails of windblown water on the window. The wet glass refracted the lights of the traffic outdoors, both the cars passing the hotel and those pulling into the driveway to disgorge or collect passengers.

  “Now Avram,” Carey began, leaning forward in his chair. “As you know, we are not happy about you missing the tour. Sales are far from what we expected.”

  “I know.”

  “But it’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” Tina jumped in, with a nervous smile at the editor and a slightly pleading look when she turned to Cohen. “He’ll do a tour, of course. He knows what it says in his contract.” Carey smiled at the Jerusalemite. “I’m sure he does,” he said. “We put a lot of money into this book,” he added.

  “I’ll pay it back,” Cohen said softly.

  Neither the agent nor the editor heard him. He repeated himself.

  Tina looked at him with shock. Carey was curious.

  “What do you mean, you’ll pay it back?” Carey said.

  “Just what I said,” said Cohen. He gestured over his shoulder with a wave of his hand toward the crowded lobby, then pointed out the window toward the misty glimmer of the fair building. “I don’t belong here. I don’t.

  This really was a mistake. Maybe the book was a mistake.”

  “Now Avram, you don’t mean that. The book’s wonderful,” Tina exclaimed, so shocked her voice rose loud enough to make the nearest clutch of people break off their own discussion. She smiled uncomfortably at them and then back at Cohen. “And you’ll be wonderful on tour.” One last time she turned to Carey as she tried to convince both men that everything was under control.

  Carey ignored her, instead squinting at Cohen as if he were a particularly interesting item on display. Only a flash going off somewhere behind Cohen in the lobby made Mccloskey blink. “Let’s hope,” he said, softly, almost too softly for Cohen too hear, “that they want your picture, as well.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Tina demanded, but it seemed as if she knew the answer. Cohen didn’t.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Benny interrupted as he entered the alcove. “Frank Kaplan’s here,” he said with an exaggerated nonchalance
, sitting down next to Tina, who had to pull at her briefcase to give him space, distracting her from her concentration on Carey.

  “Tell me about him,” Cohen asked, directing the question to all three of the literary professionals, surprising them all with his sudden curiosity.

  “You know him?” Tina asked.

  “Sort of,” Cohen said.

  “He practically invented the disaster genre,” Benny said enviously, reaching for a menu beneath a tea cup and saucer. “He’s sold millions of books, literally millions … God, the service here is bad,” he added, almost knocking over a half-drunk bottle of beer left in the remains of the last party that had used the table. “Anyway, Kaplan is … ” But Carey wasn’t interested in Kaplan. “Benny,” he said in a casual tone, “Avram says he’s ready to drop the whole thing. Pay TMC back, and, and, and, I don’t know what.

  What, Avram?”

  “Oh, no, please, no,” Lassman moaned, slumping back in the sofa as if suddenly defeated. “Not after everything we’ve been through. Not now.”

  Tina, too, was shocked, but with Carey’s tone of voice.

  Her mouth seemed to drop open, but she, too, turned to Cohen, wondering the same thing as the editor.

  Carey ignored Lassman’s moaning and Tina’s gaping, facing Cohen. “What do you want, Avram? To pull the book off the market? Buy back all the copies? Make it go away? It’s too late for all that, Avram. It’s out there,” Carey pointed out, and then his sarcasm gave way to frustration.

  “Jesus, Avram, what is your problem?”

  Maybe my problem is that from the start I let you all call me Avram, he thought, almost saying it aloud. It wasn’t that he felt superior. It was that he felt threatened by the intimacy it included in its use. He learned that while he was writing the book. But that didn’t make it any easier for him. For years, people called him Deputy Commander Cohen, and or just plain Cohen. Behind his back, he was sometimes known as Hacohen Hagadol, the High Priest, but that was only used by his loyalists, and never to his face. Avram was for very few. And now, even Lassman was calling him Avram.