Cross Bones Page 8

  Ryan reintroduced us.

  The old woman regarded us blankly. I wondered if she was on medication.

  Ryan held out his badge.

  Dora looked at it, her expression passive. It was obvious she didn’t know who we were.

  I offered the bouquet and cookies.

  “Shabbat shalom,” I said.

  “Shabbat shalom,” she said, more reflex than greeting.

  “We’re so very sorry about your son, Mrs. Ferris. I’ve been away, or I would have called sooner.”

  Dora took my offerings and bent to smell the flowers. Straightening, she inspected the cookies, then returned them to me.

  “Sorry, miss. They are not kosher.”

  Feeling like an idiot, I put the cookies in my purse.

  Dora’s eyes floated to Ryan, then back to me. They were small and moist and frosted with age.

  “You were there at my son’s autopsy.” Slight accent. Maybe Eastern European.

  “Yes, ma’am. I was.”

  “There’s no one here.”

  “We’d like to talk to you, Mrs. Ferris.”

  “To me?” Surprise. A little fear.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Miriam’s gone to market.”

  “This will only take a moment.”

  She hesitated, then turned and led us through a smoky-mirrored entry to a plastic-covered grouping in a small sunny living room.

  “I’ll find a vase. Please sit.”

  She disappeared down a hallway to the right of the entrance. I looked around.

  The place was a testimonial to sixties bad taste. White sateen upholstery. Laminated oak tables. Flocked wallpaper. Wall-to-wall gold semishag.

  A dozen smells bickered for attention. Disinfectant. Garlic. Air freshener. From somewhere a closet or chest threw in a bid for cedar.

  Dora shuffled back and we spent a few moments flower arranging.

  Then, dropping into a wooden rocker with pillows strapped to its seat and back, she spread her feet and arranged her dress. Blue cross-trainers poked from below the hem.

  “The children are with Roslyn and Ruthie at the synagogue.”

  I assumed those were the daughters-in-law from the other duplexes.

  Dora clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “Miriam has returned to the butcher for something she left behind.”

  Ryan and I exchanged glances. He nodded that I should begin.

  “Mrs. Ferris, I know you’ve already talked with Detective Ryan.”

  The frosted gaze came up, level and unblinking.

  “We hate to disturb you again, but we’re wondering if anything new has come to mind since those conversations.”

  Dora shook her head slowly.

  “Did your son have any unusual visitors in the weeks before his death?”

  “No.”

  “Had your son argued with anyone? Complained about anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Was he involved in any political movements?”

  “Avram’s life was his family. His business and his family.”

  I knew I was repeating the same questions Ryan had asked. Interrogation 101. Sometimes the ploy works, triggers previously forgotten recollections or details initially deemed irrelevant.

  And this was the first time Dora had been questioned alone.

  “Did your son have enemies? Anyone who might have wished him harm?”

  “We are Jews, miss.”

  “I was thinking of a specific individual.”

  “No.”

  New tack.

  “Are you acquainted with the men who observed your son’s autopsy?”

  “Yes.” Dora pulled on an ear and made a gurgling sound in her throat.

  “Who chose those individuals?”

  “The rabbi.”

  “Why did only two men return in the afternoon?”

  “That would have been the rabbi’s decision.”

  “Do you know a man by the name of Kessler?”

  “I once knew a Moshe Kessler.”

  “Was he in attendance at your son’s autopsy?”

  “Moshe died during the war.”

  My cell phone chose that moment to sound.

  I checked the screen.

  Private number.

  I ignored the call.

  “Were you aware that your son sold antiques?”

  “Avram sold many things.”

  My phone rang again.

  Apologizing, I turned it off.

  Impulse. Frustration. Inspiration. A name in my head like an unwanted jingle. I’m not sure why I asked the next question.

  “Do you know a man named Yossi Lerner?”

  The furrows cornering Dora’s eyes deepened. The wrinkled lips tucked in.

  “Does that name mean something to you, Mrs. Ferris?”

  “My son had a friend named Yossi Lerner.”

  “Really?” I kept my face neutral, my voice calm.

  “Avram and Yossi met as students at McGill.”

  “When was that?” I didn’t look at Ryan.

  “Years ago.”

  “Did they keep in touch?” Casual.

  “I have no idea. Oh, dear.” Dora gulped air into her lungs. “Is Yossi involved in all this?”

  “Of course not. I’m just throwing out names. Do you know where Mr. Lerner lives now?”

  “I haven’t seen Yossi in years.”

  The front door opened, closed. Seconds later Miriam appeared in the living room.

  Dora smiled.

  Miriam stared at us, face so devoid of expression she could have been studying moss. When she spoke, it was to Ryan.

  “I told you my mother-in law is unwell. Why are you bothering her?”

  “I’m fin—” Dora started to speak.

  Miriam cut her off.

  “She’s eighty-four and has just lost her son.”

  Dora made a tsk sound.

  As before, Ryan gave Miriam silence, waited for her to fill it. This time she didn’t.

  Dora did.

  “It’s all right. We were having a nice discussion.” Dora flapped a blue-veined hand.

  “What are you discussing?” Miriam’s gaze stayed on Ryan as though Dora hadn’t spoken.

  “Euripides,” Ryan said.

  “Is that supposed to be humorous, Detective?”

  “Yossi Lerner.”

  I watched Miriam carefully. If I expected a reaction, there was none.

  “Who’s Yossi Lerner?”

  “A friend of your husband’s.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “A school friend.”

  “That would be before my time.”

  I looked at Dora. The old woman’s gaze had gone fuzzy, as though she were viewing memories outside the room.

  “Why are you asking about this man? This Yossi Lerner?” Miriam pulled off her gloves.

  “His name came up.”

  “In your investigation?” The violet eyes showed the slightest surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “In what context?”

  Outside, I heard the beep beep of a car alarm. Dora didn’t stir.

  Ryan looked at me. I nodded.

  Ryan told Miriam about Kessler and his photo.

  Miriam’s face registered nothing as she listened. It was impossible to guess her interest or emotions.

  “Is there a link between this skeleton and my husband’s death?”

  “Straight or sugar-coated?”

  “Straight.”

  Ryan raised digits as he ticked off points.

  “A man is murdered. A guy produces a photo, claims the skeleton in that photo is the reason for the shooting. That guy is now missing.”

  Ryan’s pinky joined the others.

  “There’s evidence the skeleton in the photo came from Masada.”

  Thumb.

  “The victim dealt in Israeli antiquities.”

  Ryan started over with his index finger.

  “The skeleton was
once in the possession of one Yossi Lerner. The victim was once pals with one Yossi Lerner.”

  “The other was a priest.”

  We all turned to Dora.

  She spoke to the air.

  “The other boy was a priest,” she repeated. “But he was later. Or was he?”

  “What other boy?” I asked gently.

  “Avram had two friends. Yossi, and then later this other boy.” Dora tapped a fist to her chin. “He was a priest. He surely was.”

  Miriam crossed to her mother-in-law, but did not reach out to her.

  I was reminded of the scene in the morgue family room. The women had been side by side but distant. They had not touched. They had not embraced. The younger had not shared her strength with the older. The older had not sought comfort from the younger.

  “They were very close,” Dora went on.

  “Your son and his friends?” I encouraged.

  Dora smiled the first smile I’d seen on her face. “Such inquisitive minds. Always reading. Always questioning. Arguing. All night, some times.”

  “What was the priest’s name?” I asked.

  Dora gave a tight shake of her head.

  “He was from the Beauce. I remember that. He called us zayde and bubbe.”

  “Where did your son meet this priest?”

  “Yeshiva University.”

  “In New York?”

  Dora nodded. “Avram and Yossi had just graduated from McGill. Avram was much more spiritual back then. He was studying to be a rabbi. This priest was taking courses in Near Eastern religions, or some such thing. They were drawn to each other, being the only Canadians, I suppose.”

  Dora’s eyes drifted.

  “Was he a priest then?” she said more to herself than to us. “Or did he become a priest later?” Dora’s fingers tightened. Her hand trembled. “Oh, dear. Oh, my.”

  Miriam stepped toward Ryan.

  “Detective, I really must object.”

  Ryan caught my eye. We both rose.

  Miriam sent Ryan off with a carbon copy of her earlier adieu.

  “Find who did this, Detective, but please don’t upset my mother-in-law when she is alone.”

  “First, she seemed more in reverie than upset. Second, I can’t have such limits on my investigation. But we will attempt to be kind.”

  Nothing for me.

  Back in the car Ryan wondered why I’d asked about Lerner.

  “I haven’t a clue,” I said.

  “Good impulse,” he said.

  “Good impulse,” I agreed.

  We also agreed that Lerner deserved follow-up.

  While Ryan drove, I listened to my messages.

  Three.

  All from Jake Drum.

  I’ve got contact information for Yossi Lerner. Call me.

  I’ve talked to Yossi Lerner. Call me.

  Amazing news. Call me.

  Each “call me” was more agitated than the one before.

  I told Ryan.

  “Call the man,” he said.

  “You think?”

  “Yes. I want more on Lerner.”

  “I’m anxious to hear what Jake’s learned, but I’ll be home shortly. I’d rather wait and talk on a land line. Mobile to mobile is worse than phoning Zambia.”

  “Have you phoned Zambia?”

  “I can never get through.”

  Ten minutes later, Ryan dropped me at my condo.

  “I’ve got a stakeout this weekend, and I’m already late.” He took my chin in his hands and thumbed my cheeks. “Stay on this Lerner thing. Let me know what Jake’s got.”

  “Heart-thumping surveillance,” I said.

  “You know what I’d rather surveil,” he said.

  “I’m not sure that’s a word.”

  Ryan kissed me.

  “I’ll owe you,” he said.

  “I’ll collect,” I said.

  Ryan headed back to Wilfrid Derome. I headed inside.

  After greeting Birdie and Charlie, I changed into jeans, and made a cup of Earl Grey. Then I took the handset to the sofa and punched in Jake’s number.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “You’re still in France?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to be late for your own dig.”

  “They won’t start without me. I’m the boss.”

  “I forgot that.”

  “What I’m finding here is much more important.”

  Birdie hopped into my lap. I stroked his head. He shot a leg and started licking his toes.

  “I’ve spoken with Yossi Lerner.”

  “I guessed that from your messages.”

  “Lerner still lives in Paris. He’s from Quebec.”

  It had to be the Yossi Lerner that Dora remembered.

  “Lerner was working at the museum when the Masada skeleton was there as a part-timer while researching his doctoral thesis. Are you ready for this?”

  “Cut the drama, Jake.”

  “This’ll grab you by the throat.”

  It did.

  10

  “LET ME BACK UP A MINUTE. THIS LERNER’S kind of a strange duck. No family. Lives with a ferret. Does pickup archaeology. Israel. Egypt. Jordan. Goes in on grant money, runs a dig, writes a report, moves on. Does a lot of salvage work,” Jake said.

  “Save what you can before they bulldoze for the bypass.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is Lerner affiliated with any institution?”

  “He’s had some temporary appointments, but says he’s never been interested in a permanent position. Finds it too confining.”

  “That regular income can be a burden.”

  “The guy’s definitely not into money. Lives in a seventeenth-century walk-up built as a barracks for musketeers. Whole apartment’s about the size of a Buick. Access is via a winding stone staircase. Nice view of Notre-Dame, though.”

  “So you went to see him?”

  “When I phoned, he said he worked nights, invited me over. We spent two hours celebrating the Sun King.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We did serious damage to a bottle of Martell VSOP Medaillon.”

  “How old is this guy?”

  “Late fifties, maybe.”

  Avram Ferris was fifty-six.

  “Jewish?”

  “Not as fervently as in his youth.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Lerner?”

  “No, Jake. Louis the Fourteenth.”

  I leaned back. Birdie scootched up onto my chest.

  “Lerner was cool initially, but after the fourth snifter he was talking like a convert at Betty Ford. You don’t want to hear about the thing with the pianist, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Lerner worked at the Musée de l’Homme from seventy-one until seventy-four, while researching his dissertation.”

  “Topic?”

  “The Dead Sea scrolls.”

  “Probably didn’t take the Essenes that long to write them.”

  “Lerner takes things slowly. And seriously. Back then he was taking Judaism very seriously.”

  “Miss pianist change that?”

  “Who said anything about a miss?”

  “Get to the Masada bones.”

  “In seventy-two Lerner was asked to assist in inventorying a number of museum collections. In doing so he came across a file containing a shipping invoice and the photo of a skeleton.”

  “The invoice suggested the bones came from Masada?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it dated?”

  “November 1963.”

  Locus 2001, the cave below the casement wall on Masada’s southern summit. The jumbled bones. The isolated skeleton. According to Jake’s volunteer-informant, Cave 2001 was discovered and cleared in October of ’63, one month before the museum’s invoice date. I felt a spark of excitement.

  “Was it signed?”

  “Yes, but Lerner doesn’t remember by whom. He searched the muse
um’s collections, found the skeleton, made a notation in the file indicating the specimen’s condition and storeroom location, as per protocol, and moved on. But something bothered him. Why had that one set of bones been sent to the museum? Why had the bones remained boxed up and out of sight? Are you purring?”

  “It’s the cat.”

  “The following year Lerner read a book by an Australian journalist, Donovan Joyce. Joyce’s premise was that Jesus survived the cross.”

  “And retired to a nice little place in the islands?”

  “He lived to be eighty and died fighting the Romans at Masada.”

  “Novel.”

  “That’s not all. While at Masada, Jesus produced a scroll containing his last will and testament.”

  “And how was Joyce privy to these little gems?”

  “In December of sixty-four, Joyce was in Israel researching a book. While there, he says he was approached by a man calling himself Professor Max Grosset, a volunteer excavator on Yigael Yadin’s team. Grosset claimed to have stolen an ancient scroll from Masada, and solicited Joyce’s help in smuggling his booty out of the country. Grosset swore the scroll had fantastic importance, its authorship alone making it priceless. Joyce refused to become involved, but swears he saw and handled Grosset’s scroll.”

  “And later wrote a book about it.”

  “Joyce had gone to the Holy Land to view Masada, but the Israelis refused his request for a permit to visit the summit. Forced to abandon his original book idea, he regrouped and began investigating the plausibility of Grosset’s scroll. Astounded by his findings, Joyce ended up devoting eight years to the project. While he never again saw Grosset, Joyce claims to have unearthed startling new information about Jesus’ paternity, marital status, crucifixion, and resurrection.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In his book, Joyce mentions the skeletons found in Cave 2001.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “According to Joyce, the twenty-five individuals in the cave represented a very special group, separate from the Jewish zealots. He concludes that, following Masada’s conquest, out of respect for these individuals, General Silva would have ordered his soldiers to leave the cave burials undisturbed.”

  “Because the remains were those of Jesus and his followers.”

  “That’s the implication.”

  “Lerner believed this crackpot theory?”

  “The book’s out of print now, but I managed to lay my hands on a copy. I’ve got to admit, if you’re open to such thinking, Joyce’s arguments are persuasive.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Exactly. Back to Lerner. After reading Joyce’s book, our pious young scholar decided there was a good possibility the bones he’d uncovered at the museum were those of Jesus.”