An Accidental Murder: An Avram Cohen Mystery by Robert Rosenberg Read Free Book Online

Jerusalem.
    Yet it was precisely his profound distrust of ideology and fanaticism that made him so suspicious to so many in the city. Ultraorthodox teenagers rioting over Sabbath desecration, hurling rocks and bottles at cops and citizens trying to get home by car, called him a Nazi; as an Israeli cop, he was known as fair by Palestinians in the city but was never fully trusted, for as much as he put the law above ideology, he was a Jew. The powerful of Jerusalem respected him but treated him warily, fearing his knowledge of what they knew of him, knowing his integrity was not for sale.
    Among the dishonest, he was considered honest. That’s why he was retired earlier than he wanted to leave the force. And why now, he wanted a drink. But definitely not Frank Kaplan’s champagne.
    “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, standing up, startling them all except the photographer, still lurking in the corner, waiting for his shot. Again, a flash blinded Cohen momentarily, forcing him to rub his eyes.
    “What’s the matter, Cohen?” Kaplan asked in a suddenly concerned tone. “Don’t go now, Francine should be here with the champagne soon.”
    Cohen ignored him. “We have to be at Koethe’s reception at seven?” he asked Tina.
    She could only gape and nod.
    “Where are you going?” Carey asked.
    “I’m going for a walk before the reception.”
    “It’s pouring out there,” Tina pointed out.
    “I like the rain,” Cohen said.
    “We still have business to discuss,” the TMC editor reminded him.
    “I know,” Cohen said wearily. “Tell Mr. Wang I keep my contracts,” he added and left them in the alcove, heading toward the elevator back to his room to fetch the raincoat.
    The bustle of the lobby had only intensified since his arrival. An outsider, he felt that everyone knew everyone, except him. But he was aware of sideways glances at him as he tried to find a path through the crowd to the elevators.
    At a narrow entrance under a sign promising a bar the crowd was thickest, which explained why there had been no service to the alcove. Two waiters were trying to get through, but they were outnumbered five to one by young men and old men, young women and old women, all apparently in a high state of excitement, trying either to get into or out of the bar.
    Winding through the crowd, he found himself face-to face with Francine. She was carrying a bottle of champagne and a cluster of upside-down glasses, their stems under the palm of her hand.
    “Where’s Frank?” she asked. “He said he’d be with you.”
    “Back there,” Cohen indicated with his thumb, the expression on his face saying all that he felt about Kaplan.
    She leaned toward him to whisper in his ear. “He’s a little crazy, you know. You shouldn’t take him so seriously.”
    “That’s very loyal of you,” Cohen said.
    “Loyal?” she scoffed. “He’s crazy. He’s paying me three thousand a day plus all expenses—including appropriate wardrobe—for the week. Now that’s crazy. He needs a servant, not an escort. And if it keeps up like this, I’m not sure I’m sticking around the full week.”
    “You knew he didn’t like my book,” Cohen asked, by stating the fact, telling himself he just wanted that one contradiction cleared away and he’d put Kaplan out of his mind.
    “If you ask me,” she said, “he envies you.”
    Cohen found that hard to believe.
    “It’s true. He was so mad to see you on CNN with the chancellor last night.”
    Cohen scowled.
    “You know, he hates his own books. It was practically the first thing he told me when I took the job. I even went out and bought a copy of The Hurricane for him to autograph. I asked him to sign and while he’s doing it, he says, ”s all the same shit.’ Can you believe it? About his own books.
    Maybe he doesn’t like what you wrote—don’t ask me, I’m not Jewish, I don’t know anything about Israel or anything.
    But he told me and he told you himself, he thought it was