Survival of the Fittest by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online

Heights, on the top floor of a faceless seventeen-story tower. The first three floors were parking lot and Milo drove in, ignored the WAIT FOR VALET sign, and pulled into a space near the elevator. Pocketing the keys, he shoved a bill at the flustered attendant, flashed his badge, and called out, “Have a nice day.”
    We rode up. The interior halls were narrow, white, free of decoration, topped by a low, gray, water-spotted acoustical ceiling. The carpeting was mint green with a faint dot pattern. Both needed cleaning and wallpaper seams had come loose in spots. Lots of doors, mostly white and blank.
    At the end of the corridor was a TV camera aimed at the last door. A brown plastic sign announced the presence of the consulate and the Israeli tourist office and spelled out hours for visa applications. Just to the right was another plaque—the blue-and-white Israeli flag—and below that a plate-glass window with a steel document tray, a call button, and a speaker.
    A young black-haired man in a blue blazer, white shirt, and tie sat behind the glass. His features were sharp and his hair was thick and cropped to the skull. He was reading a magazine and didn’t look up until Milo pushed the button.
    “Yes?”
    “Mr. Carmeli.”
    “Do you have an appointment?” Middle Eastern accent.
    Milo produced the badge again.
    “Drop it in, please.”
    The badge hit the tray and slid into the reception booth. A steel shutter dropped over the slot. The guard inspected the badge, looked at Milo, held up a finger, got up, and disappeared. The magazine was Sports Illustrated.
    Behind the booth was a nest of white cubicles and I could see two women and one man working at computers. A few travel posters hung on the walls. Everything looked just a bit off—cloudy. Refracted through the inch-thick glass.
    The young man came back a moment later. “He’s in a meeting—”
    “This is about—”
    The young man smiled and held up a finger again. “But,” he said, “he’ll be out soon.”
    He sat down and returned to the world of soccer.
    “Doing us a big favor,” mumbled Milo.
    A low-pitched whine sounded above. The camera rotated, aiming at us.
    Milo pushed the button again and the young man looked up.
    “My badge?”
    “Mr. Carmeli has it.”
    We stood in the hall as the guard read. A heavy black woman in blue blazer and gray slacks came from around the corner and walked down the hall, glancing at doors. She saw us and turned around.
    Three minutes passed, four, five. The guard picked up a phone, listened, put it back down.
    Five more minutes until one of the white doors opened and a tall, pale man came out into the corridor. Stooped, with round shoulders, he wore a gray nailhead double-breasted suit, baby blue shirt, and maroon tie. The shirt’s collar was too big and the suit bagged. His cheeks were sunken and the bones of his hawk face were oversized and painfully obvious. Wavy brown hair was neatly trimmed and thinning at the crown. He wore heavy, black-framed eyeglasses.
    “Zev Carmeli.”
    Handshakes were cursory. His fingers were long and very cold. The glasses were bifocals. Thirty-eight but he looked ten years older.
    Milo started to speak but Carmeli interrupted him by returning the badge and turning to point down the hall. Leading us to another of the white doors, he unlocked it and motioned us into a windowless room set up with a brown sofa, Danish teak coffee table with brass ashtray, a pair of chrome and brown-tweed armchairs.
    Blue carpeting, still nothing on the walls. Behind the couch was another white door, double-bolted.
    Milo and I took the chairs as Carmeli relocked the outer door. Reaching in his coat, he placed a hardpack of Dunhills and a matchbook that said LEARN AT HOME TO BE A COURT REPORTER on the table.
    He sat down on the couch and lit up, inhaling for a long time while studying the grain of the tabletop. His movements were slow and steady, as if everything required careful planning. He kept