Judge & Jury - James Patterson [75]
Andie stepped up to me, her eyes moist and strong. She locked her fingers in mine.
“Boarding. We’re taking a trip together, Nick. Isn’t it exciting?”
Part Four
HAIFA
Chapter 93
IF I DIDN’T KNOW for sure that I was in love with Andie DeGrasse, the flight to Israel removed all doubt. For much of it we just sat there, our hands locked. I felt something steady and unwavering running from her to me. Andie slept, her head leaning against my shoulder. She bolstered me. She gave me the courage to do what I felt was right.
Our first night in Tel Aviv was spent eating dinner in a quiet café on Shenkin Street, and fighting jet lag. Back in the room we made love, trying to forget—for a night, anyway—why we were here. In the morning we would drive up the coast to Haifa.
It only took about an hour and a half. We passed beach towns on the way up the coastal highway. The city’s physical beauty surprised me. Haifa rose dramatically on steep mountain terraces above the gem-blue sea. Lowest was the port and the Old Town, with its ancient stone walls built by crusaders. Farther up was the busy downtown, the scents of bakeries, bazaars, modern businesses. Then higher still, the bustling heights of Mount Carmel, overlooking the Mediterranean.
Up here there were modern hotels, residential streets jutting out over the sea with posh homes and incredible vistas, boulevards of trendy restaurants and stores.
Kolya Remlikov was up here, too.
I was certain that Remlikov wasn’t his name here. The name he went by now didn’t matter. We dropped off our bags at the Dan Panaroma Hotel. Our twenty-fifth-floor room had a stunning view of the sea.
“It’s beautiful,” Andie said, gazing out the window.
“It is.” I nodded. I placed my hands on her shoulders. “Just remember why we’re here.”
“It doesn’t mean we can’t find time to take a swim in the Mediterranean.”
“Go ahead.” I picked a few things out of my travel case: a set of binoculars, a map, my gun, which was licensed. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Nick”—Andie turned, a worried look on her face—“don’t do anything without me. Promise?”
“Relax.” I smiled. “I’m just going sightseeing. I promise.”
I had our rented Ford parked in front of the hotel. I got behind the wheel, then folded back the map. I had marked out this route many times in advance. I almost felt as if I actually knew the way.
Yehudi Street. 225.
I drove higher up the mountain, on Yefe Nof, a little way past the hotel. Up here was Carmel Center—parks, museums, trendy cafés. Farther up, the road began to loop in ever-narrowing switchbacks overlooking the sea. I turned onto Hayem, then Vashar. Up here, there were expensive homes with dramatic views. I kept on climbing higher. The road clung to the clifflike sides of Mount Carmel. The brilliant blue Mediterranean was a thousand feet below.
Finally I found Yehudi. It was a quiet, residential street with a spectacular view. Number 225 was a few houses down. It was a white, flat-roofed contemporary, down a short stone drive. As I passed it, I felt my blood run cold a little. I drove on to the next switchback, then stopped at a point where I didn’t think I could be detected. I got out of the car with the binoculars and looked back down at the house.
Through the lens I could see an expensive house. Murder was always a business that paid handsomely. I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t see any activity inside. There was a blue minivan parked in the driveway, a European model.
I squinted through the lens.
After a few minutes, I knew I’d better move on. Someone would drive by. The area was affluent, probably well patrolled. I could always say I was up here for the view, but I couldn’t keep hanging around.
The garage door suddenly started to open.
A white Audi backed out. I focused closely. The glass was tinted, but the driver’s window was rolled down. I could see.
It was him. Remlikov! He was wearing sunglasses, but I recognized him immediately. My heart jumped as if it had been jolted with an electric shock.
And someone else was in the car with him. I shifted the