Survival of the Fittest by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

his hands on the couch. “Your honesty is .   .   . laudable. Now I will be frank with you: not a chance. The risk-outcome ratio isn’t good, I won’t have another child’s death on my conscience. So what other avenues will you pursue?”
    “I’ll ask lots of questions. Could I ask you a few more?”
    “Yes,” said Carmeli, weakly. He reached for a third cigarette, picked up the matchbook but didn’t light up immediately. “But if they’re about our family life, I’ll simply tell you what I told the others: We were happy. A happy family. We never appreciated how happy we were.”
    The black eyes closed, then opened. Flat no longer. Something burned within.
    “Back to the political issue for a second, sir,” said Milo. “No doubt the consulate gets threats. Do you save them?”
    “I’m sure we do but that’s not my area.”
    “Do you have any objection to turning over copies?”
    “I can ask.”
    “If you tell me whose area it is, I’ll be happy to ask, myself.”
    “No, I’ll do it.” Carmeli’s hand began to shake. “Your comment. About parents killing their own children. If you were implying—”
    “I wasn’t. Of course not, please forgive me if I offended you. I was just explaining why some crimes don’t get reported.”
    The black eyes were now moist. Carmeli removed his glasses and wiped them with the back of one hand. “My daughter was—a very special girl. Raising her was challenging and I believe we loved her more because of it. We never hurt her. Never lifted a finger against her. If anything we spoiled her. Thank God we spoiled her!”
    He put the glasses back on, slapped his hands back down on the couch. “What other questions do you have?” Hardened voice.
    “I’d like to know more about Irit, Mr. Carmeli.”
    “In what way?”
    “The kind of child she was, her personality. The things she liked and disliked.”
    “She liked everything. A very agreeable child. Kind, happy, always laughing, always wanting to help. I assume you’ve got Gorobich’s files?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I don’t need to go over the details of her .   .   . medical condition. As a baby she had a fever that did damage.”
    Slipping his hand under his jacket he drew out a large calfskin billfold. Inside were slots for credit cards. A photo sat in the first one and he slipped it out and showed it to us without relinquishing it.
    Wallet-sized headshot of a beautiful, smiling child in a white dress with puff sleeves. Jewish star necklace. The same fair, curly hair and flawless skin, the same face .   .   . a mature face, no outward sign of retardation. In the death picture she’d looked younger. In this one, sparked by the joy of life, she could have been anywhere from twelve to seventeen.
    “This was Irit, Detective. Not the images in your files.”
    “How long ago was this taken?” said Milo.
    “This year. At school.”
    “Could I have a copy?”
    “If I can find one.” Carmeli pulled the snapshot back, protectively, and returned it to the billfold.
    “Did she have friends, sir?”
    “Of course. At school. Children her own age were too .   .   . quick for her.”
    “What about friends in the neighborhood?”
    “Not really.”
    “Any older kids who’d bothered or bullied her?”
    “Why? Because she was different?”
    “It happens.”
    “No,” said Carmeli. “Irit was sweet. She got along with everybody. And we sheltered her.”
    He blinked hard, lit up.
    Milo said, “How hard of hearing was she?”
    “She had no hearing in the right ear, about thirty-percent function in the left.”
    “With or without the hearing aid?”
    “With. Without the aid she could barely hear at all, but she seldom used it.”
    “Why not?”
    “She didn’t like it, complained it was too loud, gave her headaches. We had it adjusted several times but she never liked it. Actually I—”
    He buried his face in his hands.
    Milo sat back. Now, he rubbed his face.
    A moment later, Carmeli