“As I said, at this point, we have nothing that suggests a link to Ebola or any other pathogen.”
Amy Ferguson twisted back to her cameraman, who gave her a thumbs up. She smiled and sat down. Matt saw worried glances among the reporters, but whether that was because of Amy Ferguson’s question or the fact they’d been scooped by a TV reporter, he didn’t know.
Another reporter waved a hand. “Are you sure there’s no threat to public health?”
The undertow of muttering gained strength, and before Doyle could answer, several reporters called out at once. “What groups are you looking at? “Have you found evidence of Ebola?” “Are you considering a quarantine?”
The press conference was heading toward chaos. Doyle blinked rapidly, as if he didn’t quite understand how control had slipped out of his grasp. Mozgala was nowhere in sight. Matt swallowed. Finally, a young man with an earring in his ear shouted in a clear baritone.
“What about the fact that Julie Romano was gay?”
Doyle’s face drained. Matt stiffened. “I can’t comment on that.”
“But you don’t deny it?”
“No comment,” Doyle growled.
“So it is possible that her death could be a lover’s vendetta.”
“No comment.”
The young man continued. “There’s also a rumor that Simon was a womanizer. I suppose you don’t have any comment on that, either?”
Doyle’s kept his mouth shut, but his eyes roved the room, as if he could somehow divine who leaked what to the press. When he saw Matt, his expression hardened.
“When will you have something you can comment on?”
The audience tittered.
***
Georgia knew better than to be impatient, but she’d hardly seen Matt at all over the past twenty-four hours. He’d come home late last night and left before she woke up. Now, she checked her watch. Almost eight PM. She peered through the door of the Detectives’ office. Matt was on the edge of his desk talking to Brewster and the new Detective from Deerfield. Carrie Nelson. The woman seemed average, but Matt looked her directly in the eye. That meant he liked her. Georgia repressed a twinge. It was exhausting to be jealous of the whole world.
She overhead Brewster saying he’d talked to the golf course people. “Monday was so cold they never opened up. And they only came in Tuesday because we asked them to.”
“Anyone there notice anything unusual over the weekend?” Matt asked.
“Nothing.”
Matt swung himself off the desk. “What about the reports from those deaths downstate?”
“We’re going through them now.”
“Any connection to RDM?”
“Nothing. Apparently, they thought it was an inside job. Disgruntled employees, unhappy clients, that kind of thing. But they sent a list of all their work orders over the past year or so.”
“Nelson, what about East Bank?”
Carrie looked up from her notes. “The locker room attendant remembers that Simon came in last Friday around three. According to the sign-in sheets, he worked out on the machines, then jogged a few miles around the track. After showering, he went down to the bar. The bartender thinks he saw him with a woman around five.”
“No shit!” Brewster slapped a hand against his desk.
Nelson scowled. “Don’t hold your breath, Brewster. It was Friday afternoon. Too busy to get a description.”
“Nothing?”
“He thinks she had dark hair. That’s it.”
“What about Romano’s picture?” Matt said. “You show him that?”
“Didn’t recognize her.”
“Can you go back?”
“If you want me to, but I think I already squeezed all the blood out of that stone.”
“Try anyway.”
Nelson nodded.
“Speaking of blood,” Matt said, “The histologies on Romano came back.” He flipped up a hand. “The ME explained it all, but bottom line they still can’t find anything.”
Brewster kicked the side of the desk.
“It’s not a total loss. The absence of anything ruled out a few viruses and bacteria.”
“What if Simon’s come back the same way?” Nelson asked. “I feel like we’re chasing shadows.”
“I hear you,” Matt said. “Anything on Brenda Hartman?”
Nelson and Brewster shook their heads. “But the sister’s clean,” Brewster said. “Her alibi checks out. She’s dating one of the guys at Palmoro Paving. They spent the weekend together. Dinner on Friday, a movie on Saturday, the Bears game Sunday. Plenty of witnesses.” He went on. “And I checked back at Adam’s Rib. The waitress wasn’t there, but someone else said Romano always came in by herself.”
“Charlene Simon’s alibis are airtight, too,” Nelson said. “We talked to the people who called her Friday night.”
They started talking about splitting up Simon’s black book and interviewing everyone in it. Georgia went down the hall and wandered out to the Toyota, thinking about dinner. She’d cook tonight—Matt needed a break. In the car she opened her glove compartment and pulled out a book. She always carried around a novel—usually a classic—and would sneak in a page here and there. Her personal self-improvement course.
When the door opened, she closed the book and snapped off the dome light. Matt slid into the car. She leaned across the front seat feeling his arms tighten around her, his lips on hers. As she started to lose herself in him, it occurred to her they should be careful. They were in the parking lot of the police station. Then the taste of his tongue and the heat of his body took over. She might have heard a clang in the distance, something that sounded like the station’s back door closing, but she wasn’t sure. She didn’t much care.
Chapter Twenty-two
Eight Years Earlier
It took over a year to build the house. On weekends Maggie and Greg would drive out to Meadow City, and Greg would stomp around the field, striking up conversations with the men on the crew. Maggie would stand at the edge of the field, pinching herself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. She couldn’t believe how much her life had turned around.
Greg always brought the camera and took pictures during construction. Already they had rolls of film of the empty field. Once he caught a shot of a crow picking at what looked like a dried cornhusk. Maggie thought it was artistic and had it framed as a birthday present.
Once when they visited, the field was full of giant holes. They were ready to pour the foundations, and the architect had come out to supervise. Maggie stayed out of the way, but Greg introduced himself. Maggie watched them talk. Greg’s hands waved in the air, and he pointed to one of the holes a few times. The architect’s posture was rigid, his arms akimbo. When Greg finished, the architect spoke, then abruptly turned on his heel. Greg went back to Maggie.
When she asked him what they’d talked about, Greg said he’d suggested combining a couple of interior rooms on their house, but the architect brushed him off. Leave the design work to professionals, he said. Greg shrugged it off, but Maggie fumed.
The next time they drove out she saw that the line of trees at the back of the field was gone. They’d been razed for a playground, she learned, leaving an unobstructed view of a church with a narrow spire. Maggie wasn’t religious, but everyone said the church was eager to welcome new members from Meadow City, and the developers were planning to build an access road that would lead directly from the playground to the church. They’d have to start going on Sundays, but Maggie didn’t mind. It was part of the package.
During that first year, Maggie made most of the monthly payments. She was supposed to send them in, but once she took them to the developer’s office. Greg wanted to be in charge of their finances, but he never knew when he’d be in town, and Maggie felt safer this way. It made for an occasion, anyway. She bundled Dusty up, and they took the train downtown. Afterwards, she thought she’d shop in Carson or Field’s basements.
The Meadow City office was
on the fifteenth floor of a tall building on LaSalle Street. Unfortunately, no one seemed to know what to do with her when she showed up. Maggie figured it was because most people sent their payments in by mail. She ended up with the bookkeeper, a young woman with dark eyes and dark hair. But the way the woman stared at her made Maggie uneasy. She had the odd sense that the bookkeeper was imagining what Maggie looked like naked. And liked it.
After paying the mortgage, she and Dusty lingered in the reception area, admiring a tiny but accurate floor model of Meadow City. When Maggie pointed out where their home would be, Dusty’s eyes lit up, and he tried to pry off the small house Maggie said was theirs. He probably thought the model was a toy, like his Playmobil castle, a gift from Greg, which cost more than they could afford. Maggie realized her mistake and told him to stop, but he kept prodding. When she tried to move his hand, he screamed. And when she tried to pick him up, he escalated to bites and kicks. Embarrassed, she finally managed to drag him to the elevators.
A stylishly dressed man and woman were waiting for a car. They threw curious glances at Maggie and Dusty. Maggie turned to the woman.
“It’s hard,” she said with a contrite smile. “He thought it was his toy.”
The woman cleared her throat and shot a knowing look at her husband.
“We’re going to be living there.” Pride swept into Maggie’s voice.
“How wonderful.” The man smiled.
Maggie wondered if they were going to be her new neighbors. If so, she was definitely outclassed. These people looked like millionaires. “Are you going to be living there too?”
The woman laughed. A fluttery, artificial tinkle. “No. I shouldn’t think so. We’re investors.”
“Oh.” Maggie wasn’t quite sure what she meant, but, to be honest, she was relieved that this elegant woman wouldn’t be her new neighbor.
“You’re a very lucky woman,” the man said. “Clean air, clean land. It’s a great place to raise children. You won’t regret it.”
“I’m sure I won’t.”
The elevator arrived, and they descended the fifteen floors in silence. As they headed to the lobby, the man smiled at Maggie again. “You made a good decision. Good luck.”
The woman grabbed her husband’s arm.
***
Theirs wasn’t the first house to be finished—more like the sixth or seventh—but finally, it was time to move. Maggie had sent out change of address cards months before; she was anxious to leave the old neighborhood. A seductively warm spring day, the kind that hinted at a lush summer ahead, the move went smoothly, even though Greg was in Texas on a haul.
Maggie wandered from room to room admiring the new appliances, freshly painted walls, and new floors. The sparkling white kitchen was equipped with a dishwasher and garbage disposal; no more rust stains in the sink. A skylight let the sunshine flood in; they had central air, too. Gone were the sweaty summer nights where you couldn’t get cool until four in the morning. There were three bathrooms, too. One for everyone in the house. She sank her feet into a thick, spongy pile of wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room. Everything in the house gleamed.
Her relatives and friends couldn’t believe her good fortune, and Maggie loved seeing them “ooh” and “ahh.” Even Greg invited friends to visit when he was home. They came down from Milwaukee or Minneapolis, Maggie wasn’t sure which. A few of them had been in ‘Nam, and they talked about the war, the government, and the future. The house was filled with beer, cigarettes, and laughter.
Even though he wasn’t around much, Greg refused to let Maggie work. He told her to take up tennis. Or aerobics. Have Dusty join Cub Scouts, play soccer. She’d met her new neighbors, and there were several families with small children, but Greg’s absence left a hole in her heart. At least, when he was there, she let him know how important he was. She wasn’t surprised when she got pregnant.
It was an easy pregnancy, and she was thrilled when she delivered another boy the next winter. Timothy James, TJ for short, smiled from the beginning. He slept through the night at three weeks, and he only cried when he was wet or tired. Even Dusty seemed to like his new brother and kept asking Maggie when he’d be old enough to play catch.
Now there was a beautiful baby to go with the beautiful house. On Friday nights when “Dallas” came on, Maggie would bounce TJ on her lap to the beat of the theme song. As she watched JR and Sue Ellen’s lives self-destruct, she realized she was no longer jealous. And when Bobby kept screwing up his marriage to Pam, Maggie would shake her head in pity. Her corner of the world was perfect.
Chapter Twenty-three
Matt’s mother covered her eyes with her hands and made the blessing over the candles.
“Amen.” Georgia, Matt, and Matt’s father said together.
“There.” Evelyn Singer dropped her hands. Small-boned and delicate, she would have looked younger than her seventy-seven years had it not been for her white hair coiled into a bun.
“Let me help, Evelyn.” Georgia followed her into the kitchen. “I’ll open the wine.” Since Matt hadn’t been able to break away until the last minute, Georgia ran into Sunset for a bottle of kosher wine before coming down.
“Don’t bother, Georgia. I’ve got it.”
Matt had brought Georgia to his parents’ home in Skokie at least half a dozen times, mostly on Friday nights, but his mother still treated her like a guest. It wasn’t because Georgia didn’t know the rituals. She learned the Hebrew blessings quickly and enjoyed reciting them. Matt knew what it was. So did Evelyn. Georgia was a goy.
He heard the cork pop. Then, “Leo, Matt, it’s time to wash.”
He’d taught Georgia how to perform the ritual that few Jews bothered with any more, and he watched as she poured water from a pitcher over one hand, then the other, and murmured the blessing.
Back in the dining room, they sat in silence until Matt’s father recited kiddush, sipped the wine, and made the blessing over the bread. He broke off three pieces, sprinkled salt on them, and passed them down the table.
It was a chilly night, and Matt looked forward to matzo ball soup and brisket. He hoped the comfort food would anchor him; he hadn’t had much appetite lately.
His mother ladled the soup. A refugee from Germany, she’d come to America at sixteen, the only member of her family to make it out. His father’s family had emigrated a generation earlier; as a result, Matt had grown up as familiar with Treblinka, Bergen-Belsen, and Auschwitz as gentile kids were with Disneyland. His parents didn’t dwell on it, but the Holocaust was always there, shadowing his life in a way that only other Holocaust children could understand.
“Leo, I saw something I didn’t understand a couple weeks ago,” Georgia said between sips of soup.
“What was that, sweetheart?” His father, small but still wiry at eighty, was more gracious than his mother. His eyes twinkled when he looked at Georgia, a fact not lost on any of them. Matt knew the feeling was mutual.
“When Matt and I went to synagogue, some of the men put their tallises over their head, stood in front of the synagogue, and sort of moaned or hummed. What was that all about?”
“Ahh,” Leo said. “The Duhan. It’s a special addition to services on major holidays.”
“Not to be disrespectful, but it kind of looked like a Halloween stunt, with the men dressed up like ghosts.”
Leo chuckled. “You’re not far off. The men you saw are the descendants of the high priests of the early temple. They’re called kohanes. They performed all the sacrifices, services, and rituals. Aaron was one. We honor their memory during major holidays, by asking their descendants to usher God’s presence into the synagogue. Like they did years ago. “
Georgia leaned an elbow on the table. “So how do you get to be a kohane? ”
“You’re born that way. People with the name Cohen, or Kahn, or some variation of it probably have a kohane in their family tree.”
“Oh.” Georgia sipped her wine.
Like a rookie fr
esh out of training camp, Georgia wanted to be in the game right away. But no one could absorb centuries of traditions and rules in a few months. His mother rose and headed into the kitchen.
Matt grinned at Georgia. “Remember the Vulcan sign from Star Trek?” He formed a “V” with his hand, spreading two fingers on each side with a space in the middle.
Georgia’s eyes narrowed, as if she thought he was putting one over on her. “Yeah?”
“They say that Leonard Nimoy got the idea for it from the Duhan service. The Kohanes are supposed to hold up their hands that way underneath their tallit.”
Her eyes widened.
“You know, your mother’s great uncle was a kohane,” Leo said.
His mother came out of the kitchen with the platter of meat. “You mean Uncle Moritz?”
Leo nodded.
“He went straight to Palestine from Germany. One of the early settlers.” His mother turned to Matt. “You remember, dear. They always send us New Year’s cards. His grandson, Avi, your second cousin, came to visit a few years ago.”
Matt remembered a scrawny kid in glasses who was more interested in the dope he could score than family ties.
His mother sat down and passed the meat. “I hear Avi’s married now. Living in Tel Aviv. He’s got some kind of high tech job.”
No one replied.
“So, what’s with you two?” Leo asked after a silence.
Matt looked up.
“Look, Leo.” His mother laughed. “He looks like a deer caught in the headlights.”
Georgia pressed her lips together.
“I meant your work, Matt,” Leo said.
Matt started to talk about the two cases in general terms. He knew his mother would change the subject. She couldn’t listen to stories about crime and death for long.
He was right.
“Did you hear what happened to Jerry Sachs?” She launched into a detailed account of some kid he’d gone to Yeshivah with and had long since forgotten.
That was how she did it, Matt realized. Kept Georgia out. Always polite and courteous, Evelyn nonetheless had constructed a wall, and talking about people Matt knew as a child was how she kept Georgia on the other side. It seemed paper thin, but in reality it was thick and impregnable. You can listen, but you can’t really be a part of our life, our history, our pain. You’re just our son’s shiksa.
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