Faye Kellerman
Page 1
ALSO BY FAYE KELLERMAN
Ritual Bath
Sacred and Profane
The Quality of Mercy
Milk and Honey
Day of Atonement
False Prophet
Grievous Sin
Sanctuary
Justice
Prayers for the Dead
Serpent’s Tooth
Moon Music
Jupiter’s Bones
Stalker
The Forgotten
Stone Kiss
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Faye Kellerman
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
First eBook Edition: August 2003
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2816-1
Contents
ALSO BY FAYE KELLERMAN
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
For Jonathan
Prologue
Because the murder had been kept “secret” for so long, it had taken on mythological proportions. Yet here was the proof, the tangible evidence that it really had happened. In the dead of night, in the privacy of her own home, Rina gingerly slit open the manila envelope postmarked from Munich and, with shaking hands, pulled out the papers within, photocopies of documents dated from the late 1920s. Mama had always said she was ten when it happened, but now it appeared that she’d been even younger. The faded writing would be almost indecipherable even if it had been in English. It was going to take more than her knowledge of Yiddish to make out the text.
The envelope had arrived in the late-afternoon mail. This was her first opportunity to view the pages without the kids or Peter as distractions.
Peter.
She hadn’t told him. It had happened so spontaneously, during one of Rina’s solo strolls through the Bavarian capital, getting some air while he had been sleeping off jet lag. She had taken the walk to shake off that niggling restlessness plaguing her since the plane had touched down on German soil.
To think that she had chosen Munich for leisure. Then again, she’d had only one week to plan something, so her options had been limited. Mainly, she had given in to laziness. She had been so tired after New York’s ordeal that she was more than willing to leave it up to a third party. And it wasn’t as if she and Peter had any choice. Peter was on the verge of total shutdown. They needed to get away.
Things were better now—or so she told herself—but were still far from normal. Rina had been privy only to the superficial facts, to what Peter had told his superiors and the press about the murders and his being shot. But there was much more lurking in his gray matter. Incidents that he didn’t choose to share with her, though thankfully, he had done some talking to his cop brother, Randy.
God bless Randy. He had demanded that they go, and go alone, assuring them that he’d watch over Hannah so that Peter’s parents wouldn’t have to shoulder the entire burden alone. It had been desperation that led them to Europe, to a week in Munich with everything set up by Rina’s friend Ellen Nussburger.
I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to this, Rina had told her.
You won’t be sorry, Ellie had responded. It won’t be anything like you think.
But it had been like she’d thought, her gut constricting as soon as she’d heard German as a living language. She had purposely declined going to Dachau. What Peter didn’t need was more destruction in his life, or in her life—come to think about it. But there remained a certain heaviness throughout the week, because it was impossible to walk the cobblestones of Kaufingerstrasse in the Marienplatz without thinking about all the Jewish blood that had been spilled on German soil. Every time they passed the Hofbrauhaus beer hall, it was as if ghosts were belting out the “Horst Wessel Song.”
The saving grace was Ellie’s work. Here was a woman who was trying to build up a religious Jewish community, not toss it into the furnace. The fact that Ellie and her husband, Larry, chose Germany was a testament to their nonconformity, but that was Ellie to a T. Rina remembered their years together in school, in kindergarten when both of them had been five years old and it had been Purim. All the other girls had dressed up as Queen Esther or some other unnamed princess. There were also a few ballerinas, several clowns, and a couple of butterflies. Ellie had come to school wearing a homemade costume that wasn’t much more than a sack. It was designed in sandwich-board style with two sides. The front was imprinted with a blue sky and white fluffy clouds with a big felt sun stuck in the center. The back fabric was black and glitter-studded with a crescent moon in the corner.
What are you? Amy Swartzberg had demanded to know of Ellie.
Ellie had retorted in her most adult voice: I am Bereshit—the creation of the sun and the moon. It’s a conceptual costume!
Rina had no idea what conceptual meant, but by the way Ellie had stated the word, conceptual had to be pretty darn important.
From the moment they had arrived overseas, Ellie greeted them with such warmth that soon Rina’s misgiving melted and it was old times again. Ellie’s enthusiasm was infectious.
This is Hitler’s worst nightmare, Rina, a resurgence of Jewish life where the Nazi party was born.
Not a particularly big resurgence, Rina thought, but everything had to start somewhere. Munich had several synagogues, a small kosher shop owned by a Moroccan French Jew in the main Viktualienmarkt, a kosher bakery in Schwabing, and a kosher restaurant in the old Isarvorstadt area. The Bavarians were a particularly unique lot. When they thought she and Peter were Americans of possible German descent because of their surname Decker, they were outgoing and friendly, boastful and proud. But the minute she spoke to them in Yiddish, a clear indication that she was Jewish, most probably with relatives from “that other period,” they’d remain polite but the conversation turned stilted, their words carefully chosen.
Still, it had been a different adventure, more soul-searching if not rip-roaring fun. And there had been some breathtaking scenery, the two of them exploring the countryside and the foothills of the Alps, holding hands and sipping tea from a thermos while hiking through the wet foliage, with spring just around the corner. The rushing streams and the incredible vistas
seemed to be a balm to Peter’s troubled mind.
And yet the more relaxed he became, the more she tensed internally. Germany was not only the land of her national destruction, but was also the soil of a personal catastrophe—an unexcised cancer on her mother’s soul. What mystical forces had led her into that police station some two months ago, asking the Munich desk sergeant where could she find information about a seventy-five-year-old crime? At the time, all Rina had wanted to do was provide her aged mother with some peace of mind. Now she wondered if she wasn’t stepping into a hornet’s nest.
There was no reason to pursue what had become a cruel distant memory in an old woman’s mind. But as she scanned the pages of the crime report, reading her grandmother’s name Regina—Rina’s English name—followed by the word “totschlag”—homicide—she knew with surety that she had to see this through.
1
I saw him frantically waving the white flag, a man admitting defeat. As I pulled the cruiser into one of the alley’s parking spaces, blocking a silver Mercedes S500, I realized that the banner was, in fact, a napkin. He wore a solid wall of white, the hem of a long, stained apron brushing his white jeans midshin. Though it was night, I could see a face covered with moisture. Not a surprise because the air was a chilly mist: typical May-gloom weather in L.A. I radioed my whereabouts to the dispatcher and got out, my right hand on my baton, the other swinging freely at my side. The alley stank of garbage, the odor emanating from the trash bins behind the restaurant. The flies, normally shy in the dark, were having a field day.
The rear area of The Tango was illuminated by a strong yellow spotlight above the back door. The man in white was short, five-seven at the most, with a rough, tawny complexion, a black mustache, and hands flapping randomly. He was agitated, talking bullet-speed Spanish. I picked up a few words, but didn’t ask him to stop and translate, because I heard the noise myself—the high-pitched wails of a baby.
“Where?” I yelled over his words. “Dónde?”
“Aquí, aquí!” He was pointing to an army-green Dumpster filled to the brim with blue plastic refuse bags.
“Call 911.” I ran to the site and pulled out several bags, tearing one open and exposing myself to a slop of wilted salad greens, mushy vegetables, and golf balls of gray meat and congealed fat. As I sifted through the trash, my clean, pressed uniform and I became performance art, the deep blue cloth soaking up the oils and stains of previously pricey edibles. “I need help! Necesito ayuda! Ahorita.”
“Sí, sí!” He dashed back inside.
The crying was getting louder and that was good, but there was still no sign of the wail’s origin. My heart was slamming against my chest as I sorted through the top layer of bags. The bin was deep. I needed to jump inside to remove all the bags, but I didn’t want to step on anything until I had checked it out. Three men came running out of the back door.
“Escalera!”—a ladder—I barked. “Yo necisito una escalera.”
One went back inside, the other two began pulling out bags.
“Careful, careful!” I screamed. “I don’t know where it is!” I used the word “it” because it could have been a thrown-away kitten. When agitated, felines sound like babies. But all of us knew it wasn’t a cat.
Finally, the ladder appeared and I scurried up the steps, gingerly removing enough bags until I could see the bottom, a disc of dirty metal under the beam of my flashlight. I went over legs first and, holding the rim with my hands, lowered myself to the bottom. I picked a bag at random, checked inside, then hoisted it over the top when I satisfied myself that it didn’t contain the source of the noise.
Slow, Cindy, I told myself. Don’t want to mess this up.
With each bag removed, I could hear myself getting closer to the sound’s origin. Someone had taken the time to bury it. Fury welled inside me, but I held it at bay to do a job. At the bottom layer, I hit pay dirt—a newborn girl with the cord still attached to her navel, her face and body filthy, her eyes scrunched up, her cries strong and tearless. I yelled out for something to wrap her in, and they handed me a fresh, starched tablecloth. I wiped down the body, cleaned out the mouth and nose as best as I could, and bundled her up—umbilicus and all. I held her up so someone could take her from me. Then I hoisted myself up and out.
The man who had flagged me down offered me a wet towel. I wiped down my hands and face. I asked him his name.
“Martino Delacruz.”
“Good job, Señor Delacruz!” I smiled at him. “Buen trabajo.”
The man’s eyes were wet.
Moments later, the bundle was passed back to me. I felt grubby holding her, but obviously since I was the only woman in the crowd, I was supposed to know about these kinds of things.
Actually, I did know a thing or two about infants, having a half sister eighteen years my junior. Her mother, Rina—my stepmother—had become very ill after childbirth and guess who stepped up to the plate when my father was in a near state of collapse? (Who could have blamed him? Rina almost died.)
The positive side was the sisterly bonding, at least on my part. Hannah Rosie Decker was my only blood sibling, and they didn’t come any cuter or better than she. I adored her. Matter of fact, I liked my father’s family very much. Rina’s sons were great kids and I loved them and respected them as much as anyone could love and respect step-relatives. Rina took wonderful care of my father, a feat worth noting because Dad was not the easiest person to get along with. I knew this from firsthand experience.
“Did anyone call 911?”
“Yo hable.” Delacruz handed me another clean rag to wipe my dirty face.
“Thank you, señor.” I had put a clean napkin over my shoulder and was rocking the baby against my chest. “If you can, get some warm sugar water and dunk a clean napkin into it. Then bring it to me.”
The man was off in a flash. The baby’s cries had quieted to soft sobs. I suddenly noticed that my own cheeks were warm and wet, thrilled that this incident had resolved positively. Delacruz was back with the sugar water–soaked napkin. I took it and put the tip of a corner into her mouth. Immediately, she sucked greedily. In the distance I heard a wail of sirens.
“We’ve got to get you to the hospital, little one. You’re one heck of a strong pup, aren’t you?”
I smelled as overripe as rotten fruit. I placed the infant back into Delacruz’s arms. “Por favor, give her to the ambulance people. I need to wash my hands.”
He took the bundle and began to walk with her. It was one of those Kodak moments, this macho man cooing in Spanish to this tiny, displaced infant. The job had its heartbreak, but it also had its rewards.
After rotating my shoulders to release the tension, I went through the back door of The Tango and asked one of the dishwashers where I could clean up. I heard a gasp and turned around. A man wearing a toque was shooing me away with dismissive hands. “Zis is a food establishment! You cannot come in here like zat!”
“Someone dumped a baby in the trash outside.” My stare was fierce and piercing. “I just rescued her by opening up fifteen bags of garbage. I need to wash my hands!”
Toque was confused. “Here? A bébé?”
“Yes, sir! Here! A bébé!” I spotted a cloud of suds that had filled up a sink. Wordlessly, I walked over and plunged my hands inside very warm water. What the heck! All the china went into a dishwasher anyway, right? After ridding my hands of the grime, I ran the cold water full blast and washed my face. One of the kitchen workers was nice enough to offer me a clean towel. I dried myself off and looked up.
The ambulance had arrived, red strobe lights pulsing through the windows. I pointed to Mr. Toque and gave him my steely-eyed look. “Like heartburn, I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”
The EMTs had already cut the cord and were cleaning her up. I regarded the medics as they did their job. A sturdy black woman was holding the baby in her arms while a thin white kid with a consumptive complexion was carefully wiping down the infant’s face. Both were gloved.
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
They looked up. The thin kid smiled when he saw me. “Whew, you musta been hungry.”
The kid’s name tag said B. HANOVER. I gave him a hard stare and he recoiled. “Jeez. Just trying out a little levity, Officer. It breaks the tension.”
“How’s she doing?” I repeated.
The woman answered. Her name was Y. Crumack. “Fine, so far … a success story.”
“That’s always nice.”
The infant’s placenta had been bagged and was resting on the ground a couple of feet away. It would be taken to a pathology lab, the tissue examined for disease and genetic material that might identify her. For no good reason, I picked up the bag.
Crumack said, “We’ll need that. It has to be biopsied.”
“Yeah, I know. Where are you taking her?”
“Mid-City Pediatric Hospital.”
“The one on Vermont,” I said.
“Only one I know,” Hanover said. “Any ideas about the mom?”
“Not a clue.”
“You should find her,” Hanover informed me. “It would help everyone out.”
“Wow, I hadn’t thought about that,” I snapped. “Thanks for sharing.”
“No need to get testy,” Hanover sneered.
Crumack opened the back door, strapping the baby in an infant seat. The wailing had returned. I assumed that to be a positive sign. I gave her the bagged placenta and she placed it in the ambulance.
“She sounds hungry,” I said.
“Starved,” Crumack answered. “Her abdomen is empty.”
“Her head looks … I don’t know … elongated, maybe? What’s that all about?”
“Probably from being pushed out of the birth canal. Main thing is, it isn’t crushed. She was real lucky, considering all the things that could have gone wrong. She could’ve swallowed something and choked; she could’ve suffocated; she could’ve been crushed. This is an A-one outcome.” She patted my shoulder. “And you’re part of it.”
I felt my eyes water. “Hey, don’t look at me, thank Señor Delacruz,” I told her. “He’s got good ears.”