Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 01

by The Ritual Bath

  “I brought extra napkins.” She handed him a wad.

  “It looks like I’ll need ’em.”

  Rina unwrapped several beige cubes. “This is potato kugel.”

  “I like potatoes.”

  “It’s best described as gelatinous hash browns—”

  Decker laughed. “That sounds horrible.”

  “It tastes better than it sounds.”

  He bit into one of the squares and contemplated.

  “You know what it tastes like?” Decker said. “It tastes like a latke. A big, thick latke.”

  That took her by surprise.

  “That’s exactly what it is.”

  “Not too bad for a goy, huh?”

  She laughed.

  “You’ve picked up an expression or two, Detective.”

  “Or three or four. My ex-wife was Jewish. But not like you,” he qualified. “She and her parents were very Americanized. But her paternal grandparents stayed…ethnic. It was her grandmother who used to make me latkes.”

  “Were they good?”

  “Dynamite.”

  Rina opened a thermos of orange juice and poured them each a cup.

  “Thanks for sharing your lunch. It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”

  Rina lowered her head and said nothing. Decker noticed she hadn’t unwrapped her sandwich.

  “You’re not eating?” he asked.

  “Uh…In a minute.”

  She pulled out a paper cup from the sack and walked over to the sprinkler. She filled the cup up with water, poured it over each hand, then came back to the bench.

  “You’re very hygienic,” Decker said, smiling. “I like that in a woman.”

  She smiled back but was silent. He wondered if he had offended her.

  “That was a joke,” he said.

  She nodded, mumbled to herself, and took a bite of her sandwich.

  “I know,” she finally said after she swallowed. “I couldn’t answer you because I was in the middle of a blessing. You’re not allowed to talk between hand washing and the breaking of bread.”

  Decker stared at her blankly.

  “Never mind,” she said quickly. “It isn’t important.”

  He shrugged.

  “You’re a good cook.”

  “Thanks.” She put down her sandwich. “Detective—”

  “Why don’t you call me Peter? People I like a lot less call me by my first name. Certainly you can.”

  “All right. You can call me Rina.”

  “Great. So we’ll be Peter the Detective and Rina the Mikvah Lady.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  She turned serious.

  “I couldn’t talk Mrs. Adler into coming down here. But she wants to help out.”

  “What’s the game plan?”

  “I managed to get her alone. She told me what happened in very explicit detail.”

  Decker stopped eating. “Unless it comes directly from her mouth it’s not admissible as testimony.”

  “I understand that. If you catch someone that sounds like this animal, she may even be willing to testify. But she doesn’t want to have to expose herself prematurely.”

  “She wouldn’t be exposing herself. She’d just be talking—”

  “She just can’t bring herself to talk about it to a total stranger, male or female. Your partner was very nice, but she doesn’t trust her. And if you’d call Mrs. Adler up and tell her that I just told you everything, she’d deny talking to me about it. We’re very private people, Detective.”

  Decker thought for a moment. “So what do you have?”

  She took a sip of juice. “This isn’t easy.”

  “Take your time, Rina.” He pulled out a notepad.

  Despite herself she liked the way he said her name.

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Sarah…Mrs. Adler had left the mikvah and walked a couple of feet when the person, attacker, whatever you call him…”

  “Assailant.”

  “The assailant grabbed her from behind. She screamed and he punched her hard on the face. When she screamed again he stuffed something down her throat. A sock or a mitten, something furry. She remembers tasting the nap of the fabric. It nearly choked her.”

  “Did she see the man at all?”

  “She said he was wearing a ski mask.”

  “Did she describe his clothing?”

  “Just that it was dark.”

  “Go on.”

  “He ripped her dress and pulled at her hair. Sarah Libba was wearing a wig that night, as you well know, so it just came off, and for some reason, that made him furious. He hurled it away, and dragged her off and began to punch her again, all over her body.”

  “Did he say anything to her?”

  “Not directly. But he muttered over and over, ‘What a bitch, what a bitch.’”

  “What did his voice sound like?”

  “Gravelly.”

  “Had she ever heard it before?”

  “I didn’t ask her that. I assumed she would have said something if she had.”

  “You can’t assume anything. Anyway, go on, you’re doing fine.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. He told her he had a gun.”

  “Well, that’s a pretty important detail.”

  “She wouldn’t let me take notes. This is all from memory.”

  There was defensiveness in her voice. Decker realized he was coming across as critical and softened his tone.

  “You’re doing great. A-plus. Did he threaten to shoot her?”

  “No. She distinctly said he didn’t threaten to use it. He just said, ‘I have a gun,’ and she felt this cold thing against her temple.”

  “Okay.”

  “He finally stopped hitting her. He reached up her dress and pulled down her underwear…He…Excuse me.”

  “Take your time. Here.” Decker poured her another cup of juice. “Take a gulp.”

  “Thank you.” She took a sip. “This is very hard for me.”

  “I understand.”

  She sighed. “Let’s see. He attempted to…tried to do it to her from behind. First the regular way, then sodomy, but he wasn’t aroused.”

  “She saw his penis?”

  “Uh, no, well, I don’t know. She couldn’t feel him penetrating her, I guess. She felt a little something anally, but nothing really physically painful.”

  Her account was consistent with the exam. It had revealed no sperm or seminal fluid in the vaginal mucosa and a few drops of seminal fluid in the anal region. Enough to get a serum typing, but not a really good one. But he didn’t tell her that.

  “Did she recall the man ejaculating?” Decker asked.

  “She felt something warm and wet dribble down her leg.”

  Damn! If the doctor had looked a little farther down the victim’s leg, she would have found a nice, big sperm sample. It was hell working with amateurs.

  “Go on,” he urged, suppressing his irritation.

  “After he was done, he told her that he knew who she was, and if she talked, he’d kill her. He started to slap her, but then I came out. She’s sure that scared him. Anyway, he took off as soon as he heard my voice.”

  “So the mysterious fleeing figure probably was the bastard.”

  She nodded and hugged herself.

  “It gives me the chills just to think about it.”

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Not that I can remember.”

  He stopped writing and put the note pad away.

  “Detect—”

  “Peter,” he reminded her.

  “Peter, does any of it sound like the Foothill rapist?”

  There were certain similarities—the attempted anal penetration and the failure to achieve a full erection, but other things didn’t fit. The ski mask for one. And Mrs. Adler had been wearing sandals, not high-heeled shoes. But he wasn’t about to commit himself one way or the other.

  “Maybe, maybe n
ot.”

  “Please don’t be cryptic. Off the record.”

  “Off the record, maybe, maybe not.”

  She frowned.

  “Listen,” he said, “at this point it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference, because we don’t know much about the Foothill rapist either. Which leaves me sitting in a pile of shit, if you’ll excuse my language.”

  “You must be under a lot of pressure.”

  “That’s an understatement,” he said, lighting up a cigarette. “But I usually perform well when the heat’s on.” He smiled tightly. “Though I’ve got to admit, the barometer’s been reading pretty high lately.”

  “So you’re not close to finding him.”

  “Close doesn’t mean a thing. Either you have him or you don’t. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

  She watched him walk over to the old lady, who was no longer alone. To her right stood a teenager—an emaciated Hispanic boy of about seventeen. A sickly pallor dulled a complexion that should have glowed bronze. He started backing away as the detective approached.

  “Hey, I’m not doin’ nothin’, man!”

  “Hey, Ramon, I didn’t say you were doing anything,” replied Decker, towering over the kid. “I just came over to be friendly.”

  “Hey, ain’t I got a right to walk in a park?” The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I mean, hey, a park’s a public place!”

  “You’ve got rights. Sure, you’ve got rights. Everybody’s got rights. I was just making sure that Mrs. Sanchez gets her rights, too.”

  The grandmother gave him a warm smile.

  Decker prodded a sunken chest with his index finger. “Why don’t you beat it?”

  “Hey, man, I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

  The detective watched him cross the street. When the boy had disappeared, he returned to the bench.

  “Junkie,” he said, sitting down. “They prey on people like the good little Señora: old women with children who can’t give them chase. Sneak up, grab their purses, and they’re a couple bucks richer with very little effort.”

  “What a world,” Rina said. “Until now we’d always felt so insulated from all the outside problems.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re not.” He turned to face her. “You know what I’d really like?”

  “What?”

  “I’d really like to see you again.”

  Rina didn’t reply.

  “If you don’t go out to eat, how about a couple of drinks, dancing?”

  She felt sick.

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Decker’s face was impassive.

  “Well, we’d better be getting back,” he said, standing up.

  “It’s nothing personal, Peter.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Honestly, it’s not because I don’t want to.”

  “Then why don’t you do it?”

  “It’s impossible. You’ve seen the world I live in. You must understand.”

  She turned away. Decker stared at her profile and felt the frustration grow.

  “What I’d like to understand is why you bothered coming down here in the first place? Feeding me lunch? Dragging me out of the station? Everything you told me could have been easily said over the phone. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you’d like getting out, escaping from all the tension. I was just trying to be nice.”

  “Well, you were very nice. Let’s go.”

  “I’ve got to say grace after meals first.”

  Decker flipped his wrist and checked his watch.

  “Go ahead.”

  She bentched rapidly in silence, but her eyes kept glancing at his face. The more she looked at him, the worse she felt.

  “Please don’t be mad,” she said when she had finished her prayers.

  “I’m not mad,” he answered coldly. “Just disappointed. But I understand. I’m a goy, you’re a Jew. Let’s go.”

  He was driving exceptionally fast and still looked irritated, but she didn’t say anything. He was right. She had given him the wrong impression, and now she felt stupid. It was a mistake for her to come down here. It was a mistake to leave the yeshiva.

  He shot through the tail end of an amber light, and a black-and-white caught him.

  “Shit,” Decker said as he saw the flashing lights. “Who are those jokers? A couple of morons?” He swung the car over until he was side by side with the police car.

  “Sorry, Pete,” the policeman said. “My partner’s a rookie and didn’t recognize the car.”

  “Okay,” Decker shouted back. “Hey, Doug, if you want to roust someone, I just saw Ramon Gomez, and he needed a fix badly. He was about to pull a 211 purse snatch on little old lady Sanchez.”

  “Where was he?” the officer asked.

  “Arleta Park. I kicked him out, but he’s probably hanging around.”

  “Will do.”

  The patrol car sped off.

  Five minutes later they were standing in front of her old Volvo.

  “I’m really sorry if I led you on.”

  Decker shook his head in self-disgust.

  “People hear what they want to hear. I’m no exception. It was inappropriate for me—”

  “Oh no, it wasn’t. I mean, I’m not offended by anything you did.”

  “I’m glad.” He smiled at her, and she seemed relieved. “Just take care of yourself. You still have my numbers?”

  “They’re pinned next to my home phone and the one in the mikvah.”

  “You’re welcome to use them whenever you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hope for your sake you don’t have to.”

  8

  Back at his desk, Decker reviewed the notes from his conversation with Rina, made a few corrections and additional comments, and angrily stuffed it all in the Adler Rape file.

  He’d made a first-class ass out of himself. Jesus Christ! He was supposed to be investigating a rape case, not putting the make on a religious skirt twelve years his junior.

  He picked up a pencil and twirled it absently.

  Stop being so goddam hard on yourself, he chastised himself. Lighten up. But the pep talk didn’t work. He felt sleazy and old.

  His phone rang. Inhaling deeply, he stared at the blinking light, then picked up the receiver.

  “Decker.”

  There was a loud whir on the other end.

  “Hello?” said Decker.

  “Hi,” the voice responded. It was vaguely familiar. Female. Youthful sounding—possibly adolescent. She was shouting over the buzz.

  “How can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, tapping the pencil on the desktop.

  “Are you the detective on the Foothill rape case?”

  Decker sat up in his chair and pulled out a sheet of scrap paper.

  “Yes, I am, Ms….?”

  “I was wondering about that last girl who was raped…. You know, the librarian?”

  “Yes,” Decker said encouragingly. He could barely hear her over the background drone. “Could you speak up, please?”

  “What was her name? Ball or Bell…. It was in the papers….”

  “What about her?”

  “Um, was she by any chance wearing black-and-white dress pumps?”

  “Could be,” Decker answered trying to contain his excitement. “That very well could be. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come down to the station, and the two of us can find out about it together, Ms….?”

  The line disconnected.

  “Fuck,” he said out loud. “Damn it!” He slammed down the receiver and quickly dialed communications.

  “Arnie, it’s Pete Decker.”

  “How’s it going Pete?”

  “Just fine. Could you get me a location on my last incoming call? She hung up about a second ago.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Decker hung up.

  Was she wearing t
wo-tone pumps? You bet your sweet ass she was wearing two-tone pumps, and only the police were supposed to know it. The fact that that perp was a foot fetishist had been held back from the press. The lady knew something, and she’d slipped out of his hands.

  Typical!

  Fuck!

  He knew he’d spoken to her before. She must have been one of the hundreds of anonymous tips that had floated through the station since the rapes began. But her voice stuck in his memory bank. He noted the date, time, and contents of the call, including the background noise, on a tip list and stuck it back in the file. A half-empty aspirin bottle lay on his desk. Opening it up, he popped two tablets in his mouth and washed them down with a cold sip of leftover coffee. He sat thinking. After a few minutes he got up, walked over to the central files and looked up the yeshiva vandalism episodes.

  Nothing particularly illuminating. Broken windows, garbage strewn over the grounds, swastikas and obscene messages spray-painted on the walls: Kikes, Cocksuckers, Baby Killers, Flesh Eaters, Christ Killers. Maybe it should have bothered him more than it did, but he had passed it off as the same old stuff. Nothing new. Nothing that hadn’t ever been said before. A few of the local punks were questioned, no arrests were made. Case closed. Kaput.

  Decker put the file away, closed the drawer, and went back to his desk.

  Anti-Semitism was nothing new to him. He’d grown up a good ole boy in Gainesville, where there was little direct contact with Jews but still a lot of prejudice. The locals regarded decadent Miami as a pinko watering hole for kikes, spics, and niggers. His first personal experience with a Jew came when he was fourteen. One of his buddies had been bumped off the first string of the local junior high football team by a Jew—a big strong boy who defied the stereotype. Later on in the day Decker and his friends ran into the Jew off campus. His buddy was pissed and baited the boy into a fight by calling him a Christ Killer. Decker did nothing as the two boys started duking it out, standing on the sidelines even when the rest of the gang jumped into the melee. It wasn’t until he clearly saw that the Jewish boy was hopelessly outmuscled that he’d intervened and stopped the fighting. At fourteen, he was five ten, 170, with a developing pad of musculature that made grown men jealous. The boys listened to him, but weren’t happy about it.