Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 01

by The Ritual Bath

  “I was transferred. Maybe they were impressed with my typing.”

  “Weren’t you frustrated? All that skill—”

  “I came home with my balls intact. That’s more than I can say for a lot of others. Were you over there?”

  “Yes,” Decker answered.

  “Doing?”

  “I was a medic.”

  “Oooh.” Gilbert gave a half smile. “Very messy.”

  “How long have you known Mrs. Lazarus?”

  “I’ve known Rina about five years.”

  “Did you know her husband?”

  “I’d met him. I didn’t know him.”

  “Did he and Rina seem well matched?”

  “I think she could have done better, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Ever think of asking her out after her husband passed away?”

  “She’s inaccessible to me. I’m not Jewish.” The half smile reappeared on his lips. “She’s inaccessible to you too, Detective.”

  Decker ignored him and continued.

  “Where were you the night of Florence Marley’s murder?”

  “With my fiancée’s parents. Phone number 675-6638. I’m there every Wednesday night. Check it out.”

  “What’s their name?”

  “MacLaughlin.”

  “Where were you the night of the Adler rape?”

  “What day of the week was the rape?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Teaching the computer club.”

  “What time is the club over?”

  “Around ten.”

  “The rape was around ten.”

  “So?”

  “That puts you in the area at the time of the rape.”

  “You know, Detective, Rina’s sons are in the computer club. It was my idea to bring them in; I thought they’d have a good time fooling around with the machines. Rina would pick them up at the club after her mikvah job, and I’d walk them all home. But they haven’t come around lately, and when I asked Rina why, she was evasive. You have her distrusting everyone in pants except you and maybe Zvi Adler and Rabbi Schulman. I don’t like being held up to scrutiny because I know her and have a dick.”

  “Why are you wearing long sleeves? It’s hot as hell outside.”

  “Dress code.”

  “I’ve seen many students with their sleeves rolled up.”

  “I’m not a student. I’m a teacher.”

  “Do you mind if I see your arms?”

  Gilbert paused.

  “Yes.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “I’d like to see your forearms, Mr. Gilbert.”

  He hesitated, then rolled up his sleeves. They were both free of scratches.

  “Satisfied?” Gilbert said, rebuttoning the cuffs.

  Decker stuck the note pad in his pocket and stood up.

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “He was Joe Cool,” Decker told Marge. “Unflappable.”

  “No scratches?” Marge asked.

  “No. But he hesitated before showing me. Maybe he wasn’t so sure if there were or weren’t.”

  “When do you talk to the other one?”

  “Six-thirty. After work, at his apartment.”

  “Then what?”

  Decker shrugged.

  “Do you suspect Gilbert?”

  “I suspect everyone I’ve talked to. Unfortunately, I don’t have any evidence.”

  “Except Cory Schmidt,” Marge corrected.

  “Yeah, Cory is tied to the murder. I don’t know about the rape.” Decker sipped coffee, then put the cup on his desk. “What about Professor Fred Dooley?”

  “He’s been on sabbatical in Greece for the last six months.”

  The phone rang.

  “Decker.”

  “It’s Mike.”

  “How’re you doing with Rayana?”

  “Diddlysquat,” said Hollander. “But I got some good news for you.”

  “What?”

  “I found Cory Schmidt.”

  “Where?”

  “At a head shop in Sun Valley. I nosed around and found out one of his friends used to work there. Sure enough, the little shit was in the back room toking on some homegrown weed dipped in dust. Sucker’s as high as a kite. I’ve got him cuffed. Right now I’m waiting for transport.”

  “Good going, Mike. Bring him in.”

  The kid was full of spit and fire and had to be physically restrained by an officer. Decker closed the door to the interview room and stood across from him with his hands folded across his chest. Schmidt was wearing a Black Sabbath midriff T-shirt and a pair of black leather pants. His hair was dirty and hung limply to his shoulders.

  “I wanna lawyer, pig,” he spat.

  “You’ll get one,” Decker said. “It’ll be by the book, Cory. It’s too big to lose on a technicality. But let me tell you this, son. You’re fucked.”

  “I ain’t your son.”

  “We’ve got evidence. We’ve got lots and lots of evidence.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Do you want to confess?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Sure, now?”

  “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “Get him out of here.”

  Moshe Feldman’s shrink, Dr. Marder, had phoned while he was with Cory. Decker returned the call and thanked him for being so prompt.

  “No problem, Detective. I’ve just dropped the report in the mail. If you have any questions about it, feel free to call me. I can’t disclose any of our other previous therapy sessions because, of course, those were confidential. This evaluation is different because it was court ordered.”

  “Can you summarize the report for me now?”

  “Sure. It is my professional opinion that Moshe Feldman witnessed something traumatic and brutal that night. Whether he actually saw a murder, a rape, or a beating, I don’t know. I don’t think he knows. Whatever he saw or heard involved more than one person. Moshe remembers seeing four people. That’s about it.”

  “Do you trust this guy, Doctor?”

  “I don’t think he was fantasizing.”

  “What is he? A psycho?”

  “No. He’s not psychotic or psychopathic in any classic sense. No hallucinations, no voices telling him to kill or rape, so far as I know. He has a conscience—an overly developed one at that. The guy is crippled by guilt. If I had to put a label on him, I’d say he was schizoid with an affective disorder. He’s oriented—he knows who he is and where he is—but his emotions are inappropriate or flat.”

  “Do you think he could be dangerous?”

  “I can’t predict that. Any psychiatric professional who says he can predict future behavior based on past performance is full of horseshit. Do I think he would kill or rape? No. Would I stake my professional reputation on it? No.”

  “So he could be violent?”

  “At this time, I’ve no indication that he’s violent. But I’m not saying he could never be violent.”

  “And you think he saw something brutal being carried out by at least four people.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you very much, Doctor.”

  “I hope I’ve been helpful. I like Moshe. I have a great deal of respect for Rabbi Schulman. I used to learn under him. The man is brilliant. I’d like to see the yeshiva free and clear of this mess.”

  “So would I,” said Decker.

  “Okay,” Marge said, handing Decker the report. “Some of the shoe prints matched Schmidt’s. But a lot didn’t. The report says seven different prints were lifted.”

  “One of them was Feldman’s.”

  Marge thought.

  “Yeah, one of them was Feldman’s, one of them was Marley’s. I figure it like this: Schmidt and friends makes five; Feldman makes six; Marley makes seven.”

  “You think there were five of them who attacked Florence?”


  “Yeah.”

  Decker skimmed the pages of the document, then said, “I just spoke to Feldman’s shrink. He says Feldman remembers seeing only four people. But his accuracy is up for grabs.”

  “How many guys were involved with Rina that day at the supermarket parking lot?” Marge asked.

  “Four. Cory and three of his cohorts.”

  “So if it was the same guys who attacked Marley, Feldman should have seen five people—Cory and his friends and Marley.”

  “Unless Marley was down by the time he witnessed the scene,” Decker said. “In either case, it still doesn’t add up to five people who attacked Marley.”

  “So maybe Cory brought along an extra?”

  “Could be.” Decker plopped the papers onto his desk. “It would be nice if we could round up all the shoes of every suspect we have in this case and check them for matching prints.”

  “And maybe collect a couple of pairs of loafers while you’re at it.”

  Decker looked down at his weather-beaten oxfords.

  “No joke. Where’s Cory now?”

  “In a holding pen. He’s due to be arraigned this afternoon. Hollander is going down to court. Prosecutor’s going for top bail and thinks he’ll have no trouble getting it. Schmidt’s his own worst enemy.”

  “Who’s been assigned to the case?”

  “George Birdwell.”

  “He’s good.” Decker leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Anything new with Rayana?”

  Marge shook her head.

  “Mike says same old shit. Hasn’t discovered anyone new. Rayana goes to work, comes home, and surfaces only to walk her dog. It wears a doggy sweater all the time—even in this heat. God forbid Poochy should catch cold.”

  “Shit.”

  Early evening. The air was still scorching, thick, and smoggy. Decker pulled the Plymouth into a red zone and put an LAPD sticker on the dashboard.

  Matthew Hawthorne lived in an apartment district in Sun Valley. The area was full of multiple dwellings boasting exotic names like South Pacific and Blue Hawaii. None of them lived up to their tropical labels. The exteriors were gray stucco, and the landscaping had withered in the heat. The majority of them had pools, but the water, instead of iridescent blue, was algae green. Hawthorne lived at number 12, on the second floor of Bali Hai. Decker knocked, and the door flew open.

  “I’ve got my alibi all pat.” The teacher laughed nervously.

  What a weirdo, Decker thought. He stepped inside. The flat was a single. A brown tweed sofa stood against one wall, a composition board coffee table in front of it. Two brown vinyl side chairs faced the sofa. Decker could see the kitchen off to his right and a door that probably led to the john. The wall behind the chairs was covered with bookshelves.

  Decker sat down on the couch and pulled out his pad.

  “How long have you known Mrs. Lazarus?” he asked, skipping the small talk.

  Hawthorne’s left eye twitched.

  “About five years. I was already teaching when she and her husband came to the yeshiva.”

  “What’d you think of her husband?”

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  “Mr. Hawthorne?”

  “Well, he seemed like a typical yeshiva man.” He stopped talking and appeared to be thinking. “I never thought she belonged there altogether.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. I realize she’s very religious, but she also has a good sense of humor, and she isn’t afraid of men, you know? I mean some of the women are really androphobes. I try to talk to them, and they’re so nervous, they make me nervous. Rina used to be very relaxed. Now, of course, she’s a wreck. But I can’t blame her for that. I mean if I were in her position, I’d be very tense also.”

  “Did you like her husband?”

  “I don’t think I ever said more than hello to him. Either he was quiet, or he didn’t like me. I don’t think he was wild about Steve and me working with his wife. But he never said anything rude to me.”

  “Did you ever think of asking Mrs. Lazarus out after he died?”

  Again, Hawthorne paused.

  “No. She only dates Jews—religious Jews—if she dates at all. Her oldest boy, Sammy, sometimes talks to me. He says she doesn’t go out.”

  “Sammy volunteered that information to you?”

  Again the tic.

  “I asked him about her once. I was interested in her welfare.”

  “But you never asked Mrs. Lazarus out?”

  “No.”

  “She seems to recall that you did.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Not that I remember. Hey, maybe I joked about it, but I didn’t think she took me seriously.”

  “Did you ask her out jokingly?”

  “Sure. All the time. I still do. I told you, I never thought she took it seriously.”

  “Where were you the night of the Adler rape?”

  “The Adler rape?” Twitch. “I thought you were going to ask about the Marley woman.”

  “Where were you both nights?”

  “The night of Mrs. Marley’s murder I was out with a friend named Jack Oates. I can give you his phone number, and he’ll verify it. We saw a movie at the Capitol in Glendale—a documentary on street life in Cleveland called Street Smarts. Very good flick.”

  “What time was the movie over?”

  “Around ten.”

  Decker didn’t push it. He’d get the exact time from the movie theater.

  “How about the night of the Adler rape?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “It was on a Thursday night.”

  “I don’t know. I was probably home reading. I read a lot.”

  “You watch a lot of TV?”

  “Not a lot. Maybe the news.”

  “You don’t regularly watch any Thursday night TV?”

  He thought.

  “No. Nothing regular comes to mind. Maybe I did see something that Thursday, though. I’ll recheck the schedule.”

  If you have to do that it won’t mean anything, Decker thought.

  “What time do you get off work?” Decker asked.

  “Usually around six, sometimes six-thirty.”

  “Ever have any extracurricular activities with the boys?”

  “Not in a formal sense, like the computer club. The boys aren’t as interested in literature as they are in science and religion. Sometimes I shoot the shit with the kids about sports. But I’m usually gone by seven. I don’t like to hang around more than I have to. ’Course, for Rina, I’m happy to help out by patrolling.”

  “You like her?”

  “Sure. Don’t you?”

  Decker didn’t answer. Instead he looked at Hawthorne’s forearms. They, too, were clear.

  “I think that about does it.”

  “Well, that was painless. I expected a lot worse.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know…Maybe tarring and feathering.”

  Decker didn’t smile.

  “I’ll need the phone number of your friend Mr. Oates.”

  “Certainly.” He wrote it on a piece of paper. “Take care of Rina. I care about that little gal.”

  He sounded earnest, as if he meant it.

  21

  Marge Dunn showed up as a green blip dancing on the grid of the Plymouth’s computer screen. The dot moved slowly to the left, stopped, then reversed back to the right. Decker stared at the monitor while sipping black coffee from a large styrofoam cup, and readjusted his legs. His muscles were beginning to cramp. Three hours and nothing.

  Hollander had his nose buried in a New York Times Book of Crossword Puzzles. Occasionally his eyes would glance at the screen, but why bother watching if Decker was there? It was hot as blazes in the car, and he couldn’t understand how Pete could drink that swill. Hollander slurped the last of his Coke and tossed the paper cup onto the backseat.

  “Anything?” he asked Decker.

  “S
ame old shit.”

  “Maybe we should check in with her?” Hollander suggested.

  “No,” Decker replied. “I don’t want to catch her at the wrong time. If she’s with a suspect, he’ll get scared away as soon as he hears us buzz in. If it’s anything, she’ll check in with us.”

  “What’s a five letter word for a raccoon?” Hollander asked.

  “C-o-a-t-i.”

  “Yeah, it fits. Thanks.”

  Decker’s expression soured. He hated crosswords because they reminded him of loneliness. He’d gone through a slew of them after his divorce. A few minutes later Hollander asked:

  “How long are we going to keep this up?”

  “Let’s wait until we hear from Marge.”

  “How reliable do you think this Rayana is?”

  “Well,” Decker said, eyes still fixed on the screen, “from what she described, Macko sounds like our man. Now, whether she had second thoughts and warned him off is another story.”

  “She was pretty pissed at him.”

  “Goddam fucking people,” Decker muttered. “Stupid bitch. She looks the other way while he’s out raping and beating up other women, but he kicks her precious poodle, and all of a sudden she decides he’s a menace to society.”

  “No way to get her as an accomplice?”

  “Nah, she really didn’t do anything.”

  “She withheld evidence,” said Hollander.

  “We gave her complete immunity to get her to talk,” Decker reminded him. “All part of the game. But at least she talked. Man, did she talk. You couldn’t shut her up once she got going.”

  “She was worried we’d pin something on her. She wanted to clear the air.”

  “I think so. I think that was the main reason for her coming forward. She thought we were close to finding Macko and didn’t want to drown in his shit. The dog was just the catalyst.”

  The radio buzzed, and Marge’s voice came through the speaker.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Getting plenty of fresh air?” Hollander asked.

  “My arches are killing me,” she said.

  “Hang in there, sweetheart.”

  He passed the microphone to Decker.

  “Hey, Margie.”

  “You know where I’m located?”

  “Right in the back alley of Sid’s Pizza and Beer Stop. This new gadget is wonderful.”