Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 01

by The Ritual Bath

  “I’ll never eat pepperoni again. The smell has permeated my clothes.”

  “How’s the lighting, Margie?”

  “Backlighting from the street lamp, plus a bulb over the rear door of the restaurant. I’m beginning to wonder about Rayana’s credibility.”

  “She never said definitely. You want to call it quits?”

  “No. I’ve still got about an hour’s worth left in me.”

  Hollander groaned, and Marge heard it.

  “What the fuck is he bitching about? I’m the one who’s walking my ass off.”

  “He does it to keep in practice,” Decker answered.

  “I’m signing off. I see someone.”

  The dot was still. Decker and Hollander watched the monitor for a few tense moments, but soon the spot was marching along like the bouncing ball used in the old TV sing-alongs.

  “What did you think of Margie’s latest?” Hollander asked, putting aside the crossword book.

  “Ernst? He seemed nice enough.”

  “Faggy, don’t you think?”

  “She likes ’em soft,” Decker said.

  “Macho Woman meets Superwimp, eh?”

  “He’s a good musician. That’s a step up from her last.”

  “Yeah,” Hollander agreed, “but how can he stand playing with her?”

  “Guess love is deaf as well as blind.”

  “I can’t picture the two of them in bed.”

  Decker shrugged.

  “Bet she’s always on top,” snickered the fat detective.

  “Hope not always. She’d crush him.”

  “Think he’s Jewish?” Hollander asked.

  Decker’s eyes darted from the screen to Hollander, then back to the screen.

  “If he is Marge never mentioned it.”

  “I think he’s a Jew. He looks Jewish. And with a last name like Katzenbach?”

  “That could be German. Like the attorney general.”

  “He looks Jewish to me, Pete.”

  “You can’t tell from looks,” Decker said sharply.

  “Take it easy. I’m not putting down your little honey.”

  Decker felt his ire rising.

  “Why don’t you go back to your puzzle?”

  “Shit,” Hollander said, tamping his pipe. “Stop gettin’ so touchy. I can’t even mention Jewto—the yeshiva—without you blowing up.”

  Decker pulled out a cigarette.

  “Give me a light,” he said.

  Hollander pulled out a match book.

  “You gotta admit, Deck, Jews, in general, look like Jews.”

  “Does Rina look Jewish?” Decker asked.

  “She’s dark.”

  “She’s got a nose smaller than a button.”

  “Yeah,” Hollander admitted, “and you’ve got a Jewish nose. But still, I can tell that she’s Jewish and you’re not.”

  “Fine, Michael. You’re an anthropologist.”

  “’Course, maybe if you dressed her up in some normal clothes…” Hollander mused. “A low-cut blouse and a pair of jeans…”

  There was a pause.

  “Tight jeans,” Decker added.

  “Real tight jeans.”

  Both men laughed.

  Marge buzzed through.

  “As void as a black hole,” she said.

  “How poetic,” said Hollander.

  Decker picked up the portable radio.

  “Are you getting tired?”

  “The walking isn’t so bad. It’s these goddam pumps I have to wear.”

  “Macko’s got a love affair with pumps,” Decker said. “Look, if you want to call it a night…”

  “Another fifteen minutes.”

  “Think you could adequately muscle an attacker?”

  “To be honest, I have a few blisters. I couldn’t give him much chase.”

  “We’re coming to get you.”

  “Wait five minutes, Pete.”

  “Will do.”

  Decker clicked off the radio.

  “Why don’t we just go in and arrest the son of a bitch?” Hollander said, shifting his bulk in the seat.

  “Because we don’t exactly know where he is, Mike. He split from his former residence a week ago and hasn’t been heard from since. Rayana just thinks he’s around this area. He’s been known to drink at Sid’s.”

  “For whatever that’s worth. What a flake!” Hollander lit his pipe and exhaled a cloud of acrid-smelling smoke. “What about a door-to-door?”

  “And warn him we’re onto his whereabouts? Might as well put a full-page ad in the Times.”

  Hollander checked his watch and grunted.

  “It’s not even midnight,” Decker said. “Mary’ll still be up by the time you come home.”

  “I dunno. She’s going to bed earlier and earlier these days.”

  Marge’s voice came through the radio.

  “Someone is following me, guys.”

  Hollander started up the motor.

  “Stay with it, baby,” Decker said. “We’re on our way!”

  The attack came suddenly.

  They could hear the fighting over the radio.

  “Hold him!” Hollander yelled into the mike.

  They got there just in time to see Marge lose her grip on the bastard. Hollander zoomed the Plymouth into the alley and caught sight of him running into the back entrance of Jose’s Hacienda Mexican Restaurant. The car squealed to a stop, and Decker flew out after him.

  Seeing the fleeing figure run out the front door, Decker tore through the restaurant shouting his location into his radio. The assailant dashed across the street, turned right, then ducked into an alley between a toy store and a Chinese take-out place. Decker followed, pivoted, and stopped. The alley dead-ended.

  Barely winded but drenched with sweat, he scanned the layout. The walkway was deserted and stank of garbage but was well lit. Barrels, empty cartons, and dumpsters lined the narrow strip of uneven asphalt scarred with potholes. He heard hissing from the Chinese restaurant’s kitchen fan, the distant rumble of a car’s ignition kicking in, mosquitoes buzzing. Asshole could be anywhere or nowhere. Sight was deceptive, sound everything.

  The alley was still, but not lifeless. Decker could sense the bastard’s presence. Unhitching his revolver, he slowly began to walk forward, footsteps echoing against the pavement, eyes searching for the giveaway.

  He peered into the first dumpster and a swarm of flies swirled across his face. Decker shooed them off and poked at the trash with the butt of his gun. Nothing but stench.

  On to the next set of trash cans. The hissing grew louder.

  Nothing.

  The next bin contained plastic bags full of rotten food. A few of them had ripped open, spilling out congealed chow mein vegetables and gray strips of foul-smelling meat. The maggots were having a feast. Aside from them, the bin was inert.

  The hissing became rhythmic: a goddam percussion section. Decker finally identified it: not the fan, but labored breathing emanating from a clump of barrels and crates in back of the toy store. Empty boxes of G. I. Joe army toys. The same war scene was splashed across all the cartons: helicopters zooming over exploding bombs, machine guns bursting with fire, men in camouflage parachuting from jets.

  Decker stepped toward the combat, toward the breathing.

  Suddenly the boxes shot up, came flying at him; the army men had charged. A figure leaped up, popping out like a jack-in-the-box, wide-eyed, terrified. Too big for a toy…

  “Police! Freeze!” Decker shouted, pointing his .38.

  The figure took off, but Decker knew he had him. His long legs sprinted in huge strides, and he quickly overtook his quarry and wrestled him to the ground. The man kicked, bit, and managed to claw a deep gouge in Decker’s forearm. The detective swore, flipped him on his stomach, twisted his arms, and tightly clamped on the cuffs behind his back.

  “Hey, man, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”

  “You have the right to remain silent—”

 
“I wasn’t doin’ nothin. I didn’t do nothin’.”

  Decker groaned. Goddam same old shit. Same old excuses. Not me. I didn’t do nothin’. You’ve got the wrong man. She wanted it. She let me do it. He finished reciting Miranda and radioed the car. As soon as the Plymouth pulled up, Decker brought him to his feet and studied the face. It was lean and young, the sallow skin pocked with acne pits and sprinkled with light stubble. The eyes were a muddy green, small and quivering convulsively. The mouth was two tight rims of pale flesh that drew back to expose brown protruding teeth.

  Anthony Macko.

  God bless the poodle.

  “I tell you I wasn’t doin’ a fuckin’ thing,” Macko protested, spraying Decker with sour spittle.

  “How’d you get your clothes all torn up, buddy?” Decker asked, pushing him toward the unmarked.

  “Hey, I like torn clothes!”

  “You like jumping a police officer?”

  “I didn’t know who you was.”

  “I said who I was.”

  “I didn’t hear you good. I just saw some dude come chargin’ at me. I thought you was a mugger.”

  Hollander and Marge stepped out. She looked at Macko.

  “Yeah, it’s him,” she said.

  “Hey, I never saw this broad in my life!”

  “Sure. Your eyesight is very poor.” Decker pushed Macko’s body against the hood of the car, kicked his heels apart, and began to shake him down. Finding nothing, he shoved the punk into the backseat, then slid in next to him.

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, man!” Macko protested.

  “What are we talking about, Macko?” Marge asked, flanking his other side.

  “Hey, I’m not sayin’ a fuckin’ thing until I got a lawyer. I know my rights.”

  “Your rights won’t save you now, Macko,” Hollander said as he started the car. “You screwed up.”

  “Hey, man, I never saw this broad in my fuckin’ life.”

  “Yeah, just like you never saw Brenda Crowthers,” Marge said. “You remember her, the little blond nurse who worked at Mission Presbyterian Hospital?”

  “Man, I didn’t do nothin’ to her.”

  “She tells it different, Macko,” Marge said.

  “She spent three weeks in the hospital, and I bet you’re the one who put her there.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till I seen a lawyer.”

  “We got your girlfriend, Macko,” Marge pushed.

  “Lyin’ little cunt! I ain’t done nothin’!”

  “What really happened with the nurse?” Decker prodded.

  “I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “You saw her one day after work, didn’t you, Macko?” Marge said. “She was all alone, and her car didn’t start. You offered to help, and she thought that was nice of you. But you got distracted. You forced her into the backseat of her car, locked the door—”

  “You got the wrong guy!”

  “Hey, Macko, you attacked me,” Marge said, angrily. “I don’t think I got the wrong guy.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

  “Bitch turn you on?” Decker whispered.

  Macko was silent.

  “She had big knockers, didn’t she?”

  “I’m tellin’ you, you got the wrong guy.”

  “And those fuckin’ sexy little pumps, right?” Decker nodded eagerly. “Ooo, I love those little backless, fuck-me shoes.”

  Macko started to sweat. His eyelashes fluttered.

  “In black, man,” Decker continued. “Has to be black, right?”

  “She let me do it, man,” Macko said. “I’m telling you, she begged me to do it to her. She liked it rough, man. I didn’t want to get rough, but she wanted it that way.”

  “Who else wanted it that way?” Decker asked.

  The thin lips clamped shut.

  “Ain’t saying nothin’ till I see my lawyer.”

  “You’ll get a lawyer,” Marge said, taking off one patent leather black pump and passing it to Decker across Macko’s field of vision.

  Decker stroked the shoe. “Who else wanted it rough, Macko?”

  The rapist eyed the shiny leather and began to breathe audibly. He squirmed against the cuffs and his pants bulged.

  “They all did.”

  “That little hostess from Benito’s?” Marge asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  Decker caressed Macko’s cheek with the shoe.

  “How ’bout the brunette from the library?” Decker asked.

  “Don’t know no brunette from no library.”

  “Funny, Rayana knew all about her,” said Marge.

  “I tol’ you. Rayana’s a lyin’ cunt!”

  “C’mon, Macko. You remember who we’re talking about. She had on those spiked heels, and her shoes were two-toned with pointy toes. Oh, you liked those shoes, didn’t you?”

  A sick smile tightened the drawstring mouth.

  “She was a bitch. They’re all bitches. I’m telling you, they asked me to do it. They begged me.”

  “And the one from the bar at Canary’s?” Marge kept at it. “She got a good look at you.”

  “Hey, she loved it rough. Thought it was kinky, and she loved kink. I’m telling you, she loved the kink. Hell, she invited me in her car, man. I’m telling you, she asked me in.”

  “How ’bout the girl from Jewtown?” Decker asked. “She beg for it also?”

  “Jewtown?” For the first time, Macko looked honestly puzzled. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

  “The one with the nice black pumps?” Decker tried.

  “Kikes!” Macko spit. “I wouldn’t fuck those pieces of shit if they was the last bitches on earth.”

  Decker’s eyes blurred for a split second. When they refocused, he realized his hand was on the butt of his .38.

  Slowly, he let it drop onto his lap.

  22

  The Rosh Yeshiva greeted Decker with a warm smile and told him to place the two large boxes on his desk. It was an oversized slab of rich rosewood, the top protected by glass and completely clear of clutter—something that Decker found amazing. Gently, he lowered the cartons onto the area so as not to scratch the glass, then stretched. With Macko locked up, he could afford the luxury of the night off.

  He looked around. The study exuded dignity and warmth. It was softly lit, carpeted in a rich brown wool pile, and furnished with a burnt brown leather sofa and two suede wing chairs. The rear and right walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with volumes of religious texts. Thrown in for contrast was one case devoted to secular philosophy and American jurisprudence. The front wall was a picture window that revealed a canyon view. The desk was placed advantageously, affording the rabbi a panorama of nature as he worked.

  But it was the left wall—glassed-in cabinets filled with artifacts of silver and gold—that turned the room into a showpiece.

  Lovingly, Schulman began to lecture about his treasures.

  One shelf of menorahs: Several were German, seventeenth and eighteenth century, heavy and bold in their silver work; another was a delicate weave of silver filigree from Italy; still others were fashioned of bronze and Jerusalem stone from Bezalel the art institute in Israel. One entire case was devoted to spice boxes—miniature silver replicas of towers from which hung parcel gilt bells and flags—from the best silversmiths of Europe. Each was stamped and dated. Along the top ledge of another case were special silver and carved wooden boxes used to hold something called an etrog—a citron in English—which Decker learned was a bumpy, aromatic fruit similar in taste to a lemon. The etrog, the rabbi explained, was used on the holiday of Sukkos.

  There were two shelves of pointers, each in the shape of a hand with an extended forefinger. The Rosh Yeshivah put one into Decker’s hand.

  “What’s this for?” the detective asked.

  “In the synagogue, a
reader—a ba’al kriah—incants out loud a weekly portion of the Torah,” the rabbi explained. “Fingers aren’t allowed to touch the holy scriptures. The ba’al kriah uses a pointer to keep his place.”

  Candlesticks, wine goblets, finials called keterim—crowns for the Torah scroll. The elaborate metalwork, the intricate carving, the splendor and sheer number of treasures. Decker was overwhelmed at the richness of a culture that had survived for over two thousand years.

  “This is only a fraction of my collection,” the Rosh Yeshiva said. “But it contains the choicest pieces.”

  “Truly incredible, Rabbi.”

  “Someday, when we both have more time, I will show you my Hebrew manuscripts. I can’t keep them out in the open because over-exposure to the elements will cause irreparable damage to the parchment.”

  “I’d like to see them when time permits,” said Decker.

  “Yes. Come and let us see what you’ve brought. The hour is late, and an old man’s eyes are getting tired.”

  The rabbi glided over to his desk, opened the first carton, and pulled out a prayer book.

  “I don’t think I have anything really valuable. Not like these pieces.”

  “Nonsense, Detective. Quite the contrary. One siddur is priceless because it contains the name of Hashem.”

  He pulled out another book and leafed through it.

  “These are in good to very good condition. If you were to put them up for auction, I would say they’d be worth fifty to two hundred dollars apiece. But they are worth much more to me personally. The thought of them sitting in an irreligious environment is very disconcerting. I will pay you fair market value if you’re thinking of selling them.”

  “I wasn’t. But I’ll tell you what. You may have them as long as I can visit them from time to time.”

  The Rosh Yeshiva smiled.

  “Agreed.”

  “Do they have any historical significance?”

  “Only to a Jew from the area. Most are from Germany.” The rabbi unloaded the volumes onto his desk. “Rina Miriam told me these belonged to your ex-wife’s grandfather. He must have been a German Jew.”

  “Look at this one here, Rabbi. The book is Hebrew, but the inscription is in another language, and it doesn’t look like German.”