Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 01

by The Ritual Bath

  “I know you too well by now. You never just ask a question. I’m not sending them away again.”

  “You may have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the rape has to do with you.”

  “What makes you so sure?” she said struggling to hold her emotions in check. “Maybe Cory did do it? I mean, it’s crazy otherwise, Peter. He and his friends murder Florence, then someone else tries to break into the mikvah to rape me?”

  “It makes perfect sense if the guy happened to be hanging around, witnessed the murder, and took advantage of the fact that the guard was dead.”

  “Who’d be hanging around?” Rina’s eyes widened. “Are we back on Moshe Feldman again?”

  “I’m just looking at anyone who might—”

  “Gevalt. He didn’t do it, Peter. He no more raped Sarah Libba than he killed Florence Marley. How can you possibly consider him a suspect and brush off Cory so easily? It seems to me you’re reaching. Why are you obsessing on Moshe?”

  “I’m not obsessing. I’m trying to start from the beginning—”

  “Are you afraid that this case will leave a blot on your perfect record?”

  Decker lowered his head and gripped it hard.

  “Oh Peter, I didn’t mean that.” She sighed. “I’m such a mess. And I’m taking out my frustrations on the person who’s trying to help me the most. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. We’re both a mess right now.” He took another swallow of Coke. “Rina, someone tried to break into the mikvah that night. And that someone was after you. Just like the first time.”

  “Why do you say that? He could have gotten me if he wanted to. I would have come out a half hour later. All he had to do was wait.”

  “The point is he thought Sarah Adler was you. The first time I interviewed you, you told me that you ran late that evening. Sarah left the mikvah at the time you usually leave. Do you remember saying that?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, you did. I have it in my notes.”

  “Peter—”

  “Listen. Sarah wore a black wig that could have easily been mistaken for your own hair. You told me she said the rapist went wild after he pulled off the wig. Of course he’d become unglued. At that point he realized that he had the wrong woman.

  Rina said nothing. Tears started rolling down her cheeks. Memories flooded her head, dredging up past fears. Decker took her hand and brought it to his lips. They felt warm and soft. She let the kiss linger for a moment, then she pulled her hand away.

  “Rina, think! Who could be after you? Anyone else besides the people we’ve discussed?”

  She shook her head.

  “It had to be someone who was on the grounds that night,” said Decker. “Someone who took advantage of Florence’s murder.”

  He lit a cigarette.

  “Which narrows the field of potential rapists down to all the men in the yeshiva,” he muttered.

  “It’s not anyone from the yeshiva.”

  “Fine. Have it your way. The fact is there’s still a rapist out to get you, and you’re still here. You’ve got to get away—”

  “No,” she said defiantly. “We’ve already had this discussion.”

  “Just hear me out, all right? I’ve been working with sex crimes for three years now, and I don’t say this to everyone. Sometimes rapes are random—the woman is in the wrong place at the wrong time—sometimes they’re not. This is one of the cases where there’s intentionality. The guy isn’t out to pound out his hatred on the first woman he sees. He’s out for you. You’re symbolic of something to the son of a bitch.”

  “All the more reason I shouldn’t run away. If he’s out to get me, then he’ll follow me.”

  “What about your kids?”

  “Peter, where would I go? Back to my parents and involve them in this ordeal? In an apartment to live among anonymous strangers who don’t give a damn about me? At least here people know what’s going on. People look after me. You call me; Sarah calls me every night at eleven. Here people care. I can’t run away. If you really think I’m in danger, then I’ll learn how to protect myself.”

  She touched his shoulder holster.

  “Teach me how to use it.”

  “Oh, that’s a great solution. Play Annie Oakley, and you’ll definitely wind up damaged.”

  “That’s downright sexist.”

  “I’d say the same thing if you were a man, only I’d use Wyatt Earp.”

  She folded her arms across her chest.

  “As I recall, you trusted me with your own weapon a while back.”

  “Florence might have still been alive. I had to look for her. I had no choice but to give you a gun.”

  “And I have a lot of choices now?”

  “You have a good one. You can leave. You didn’t have that option the night of the Marley murder.”

  “Well, I don’t think escaping is a viable option in this case.”

  “A gun is no good unless you know how to use it.”

  “So teach me.”

  “I mean use it psychologically. I know you could learn how to shoot. But when you point a firearm at an assailant, you’d better be damn sure you’re willing to pull the trigger and blow the bastard away. Because if you don’t, he’s going to grab the gun and use it on you. Could you kill someone?”

  “I kicked Cory when I had to.”

  “Could you kill someone?”

  “If he was attacking my kids—”

  “Could you draw a gun and kill someone if he was attacking you?”

  “If I felt threatened, I think I could do it.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes, then. Yes, I could.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t know me all that well.”

  “Maybe I’ve just seen too many nice people wind up in the morgue because they thought they could do it, also.”

  “I fought back with Cory, Peter. And it felt good. Not everybody fights back, either.”

  “It’s not the same thing as pulling the trigger.”

  “You’re the cop. You tell me you’re worried about me. Then you tell me not to fight back.”

  “A gun is not the answer.”

  “Well, neither is escaping.”

  He touched his throbbing head, then took her hand again.

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’m not reckless, Peter. I called you the minute I thought something was amiss. And I’ll do the same thing if need be in the future. I’m not going to go after the rapist, but he’s not going to drive the boys and me away, either. If I’m attacked, I want to be able to take care of my kids and myself. I just know I could do it.”

  She looked him in the eye.

  “I could learn how to use a gun from someone else, you know.”

  “I know.” Decker gave her a weak smile and looked inside the picnic bag. There was no sense pursuing the discussion.

  25

  The printer clicked rhythmically while spewing out a white stream of computer paper. When the machine finished its obbligato, Decker detached the printout from the remaining roll of blank paper and took the pile over to his desk.

  He sat down, gulped lukewarm coffee, and stared at the columns in front of him, noticing that the print had become very light. It was the third ribbon he’d gone through in the last twenty-four hours. He squinted in an attempt to bring the words into sharper focus, but his eyes were too damn tired. Pushing aside stacks of papers, he rubbed them hard and stretched. His back and neck were stiff, his shoulders ached, and his head throbbed. Opening the desk drawer, he pulled out the aspirin bottle only to find it empty, and tossed it disgustedly in the trash.

  Placing his hands behind his neck, he leaned back into the chair, propped his feet on the desk, and gazed upward, hoping that the ceiling would provide a burst of sudden insight. When nothing came, he figured it best to clear his mind and start over, get a fresh perspective. He rested a f
ew more moments, enjoying the blank view, then sat back upright.

  He studied the printout again. Hundreds of thousands of bytes of data had revealed nothing. He’d started with his original suspects and the M.O. of the crime. When nothing immediate panned out, he’d punched in the names of known local anti-Semites, then sex offenders now on parole, followed by yeshiva boys whom Rina had taught and men she’d gone to college with, throwing in people like a chef tossing in ingredients to revive a failed recipe. In the end he was no closer to the culprit. It boiled down to the same people. He picked up a pencil and scribbled the first name.

  Shlomo Stein.

  A son of a bitch. He fit his former image far better than his latter. The man had made no attempt to hide his contempt for the detective, and the police in general. Furthermore, he’d been preachy and condescending—nothing worse than a reformed felon. But his answers had been straightforward and on the level. Even more important was the fact that, on the night of the Adler rape, he’d been attending a Talmudic discourse with thirty other men.

  Decker crossed his name off.

  Shraga Mendelsohn.

  Quieter than Stein, but still spooky. Spoke in a mumble. Inappropriate smiles and never made eye contact. If a case against Stein could have been made, Mendelsohn would have been great for the accomplice. But on his own, there was nothing. Besides, his alibi the night of the rape had been the same as Stein’s. They were both at the lecture.

  Scratch Mendelsohn.

  Moshe Feldman.

  Decker wrote a big question mark after his name.

  Matt Hawthorne.

  His alibi the night of the Marley murder had checked out. His friend had verified his presence at the movies. Furthermore, the candy counter girl remembered Hawthorne because he had made a weak attempt to flirt with her. The picture had ended at nine thirty-eight. It was possible time-wise that Hawthorne could have driven straight to the yeshiva, noticed Marley was dead, and attempted a break-in, but the scenario didn’t make much sense. First, he’d have had to move very quickly and precisely to make the timing fit, and second, how would Hawthorne have known that Marley had been killed?

  Hawthorne didn’t have an alibi for his whereabouts the night of the rape, claiming he was home alone, reading a book. But Decker figured the filled bookcase in his apartment was more than just a prop. Hawthorne was an English teacher and probably did read a lot. The bottom line was that he failed to arouse genuine suspicion. His agitation had seemed to result more from nerves than guilt.

  Decker gave him a small question mark.

  Steve Gilbert.

  He was the most interesting. Not made a bit nervous by the presence of the police. Detached, almost amused by the whole thing. Not the spacey, schizoid physics major Decker had imagined. And he’d done a two-year hitch in the army, including ten months in Nam as a clerk. Unfortunately, the guy’s personal records were sealed. Decker wondered why he hadn’t been assigned to frontline combat. Maybe the army knew there was something kinky about him. Maybe he was trigger-happy. The asshole who shot at him had sure known how to use a piece.

  Gilbert was on campus every Thursday with the Computer Club until ten P.M. The night of the rape had been a Thursday. The night that Decker was shot at had been a Thursday. Both incidents had happened around ten: Rina had placed the first call to the police at 10:08, and she had called him the second time at 10:15. That would have given Gilbert ample time to dismiss the club and perpetrate an attack.

  But the night of the murder didn’t fit. The time was off—Rina had called him at 10:45. More important, the Marley killing had taken place on a Wednesday, and on every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday night for the last five years, Gilbert had eaten dinner with his fiancée’s family thirty miles away, usually leaving around eleven. His presence had been confirmed by the prospective in-laws.

  Decker walked over to the coffeepot, poured himself a refill and sat back down. He picked up a half-eaten corned beef sandwich, the remnant of his dinner, and stared at the curly, pink strips of meat. The sandwich had laid heavily in his gut the first time, and after a couple of hours of sitting on his desk, what was left hadn’t aged well. He tossed it in the garbage, sipped his coffee, and thought.

  Dinner with your to-be in-laws three times a week for the last five years? No man who had anything in his crotch would put up with such shit. Dinner with the folks had been a constant sore spot between him and Jan. Once a month had been more than enough for him; Jan had preferred it closer to once a week. But even she would never have expected three times a week. Maybe Gilbert would get more assertive after the marriage—if the nuptials ever took place. That was strange, too. Who the hell stays engaged for five years unless there are lots of big problems? Maybe he was a wimp with women and was holding in a lot of rage toward them. Maybe he’d redirected his anger.

  But how could he explain Gilbert as the mikvah rapist when, on the night of the Marley murder and mikvah break-in, he was having dinner thirty miles away?

  Decker took another swig of coffee.

  Unless…Unless, he happened to not be at his in-laws that night. If the dinners had been so codified, so routine, so frequent, the in-laws might have ignored occasional absences.

  But Gilbert couldn’t have known in advance that Florence was going to be killed. So what was he doing on campus?

  Picking up a pencil, Decker tapped it against the desktop.

  Maybe Computer Club couldn’t meet that Thursday. Could be, the week of the murder, they had decided to meet on Wednesday.

  A stab in the dark.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Rina’s number. Her boys might remember if the club had had a change of schedule that week.

  No one answered. Immediately, his sensors were up.

  Where the hell would she be?

  Maybe he dialed the wrong number. He tried again.

  Nothing.

  “Shit,” he said, slamming down the receiver. He’d told her to call him if she had to go out at night. She’d promised she would.

  He decided to phone Sarah Libba Adler. Probably she’d know something. He dialed information and was told the number wasn’t listed. Decker gave the operator his name and badge number and after a few minutes obtained the listing. She answered on the fourth ring. Children’s laughter and horseplay could be heard in the background.

  “This is Detective Decker, Mrs. Adler. I don’t mean to alarm you, but do you know where Mrs. Lazarus is?”

  A long pause.

  “She’s out.”

  “Where?”

  Another long pause.

  “Mrs. Adler?” he asked.

  “At the mikvah.”

  “The mikvah?”

  “Something came up.”

  “I thought it was shut down.”

  “Not exactly. I tried to talk her out of it, but she can be very determined sometimes.”

  “That’s certainly true,” he mumbled. “Where are her boys?”

  “I have them. She’s due to pick them up at ten. If she’s not back by then, she had instructed me to call you.”

  Swell!

  “Anyone with her?” he asked, hoping it was Zvi.

  “Matt Hawthorne.”

  Damn, he thought to himself.

  “Detective, what’s wrong?” Sarah asked, suddenly panicked.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Look, Mrs. Adler, I’m going to drive down there now just to ease my own peace of mind.”

  “I think that’s a very good idea.”

  “You just take care of the boys.”

  “All right.”

  “Bye,” he said. “Oh, call your husband and tell him to stop by there—”

  The line had disconnected.

  He called her back, but the line was busy.

  He called the operator and placed an emergency interruption.

  She reported that no one was on the line. The phone was out of order.

  Accidentally, Sarah must not have put the receiver fully back on the hook.

/>   He slammed down the phone and dialed the mikvah number.

  The line was dead.

  They’d never bothered restoring the service after the line was cut.

  He tried the Rosh Yeshiva’s office number and came up empty. He tried the rabbi’s home number. No one was there. Then he called the yeshiva’s answering service. The only numbers they had were office listings. No one answered any of them.

  “Shit!” he bellowed. Grabbing his coat, he tapped Marge on the shoulder and stormed out of the building.

  Marge picked up her purse and caught up with him in the parking lot. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, gunned the ignition, and once she was inside, peeled rubber out to the street before she could close her door.

  “Would you mind cluing me in?” Marge asked, placing a blinking red light on the roof of the car.

  “Rina’s at the mikvah.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I forgot to ask. Hawthorne is supposed to be protecting her.” Decker slammed his fist against the dashboard. “Goddam! I can’t believe she did that!”

  Marge was confused.

  “Did she call in and say she was in trouble?”

  Decker shook his head grimly.

  “I’m trying to get to her before something happens.”

  “Don’t you think this is a little impetuous, Pete? After all, we really don’t have a case against—”

  “It was stupid for her to go there, Marge. She knew I hadn’t written him off as a suspect.” He pounded the wheel. “Fuck!”

  “Take it easy, Pete,” Marge said, thinking he was due for some vacation time. “He’s walked her home safely before. There’s no reason to think that this time is going to be any different.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Let me concentrate on my driving.”

  He was angry at himself. He should have told Sarah right away to send Zvi down to the mikvah, to wait there until he arrived. He shouldn’t have left it as an afterthought. If only Sarah hadn’t hung up. If only she hadn’t left the phone off the hook. If only he could have gotten through to someone. He floored the accelerator until the car was pushing ninety-five, rattling like a diamondback. A bump on the freeway and they were hamburger. But Marge didn’t say a thing.