Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 07

by Sanctuary

  Again, Decker let go with a forced smile. “Hey, knowing your wacky friend, she and her kids could show up anytime.”

  “You’re not optimistic.”

  Decker didn’t answer. Instead he hugged her. “I love you. I just stopped by to tell you that.”

  “You’re worried.”

  “Concerned.”

  Rina looked at her husband. “Honey said that Gershon had gone to Israel. But he was found murdered in New York.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t go,” Decker said. “Either he lied to Honey about going. Or Honey lied to us.”

  “Peter, what could she gain by lying to us?”

  “If she was involved with his murder, she’d lie to throw us off track.”

  “Peter, why would she be involved in his murder?”

  “I’m not saying she is. I’m just speculating. By her own admission, she said the guy was acting weird. Maybe she was afraid of him.”

  “So she’d divorce him, not kill him.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t divorce in that community like a big scarlet letter.”

  “Not as big as murder.”

  “All I’m saying, Rina, is that if she was involved, it would make sense for her to disappear, right?”

  “That’s a big leap.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve got to consider it. Especially since Honey was using an alias.”

  “She was?”

  “Barbara Hersh. Any idea why Honey might use that name?”

  Rina raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know why she would use Barbara. Hersh is Honey’s maiden name.”

  Decker nodded. “I should have thought of that.”

  “Peter, maybe Honey’s using an alias because she’s scared that the people who murdered Gershon might come after her. Remember she spoke of strange phone calls.”

  “Could have been a front.”

  “Or maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she bolted with the children.”

  “Then why come out here, Rina? Why not leave immediately. And why did she use an alias yesterday before Gershon was murdered.”

  “Maybe she realized that Gershon was in deep, deep trouble. Maybe she decided that LA wasn’t far enough of an escape. So she went to Israel. Lots of places for her to hide there. All the black areas. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “Black areas?” Decker asked.

  Rina smiled. “A semantic misinterpretation. Not black as in Afro-American, black as in black hat—the ultra-religious area. The Black Hatters—the Charedim—must make up at least a third of Jerusalem—Sanhedria. The Ramot. Har Nof. Sha’arey Chesid. Mea Sháarim…now that’s a good place to hide. The name literally means a hundred gates. It’s a labyrinth. Like a lot of Jerusalem, it’s filled with passageways and walls and gates that lead nowhere. The entire city was built on top of a dozen previous civilizations. So there’s a lot of underground structures—tunnels, viaducts, passageways. It’s a perfect place to take refuge.”

  Decker gave Rina’s words pause for thought. And here he was, searching for not one, but two separate groups of people who might have desired sanctuary in the Holy Land. His brain was scrambled. Man, he was tired.

  “I’ve got to get back to work. I just wanted to check in on you, tell you I love you. Hug the boys and kiss Hannah for me.” His smile widened. “And even kiss your mom for me.”

  Rina hit his shoulder—the one without the bullet wound. “You take care of yourself. I love you, too.”

  Decker started for the door, then turned around. “Rina, how many years is an Israeli required to serve in the army?”

  “That’s a non sequitur.”

  “Detectives are full of them. It’s part of our clever interviewing technique. Do you know the answer to my question?”

  “Active duty is three years for men, two for women. Then there’s meluim—reserved duties—a month or two out of the year.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until you stop breathing.” Rina smiled. “I’m not sure. Once you’re too old for meluim, you do civil duty—haggah. Does that help?”

  “Yes, it helps a great deal. I have come to the conclusion that though I’ve studied a great deal of Judaism, I know nothing about Israelis—or Israel. Maybe you can show me the ropes one day.”

  “You mean go to Israel?” Rina brightened. “Peter, what a wonderful thought!”

  Decker smiled but felt uncomfortable. Rina was thinking vacation. Unfortunately, he was thinking work. He wondered if one day wasn’t close at hand.

  Marge ducked under the yellow crime-scene ribbon that fronted the Yaloms’ mock Tudor estate. With a gloved hand, she opened the front door and stepped inside the enormous entry hall.

  “Yo!” she called out. “Anyone here?”

  “Upstairs,” Decker answered.

  She walked a few steps, peered into the living room, and halted in her tracks.

  A hurricane had come through. Furniture had been overturned, cushions slashed and ripped apart. Glass cabinets had been knocked over, glittering shards sprayed over the floor, creating an obstacle course. Some of the display pieces had been broken, others were still whole, resting on their bases on the floor. Marge figured Pete must have uprighted them.

  She called out again. “You want me to come up?”

  “Hold on,” Decker yelled. “I’ll come down.”

  He stood from a crouched position, his knees cracking as he rose. He and the Tin Man—they needed oil. He popped off his gloves, slipped his notebook inside his jacket, and gave a final glance to the Yaloms’ bedroom. Someone had tossed the place with serious intent. Nothing had been overlooked or cast aside. This kind of damage took time—several hours at least. Decker wondered if the someone—or someones—had found what he/they were looking for.

  Marge was waiting for him in the entry, her tapping foot sending out echoes against the marble floor. She said, “See what happens when the maid doesn’t show?”

  Decker gave her a warm smile. She was upset, trying to hide her feelings with macho humor. “You all right?”

  “Me? I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Just being polite. Frankly, I don’t give a shit how you feel.”

  Marge burst into cathartic laughter. “How long have you been here, big guy?”

  “Over two hours.”

  “And the upstairs is as bad as the living room?”

  “The whole house is trashed. No wonder Orit went nuts when she saw this.”

  “How’s she doing?” Marge asked.

  Decker ran his hand over his face. “Lousy. Tell you the truth, I’ve had better days myself.”

  “Any news with your houseguests?”

  “I just called back West LA. The case was given to a D-three named Sturgis. He’s working with me at my request.”

  “As if you don’t have enough to do?”

  “Yeah, that probably wasn’t a smart move. But I keep seeing those children, thinking about their dead father in Manhattan.” Decker threw up his hands. “You know me. I’m a sucker for kids.”

  Marge pushed wisps of blond hair out of her eyes. “At least Davidson’ll give you time to look for the Kleins. He thinks there’s a connection—the big Jewish conspiracy. They control the media, you know.”

  Decker was silent.

  “It was a joke, Pete.”

  “I’m just wondering if there isn’t a connection. It does seem like a mother coincidence.” He looked at Marge. “So what big-ticket item do you have that you didn’t want to discuss over the lines.”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “Yep. What’s up?”

  Marge held a safe-deposit-box key with a gloved hand. “Kann found it inside of Arik, in a place where the sun don’t shine. The key could be what the ransacking was all about.”

  “It was stuck up his ass?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Kann checked out the remaining orifices?”

  “Yes, he did. Nothing.”

  “He check out Dalia as well?�
��

  “Of course. Nothing. When I left, Kann had bagged the bodies and was off to the morgue. Photographers left about a half hour ago. Uniforms have cordoned off the area, but we’ll probably take down the ribbons in a day or two. Our search was disappointing because of the rains…except for the key.”

  Decker said, “Have you found a bank to match it?”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” Marge gloated. “Orit gave me the name of Yalom’s accountant. From him, I found out that Yalom has accounts at six banks. I called all six institutions. Yalom has safe-deposit boxes at three of the six banks. Davidson’s pulling the papers for inspection. Trouble is, once he announces the Yaloms as dead, the IRS will step in and freeze the boxes. It’s quite a paper chase for Old Tug, but I gotta hand it to him. He’s actually acting like a cop. A racist, sexist cop, but I’d rather have that instead of a bureaucrat. I think the corpses lit a fire under his butt.”

  “When will the papers be ready?”

  “Hopefully in an hour, maybe a little longer.” Marge looked around. “What’s the story here?”

  “Doesn’t appear to be a burglary. They left behind valuables, including money. Maybe they were looking for specific items like the jewels and diamonds that were stored in Yalom’s vault at the LA diamond center.”

  “They were looking for this.” Marge held up the safe-deposit-box key.

  “Possibly,” Decker said. “Or possibly they were looking for the Yaloms’ passports.”

  Marge looked surprised. “Who would toss the place like this just to steal dead people’s passports?”

  “Someone who didn’t want it known that Arik traveled to strange places,” Decker said. “If Arik had been working for some covert organization, his passport would have been a concise record of his assignments.”

  “Good point. Guy certainly went to some weird places.” Marge paused. “Didn’t you say he was in the Israeli army for six years? Or was that the partner, Gold?”

  “It was Gold. Speaking of which, we should talk to Shaul immediately…let him know what happened to his partner.”

  “If he doesn’t know already.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that. He’s a prime suspect until we know otherwise.”

  “He and the boys are prime suspects.”

  “The boys…” Decker thought a moment. “No, I haven’t given up on the boys. I’ll ask Davidson to assign a couple of men to follow up on the airlines. Also, someone should check out cabs and bus schedules. But first things first. Since we can’t follow up on the safe-deposit-box key until we’ve got our papers, let’s pay Gold a visit and see what he has to say about his partner’s murder.”

  “What do we do with the house?”

  “Seal it off and hope nobody trespasses,” Decker said. “You coming with me?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  18

  “No one’s picking up the phone,” Marge said. “I’ve got Gold’s home number. Should I try him there?”

  Decker said, “How far are we from his condo?”

  “About fifteen minutes away.”

  “I vote for spontaneity. It’s in Encino, right?”

  “Off Ventura Boulevard.” Marge gave him the exact address.

  The numbers corresponded to several new, Mediterranean-style security buildings, all of them three stories, plastered in pink and framed with apricot cornerstones. The condos stretched a block and were fronted by a green lawn. Specimen trees and big bushes had been brought in to give the neophyte development some maturity. But it was a weak cosmetic job, like putting lipstick on a baby. The place seemed to be built on a large chunk of land judging by the number of tennis-court lights in the background.

  Decker wasn’t sure which building housed Gold, so he parked in the middle lot in a visitor’s space. He and Marge got out of the Plymouth and started walking on meandering brick pathways toward the building on the right.

  Marge said, “Gold and Yalom are…were partners. But Gold lives here and Yalom lives in a mansion.”

  “Arik was the senior partner,” Decker said. “Gold told me that. And you’re forgetting Dalia’s independent money.”

  “Still, there’s quite a discrepancy.”

  Decker said, “This seems like a nifty place for a bachelor. Betcha there’re lots of hot tubs and exercise rooms—a good setup for meeting women.”

  Marge thought about that. She could afford a small house, but chose to keep her apartment. Although she was private, she liked the idea of having people close at hand. She turned to Decker. “So why didn’t you move to a condo after your divorce?”

  “I had Cindy. When she came to visit me, I wanted her to have a home.” Decker consulted the paper. “I think Gold lives on the third floor. It’s a security building. We’ll have to be buzzed in. You want to do the talking?”

  “You met him before, you do the talking.”

  Decker found the directory and pressed the red button corresponding to Gold’s name. A few moments later, a deep voice spoke slurred, incoherent words over the squawk box.

  Decker said, “Police, Mr. Gold. Can we come in and talk to you for a moment?”

  A pause, then a loud buzzer rang in Decker’s ears. They pushed in the double glass doors and stepped inside an atrium filled with potted ficus and ferns. Against the back wall were the elevators. They took one to the third floor. Gold was standing in the hallway, blocking his front door. As they approached, both noticed he was unkempt—unshaven, with his shirttail hanging out of baggy pants. He was holding a half-filled glass and reeked of strong whiskey.

  “Was he like this before?” Marge whispered.

  “Nope. He knows what happened.”

  “Wonder what else he knows.” Marge spoke through the corner of her mouth. “If you want to be the tough one, I’ll be all tea and sympathy.”

  Decker nodded. He stopped at Gold’s door and held out his hand. The Israeli took it, then dropped it. Like holding a dead fish. And just a day ago, it had been a vise grip.

  Decker said, “You must know about your partner and his wife. I’m sorry.”

  Gold’s lost eyes went from Decker, to Marge, then back to Decker. Though swarthy, his complexion was pale underneath a stubble of black beard. His hands were trembling. Standing in front of the doorway, he continued to stare blankly at them.

  Decker said, “Can we come in, Mr. Gold?”

  The Israeli hesitated, then backed up into the interior of his condo. Marge and Decker stepped inside.

  No one spoke. Finally, Gold motioned them forward. They followed him into the living room. Decker looked around.

  It was spacious—high vaulted ceilings, white crown moldings, light floors, and lots of light from French doors that led to a plant-covered terrace. The furniture was alabaster white and overstuffed, accented with throws and blankets that looked to be handmade. The walls were cream-colored, striped with floor-to-ceiling shelving. The display cases were filled with antiquities and primitive sculptures, each piece accompanied by a small card on a stand that gave a description of the work. Decker studied the visuals for a moment.

  So that’s where his money went.

  His eyes returned to Gold, who pointed to the living-room sofa. Decker and Marge walked over to the couch but nobody sat down.

  Decker said, “You’ve got a bulge under your shirttail, Mr. Gold. You’re carrying a gun. Would you mind taking it out and slowly laying it on the coffee table?”

  Gold’s eyes narrowed. He put down his drink. “I tell you I know how to use it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Gold. You’re drinking, you’ve got a gun. That’s not a good combination.”

  “Drink and shoot,” Gold said. “That is your cowboy films.” He broke into an exaggerated American accent. “I give you to the count of three, partner.”

  “Please remove the weapon,” Marge said.

  Gold’s eyes hardened further. “Since when is law that I can’t have a nip and carry a gun in my own house.”


  Decker said nothing. Abruptly, Gold reached for his weapon, holding the semi-automatic by the butt, then gently placed it on the coffee table. “Better?”

  “Much,” Marge said. “Thank you.”

  They sat down.

  Decker said, “If I just found out my partner and his wife had been murdered, I’d be nervous, too.”

  “Who are you nervous about?” Marge asked.

  Gold focused in on her. “Who’s this lady?”

  “I’m Detective Dunn.” Marge showed Gold her ID. “Detective Sergeant Decker and I have been assigned to investigate the murders of your partner and his wife.”

  Gold pressed his lips together and said nothing.

  “I’m very sorry about your loss,” Marge said. “Who broke the news to you? Orit?”

  “Yoni, I think.”

  “Husband,” Marge whispered to Decker.

  “Maybe it was Orit…”

  Gold rubbed his forehead, then positioned himself on the couch opposite Decker and Marge. “I don’t know who’d do such terrible thing.”

  Marge said, “No idea?”

  “No.”

  Decker said, “You know we’re going to have to question you.”

  Gold looked up, then down. Burying his head in his hands, he broke into deep, dry sobs. It took him a minute to calm himself. He said, “I’m sorry. You want something to drink?”

  Marge said, “No, thank you.”

  “Do you mind if I get something to drink?”

  Decker said, “Would you mind if I unloaded your weapon?”

  Gold picked up his glass, then put it back down. “You don’t trust me?” He waved him off. “I was in the army—tzalaf—how you say…the one with binocular…scope…who shoots.”

  “Sniper?” Decker said.

  “Yes, sniper.” He pointed to Decker. “With scope, I shoot a nail from five kilometers away. I was in four wars—’56, ’67, ’73, and ’81. I did three years in ’56, three in ’67. In ’67 war, I was in Golan Heights. The Syrians shooting down on us, picking us off like video game. We send up fourteen tanks, one comes back. I say maspeek! Enough! I crawl on my hands and knees to top of mountains. I climb up tree. Next thing bastards know, I pick them off.”