Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 07

by Sanctuary

  In the daylight, the Tel Aviv apartments didn’t look any less slummy and the neighborhood didn’t look any less poor. The sun only highlighted the defects. Decker saw the years of wear on the buildings—the crumbling plaster, the two-tone patch-up jobs, the lines of drying laundry strung from window to window. Though the main roads of the city were smooth, many of the side lanes were dirt ruts. He clucked his tongue.

  “What’s wrong?” Rina asked.

  “The way the news reports Israel…it makes it seem like it’s this big fat cat of a country preying on its impoverished neighbors. I don’t know…it looks so poor itself.”

  “It certainly isn’t a fat cat,” Rina said. “But it’s not poor. You’re just thinking like an American. I’ll bet almost every apartment here has a color TV and a VCR.”

  “So do ghetto kids.”

  She turned to him. “Even though the area where the Yaloms live is solidly middle class by Israeli standards, don’t expect too much.”

  Decker said, “I’m just wondering, where are the homes and the yards and the playsets?”

  “City living means apartment living—like Manhattan. There’s not enough room for anything else. There are parks…not Central Park, but little corner places. If you want real countryside, Israel has plenty of farms or moshavs—collective farms. You miss your horses, Peter. I’ll find some for you.”

  “Are you being sarcastic at ten in the morning?”

  Rina smiled. “I think of it as acculturating you.”

  “You’re making fun of me. Like I’m this big, dumb goy who doesn’t know shit from shinola—”

  “You’re not dumb and you’re not a goy—”

  “I need you for this assignment, Rina. I’m the first one to say that. Can we have a cooperative, respectful, working relationship?”

  Rina took his hand. “I’m sorry, Peter. I know you’re dealing with something very serious.”

  The car grew quiet. Decker said, “I liked the breakfast buffet the hotel gave us this morning. You can eat enough to get by for the entire day.” He smiled. “Even if you don’t surreptitiously wrap rolls with tissues and hide them in your purse.”

  Rina sighed. “Now who’s mocking?”

  “Why do they do that?”

  “They?”

  “I mean the tourists—”

  “You mean the Jewish tourists.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Decker exclaimed. “You know, Israel may not be fancy, but it isn’t shtetl Poland. The country’s not going to run out of food. Not to mention the fact that the nefarious roll stuffer could afford to lose a few pounds.”

  “It just gets thrown out anyway.”

  “It’s uncouth.”

  Rina smiled. “It’s déclassé, I agree, but what the heck. They’re paying for the food, they might as well eat it.”

  “Eating it is one thing. You can eat all you want on the premises. But filling your purses with fruit and rolls and pats of butter—”

  Rina began to laugh. “We only saw one lady who did that.”

  “Then she put a carton of yogurt…” Decker smiled. “That was just out of line.”

  They both started laughing. Decker finally said, “Thanks for coming.”

  “It’s my pleasure. I know you’re going to be working the whole time, but I do hope you get a little chance to at least…soak up some atmosphere.”

  Atmosphere, he thought. Then he said, “It’s weird. I feel like I’m in a foreign country. But I don’t feel I’m in a religious foreign country. Nothing Jewish except the Hebrew.”

  Rina said, “If you get a chance to see the Bursa, you’ll realize it’s a Jewish country. From what I hear, it’s replete with Chasidic Jews.”

  “There were lots of Chasidic Jews in the LA diamond mart, too.” He bit his mustache. “Maybe I’m not explaining myself right. This just doesn’t feel that much different from a working-class area in LA.”

  “Wait until you get to Jerusalem. Then tell me if you feel the same way.”

  Decker drove a few more blocks, following Rina’s directions. The area seemed to have turned nicer. The apartment buildings weren’t necessarily newer, but they seemed more solidly built. They were fashioned from ocher-colored limestone, held bigger windows, and had patios landscaped with potted trees and flowers. The main road was wide and divided, and had visible street signs. Directions to various cities were posted at the main intersecions.

  “Where are we now?”

  “Ramat Aviv.”

  “It’s a wealthier area.”

  “You can tell.”

  “I’m learning. Are we near the Yaloms’ address?”

  “Not too far.”

  They passed a complex of big buildings floating in seas of emerald green lawn. Across from the buildings was a series of parking lots.

  “University?” Decker asked.

  “Museums.”

  “Ahhhh. Are the museums good?”

  “The Museum of the Diaspora is outstanding.”

  “Is that where the Dead Sea Scrolls are?”

  “No, that’s in Jerusalem. At the Shrine of the Book. You have an interest in biblical archaeology?”

  “Just a curiosity. Too bad I won’t see any of it.”

  Rina looked at him. He wasn’t being flip, he was disappointed. She took his hand and kissed it. “Next time. Under better circumstances.”

  Decker heard himself answer with an amen.

  26

  A house of sadness. Black cloth had been draped over the mirrors, the paintings, and the TV. The cushions from the sofa had been removed, exposing the couch’s gauzy underlining. Decker knew that with the cushions gone, the sofa was permitted to be used as seating for the Jewish mourners.

  But Moshe Yalom still opted for the floor. He was a thin man, perhaps in his early seventies, clean-shaven with curly, gray hair atop a long saggy face. A man beaten by life, but not defeated by it. There was still obstinacy in his milky blue eyes. His wife, Tziril, seemed younger. Proportionately, she was heavier than her husband, more meat on the bones, but her doughy flesh was pale. She wore a loose smock and her hair was covered by a scarf.

  Rina had made the appointment with Tziril. She had commented that Mrs. Yalom had sounded amazed by the request, as if it had never occurred to her that America—a foreign country ten thousand miles away—was actually pursuing an investigation of her son’s murder.

  Decker studied the woman as she spoke to Rina. Rina reported that she and Peter should sit in the chairs, they weren’t in mourning. Tziril talked some more. Rina translated: They had started the process of shiva—the seven days of intense mourning—earlier than Jewish law required. Technically, shiva should take place only after burial. But both Tziril and her husband had felt it was ridiculous to hold off. Who knew when their son would be brought home?

  Tziril spoke once more, then disappeared inside a cubby off the living room. Her husband stood up slowly and padded down a long hallway.

  “Where’s everybody going?” Decker whispered.

  “I don’t know where Mr. Yalom’s going,” Rina said. “Mrs. Yalom went to get us some tea. She asked and I didn’t want to refuse her hospitality. It seemed important to her.”

  “Absolutely.” He looked around the living room. “If it helps her relax…”

  The apartment was small, the living room paced off around ten by thirteen. But it seemed larger because it had double glass doors that led to a generous wraparound porch. It was screened and held all-weather furniture—a dining-room table and chairs, an outdoor sofa and coffee table, a rocker in the corner. There were two potted citrus trees that were starting to bloom, the flowers emitting a lemony smell. The porch doors were open and allowed a fair amount of circulation. Otherwise, a room this compact would get stuffy in no time.

  Decker looked down. The floors were made out of some kind of crushed rock tile, like nothing he’d seen in America. Rina sat in one of the many folding chairs that had been crammed into the room. Decker h
ad counted twenty of them. He sat beside his wife.

  “Did they hold a meeting here or something?”

  “The chairs are for the morning and evening minyans,” Rina explained. “The father isn’t allowed to leave the house. So the men come to him and say services here. So he can say kaddish…for his son.” She looked down, her eyes moist. “This isn’t the natural order of things.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Slowly, Mr. Yalom padded back into the living room and lowered himself onto a pillow resting on the floor. The old man hadn’t paid them much attention. Decker felt that if it had been up to the father, they wouldn’t have been granted an interview.

  Tziril came back, holding a tray filled with four tea glasses resting in sterling cup holders. She went through the ritual pouring, setting down a glass on the floor for her husband. A few minutes of sipping and it seemed to Decker they were as comfortable as they were going to get. He took out his notepad. Tziril’s eyes went to the pad, then to Decker’s face.

  She said in accented English, “What do you want to know?”

  “You speak English,” Decker said.

  Tziril nodded. “In gymnasium, we learn English almost as soon as we learn German. When we came to Israel…it was then Palestine…I say to my uncle, the British are in control, why cannot they speak English over here? But I learned Hebrew.”

  “You speak well,” Decker said.

  “You are kind,” Tziril answered. “In Europe, you must learn other languages because countries are so close.” She sat back in her chair. “Your wife…speaked…spoke…to me in Hebrew, so I answer her in Hebrew. But I remember my English a little.”

  “Tell me if you have problems understanding my questions.”

  Tziril nodded.

  “And tell your husband he can talk, too.”

  Moshe looked up and spoke in Hebrew. Decker glanced at Rina and waited.

  “He said he has nothing to offer, but you have a lot of explaining to do.”

  The old man spoke again. Tziril shushed him, but Rina translated anyway.

  “He wants to know what’s holding up the body?”

  “Don’t pay him attention,” Tziril said.

  “No!” the old man replied. “You pay me attention!”

  Decker said, “Tell him I’m sorry. We’re moving as quickly as we can but America has a terrible bureaucracy.”

  Rina translated. The old man responded.

  “He said it couldn’t possibly be as bad as Israel’s and even Israel has the decency to release a body for burial.”

  Decker said, “Tell him I hope it’s soon.”

  Moshe Yalom snorted and spoke under his breath. Rina couldn’t make out his words. It didn’t matter. Decker caught the essence by the tone of the voice.

  He said, “Mrs. Yalom, I wish I spoke Hebrew. Then I could tell you in your language—your lashon—how sorry I am.”

  Tziril’s eyes met his. She didn’t speak, she didn’t cry. Then she said, “Thank you for…” She shook her head and muttered in Hebrew. “I don’t know the word in English.”

  “Sympathies,” Rina translated.

  “Thank you for sympathies,” Tziril completed her sentence.

  “They are heartfelt.” Decker put his hand to his chest. “Lev.”

  “I understand,” Tziril said.

  “I am in charge of your son’s investigation, Mrs. Yalom,” Decker said. “I have reason to believe…” He stopped himself. Stop sounding like TV and get to the point. “Your grandsons are missing. Do you know where they are?”

  Tziril didn’t answer.

  “Do you understand my question?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “I need to find them, Mrs. Yalom,” Decker said. “I think they could be in danger.”

  Tziril looked up, then down. “I don’t know where they are. Emes, I don’t know.”

  Decker studied her face. “But they were here, weren’t they?”

  Again, the woman’s eyes scanned the room until they glided across her husband’s face. He moved his brows almost imperceptibly.

  Decker said, “I came a long way, Mrs. Yalom, just to warn…to help the boys.”

  “They are…”

  Decker waited on the edge of his folding chair. But Tziril was silent. He said, “I really, really do think that something bad could happen to them. I need to find them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “They are…here…somewhere…in Israel. But I don’t know where.”

  Moshe Yalom snorted again. As much as Decker wanted to explain that he was on their side, he didn’t have time. To Tziril he said, “Can you take a guess and tell me where they might be?”

  Tziril looked confused. Rina translated.

  “I don’t have guess,” Tziril said.

  Decker bit back frustration. “But they were here. In this house.”

  “They were never here,” Tziril insisted.

  The old man said, “No, boys not here. Why you say boys dangerous here in Israel? Boys dangerous in America. Everytink dangerous in America.” He picked up his glass of tea and muttered. Decker made out the words Sodom and Gomorrah.

  Tziril said, “I don’t know where are my grandsons.”

  “Then how do you know they’re in Israel?” Decker pressed.

  Tziril held her throat. Decker remembered Orit making the same gesture. She blurted out, “They called me. To tell me…” Tears began to pour down her cheeks. She started speaking Hebrew through choked sobs. Rina listened, nodding at intervals.

  Decker waited, restrained himself from tapping his pencil against his pad. Finally, Rina spoke. “They called the house a couple of days after the…the murder.”

  Decker started writing. “Go on.”

  “They said they were very frightened. They said they had to go into hiding, that people were after them.”

  “Which people?” Decker asked.

  “They didn’t say,” Tziril responded. “I asked but they don’t tell me.”

  Rina went on. “They told Mrs. Yalom that policemen might come and ask them—the grandparents—questions. Lots and lots of questions.”

  Decker wrote, then looked up. “Ask her…as diplomatically as possible…whether…” He leaned back in his chair and ran his hand over his face. “I’m attempting to inquire as to why the boys were perturbed.”

  “You want to know, did they do it or didn’t they?” Rina said.

  “Exactly. It’s possible she’s going to mistake my professional intentions for something nefarious and accusatory.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Tziril said.

  Decker paused. Honesty is the best policy…sometimes. He turned to Tziril. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you unpleasant questions.”

  “Ani mayveenah—I understand. What?”

  “Did they say why they were scared? Why the police might come and ask you two questions?”

  Tziril said, “You be scared, too, if your parents were killed.”

  “Yes, I’d be scared,” Decker said. “Especially if I killed them.”

  Tziril’s mouth dropped open.

  “I’m sorry, but I need to ask—”

  “You are a terrible, terrible man!” the old woman stood up from the uncushioned couch and wagged her finger, drool escaping from the corner of her mouth. “You should be shamed. You…you…”

  Rina spoke quickly in Hebrew. Whatever she said seemed to have a palliative effect. Tziril, though fuming, nodded briskly. After a minute of silence, she turned to Decker. “I am sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I underst—”

  “You’re not a terrible man. But your job makes you ask terrible questions.”

  Decker agreed with her.

  Tziril looked him in the eye. “They were scared because someone killed their parents. They were scared for theirselfs.”

  “They said specifically that someone else killed their parents?”

  Tziril spoke in Hebrew. Rina said, “She said they sounde
d too frightened to make much sense.”

  Tziril spoke again.

  “She—Mrs. Yalom—asked the boys where they were. They wouldn’t say.”

  “Which one did she talk to?” Decker asked.

  “Both,” Tziril answered. “They talk to me for five minutes maybe. They told me they are alive and in Israel. I tried to find out where are they. But they spoke too fast. They said they will call me later. But they don’t…didn’t.” The tears came back. “I’m very frightened. Maybe something happened to them.”

  Decker said, “Has anyone else been here? Anyone else asked you questions about your grandsons?”

  “No. Just you. I only said I would talk to you because Oritie said you were working hard. She said I need to answer your questions. If she didn’t tell me, I would not talk to you. My grandsons were very frightened. I don’t know who I trust.”

  “You’re very smart,” Decker said. “So you haven’t talked to anyone?”

  “Just you.”

  “And the boys didn’t say where they were?”

  Tziril shook her head. “I wish I just knew they were live. If I knew, I wouldn’t…” She bit her knuckle and wiped away tears.

  Decker said, “We’re on the same side, Mrs. Yalom. We want the same things.”

  Again, she held her hand to her throat.

  Decker said, “So the boys spoke to you for only a few minutes. They told you that someone was after them. They told you they came to Israel to hide.”

  Tziril nodded.

  “But you don’t know where they would go to hide.”

  Again, Tziril nodded. Mr. Yalom finally spoke up. He let go with rapid Hebrew to his wife in a rough tone of voice. She waved him off. The old man got disgusted and walked off. Decker waited for Rina to translate, but it was Tziril who spoke.

  “He’s very mad that I talk to you. He thinks maybe you want to kill the boys.”

  “Didn’t your daughter explain me to him?”

  “He says, how do we know you are the man that Orit said is all right?”

  “Would you like me to speak to your daughter right now? I’ll be happy to pay for the call.”

  “It’s night in America. Anyway, I trust you. How much big, very tall policeman with red hair can they be?”