Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 14

by Stone Kiss

  He sat back and looked out the window, thinking about Jon’s words: “My mother is your mother, too.”

  “You know, it’s funny, Jon. I think of you as my half brother. And the others—your brothers and sisters—I feel related to them as well. But your mother… who is as much my mother as yours… I haven’t made the connection yet. I probably never will.”

  Jonathan nodded. “I can understand that. There is this small issue called my father.”

  “Maybe that’s it. I’m sure I make her very uncomfortable—”

  “Not really. She knows her secret is safe with all of us.”

  “Psychologically then.” Decker laughed. “I like your mother. I really do. But my own mother is still alive. It’s unfair to expect a man to have more than one mother at any given time.”

  “Not to mention a couple of mothers-in-law,” Rina added. “My mother and Mrs. Lazarus.”

  Decker frowned. “Yeah, that too. Two mothers, two mothers-inlaw, two daughters, and a wife. I’m surrounded by all these estrogen-filled beings. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”

  “I would,” Rina answered. “Except right now I’m cranky because of PMS.”

  Her face was deadpan. Decker couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. But he didn’t question her. Never rouse a sleeping lion.

  3

  The sign said $16.83 an hour to park the car: Decker wasn’t sure if he’d read it right, but then Rina said something about space in the city being at a premium. Space or no space, the rates were usurious. Since a typical leisurely paced business meeting could last two to three hours, Decker now knew why New Yorkers talked so fast.

  Hershfield had the requisite Fifth Avenue address, and Jonathan miraculously found parking on a side street because it was still early. As soon as Rina unbelted Hannah, the girl woke up as cranky as a coot. Decker held her as they walked, the monolithic buildings blocking out what little light the sky had to offer. Rubbish cans and Dumpsters lined the sidewalk. With any luck, there wouldn’t be a garbage truck blocking the van when they had to leave. Hannah whined as they walked into the granite lobby of the skyscraper and checked in with the security desk, manned by six gray-jacketed sentries. She complained she had to go to the bathroom.

  “No public rest rooms,” the guard announced.

  “What do you mean there’s no public rest room?” Decker countered. “This is a sixty-story building.”

  “Security precaution. It’s key only. Mr. Hershfield’s office is on the forty-third floor. You can take the express elevator up.”

  Rina grabbed Peter’s arm and brought him over to a bank of elevators. “Don’t start.”

  “Guy’s an idiot. Do we look like terrorists—”

  “Shhh. He’ll hear you.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom—”

  “In a minute, pumpkin,” Decker growled.

  Moments later, as they were whisked up to the forty-third floor, Hannah moaned that her ears hurt. By the time they reached the first secretary, Hannah was saying that her bladder was about to burst.

  “Can we use the bathroom?” Rina asked.

  “Three floors down,” the secretary answered. “Take the internal elevator and go to the right. Ask for Britta.”

  “But there’s one right over there,” Decker pointed out.

  “Employees only. Fortieth floor, sir. That’s where Mr. Hershfield’s offices are anyway.”

  “I finally found a place more bureaucratic than the LAPD.”

  “Come on, Peter.” Rina tugged at his jacket. “Getting her angry won’t help.”

  “Listen to your wife.” Then she turned her back to them.

  They waited at the elevators as Hannah whimpered in Decker’s arms.

  “Cry louder, pumpkin,” Decker told her.

  “Peter—”

  “Scream a little. Wailing’s okay, too.”

  Another elevator ride. By now, Hannah was complaining of nausea. She reached out to her mother. Rina took her and marched over to the first person she saw. A fifty-plus woman with short clipped brunette hair and hoop earrings. She had round brown eyes and wore bright red lipstick. Over her black sweater was chunky jewelry. Half-size reading glasses sat on the bridge of her nose.

  “I’m looking for Britta,” Rina announced.

  “That’s me.”

  “They’re looking for Mr. Hershfield.” Rina cocked her finger in the men’s direction. “I’m looking for the bathroom. She’s got to go, and apparently this floor has the only public bathroom in the entire building!”

  “Lenore didn’t let you use the forty-third-floor one?”

  “No, she did not!”

  “What a peach!” Britta stood and extracted a ring of keys. “I’ll take you, sweetheart. Poor thing.” She looked at the men. “Is one of you Rabbi Levine?”

  “I am,” Jonathan said.

  “Third door on the right. Mr. Hershfield’s expecting you. Just knock. I’ll get you coffee in a moment.” To Rina, Britta said, “Come, dahling. I know what it’s like to be captive to a small bladder. After I had my last child, I ruined outfits every time I sneezed.”

  Decker watched the women disappear behind the sacred door known as the women’s rest room. Then he and Jonathan found the office. A gold doorplate told them that Hershfield was a legal corporation. Jonathan knocked. A stentorian voice bade them enter.

  His office was the size of a secretary’s reception room. Then Decker realized it was the secretary’s reception room. The desk held a name-plate that said MS. MOORE. The person behind the desk definitely wasn’t a female. He was Ichabod Crane, alive and well and practicing law in the city of New York. His cheeks were so sharp that they almost poked out of the thin skin. His forehead was high and bare, with thinning dark hair combed straight back. His lips were two slash marks, his eyes were sunken in his brow. Still the orbs held a spark of mischief. He was superbly dressed—black wool crepe jacket, white shirt with French cuffs, and patterned tie of horses and gladiators— probably a two-hundred-dollar Leonard tie.

  Hershfield looked up at the standing figures. “This is my receptionist’s office. I get my best work done here at six in the morning when no one’s bothering me… buzzing me every twenty seconds. Of course, that’s her job… to buzz me, and to organize my professional life. I don’t know why, but I find her desk much more conducive to work. Maybe because it isn’t filled with my own garbage.”

  Gathering up his papers, Hershfield stood, then took out a key ring. He opened an adjoining door. “Come in.”

  Good-size place, Decker thought. Not cavernous, but the plate-glass window view opened things up—an endless snapshot of steely, gelid air and rooftop machinery. The office itself was paneled in warm red mahogany. Sharing the wall space with the abstract oils were lots of diplomas and certificates. He had a small bookcase in back of his desk, the shelves holding just as many Hebrew books as tomes on American jurisprudence. Of course, the firm had its own law library, so the references he had were the ones he probably used the most. His desk was rosewood and brass, his desk chair tufted oxblood leather. Two client chairs sat opposite the desk, upholstered in a subtle hunter green and maroon floral. In the middle of the room sat a sofa in the same pattern and two more client chairs, the arrangements separated by a sleek rosewood coffee table framed in brass. A corner leather wing chair rounded out the atmosphere. The parquet wood floor was almost entirely covered by a fringed, ornate Persian rug.

  There was a knock at his door. Hershfield answered it, and Rina came in. She had applied some fresh makeup. She was wearing a navy sweater over a navy skirt, and black boots. Hannah was in her arms.

  “And who is this motek?” Hershfield asked.

  “This is Hannah.” Rina shifted the girl in her arms. “You wouldn’t have any orange juice on you, would you?”

  “I’d have anything you want.” He buzzed Britta. The brunette came in holding a pencil. “Could you run to Harry’s?”

 
“No, I can’t run. But I can walk.”

  Hershfield ignored her. He turned to Hannah. “What can I get you, kleinkind?”

  “Are you hungry, sweetie?” Rina said to her daughter.

  “No, just grumpy.”

  “But maybe you’d be less grumpy if you ate.” Rina looked at Britta. “Maybe I should come with you.”

  “Sure,” Britta said. “We’ve already done our bathroom bonding. Would any of you gentlemen like something?”

  “Coffee,” Decker said.

  “I’ll go along with that,” Jonathan said.

  “Mr. Hershfield?”

  “If it isn’t too much work,” the lawyer answered.

  “That’s what you’re paying me for, Mr. H.”

  The females left.

  The man was all folksy and polite. In a courtroom, he was part Tasmanian devil /part wolverine. Anyone who came up against him got bit. Decker stuck out his hand. “We haven’t met formally, Mr. Hershfield. I’m Peter Decker.”

  “The Homicide detective I told you about,” Jonathan said.

  “Actually, you’re selling him short, Rabbi Levine. The lieutenant here is actually in charge of the detectives’ division. Where do you work? Somewhere in the San Fernando Valley?”

  “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  “I’m nothing if not compulsive.”

  “My division is in the West Valley—Devonshire. Do you know L.A.?”

  “I have a brother in Beverly Hills. Corporate law. He’s got a beautiful house. It’s got an entry hall that you could skate in. My brother’s very successful.”

  “It must run in the family,” Decker said.

  “Me?” Hershfield made a face. “I’m just a bulldog who believes in due process. Sit down, gentlemen.”

  The gentlemen sat.

  Hershfield smiled at Decker. “So hiring counsel was your idea. I’m not surprised. You know what the police are capable of.”

  Decker smiled back.

  Hershfield said, “Are you related to the victim?”

  “No.”

  “We’re brothers.” Jonathan pointed to Decker, then to himself. “Half brothers. The victim was my brother-in-law.”

  “I’m just debating how much we should talk in front of him,” Hershfield said.

  “Technically, I can be subpoenaed and made to testify because I’m not a family member,” Decker said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jonathan said, “because the family’s not involved. I’m sure of it.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty, Rabbi, but I think your brother has a point.” Hershfield shrugged. “Look, Lieutenant Decker told you to call me because he thinks you might have a little problem. And you’re here because you don’t want a big problem. Very smart. So talk to me, gentlemen. What did you have in mind, Lieutenant, when you asked the rabbi to call me?”

  “First I was thinking about contacting the police to see if I can get anything specific out of the investigation. Sometimes agencies are open, sometimes they’re protective. If I get some resistance, it would be nice to have a New Yorker to do some legal pushing.”

  “If need be, I suppose that could be arranged.”

  “I have a feeling you could arrange anything, Mr. Hershfield.”

  “Ah, Lieutenant. You make me blush.”

  Britta returned holding a tray of coffee, creamer, and packets of sugar substitute. Rina was holding Hannah’s hand and a tray with bagels and cream cheese. The two women set the food down on Hershfield’s coffee table. Rina looked at the men. “Hannaleh, maybe we’ll eat this outside in the secretary’s office.”

  “Don’t leave on our account,” Hershfield said.

  “Of course not. It’s just better all around. That way, we won’t disturb anyone.”

  “You know, there’s a Disney store on Fifth Avenue around Fifty-fifth.”

  “I’m sure there is, but I doubt if it’s open at seven.”

  “A very good point.”

  “Come eat next to me,” Britta said. “Alma’s always late anyway.”

  “She is?” Hershfield said.

  Britta whispered, “It’s that time of life.” She nodded, then took some bagels and cream cheese. “See you later.”

  As soon as the door closed, Hershfield spoke to Jonathan. “So why don’t you tell me what happened from your family’s perspective? The lieutenant and I can fill in details from the police.”

  Jonathan gave Hershfield a brief recap. Way too brief, Decker thought. Immediately, Hershfield went after him. “So you have no theory as to what happened?”

  “None.”

  “Then something’s missing.” He made a face. “And your brother-in-law. Did he have any vices?”

  Jonathan squirmed.

  “Drugs,” Decker told him.

  “Ah.”

  Jonathan said, “But he’d been sober for a while.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  Jonathan sighed. “Mainly cocaine.”

  “Freebase?”

  “Blow,” Decker said.

  “Expensive,” Hershfield said. “Where did he get the money?”

  “The family has a business,” Decker said.

  “Yes, I know. Electronic stores,” Hershfield said. “And, Rabbi, you think the family gave him money to waste on blow?”

  Jonathan sighed. “I’m sure they helped him out of a couple of tight spots.”

  “Or he helped himself,” Decker offered. “He worked in the family business.”

  “He only started working after he was sober,” Jonathan countered, defending him.

  “Any criminal record?” Hershfield asked.

  “One arrest.”

  Decker looked at his half brother. “That must have slipped your mind.”

  “Possession?” Hershfield asked.

  Jonathan squirmed. “Soliciting an undercover police officer.”

  “Jon, it would have been nice if you’d told me that over the phone.”

  “I didn’t think it was relevant. It happened ten years ago, right after his divorce.”

  “But it does show what kind of man he was—”

  “Ten years ago, Akiva.”

  “Your brother is right,” Hershfield said. “At the moment, everything is important.”

  “What are you thinking about, Mr. Hershfield?” Jonathan said. “That Ephraim had a relapse of his drug use? That the setup was a drug buy gone haywire?”

  “Is that what it seems to you?”

  Jonathan didn’t answer.

  Decker said, “You left out a couple parts, Jonathan. Ephraim was found naked.”

  “They could have stripped him,” Jonathan said.

  “That’s always a possibility,” Hershfield answered. “Then there is the other possibility.”

  No one spoke.

  “Yes, I would say that’s important,” Hershfield said. “Especially since he was supposed to be baby-sitting his fifteen-year-old niece.”

  “My wife had previously asked Shayndie if any funny business was going on. She adamantly denied it.”

  Neither Decker nor Hershfield answered.

  Jonathan stammered, “Yes, of course, it’s a possibility that she was lying—or covering for him. But how would murder be part of that picture?”

  Decker said, “Maybe he had been threatening her, Jonathan. Maybe she had had enough.” He looked pointedly at Hershfield. “In which case, she’ll be needing a very good defense lawyer.”

  “Then why go willingly with him to the art exhibit, Akiva?” Jonathan said. “Believe me, Shayndie is an outspoken girl. If he was molesting her, she would have said something.”

  “Not always, Jonathan. Especially if she was in love with him.”

  Jonathan bristled. “At this point, it’s all speculation.”

  Decker put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t mean to upset you, Jon. But if I’m thinking of these kinds of questions, and Mr. Hershfield is thinking about these types of questions, I’m sure the New York Police are thinking the sa
me thing.”

  “Now that is true,” Hershfield said.

  Jonathan seemed to wilt. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  Hershfield said, “I’m intrigued about this relationship—uncle, niece. It is unusual, especially in that community where postpubescent girls are not allowed to be with single men except their fathers. Why do you think the girl’s parents allowed such a relationship to flourish?”

  Jonathan went on to explain Shayndie’s problems. “Ephraim seemed to have a special rapport with her. I never saw anything inappropriate.”

  “How much time did you and your wife spend with your niece?”

  “She’d come over for dinner on Sundays… spend an occasional Shabbat, although Chaim wasn’t wild about that. He was often vocal in his objection. We’re Conservative Jews, and my brother’s Chasidic.”

  “So to him, we’re all goyim.”

  “Probably,” Jonathan admitted.

  “And your brother-in-law didn’t like your entertaining his daughter because you’re Conservative. But he didn’t object to his unmarried, drug-addicted brother spending time with her?” He turned to Decker. “What am I missing?”

  Decker shrugged. “You’re more in the loop than I am.”

  Hershfield said, “You said that you and your wife had questioned Shayndie about her relationship with her uncle, your wife’s brother. Why?”

  “Just to… make sure.”

  “So there was no…precipitating factor that led up to the questioning?”

  “No, not at all. Raisie and I discussed the relationship, and we both decided that the girl should be talked to. You know as well as I do that in that community, sex is taboo.”

  “So is an uncle-niece liaison. Halachacally, it’s equivalent to incest.”

  “As far as I know, he wasn’t molesting her.”

  “Let’s switch gears for a moment,” Hershfield said. “You told me that Chaim works with his father in the business. What about Ephraim? What did he do other than dabble in drugs?”