by Stone Kiss
“Like I said, he’d been sober for over two years,” Jonathan insisted.
“All right. Have it your way. And he worked in the family business with his father and brother.”
“Yes.”
“Alongside Chaim?”
“Chaim’s been in the business for twenty years, so he has seniority naturally. Ephraim knew that.”
“So there haven’t been any problems?”
“Not that I know of. From my perspective, Papa was thrilled that his son finally showed some interest in family affairs.”
“All right. And what about the business? Is it solvent?”
“Akiva asked the same questions. Sure, it’s been going through some rough times. Everyone’s on edge and the economy isn’t the greatest. But yes, as far as I know, the stores are solvent.”
“Any bad loans?” Decker asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Any bad investments?”
“You’d be much better off asking Chaim.”
“I will do that,” answered Decker. “And I guarantee you, so will the police.”
“Why would the murder have anything to do with the business? The stores have always run on a small profit margin. There’s nothing there to get excited about.”
“I’m sure he’s just trying to get the lay of the land,” Hershfield said. “If I can talk frankly for a moment, Rabbi, you know that the Chasidim in your brother’s area have been in trouble for embezzling public-school funds and transferring the money to the local yeshivas. Is either of your brothers-in-law active in local politics?”
“Not that I know. They’re shleppers, Mr. Hershfield. They make their money by dint of hard work.”
“Two years ago, Yosi Stern was indicted on drug-sales charges. I wasn’t his lawyer. If I had been, he wouldn’t be upstate right now. He used Chasidim to smuggle in ecstasy from Holland, then laundered the drug money through local yeshivas and businesses of the Chasidim. What would you know about that?”
“Nothing,” Jonathan said.
“And your wife’s family?”
“My father-in-law would never permit it.” Jonathan was adamant. “He’s a camp survivor. He kept his wits about him the entire time by an unwavering trust in God. He’s not only a religious man, but a good man.”
“The two don’t always go hand in hand,” Decker said.
Hershfield got up and made himself some coffee. “Let’s take a break. Bagels, anyone?”
Jonathan dropped his head into his hands, but Decker stood up. “I’m hungry.” He smeared some cream cheese over a poppy seed bagel. “Anyplace to wash?”
Hershfield popped a panel door and a wet bar appeared. He held up a becher—a traditional washing cup. “I am fully prepared.”
Decker washed and ate, cajoling Jonathan to do the same. Fifteen minutes later, after saying the grace over bread, Hershfield sat back in his desk chair. He was all business.
“I have made a decision,” he announced. “You’ll like the outcome, I think. If you need representation, I’d be happy to fit you into my busy schedule. But there’s a condition.”
“What’s that?” Jonathan asked.
“If your family hires me, they’re going to have to work with me. That means if I ask them questions, they will have to answer me truthfully.” He shook his finger at Jonathan. “This isn’t the shuk, Rabbi. This isn’t haggling until we find a story we both like. I must know what’s going on so I can perform the service to the best of my ability. Oftentimes, the subtleties of attorney/client privilege are lost on some of our black-hat brethren. They seem to consider it an insult to answer me truthfully. I will not deal with clients like that. At this point in my life, I don’t need that tsuris. Am I clear?”
Jonathan nodded. “I understand.”
Hershfield stood. “I have a couple of very important depositions this morning. In the meantime, it is in everyone’s best interest if your family refrains from talking to the police unless I am there during the questioning.” He turned to Decker. “I’m sure this isn’t the case with you, Lieutenant, but a few of your renegade comrades have played it pretty loose with Miranda.”
Decker was expressionless. “If you say so.”
Hershfield laughed. “And you’re planning to contact your fellow brothers in blue?”
“I’d like to take a look at a report or two.”
“And you’ll keep me abreast.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, Mr. Hershfield.”
“So what happens if your findings put you in conflict with your family obligations?”
“Yes, I’ve thought about that.”
“And?”
“And…” Decker looked at his watch. “And I think it’s time to go.”
4
It was still early, and the detectives weren’t in yet. Decker left his name and number with a desk sergeant and on the squad room’s phone machine. If no one called his cell back by nine, he’d just show up and deal with it in person. Hannah needed to settle down and so did Rina. Jonathan drove them into Brooklyn—traffic mercifully going the other way on the bridge. When the van got to Eastern Parkway—a main thoroughfare in the borough—things took on a familiar focus. It had been ten years since Decker had been here, but he had gotten to know the streets fairly well because he had been searching for someone in the area.
A missing kid, actually.
History repeating itself?
Maybe. That wasn’t all that bad. That kid had turned up alive.
As they passed the avenues—Forty-second, Forty-third, Forty-fourth—Decker was surprised by how many people were up and about. Gaggles of bearded men—most of them bespectacled—dressed in black woolen suits, white shirts, and black hats, with their side locks, called payot, bouncing off their shoulders as they moved with quick strides down the sidewalks. The boys and teens were miniversions of the men except for the absence of facial hair. There were also dozens of kerchief-headed women bundled in coats pushing prams while trying to contain the multitude of children who surrounded them. Some had as many as ten children, the older daughters assigned the role of mother’s assistant to their younger siblings. There were groups of school-age girls, toting enormous backpacks (some things were the same world over), garbed in parochial uniforms—long-sleeved white shirts, blue skirts with hemlines way below the knee. Their legs were encased in opaque tights, heavy coats on their backs.
The air was nippy now, so the thick suits and woolen coats and stockings were not only modest but also practical. But Decker knew that when summer arrived with temperatures soaring into the triple digits and 90 percent humidity, the Chasidish attire wouldn’t alter much. The exterior coats would be gone, but still they’d sweat into their long-sleeved clothing, drenched and itchy with dark circles of perspiration under their arms and around their necks, faces moist in the muggy air. Yet they’d accept their lot, endure the heat and the humidity, wearing the discomfort like ill-fitting shoes.
Regarding the girls, Decker couldn’t help but think of Shaynda. All of these preteens and teens were so fresh-faced with their hair in pigtails, ponytails, or a long braid that trailed down their backs. None wore a drop of makeup or nail polish… even the adolescent girls.
Especially the adolescent girls.
What was Shaynda’s big sin? Wearing nail polish or makeup? Hanging out at the mall? Breaking away and being with the public-school kids? It seemed so harmless, but not in this community. It would give the locals the wrong idea about the girl, making it hard for her parents to find her a proper shiddach—a match for marriage.
The streets were lined with stores catering to the Jewish trade— kosher cafés, pizza joints and restaurants, kosher meat markets and butchers, produce markets advertising day-old sales, a dress shop featuring discount shaytles—wigs. There were stores that specialized in sepharim, or religious books, and there were smiths that forged esoteric silver objects like torah yads—pointers that a prayer leader would use while reading from the holy scroll. Decker
noticed a studio for a sofer—a scribe. Every other establishment seemed to be a schtiebl, or a small storefront synagogue. Maybe some of the places had changed hands, but the overall gestalt of the area was the same— except that the population seemed even more religious than it had been ten years ago. How was that possible?
Jonathan pulled the van curbside in front of a small two-story brick home on a block of small two-story brick homes. This was the house of Lazarus, the abode of Rina’s former in-laws. As always, Decker wanted to wait in the car until it was over. The Lazaruses had gone through the ultimate tragedy, and he always felt as if he were a painful reminder of what shouldn’t have been. Yet, as soon as the motor died, the short, squat couple flew out of the doorway with smiles so wide that they almost bisected their faces. They greeted Decker with a generosity of spirit that defined them as the lovely people they were. Heavy-breasted, apron-wearing, Mrs. Lazarus hugged and kissed Rina; white-bearded Rav Lazarus pumped Decker’s hand with vigor that defied a man of eighty-six. Both of them fussed over Hannah as if she were a blood granddaughter, greeting her with a plate of cookies and several wrapped presents. The little girl smiled, thanking them shyly, calling them Bubbe and Zeyde.
After everyone made nice, Decker took the suitcases into the house. The small living room was hot and stuffy and enveloped in the aromas of chicken soup, roasting meat, and the sweet smell of chocolate-chip cookies, reminding Decker’s stomach that a bagel hadn’t been much of a breakfast. But he’d satisfy the hunger pangs later. He looked at his watch, wondering when he could make a graceful exit. Rina caught it and came to his rescue.
“I know you have work to do. Go. I’ll make excuses.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. The brother’s still dead and the girl’s still missing.”
“Try to have a good time,” Decker told his wife.
“You know, that just might happen. They’ve completely taken over Hannah’s care. They even bought her a TV.”
“That’s right,” Decker said. “These people don’t have TVs, do they?”
“These people!” Rina elbowed him. “Well, now they do have a TV. So there!” Her smile was wide. “I think I’m going to take a hot bath. Then I’m going to relax!”
Decker felt content. It was good to see Rina so happy. She always seemed calm and content in this ultrareligious environment. He had always thought of himself as the one and only giver, the person who had completely changed his ways to please her. Now he was aware that she, too, had adjusted her life to make a home with him. He kissed her modestly on the cheek. “I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“That after you relax, you take off your shoes and relax some more.”
Her blue eyes were dazzling. “That’s a very good idea. I’ll see you in about six, seven hours.”
“That’s right. It’s Shabbos tonight.”
“How much can you really find out in six hours?”
“Depends. I’ve solved cases in thirty minutes.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“What’s the longest it ever took you to solve a homicide?”
Decker laughed. “Don’t know. The files are still open.”
Quinton was a town divided. On one side of the main municipal park—Liberty Field—was an upscale upstate rural suburb. Two-story Federal-style brick houses were perched on large lots with SUVs and Mercedes parked in the driveways. Sinuous lanes and roadways were edged by tall trees and old-fashioned street lighting with fixtures that looked like a sprig of flowers. Some of the sidewalks weren’t even paved. There were lots of big sycamores and oaks that would provide much-needed shade in the summer, although they were bare at the moment. The exceptions were the pines, and a few stately early bloomers with budding branches, greening the wood as if it were covered in moss.
Taft, Taylor, and Tyler streets held the local shopping. Lots of the usual names—The Gap, Banana Republic, Star$s, Ann Taylor, Victoria’s Secret, Pottery Barn—chains, yes, but at least they were individual stores, not units housed under one big roof with adjacent parking lots the size of Lake Tahoe. Here, the parking was the diagonal kind—on the streets and free. Decker commented to Jonathan about the absence of a mall and asked where Shayndie found one.
“There’s one in the next town—Bainberry.”
“It’s pretty here… old-fashioned.”
“This side is, yes.”
“This side as opposed to…”
Jonathan stared out the window.
“How far away are we from the religious side?” Decker asked.
“Don’t worry. You’ll know when you’re there.”
Tree studded and filled with multicolored tulip beds, Liberty Field contained the requisite courthouse, the hall of records, the main police and fire stations, and a library. There was also a small lake, a botanical garden, an indoor skating rink, a bowling alley, and a community center, where the Quinton High School production of The Pajama Game was playing.
Traveling past the park, Jonathan steered the van onto a road sided by copses of denuded trees. Minutes passed; then new groupings of houses came into view. These were smaller, less adorned, and more functional. The driveways held cheaper cars and vans—sometimes even two vans. The lots were smaller and barer, and the shopping district was quite different from its upscale cousin. Except for the word “Quinton” every now and then, it could have been interchangeable with the religious stores and shuls and same-sex parochial schools of Boro Park. The residents were also identical, down to the wigs and black-hat dress. It was hard to reconcile the two areas as a single town. Decker asked why the two populations chose to share, when each area had such a distinct identity.
“At this point, the municipality needs every single bit of property tax to keep Quinton going. If the Frummies seceded, there wouldn’t be enough money to keep the services going.”
“Are there problems between the two halves?”
“Yes,” Jonathan said. “But they need each other. There have been some compromises. But there have also been some nasty wars. At the moment, the Frummies want their own school district, but they want the city to pay for it. They don’t understand the concept of separation of church and state. Even worse, they don’t understand why it’s good for them in the long run.”
“They have a point,” Decker said. “They pay in taxes, but don’t get anything back.”
“You’ve been talking to Rina. All the Orthodox like the voucher system.”
“Yes, she likes the voucher system, but she’s come to realize that there’s a point in maintaining a strong public-school system.”
“Well, then she’s a first,” Jonathan said. “The Frummies get the fire department, the garbage pickup, the police department. And lately, there’s been some talk about their using the public schools in the morning, then going to the yeshivas in the afternoon so the yeshivas wouldn’t have to hire teachers for secular studies.”
“That seems like a good idea,” Decker said.
“Unfortunately, the Frummies don’t want the teachers teaching evolution, or sex education, or biology of any kind. Things that are mandatory in the Quinton school curriculum. Plus”—Jonathan sighed—“the Frummies don’t care about secular education. They were dragging down the standardized test scores. There was a big town meeting about it. It got ugly. Here we are.”
Jonathan parked the car.
Decker said, “You don’t approve.”
“I’m not saying you compromise your principles,” Jonathan said. “But you don’t have to create spectacles. Then when you throw in the embezzlement charges… It reflects poorly on all of us.”
“No group is perfect.”
“Of course not. And the vast majority here are wonderful. But when you choose to make yourself visible, you do have an obligation to be a Kiddush Hashem.”
Kiddush Hashem: it more or less meant to set a good example for God.
“Ready?’ Jonathan asked.
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“Sure.”
The rabbi opened the door to the van and got out. Decker followed him up the stone walkway to an unassuming two-story brick house similar to those in Boro Park. Jonathan didn’t bother to knock. He opened the door and stepped inside.
“Chaim?” Jonathan turned to Decker. “Come in. They’re expecting us. Chaim?”
“Yonasan?” The voice was coming from upstairs.
“Yeah, it’s me. I have Akiva.”
“I’ll be right down.”
The living room was deceptively spacious. Or maybe it was just the lack of furniture. There was a small grouping around a fireplace— an upholstered couch facing a couple of chairs. But the rest had been formed into a dining room—a square table covered with a white cloth and surrounded by twelve chairs. The floor was tiled with limestone squares, no rug to soften the hard surface. There was a piano in the corner, sheet music on the stand. Decker wondered if Shaynda played.
The walls were painted off-white, freshly done, and bare except for several framed pictures of wizened, bearded rabbis. One was Menachem Mendel Schneerson—the Lubavitcher rebbe. Another was the Chofetz Chaim—a great Jewish scholar of the nineteenth century. Decker didn’t recognize any of the other remaining portraits. Maybe the Liebers had other art and hadn’t gotten around to hanging it up. Somehow Decker doubted that.
A gray-bearded man scrambled down the staircase. Around fiveten and lean, he appeared to be in his forties. He wore the usual Chasidic uniform—black suit, white shirt. No hat on his head; instead, he wore a big black velvet yarmulke. The hair that showed was very thin. Underneath the kippah, he was probably bald. He shook hands with Decker: the palms were calloused. Clearly, a man who did more than learn all day.
“Chaim Lieber.” He dropped Decker’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what to say.”
“Please.”
His eyes watered. “Please sit, Lieutenant.”
“Akiva’s fine. Or Peter.” Decker sat down. “I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
