I slid the plate over to him. “You said that day that you had rented a movie,In the Bedroom ?”
He devoured half of my bagel. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Leaving no stone unturned. Can you play along?”
He glanced at his watch. “For another minute or so. Then I have another obligation.”
“Where do you rent movies from?”
“I probably rentedIn the Bedroom from Crystal Video, but that went out of business a few months back. Now it’s just plain Blockbuster.”
“Your girlfriend moves back to New York; your video store goes out of business. . . .”
“I have the Midas touch.” He stood and gathered up his Sunday paper. “Thank you. It’s been charming, but I have to go.” As he walked away, he said, “You can clean up after me.”
I watched him walk away. Then I stood and carefully gathered up his discards.
Help you clean up?
Gladly, Buck.Gladly.
∇
Buck was Bradley Durvain.
His DNA was not a match.
So much for my gut.
But since I was the one who had instigated this interviewing charade, I dutifully went through every working member associated with the Fordham Communal Center for the Developmentally Disabled. When it came to gathering genetic information from José, the center’s janitor for two years, I interviewed him at Fordham, talking to him during a smoke-and-coffee break. Afterward, I picked up the Styrofoam cup and the two cigarette butts and placed them into two separate evidence bags.
It was only after the DNA match came through that I recalled Sarah’s words and kicked myself mentally. She had given me the information when we first found out about the gang rape, but I hadn’t been paying attention. Dad and I had asked her to describe her assailants. She had said they were Mexicans . . . like the school’s janitor, José.
But he’s a nice Mexican. Sometimes he gives us candy and treats.
His real name was actually Hasan Fazul Al-Liby and he was from Iraq, not Mexico. But he called himself José because in the present political climate, being Hispanic rather than Arabic increased his prospects of employment. His being a scumbag did nothing to improve the standing of his people.
Hasan not only gave the girls candy and treats, he took them to the movies. Afterward, he’d take them to his apartment in downtown Los Angeles and have sex with them in front of a video camera. A search warrant produced a cache of snacks and six tapes with compromised women—two mentally disabled girls, including Belinda (the other wasn’t from Fordham) and what looked like four homeless women. At least, they weren’t little children. With the tapes entered as evidence, Brill brought the DA enough for the case without Sarah Sanders having to make a confession, saving wear and tear on the poor girl’s psyche. My father, ever deliberate and methodical, had once again called the correct shots.
When the news of Hasan’s “detainment” reached Fordham, another girl—his current “girlfriend”—came out of the woodwork, much to Klinghoffner’s dismay. The case began to grow exponentially. It took on a life worthy of newspaper coverage. Brill, along with the assistant DA, began to appear in front of television cameras. I had managed to avoid any kind of association, other than being the first officer at the scene of the hit-and-run. Fine with me: Let Brill take the credit. I figured I had paid off my debt to him and then some. By the time I left for Israel, Hasan was on remand. Denied bail, he was being held at County jail pending trial and was being investigated by both the FBI and CIA for terrorist links. My opinion, for what it’s worth, was that Hasan was just your ordinary rotten scumbag with no political affiliations.
He had lured Belinda out only to mow her down because Belinda was going to report his bad behavior after he had stopped “being her boyfriend.” I had the correct reasoning, but the wrong suspect.
And I was so damn sure.
It gave me pause, how fortunate it was that the law required evidence to back up hunches and intuition. One day—hopefully sooner rather than later—I’ll get a gold shield. Hasan’s arrest was one of those seminal events, one of life’s lessons that I’d carry with me long after I got used to being called detective.
∇
A week later, Koby and I were scrunched into two coach seats on El Al Airlines headed for the Holy Land. Nervously, I rehearsed my imaginary conversations with his family. In the end, it didn’t matter. I was with Koby; I was automatically fine with them. I trulyadored his kinfolk, but there were just somany of them, something I wasn’t used to having grown up as an only child. The minute we walked into his parents’ apartment, my brain went into overload.
The scene could have been a fraternity prank for rush: Exactly how many people could you cram into a tiny speck of an apartment? It was two parents, nine siblings—including twin teenage sisters who kept asking me about all the stars I see working in Hollywood—spouses, assorted cousins, and dozens upon dozens of children of all races and ethnicities. One stepbrother had married a Russian woman, another a French Moroccan, and a third had hooked up with an American dentist. His two brothers had Ethiopian wives, but his sister had married a Yemenite Jew whose father was a policeman. It was a living, breathing United Nations, but the good part was they all spoke some English. Still, their sheer number was simply overwhelming.
There wasn’t much time to sightsee, only a quick overnight in Jerusalem because everybody said I had to see Jerusalem. It was ancient and exotic and in parts very labyrinthine, but also filled with traffic and it was nearly impossible to find a parking space in city central. It wasn’t at all a war zone, not nearly as dangerous as I thought it would be. There were people on the streets, but we were reminded constantly not to drive certain roads at night; the couple of times we did, we carried a gun.
Mostly, it was hopping from one relative to another, one meal after another, everyone ending the repast with the accusing words “So when will you be coming back?” Meeting the family gave me fresh insight into my beloved. Doted on by his parents, cosseted by his five older brothers, worshiped by his four younger sisters, Koby was the favorite, the designated “pet,” and when the conversation wasn’t centered around politics—which was most of the time—it was a swap of Koby stories. The oldest brother of all ten, Yaphet, summed it up succinctly one day at the dinner table. Yaphet bore a resemblance to Koby, but was two inches shorter and twice as wide. His voice was low and gravelly, and he spoke English haltingly.
But he got the point across.
“Yaakov,” he growled out. “He got the looks. . . . He got the brains. . . . He got the physical . . .gevurah . . . .”
“Strength,” Koby whispered.
“I think he is adopted,” Yaphet snarled out. “Or my mother decides to playtricks! ”
Immediately, the table broke into raucous laughter . . . led by Koby’sfather. It was then that Koby turned to me and whispered, “It is time to go back.”
∇
We were both thrilled when we touched down at smoggy old LAX. After a day of recuperation, Koby returned to work. I, on impulse, went downtown during the midafternoon heat to check out skid-row denizens. I walked from block to block taking in sad, discarded faces, trying not to bleed for the world. I had almost given up when fate tapped my shoulder.
I knew him instantly. He was sitting on the stoop of a condemned building in an industrial block of warehouses, eating food from a can. His kinky hair had grown bushy and wild, but somehow he had managed to remain clean shaven, a lucky break for me because a beard would have covered his recognizable Down’s-like face. He had open sores on his hands and his face was dirty, just caked with grime. His body was swathed in layers of clothes, even though it was fiery hot.
My heart was pounding when I approached him. He looked up and hooked an arm over his meal, a gesture of protecting his food. I extended my hand to him, but he didn’t respond.
“C’mon, David,” I told him. “Let’s go home.”
He regarded me with
yellow eyes but didn’t move.
“People are waiting for you, David. Lots of people.”
No response.
“Sarah . . . Mr. Klinghoffner, Mr. Paxton . . . You remember Mr. Paxton, don’t you?”
He growled out, “I’m not stupid.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said. “Sarah had a baby. She had a little girl. That means you have a daughter. She named her Cinderella. We call her Ella. I think”—I studied his face—“I think she has Sarah’s eyes, but your mouth.”
He continued to eat.
I said again, “C’mon, David, let’s get out of here.”
“Don’t got nowhere to go. Don’t got a home.”
“You could have a home if you wanted one.”
“Well, I don’t got one now.”
“You may not have an apartment at this moment, but we can get you one.”
“I want to see Sarah.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“No. Her sister won’t let me.”
“Have you ever asked Sarah’s sister?”
David didn’t answer.
“Things might be different with the baby. It’s worth a try.”
Again I extended my hand. This time, he took it and I hoisted him to his feet. His smell was strong, even in the open air. He was short and appeared squat, but that could have been the layers of clothes. Immediately, he began to scratch his hands, arms, and head. I got itchy just looking at him. “Those cuts and sores . . . do they hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“They look like bites.”
“Could be. Lots of bugs and rats around when I sleep.”
“We need to get you looked at and cleaned up. I have a friend who works in a hospital. Mind if we go there?”
“What hospital?”
“Mid-City Pediatric.”
“That’s for kids.”
“They have adults. And they have lots of good doctors.”
“All right.”
“So should we go now?”
“All right.”
I looked at the piles of clothing on the ground. “Anything you want to take with you?”
He thought a moment, then shook his head. “It’s all garbage.”
“You deserve better than garbage.”
He didn’t answer me. He concentrated as he walked. I could tell his feet were tender. Slowly, we made it back to my car and I settled him inside. In closed quarters, his stench was foul, not just a dirty smell but reeking of infections. I rolled down the windows, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
“When can I see Sarah?” he asked me.
“First we have to clean you up.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know. We just have to make sure you’re not sick before you see Sarah—because of the baby.”
“How is the baby?”
“She’s wonderful. Very, very cute.”
“Good.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a McDonald’s at the hospital. If the doctor says it’s okay, I’ll buy you a meal.”
“Thank you.”
As I drove to Mid-City, I called up Koby on my cell. It was wonderful to know someone in the medical field; it just streamlined everything. By the time I pulled up to the main entrance, Koby, dressed in scrubs, masked, gloved, and wearing a hair cap, was outside with a wheelchair. I helped David out of the car and into the wheelchair.
“This is David.”
“Hey, David,” Koby said. “I’m going to put a cap on your hair, all right?”
“Okay.”
“Maybe we take it off later.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe we give you a short haircut like in the army.”
“Okay.”
Koby picked up the boy’s hands and I saw his eyebrows go up. “I take you to see a doctor, David. But I tell you now, I’m sure we admit you overnight.”
“David, I’m going to call Mr. Paxton,” I told him. “He can help you with all this.”
“Okay.”
“Your daughter was brought here after she was born,” Koby said. “I took care of her.”
David looked up at Koby, and for the first time, I saw him smile. It opened his face and clogged in my throat.
Koby said, “I take it from here, Cindy.”
“He’s hungry, Yaakov.”
“We take good care of him. I shall talk to the attending. I make sure he gets fed. I see you when I get off . . . around eleven.”
“I’ll be waiting.” I went around to the driver’s side of the car.
“Cindy?” Koby said.
I turned around.
“He has infestation of lice. Go to the pharmacy and buy a special shampoo—Nix or Rid. You can buy them over the counter. Take a hot shower when you get home and use it as directed. Also, they make a special spray for upholstery. You need to disinfect your car.”
I looked at my beautiful, recently washed-and-waxed Lexus. I frowned. What could I do? The drawbacks of altruism, but on balance, the positives greatly outweighed the negatives.
46
To T. S. Eliot,April was the cruelest month, but for Angelinos September was the hottest. And if you asked Rina, the hottest day of the year always fell on Yom Kippur, when religious Jews refrained from food and drink for over twenty-six hours. It wasn’t Yom Kippur today, but the afternoon had been a scorcher, not all that unusual even at this late date in the ninth month.
Even now, as the hour approached six in the evening, the temperatures in the West Valley were still in the high 80s. Koby’s newest set of wheels, a ten-year-old black BMW 323, had workable air-conditioning, but the temperature gauge had been steadily rising as we tooled down the freeway. So as soon as we hit local streets, he turned it off and we opened the windows. When we got to my father’s house, the sun was an orange ball of fire sinking in the sky. I checked my watch. We had made good time.
We both had dressed for the heat—comfortably but appropriate forShabbat. Koby had on an off-white linen suit over a white T-shirt. No tie, obviously, calling it Israeli style, but he satisfied his color fix by wearing a gigantic red-green-and-yellow-striped yarmulke, the colors of Ethiopia. This evening, he was my chieftain prince—tall, lean, aristocratic, and incredibly handsome—real eye candy. My heart did a little tap dance every time I looked at him. I had on an ice blue sleeveless dress, but I carried a white cotton blazer to cover my bare arms in case I decided to go to synagogue.
I paused before I knocked on the door. I regarded Koby’s eyes made gold by the strong light of sunset. “Will you sing ‘Eshet Chayil’ for me tonight?”
He grinned. “Of course. In my heart, I sing it for you every night.”
“But tonight is different.”
“Indeed. If you want, I will sing it for you a hundred times.”
I leaned my head against his arm. “Once with meaning will suffice.” I exhaled and smiled. “Here we go.”
I knocked and my father opened the door. First his eyes went to Koby’s face, then to mine. He gave me a stern look. “What brings you here on my off-hours, Detective?”
“Well, Lieutenant,” I answered, “Yaakov and I were trying to figure out how to celebrate my promotion. We ran through some ideas. One of them wasShabbat dinner with you and the family.”
Dad broke into a smile exuding pride. “I’ll see if Rina has any champagne.”
Koby lifted a bottle of Kedem bubbly. “I’m one step ahead of you, sir.”
“Hmm . . .” Dad sneered at my date. “And just what have youpersonally done to celebrate my little girl’s promotion?”
Koby lifted up my left hand. “I’m one step ahead of you, sir.”
My father’s eyes widened. They went from my hand to my face to Koby’s and back to my hand.
Koby said, “I brought a magnifying glass if it would help.”
“It’s notthat small. It’s not small at all. What is it? A car
at?”
“One point four, actually.”
“Shiny little bugger, isn’t it?”
“It is a very good stone—E flawless. I could have gotten bigger, but your daughter wanted quality. I have good friends in the diamond bursa in Israel.”
“I’ve been there, so don’t even try to pull rank.” He stared at Koby, his expression sour. “Does this mean you’re going to be a fixture here?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Dad broke into a grin.
Then he hugged Koby.
Not me. Koby.
I tapped my father on the shoulder. “Uh, remember me? Your daughter?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He broke away from Koby, hugged me hard, gripping me with his fingers. As soon as his eyes moistened, he averted his gaze. “Come on in.” To me: “Did you tell your mother?”
“We just came from there. We told her first.”
“Smart girl. Set a date?”
“Mom’s working on it,” I answered. “She’s thinking about squeezing us in somewhere between her trip to the Far East and the Food Is Life banquet.” I laughed. “I’m being mean. She offered to cancel her trip to the Far East, but I told her to work around it. We’re flexible.”
Koby said, “Actually, I wanted to marry in Israel, save you time and money, but Cindy said Jan would kill her.”
“She would have,” Decker concurred.
“So now you are stuck with my family coming out here. With all of my siblings and step-siblings and cousins and their families, it will be between thirty and sixty people.”
Decker opened and closed his mouth. “Okay.”
“His father and stepmother are real, real,real religious, Daddy,” I said.
My father looked ill. “More than Rina?”
Koby thought about it. “Not more religious, but Rina is more . . . sophisticated. My stepmother is Canadian, but my father is very, very old-fashioned. He doesn’t speak English all that well.”
“He doesn’t speak it at all,” I corrected. “But he understands. He’s very cute. He’s really, really skinny. And his stepmother’s a doll. When they come out, can they stay here? Rina not only knows the religious etiquette, but she also knows Hebrew. If they stay with Mom, it’ll be a disaster. She won’t know what to do with them.”
Street Dreams Page 40
