Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 02

by Sacred;Profane

  “I’m not going to do either one. I’ve got to go.”

  Decker nodded. “Regards to Annette.”

  Fordebrand left. And then the girls started to filter in. Decker drank a fourth, fifth, and sixth double as he watched them play their mating rituals with the uniform boys. He liked to observe, watch the boobs fall out of the loosely draped tops, see the nipples jutting against the fabric, the long shapely legs poking out from the miniskirts, the tight asses scrunched into jeans, hair loose, free and brassy—all of them heavily made-up and smelling of too much perfume.

  Through a boozy haze, he saw a babe approach him. A tall one with a full head of platinum curls. Gold hoops dangled from her ears and her eyes were painted purple. She wore a gray, deliberately torn T-shirt that fell off one shoulder, and sprayed-on jeans that outlined her ass and crotch. Smiling, she took a seat next to him.

  “Buy me a drink?”

  He signaled Pat over.

  “What’s your pleasure?” Decker asked.

  “Gin and tonic.”

  Pat nodded.

  “Give me another scotch, will ya?”

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” she started out.

  Decker lit a cigarette.

  “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  He laughed.

  “Sometimes they call me that.”

  “Don’t tell me,” the woman said cocking her head to one side. “You look like a detective.”

  Decker smiled.

  She gently bit her lower lip. “And I’d say you work in Robbery or maybe GTA.”

  “Juvey and Sex Crimes,” he corrected her.

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “Sex Crimes! I hear it’s the worst! All those disgusting rapists.”

  “Rapists are disgusting…What’s your name?”

  “Nadine. What’s yours?”

  “Pete.”

  “Nice to meet you, Pete.” She stuck out her hand and he took it. It was warm and soft. She pulled it away and took a sip of her tonic.

  “So what brings you here, Pete?”

  “Atmosphere.”

  “Are you married?”

  He hesitated a moment.

  “No.”

  Nadine laughed.

  “Oh yes you are. I can spot ’em.”

  He chuckled.

  “All right, I am.”

  “S’okay,” she said. “I’m just interested in a fun night anyway.”

  His eyes scanned her body. One word and he had company for the evening. A warm woman in his bed. He felt hot. What did he owe to Rina anyway? What did he owe to anyone? Man, he was roasting. He could feel the smoke rising, enveloping him. It was fucking burning him!

  “Shit!” The girl jumped up. “Your jacket’s on fire.”

  He bolted off the stool and pounded on his right jacket pocket. A cigarette ember had spat fire onto his threads.

  “Holy fucking shit!” he yelled, smothering the flames with his bare palm. It left a blackened hole in the tweed and had burnt the first pages of his pocket siddur. Decker stuffed the ruined prayer book in his other pocket. The girl was giggling.

  “You okay?” she said, holding her hand over her mouth.

  “Yeah.”

  “C’mon,” she chirped. “Let’s get outta here before you burn the place down.”

  “I’m going home,” he said disgustedly. “Maybe some other time, okay?”

  The girl stopped laughing.

  “C’mon,” she said, tugging at his jacket sleeve. He jerked away violently, and she stepped backward, frightened. Without a word, he slapped some bills on the countertop, turned around, and left.

  As he drove home, the images grew stronger. The smoky stench of his jacket polluted the car, made it stifling. He threw open the windows and allowed a blast of cold air to hit his face, but still he sweated profusely. The images became real—fire, the stink of rotting flesh. Long-buried memories surfaced. Nam. Tracers lighting up the sky. Blood and bursts of rocket fire. Dismembered bodies. Stopthebleedingtreatemforshockgetemtoachopper. He shook his head fiercely. His mind segued to the ravaged young faces at Hotel Hell. And to Lindsey, her flesh darkening, oozing, cooking in the flames. He closed his eyes for a moment, but the nightmare stayed.

  A horn honked, reminding him that the car was drifting into oncoming traffic. He jerked the wheel around and nearly sideswiped the vehicle on his right. Flooring the gas pedal, he raced over to the yeshiva, managing to get there unharmed.

  It was nearly midnight, the place calm and peaceful. He banged loudly on her door, the knocks echoing in the quiet.

  “Who’s there?” he heard her say, startled.

  He had scared her.

  “Peter,” he whispered. But she didn’t hear him and repeated her question, her voice small and frightened.

  “It’s Peter,” he said again.

  She unbolted the door.

  “You scared—What’s wrong?”

  He stepped inside and began to pace.

  “I burned it,” he said, wiping off sweat with a jacket sleeve.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed him. “Calm down and tell me what happened.”

  He grabbed at his hair and pulled it.

  “You don’t understand. I burned it with my goddam cigarette.” He took out the siddur and threw it on the floor.

  She bent down and picked it up. An angel, he thought. Under her open robe he could see a diaphanous white nightgown. He could make out the outline of her body, but nothing more.

  “Sit down, honey,” she said quietly. “Let me get dressed. Then we can talk.”

  He grabbed her arm.

  “You’ve got to believe me! It was an accident! I didn’t mean it!”

  She leaned over to stroke his clenched hand and recoiled involuntarily. His breath.

  “I know you didn’t. It’s okay, Peter. You’re okay.”

  “I didn’t fucking mean to do it! It was an accident! I didn’t mean to burn it or her or anyone!” The sweat began to drop off of his forehead and nose. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She brought him to her breast and embraced him. He threw his arms around her neck and nuzzled against her ear.

  “Hold me, Rina,” he said, kissing her cheek, her neck. He pulled her nightgown off her shoulder and exposed the delicate white skin, kissing it, licking it, gently biting the sweet-smelling flesh.

  “Love me, baby,” he said softly. “Please love me tonight.”

  17

  Even before he was fully awake, he knew he was going to be sick. His main concern was making it to the bathroom. Upon opening his eyes, he realized to his horror that he wasn’t in his bedroom. He looked around without moving his head. The room was faintly familiar, but her fragrance was pervasive. Rina’s bedroom.

  He had no memory of how he got there.

  He was stripped down to his underwear, tucked under smooth soft sheets that urged him to go back to sleep. But his stomach lurched, letting him know that if he didn’t find a toilet soon, he’d upchuck in the bed. The house was quiet. Hopefully, no one was home and he could make a dash for the bathroom without being seen.

  Forcing his body upright, his head spinning, he stood on his feet, buckled, but didn’t fall. On the second try, his feet were able to hold his weight and he staggered to the bathroom and knelt over the toilet. His guts caved in and afterwards he felt much better. On the bathroom counter were a hand towel, an electric shaver, and a bottle of aspirin. After downing two tablets and rinsing out his mouth, he washed his face and neck and shaved. Back in the bedroom, he found a set of tefillin and a siddur resting on the dresser. His clothes had been neatly draped over the back of an easy chair. On top of them were his gun and holster, and a note from Rina.

  Coffee’s on the stove. Juice is in the refrigerator. Key’s in the door. Lock up and leave it in the mailbox when you leave.

  He picked up the phylacteries but put them back down. Empty words. No sense being a hy
pocrite.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee. What the hell had happened between them last night? He remembered the feel of her skin, remembered that he’d kissed her, but beyond that it was a blank. Not even a blur—a blank.

  He had wanted her so much. And now to think they might have made love and he had no memory of it.

  Life wasn’t fucking fair!

  He checked his watch. It was close to ten. Morrison had told him to take a day off, but he was too keyed up. Might as well proceed.

  Clementine had disappeared, no one Decker talked to had ever heard of the Blade, he couldn’t find Kiki, and nobody recognized the painted dude in the red robe.

  A total bust.

  He slumped in his chair and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Marge approached him.

  “Not going too well, Rabbi?”

  “It’s going shitty, Marge.”

  “Well, I’ve got some good news.”

  Decker perked up.

  “It has nothing to do with the case,” she said. “Marriot and Bartholomew have returned to their posts. We’re back in Juvey and Sex Crimes.”

  Decker tossed her a dirty look.

  “Well, at least our victims can talk,” she pointed out.

  “This case is eating at me.”

  “No one’s stealing it from you, Pete. No one wants it. Stop being so hard on yourself. You took two bags of bones, identified them, and solved the Bates murder—”

  “I don’t know who killed the Countess.”

  “You know how Lindsey Bates was killed. Who gives a damn how the Countess bit it? She deserved to die.”

  “I have to find out who’s behind it all. We can’t let this happen again.”

  Marge sighed. “You’re right. So what’s your next step?”

  “Damned if I know.” He snapped a pencil in two.

  “By the way, Pete. Dr. Hennon called. She says Armbruster and the Countess are a match, just as we thought.”

  Decker bolted out of his chair. “I just had a brainstorm. I’ve got to go down to the morgue and borrow a skull.”

  “Who do the teeth belong to?” Hennon asked over the phone.

  “I’m betting it’s the guy in the snuff film I told you about,” Decker said.

  “But you don’t know the man’s true identity?”

  “No idea.”

  “So how am I supposed to match him up with the teeth?”

  “I’m cutting a few stills out of the movie and I’m going to bring them over to you. Remember the photographic match you did on Armbruster before you got definitive results with the teeth X rays? How you lined up the cranium with the photo—”

  “I don’t like to give an opinion based on photographic matches alone. It’s too easy to make a mistake.”

  “I just want to see if the bones I found in the foothills match this creep in the movie. I’d like to see if I’m on the right track. Please, Annie.”

  “I don’t know when I can do it. I’m booked solid.”

  “I’ve got the skull. I’ll send it by, along with the stills. We’ll pay you extra for your time.”

  “That’s not the point. The living before the dead, Pete.” She paused. “I’ll work it in somehow.”

  “You’re a doll. I owe you one.”

  “How about dinner?” Hennon suggested. “Just between friends? Or is that against your dietary laws?”

  He should have kiboshed the invitation immediately, but something held him back. Goddam it, he wanted to go out on a normal date and eat normal food with a nice-looking woman. What was wrong with that? Just between friends.

  “There are exceptions,” he said calmly. “Maybe we can work something out.”

  He felt guilty as soon as he hung up the phone.

  “Have a seat,” Rina said. “We’re just starting dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Decker. “I just came over to say thanks.”

  “Please.” She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

  Decker sat down. She handed him a yarmulke and he put it on without a word.

  She placed a steaming bowl of creamy fish chowder in front of him. The soup was thick with chunks of white halibut, bits of diced potatoes, and lots of onions. In the middle of the table were slices of thick-crusted garlic bread, buttery and full of cheese. Rina poured him a bottle of chilled Dos Equis.

  “I’m really not hungry,” he repeated.

  “Don’t eat,” she said, quietly.

  He stared at the soup, smelling its rich aroma. He was hungry. He was starved. But he refused to eat. He was acting like an asshole and didn’t know why. He was the one who’d shown up drunk as a skunk, acting like a lunatic. Why was he mad at Rina? And why the hell hadn’t he told Annie no?

  Times like this reminded him that his divorce was a two-way street. He could hear Jan’s voice. You’re self-destructive, Peter. Her favorite word—self-destructive. She’d used it the day he’d quit the law practice; she’d used it the day she’d kicked him out of the house.

  The boys slurped the last of their chowder and gave him sidelong glances. Quiet. He was making everyone uncomfortable. He stood up.

  “I’ve really got to go, Rina.”

  “Boys, I want to talk to Peter alone for a minute,” Rina said. “Please go to your room.”

  “We didn’t bentch yet, Eema,” Sammy said.

  “The avayrah’s on me,” Rina answered.

  The boys left quickly.

  Decker said nothing. Any remark would come out trite or stupid.

  “Peter, what upset you so last night?”

  He rubbed his chin and realized what a lousy job her electric shaver had done on him this morning. For some odd reason, it embarrassed him to be scruffy in front of her.

  “Sometimes my work gets to me,” he answered.

  “Are you still working on the bones?” she asked.

  “Yes. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “At least you will sit down while I’m talking to you?” He sat back down.

  “I’m acting like a jerk, Rina. I do that when I’m under pressure. I’m sorry.”

  She patted his hand. “It’s okay. I’m sorry you had a bad day…or night. I wish I could help you. If you’d tell me about it, maybe—”

  “Just drop it, Rina.”

  He was hurting her. He saw it in her eyes. She said nothing.

  “I won’t barge in on you like that again,” he said. “It was an exception.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Thanks for taking in a stray dog.”

  “You’re not a stray dog, Peter. You’re the man I love.”

  Tell her you love her, damn it.

  He smiled weakly and was silent.

  Withholding son of a bitch. Why are you doing this to her? He ran his fingers through his hair.

  “What happened between us last night, Rina?”

  She stared at him for clarification.

  “I had a blackout,” he said. “Did we make love?”

  She shook her head.

  “You groped around a little, then passed out on the living room floor. I was scared to death. At first I thought you had a heart attack, but, baruch Hashem, you started snoring.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “How’d I get into the bedroom?”

  “I’m not as weak as you think I am,” she said, quietly.

  “You carried me?”

  “Dragged you.”

  “You should have left me on the floor to sleep it off,” he reprimanded her. “Why risk straining your back?”

  Her patience suddenly snapped.

  “Peter, for goodness sake, what if the boys would have seen you like that?”

  He looked down.

  “You slept on the couch?”

  She nodded. “It’s comfortable. I’ve slept on it many times when I’ve had company.”

  “Okay. I’ll go now.”

  “Wait, I almost forgot.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pocket siddur, not unlike the one he had bur
ned. But this one was covered with silverplate and studded with blue stones. She handed it to him and he thumbed through the pages.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you very much. I’ll try to take better care of this one.”

  “Don’t put it in a glass case and treat it like an object of art. Use it, Peter. Use it until it falls apart. It will help you—”

  “I don’t need any help, Rina.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Everyone needs help.”

  You’re going to start an argument unless you shut your mouth, he warned himself.

  He stood up and placed the siddur in his pocket.

  “Thanks,” he repeated.

  Walking out to his car, he stopped a few feet away from the unmarked. The guilt trip wasn’t over yet. The Rosh Yeshiva was standing against the car, holding a volume of Talmud and reading in the dark with the aid of a penlight.

  Shit!

  “H’lo, Rabbi,” Decker said. “I assume you’d like to talk to me?”

  “Take me for a ride, Peter,” the old man answered, turning off the light.

  Decker opened the door for him, then went around and settled in the driver’s seat. He drove out of the grounds and onto the mountain road, the Rosh Yeshiva sitting impassively beside him. The silence was suffocating. The rabbi took out a silver case and pulled out two handmade cigarettes. He lit the first one, gave it to Decker, and lit the second one for himself. The man’s profile was as chiseled and intense as a Rodin sculpture.

  They rode on, smoking wordlessly until the old man finally spoke:

  “You slept at Rina Miriam’s house,” he said, quietly.

  The old guy had eyes behind his head.

  “She slept on the couch,” answered Decker.

  The Rosh Yeshiva’s voice hardened. “Do you think for one moment I had assumed that you had slept with her?”

  Decker said nothing.

  “And because you didn’t, do you expect praise?”

  The detective remained silent.

  “If you were just a gentile converting to please the woman he loved, I would have never started with you, Peter. Never! But that’s not the case. You’re a biological Jew who has had his heritage ripped away from him by a quirk of fate. I checked into your adoption, Peter. Your birth mother had arranged for you to go to a Jewish family, but there was a bureaucratic snafu and you were placed in the wrong agency.”