by Ted Dekker
But he knew from Chaim’s tone that the rabbi was worried, so he added the warning. Be careful, Rabbi. Promise you’ll be careful.
Stephen looked around the ten-by-ten living space he’d pulled together while thinking. He’d scavenged wood and some tires from the piles around the room and built up a semblance of walls to cordon off his area. Two walls, each stabilized by nothing more than its own weight, leaned against trusses and angled from the floor to the building’s outer wall. A few tires added stability. It was a lean-to of sorts.
Some might think he’d flipped his lid. Sylvia, for example. The rabbi even. But it wasn’t madness that drove him. He was no more mad than the rest of God’s children, chasing after their rainbows.
See, Stephen, even that sounded a bit mad. Your reasons for not being mad are mad.
In a bohemian kind of way, what he was doing made perfect sense. He was pursuing an idea that really mattered. The safe was his pot at the end of the rainbow. Until some dramatic breakthrough would put his hands on that safe, he would carefully block out any part of the world that took his attention off the goal. Did that sound like madness? Of course not. The greatest achievements in history were accomplished by men willing to do what others were not willing to do.
The antique dealer, Gerik, had said that man was created to obsess. The rabbi had said that the only thing worse than not getting what you desperately want is not desperately wanting anything at all. Well then?
Stephen straightened from his work over the left wall. What was that diatribe the rabbi had once delivered at the breakfast table?
You can have nothing to die for until you first have something to live for. The Holocaust did that for Jews. It revealed the incomparable value of another idea. Life. Love! Love, Stephen. We should be daily ravaged by love. The Nazis hated us. If from this we do not learn to love, we dishonor the lives of six million Jews.
“That’s right, Rabbi,” he muttered. “So then I will desperately want and I will love. This is my labor of love.”
He nudged a two-by-four into place—an extra brace required because the wall swayed every time he touched it—and stood back.
“Lovely,” he mumbled.
Another preposterous idea had been brewing over the last twenty-four hours, and with each passing hour its preposterousness faded. The notion that Joel Sparks could be his salvation seemed counterintuitive, given the man’s less-than-honorable character. But Stephen was in pursuit of love, not necessarily reason.
Stephen reached into his backpack, carefully pulled out the eight-by-ten photograph of Ruth, and looked into her eyes. In his mind’s eye, this woman was Esther. As Gerik had said, the daughter of this woman would today be about the age of her mother in the picture. She would look like her mother, perhaps.
This was Esther. This was the woman he was meant to find. She was an orphan, a true Stone of David, and her picture was in the safe, on top of the tin box that Stephen would soon have.
He had stared at Esther’s picture for hours in these last three days.
He was meant for her.
Honestly, he thought he might be falling in love with the woman in this picture. Her daughter, Esther. Chaim would call it infatuation, but Stephen knew the difference.
“You have ruined me,” he whispered lovingly, and he kissed the picture lightly.
He stood and looked around. The two haphazardly erected walls bordered the window that overlooked Rachel’s apartment. A piece of plywood layered with some insulation made a bed in the left corner. Three cans of beans and two cans of corn stood in a neat pile in the right corner. A crate with a candle, some matches, a spoon, a can opener, and a comb he hadn’t yet used sat dead center.
He’d slept on his bed here last night, if slept could be broadly defined. Moaned and rolled about and stared at the sagging ceiling might be more accurate word choices. He tried to walk the beach yesterday, figuring a bit of sun and a change of scenery might do him some good. The walk lasted fifteen minutes. He’d fled the crowds in a near panic, desperate to be alone to think things through, as if he hadn’t done enough of that.
Think, think, think. The thinking was driving him loopy.
On the bright side, the short exposure to the real world had stimulated his appetite. The idea of going to a restaurant unnerved him, so he made one stop at a grocery store, gathered a handful of necessities, endured the checkout line, and retreated to safety here.
Stephen approached the wall to the left of the window, dropped to his knees, and carefully taped the corners of the photograph to the drywall with duct tape. He stepped back, sat cross-legged, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared at the picture.
Was there another woman in the world as beautiful? Was it even physically possible for the world to produce not one, but two women as stunning as the woman who gazed at him from this black-and-white photograph? The sweep of her hair; the subtle curve of her jaw; soft, steady eyes. He could swear the photo had been touched up with a skilled brush. No nose could be that perfect, no lips so symmetrical. But he knew that no artist had retouched this photo. This was Ruth, who was Esther, who was perfect.
Stephen closed his eyes and swallowed. Time was running out. He had to make contact with Joel Sparks. Illegal, insane, impossible.
But he had to do this. For Ruth’s sake. For his mother’s sake.
He opened his eyes and stared at the picture. For Esther’s sake.
Stephen grunted and rose quickly to his feet.
GREAT WESTERN Bank was bustling with a late-morning crowd when Stephen walked through its doors just before noon. To say he felt conspicuous sporting two days’ growth of stubble and a rumpled shirt was only half-true. The crowd, not his appearance, was to blame for his anxiety.
The white Converse tennis shoes he’d bought to replace his impractical wing tips stood out like fluorescent bulbs. Maybe he should have dirtied them a bit. Still, he was doing nothing illegal. He really had no reason to be nervous.
Wait. What if Sweeney and gang returned to the fourth floor and stole his picture of Ruth? Some vagabond could ransack his shrine and disappear without a trace. He should have brought the picture with him. Too late.
Stephen made a halfhearted attempt to smooth his shirt and walked straight for the closest banker’s desk. A middle-aged woman with a ball of blond hair, meticulously shaped by curlers, looked up. A gold nameplate on her desk read “Nancy Smith.” Her eyes scanned him from head to toe.
“May I help you?” she asked, her politeness all but forced.
Stephen slid into a chair, glanced around, and leaned forward. “I would like to make a withdrawal,” he said.
“You need to go to one of the tellers for a withdrawal—”
“No, I need to withdraw a lot of money.”
Her face slowly turned white. “I . . . we don’t keep money in our desks.”
“Of course not. But you have it in the vault. I need a hundred thousand. Surely you keep that much on hand.”
Her eyes shifted with a look of panic. What was her problem? He knew that banks didn’t like to shell out large sums of cash without prior arrangements, but her reaction was uncalled for. It wasn’t like he was holding her up.
“I’m . . .” She swallowed. “Please . . .”
Understanding came in a flash. “You think I’m trying to rob you?”
Her look was answer enough.
He found it within him to laugh kindly. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I have money in this bank, and I need to withdraw some of it.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Her eyes dropped to his shirt, and he pulled the tails to straighten the wrinkles. “I’m sorry, I . . . I got mugged in the alley, and the . . . people got my shirt dirty.” He felt his face flush, and he grinned. “Druggies. They’ll do anything for a fix these days.”
She just looked at him.
“I need a hundred thousand dollars,” he said.
“Wait here, please.”
She stood and
walked toward the manager’s office. Stephen hunched down and watched her speak to a balding bank manager. Both looked out at him, and he looked away until he sensed someone approach.
“My name is Bruce Spencer; I’m the bank manager. Can I help you?”
“Do you have cash in your vault?”
The manager grinned. “We’re a bank—we always have money.”
“Then you can help me. I have an account with your bank—just over eight hundred thousand. I need a hundred thousand in twenties. Can you do that?”
The man’s left eye twitched. “That’s a lot of money.”
True enough. Any normal investor would have put it to work in more aggressive ways than what a bank could offer. But Stephen’s rearing on foreign soil had given him this incongruous conservative streak when it came to saving money.
“Which is why I have it in your vault rather than stuffed under my mattress.” He pulled out the check he’d prepared and handed it to the man. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Spencer, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Spencer glanced at the check. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Do I look like I’m in some kind of trouble?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“There you go, then. I’m in a spot of trouble, and I need some money. Isn’t that what money’s for?”
“That’s a lot of money,” Spencer repeated.
“I think we’ve already established that.” He had no reason to treat the manager with condescension, but he was growing impatient.
The manager handed the check to Nancy. “Please verify the funds and get Mr. Friedman his money.” Then to Stephen, “This will take a few minutes, I’m sure you understand. Most large withdrawals are arranged in advance.”
“I’ll wait. No problem. But please don’t take all day. I am in a hurry.”
Stephen walked out twenty minutes later, sweat leaking down his back, big bag of cash under his right arm. So far so good.
26
Los Angeles
July 23, 1973
Monday Afternoon
JOEL SPARKS WAS A DEVELOPER IN PASADENA KNOWN FOR HIS low-income housing developments. But a closely held rumor suggested that Sparks had more than casual Mafia ties. The possibility had nearly paralyzed Dan Stiller two years earlier, when Stephen had proposed Joel bail them out of their deal gone bad. After all, the Mafia bit was only a rumor, Stephen had insisted. But judging by the way the man carried himself, Stephen thought the rumor might have some credence.
He drove north, nibbling on a nail, knowing that he was about to plunge into very deep waters.
Then again, there was no guarantee the man was even available on this particular Monday afternoon.
Sparks’s large white mansion stood against a hill in north Pasadena, surrounded by palms and a sweeping red-brick driveway. Stephen leaned out his window and punched the call button at the main gate.
“Yes?”
“Uh . . . yes, Stephen Friedman here to see Joel Sparks.”
The intercom remained silent. He pushed the button again.
“Hello?”
“You have an appointment?”
Not good.
“Uh . . . well, yes. Better, I have business he won’t be able to refuse.”
The wait was longer this time, but just as Stephen was again reaching for the call button, the gates began to swing inward.
Okay, baby. Calm and collected. He drove up to the house, parked the Vega, and walked up the steps to the front door. The cash would stay in his trunk for now. One step at a time.
A bodyguard who passed himself off as a butler led Stephen over marble floors to a spacious office. Details registered in his mind but didn’t stay—the paintings on the walls, the crystal chandelier, the floor-to-ceiling cases of leather-bound books. Then his attention was consumed by the large man at the sliding glass doors, back to Stephen, phone plastered to his ear.
“Of course, don’t I always?”
The butler-bodyguard closed a door behind Stephen, and Joel Sparks turned. His deep-set eyes tried to hide behind pronounced cheekbones. He smiled, but to Stephen it looked more like a grimace. He had nasty written all over him. Amazing he wasn’t locked up yet.
Or was Stephen just imagining things?
“Good. I’ll call as soon as I hear.” He set down the phone. “Well, well. If it isn’t the man who sold me that overpriced piece of junk on Wilson.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. “How’s business these days?”
“Good.” Stephen took the hand. “Yeah, good.”
“Really? You’re driving a Vega and you’re dressed like a schmuck. Can’t be that good. Have a seat.”
Stephen sat on a black leather couch. “Yeah, I know. I didn’t have time to change.”
“What can I do for you?”
Right to business. Just like any deal. Stephen crossed his legs, then set his foot back down.
“I need a favor.”
“You owe me a favor. What makes you think I’m in the mood to give you even more credit?”
“This one will make up for both.”
Sparks leaned against his desk. “I’m listening.”
“Let’s say you left something important in a building, but when you went back to get it, the owners wouldn’t let you in.”
“And?”
“How would you go about getting it?”
Sparks’s plastic smile softened. “I’m not sure I understand. I deal in real estate, not the law. I think you have the wrong party. Come back with a building to sell me at half price, and we’ll do business.” He reached for a call button on his desk.
“It’s worth a lot to me,” Stephen said, “this thing that I left behind. Family heirloom that dates back to the war.”
Sparks withdrew his hand and studied Stephen for a few long seconds. “Just out of curiosity, how much is it worth to you . . . this heirloom? I may know a good lawyer.”
“I’m not sure. A lot of cash.”
“How much cash?”
“You tell me.”
“Tell you what? You’re the one with the heirloom, not me. Lawyers don’t come cheap these days.”
“Twenty?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“Twenty thousand cash.”
“Tell you what, I’ll mention this to a lawyer I know, and maybe he’ll give you a call.”
“I need to retrieve the heirloom tonight.”
Sparks sighed. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. Try the yellow pages.”
“How about fifty?”
“Exactly what kind of heirloom are we talking about here? You walk into my office looking like you fell off a cliff, offer me fifty thousand dollars in cash to break into a building, and I have to wonder if you’re on the wrong side of the law. I don’t mess with the law.”
“Of course not. I’m just trying to get something that belongs to me without having to go through a lengthy process. I may not look like it now, but I’ve done quite well for myself these last few years. Some things are more important than money. I’ll pay you fifty thousand in cash to distract the owners long enough for me to take what’s mine. Totally copacetic. No harm, no foul.”
“Paying for something like this could be illegal.”
“Why? I’m not stealing anything.”
“You have fifty thousand cash?”
“In the car.”
Sparks took a deep breath. “Well, God knows I could always use fifty thousand cash, but this is just not something I do.”
“It so happens that these guys have guns. They’re in an abandoned apartment complex—five of them now, I think. German Mafia types. Considering the circumstances, how about seventy-five thousand?”
“I’m not sure you realize what you’re asking.”
“I pay you, and I’m the one incriminated in any crime, right? But this isn’t even a crime per se. I’ve got seventy-five thousand dollars in a bag that says you know someone who can help me out.”
“What’s the heir
loom?”
“Some photographs.”
Sparks stood and walked toward the sliding glass door that led out to a pool. He stood, hands on hips, doing what mafioso types do best, making a judgment call. Stephen could practically hear his thoughts. Do I trust this punk with my true identity? Do I let him into the inner circle of the unlawful? Do I tell him that I look like a bat because I am one, feeding at night on the weak and the lonely, like this poor sap?
Then Stephen thought to himself I’m already in your circle, mafioso. I’ve lost my mind and I’m chasing after a rainbow, and I’ve gone too far to turn back now. Take your best shot, baby.
“If you double back on me, I will destroy you.” Sparks turned around, lips drawn tight. His transformation from aboveboard businessman to underworld criminal was complete. “Do you understand me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Something goes wrong—someone gets hurt and you even sneeze— I guarantee, you’ll spend your life regretting it.”
The sincerity of Sparks’s tone sent a chill down Stephen’s back. He could hardly have hoped for more. If the man who stood before him now couldn’t distract the Germans for a few minutes while Stephen retrieved his treasure, it couldn’t be done.
He smiled. “Nothing will go wrong.”
“Bring me a hundred thousand and we’ll talk.”
“A hundred?”
“Not a penny less.”
Stephen stood. “Okay. I have it in the car.”
TWO DAYS and nothing but one short, cryptic phone call from Stephen. Chaim had taken nineteen messages for Stephen, eight from a desperate Dan Stiller. The rest were from a variety of sources, mostly related to real estate.
The rabbi stood and walked into the kitchen. He decided against a glass of orange juice, breathed a prayer, and headed for the phone.
His initial alarm slowly had been replaced by curiosity. Stephen was no doubt disturbed by the discovery of his mother and her death, but if Chaim was right, this recent strange behavior wasn’t connected to remorse. Stephen was after what he believed was his. He was maybe even after the Stones of David, and, apparently, he believed he could get them.
Gerik answered on the third ring.
