by Mary Marks
“Yeah. That place is isolated. It’s not like she could walk to the nearest bus stop or call Uber. Maybe she contacted those same two guys who helped her disappear the first time.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing. I should talk to my neighbor again. Sister Mae thought she recognized one of them. Maybe she’ll remember his name. And speaking of names, I was supposed to get Alexander’s last name from Hadas so Yossi could run him through the national criminal database. Fat chance now.”
Fanya didn’t miss a beat. “We still have options. What about your friend in the FBI?”
Bingo! Once again, I was impressed by Fanya’s cool thinking. “You’re right. I’d forgotten John Smith said they already knew about Alexander. The good news is Smith should know if Alexander has a criminal record. The bad news is I doubt he’ll share that information with me. Still, I’ve got to try.”
I opened the contact list in my phone and scrolled to Smith, John. Six rings later, I spoke to his voice mail. “This is Martha Rose again. Hadas Levy bailed in the middle of the night from Mystical Feather. No one knows where she is. Please call me.”
Thoughts of a peaceful Shabbat at home evaporated. Anger and frustration became the engine driving the rest of my day. “Okay, Fanya. Can you call Ettie again? I want to check out Hadas’s story about Ze’ev’s jilted lover, Gita—if she ever existed. That’s not something the wife of a cheating husband would forget.”
“Um, there’s a problem.” Fanya cleared her throat. “Ettie’s far more observant than we are. She won’t answer her phone on Shabbat. We’ll have to wait until after Havdalah to talk to her.” Fanya referred to the lovely ceremony involving a braided candle, a glass of wine, and some sweet-smelling spices marking the end of the Sabbath and the beginning of the week on Saturday night after sunset.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “New York is three hours ahead of us. If we call at five our time, it will be eight where she is. Would she answer then?”
Fanya nodded. “We still have five hours to go. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy in the meantime.” She showed me one completed Snail’s Trail block. “I’ve sewn three of these. Only twenty-seven more to go. What do you think?” The yellows and greens spiraled out of the center of the block in a joyful flurry of spring colors.
I took the block and turned it over to observe the precise quarter-inch seams she’d sewn. Then I turned to the front side again and closely examined the points where the triangles came together. All the points were crisp, an indication Fanya knew what she was doing. “I think it’s gorgeous. Are you sure you’ve never quilted before?”
Fanya grinned. “I’m more a maven with wallpaper. But I love the feel of working with cotton fabric.”
“You hungry?” I asked.
“Thanks, no. I made a salad. There’s some leftover you can have if you want.”
“Maybe later. Have fun. I’m going next door.” I left the house and let myself through the swinging gate to Sister Mae’s front door. King Solomon’s deep bark told the world he was doing his job as chief protector of Sister Mae and their property. His baritone woofs drew my curious neighbor to her window. When she saw me, a smile lit her face. Ten seconds later she opened the front door wide enough to stick her head outside.
The petite Sister Mae smiled a greeting. She stood in front of her Great Dane, attempting to keep me from being bowled over by his excited greeting. He managed to push his slobbering muzzle underneath her arm and forward until he could look straight at me, enthusiastic tail thumping against the wall.
“Look him straight in the eyes, like you’re the boss,” she said.
“Hello, King.” I patted the top of his huge head and stared at him.
Sister Mae pushed him back from the door. “Hush up, now. Go play with your toys.”
He took one last look at me and withdrew to the inside of the house.
“You seem to be making progress with his training. The last time I was here, he pushed you out of the way to get to me.”
She twisted her head to watch his retreat. “Bless his heart. He’s as sweet as sugar. One more month and I think I can actually invite people inside the house without King trying to love all over them. Is everything okay?”
“Not really. We found our friend. She was fine, but now she’s disappeared again.”
“Heavens! Why’d she go and do such a thing?”
“Good question. We think the two people who took her a week ago may have helped her once more. You thought you recognized the big one. I was hoping you might remember his name. You said he looked like one of the minor actors on Grey’s Anatomy. Peter-something.”
She sighed. “I honestly don’t know. But I can do an online search. I don’t think you’ll want to come inside and wait, though. You’d be rassling with King the whole time. How ’bout I call you if I find anything?”
Once back home, I stopped to listen to the sound of my Bernina sewing machine in the other room humming in fits and starts. It was the music of the busy quilter creating beauty with needle and fabric.
I decided not to interrupt Fanya’s sewing. Instead, I made a beef salami sandwich, with slices of the leftover challah and a thin schmear of spicy brown mustard. I opened a can of Coke Zero and installed myself at the kitchen table. As I took my first big bite, my phone rang, John Smith returning my call.
“Your message contained some surprising news, Martha.”
“Mmph.” I chewed fast and swallowed. “What is Hadas doing, anyway? Yossi and I can’t get married until she agrees to a divorce. Now she’s disappeared again. We’re right back where we started.”
“And you should stay there. You’re no match for the players in this case.”
I was on the verge of whining. “But you’re the FBI. You can find anybody. Dead or alive.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”
“Preferably before Yossi and I are too old to care. By the way, do you know anything about a woman named Gita? She’s an ex-girlfriend of Hadas’s brother, Ze’ev Uhrman.”
Smith returned my question with a question. “Is Gita someone I should know about?”
“Only if she’s a real person. Hadas said Gita threatened to kill Ze’ev, but frankly, I don’t believe anything Hadas says anymore.”
“I’ll have someone look into it. Thanks for the intel.”
“And that’s all I get? You could hardly call this the information highway. The data seems to be driving in one direction only. Me to you.”
“Well, there is something I can share. You showed a lot of creativity and quick thinking when you smuggled Hadas from the Hotel Delaware in downtown LA.”
I smiled. Praise coming from John Smith was rare. “How did you get the details about our great escape?”
Smith chuckled. “We have eyes and ears everywhere. Someone said you reminded them of an I Love Lucy episode. And now I must leave you. Stay at home, Martha. Stay safe.”
I hardly responded. I was too busy trying to figure out who the FBI agent in the hotel was who saw our escape. Was it the room service person Arlene? One of the people in the elevator? The hotel manager? The two housekeepers in the basement? Then it dawned on me. If there were FBI agents in the hotel watching us, they must’ve either followed me there or they already knew where Hadas was.
At four-thirty, I checked on Fanya in the sewing room. She’d been at the Bernina the whole afternoon.
She stopped sewing and smiled at me. “I’m almost finished. Five more blocks to go. Take a look.” She gestured toward a neat stack of yellow-and-green quilt blocks, all perfectly sewn with crisp points.
“These are wonderful, Fanya. Your quilt is going to be special. Let’s see how these look on the design wall.” I carried twenty-five blocks over to the white flannel sheet hanging on my wall. The nap of the flannel grabbed the cotton pieces and hugged them in place. I hung the blocks next to each other and the overall design emerged.
Fanya stood with me and examined the layout. “Wow. Even better
than I imagined. I really get how satisfying quilting can be. This hobby could definitely become addictive.”
I bristled at her calling quilt-making a hobby. A hobby implied a part-time interest someone enjoyed when they weren’t doing important things in the real world. “Quilting is more than a hobby, Fanya. Think of it as a form of fabric art. Whether you’re piecing traditional blocks or venturing into landscapes and portraits, you—the quilter-artist—must design, plan, and execute your creation.”
She placed a hand on the side of her face. “Hmm. You’re right. Until now, I’ve always thought of them as just blankets.”
“Not necessarily. Quilts can function as both wall art and bed art. Either way, they’re meant to be seen, not folded away in the closet.”
“Well, this one will look great on my bed.”
I glanced at the clock. “It’s seven-forty-five in New York. Time to call Ettie.”
Fanya turned off the sewing machine, grabbed her cell phone, and followed me into the living room. She put her phone on speaker mode. I grabbed a pen and paper to feed her questions.
Ettie answered on the fourth ring. “Oy, Fanya! Shavuah tov.” She uttered the standard greeting for ending the Sabbath, Have a good week. “Why am I so lucky to get two phone calls in one week?”
“Shavuah tov, Ettie. How’s by you?”
“Oh, you know. Good enough for a widow but not as good as it could be. By you?”
“I’m learning a new skill. Yossi’s fiancée, Martha, is teaching me how to sew a quilt.”
“Mazal tov,” she said, chuckling. “Have her teach you how to cook while you’re at it. You could become happily married after all.”
Fanya looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Listen, Ettie, I have to ask you about Ze’ev, may he rest in peace. It’s something Hadas told me.”
Ettie heaved a huge sigh. “Even though he’s gone, he still comes back to haunt me. What is it now?”
Fanya’s knuckles turned white as she tightened her grip on the cell phone. “There’s no nice way to say this. Hadas mentioned that one of Ze’ev’s special friends, a woman called Gita, used to bother you. Is she right?”
The silence lasted so long, I wondered if we’d been disconnected.
Finally, Ettie growled. “That meshuggenah nafke humiliated me.” She called Gita a crazy whore. “She showed up shickered in front of my house, stumbling in the street and yelling for all the neighbors to hear. She said he was going to divorce me and marry her.”
“Ouch! You must’ve been really mad.”
Ettie’s version didn’t contradict what Hadas told us. I wrote a question and handed it to Fanya.
She nodded. “Did you ever hear Gita threaten to kill Ze’ ev?”
“Not Ze’ev, no. But, God forbid, she did threaten to curse me and my children, pu, pu, pu. Why are you asking about him right now?”
“Because someone is threatening Hadas and she’s running scared. So, I thought I’d check out her story with you.”
I passed Fanya another note.
She glanced at it quickly. “Do you know Gita’s last name?”
“Yeah. It’s Glassman. Gita Glassman.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“Why would I? When Ze’ev died, she showed up at his funeral. The rabbi sent several men over to where she stood and made her leave. That’s the last I saw of her. Someone said she may have gone to Israel. If so, she’s probably lifting her skirts for ten shekels on the streets of Tel Aviv.”
Ettie’s version seemed to corroborate what Hadas revealed. I handed Fanya another note.
“Ettie, I have another difficult question. Do you know of anyone who would want to kill Ze’ev?”
“Why are you curious about Ze’ev? At this point, does it matter who ran him down? He’s gone and we’re out in the cold, with no income from the Uhrman Company. You said Hadas was running scared. Do you think the same person who killed Ze’ev wants to kill her, too?”
“The thought did occur to me, yes. Did you ever hear Ze’ev or Hadas mention a man named Alexander?”
“Alexander? The name is familiar. He might’ve come to pray during the week we sat shiva.” She referred to the seven-day mourning period after the death of a loved one. “I have five sons. They make only half a minyan. Because my four sons-in-law couldn’t be here every day regular, different men came by each day to help make a full minyan of ten. I saw to it there was plenty for them to nosh on. And wine. You have to reward them with something.”
Fanya persisted with our questions. “Do you remember anything else about Alexander? Like, did he seem interested in Hadas?”
“Is he the one she’s scared of? Veh! I wish I could remember now. You were there sitting with us, Fanya. Did you see anyone like that?”
Fanya glanced at me. “I was too worried about you to notice.”
“How about if I ask my Zelig? He might know.”
“Your oldest son, yes?”
“Correct! I’ll ask him and get back to you.”
“Great, Ettie. See if he knows Alexander’s full name. Thanks.”
Ettie sighed. “Always nice to hear from you. And say hello to your brother. Such a mensch.”
“Will do.” Fanya ended the call and looked at me. “Now what?”
CHAPTER 22
Saturday evening Fanya and I sat at the kitchen table finishing the leftover vegetarian casserole from the night before when someone knocked on the front door.
My immediate next-door neighbor, Sister Mae Slocum, stood on the porch waving pieces of paper in the air. “I think I found what you’re looking for.”
“Come in. Come in.” I led Sister Mae to the living room and Fanya joined us. “You found out who the two guys were who helped Hadas?”
“That’s her name? The one who’s missing? I’m terrible with names, but I never forget a face.” She handed over the pages, printouts from the internet. “It took some digging. But I found the big blond guy. Remember I said I thought I recognized him from the set of Grey’s Anatomy? His name is Peter. I searched for him in the IMDb, the Internet Movie Database.”
I studied the publicity photo of the blond and overly muscled Peter Hauer. Hauer’s professional website revealed he got his start in modeling men’s clothes. His résumé cited six small TV acting credits, including a recurring role as a paramedic on Grey’s Anatomy. The most recent job, a commercial for Gillette razors, happened over a year ago. His agent’s name and phone number were listed on the contacts page. “Excellent job, Sister Mae.”
“Thanks.”
I examined the photo in the second printout. Rocco Fontana was dark-complexioned and slighter than the beefy Hauer. “You’re sure this is the other guy?”
“I’m pretty sure. But finding him took a little more digging. I figured Peter might have gotten a buddy to help him. So, I found Peter’s Facebook page and scrolled through a ton of photos. I finally found Rocco in one group photo you’re looking at, taken in a bar. The people were tagged. That’s how I got his name. I clicked on his image, which took me to his Facebook page.”
“Wow,” Fanya said. “Finding them took a lot of ingenuity.”
Sister Mae sighed. “Unfortunately, his page didn’t give me much more information. Then I did an internet search. I spent about an hour going from one website to another, like walking along a hallway with a hundred doors on both sides. I finally found the one you’re holding in your hand.”
I read the third piece of paper. Rocco Fontana’s claim to fame was a conviction five years ago for a burglary in LA, resulting in a four-year prison sentence. The expression in his mug shot was defiant. “This is great information. How’d you get it?”
“There’s a bunch of online private investigation searches you can subscribe to. They crawl through public records to find matches.” She smiled. “You owe me nineteen-ninety-nine.”
“Cheap at twice the price.” I passed the pages to Fanya, for a closer look. “This gives us a place to start. But it’s Sat
urday. We’ll probably have to wait until Monday to contact Hauer’s agent. Hopefully, we’ll get enough information to meet the actor in person. And if we have any luck, Yossi will find Fontana’s current address in the NCIC database.”
Sister Mae clasped her hands in her lap. “The national criminal database? Are you sure you want to talk to someone who’s on their list? Won’t it be dangerous?”
I glanced at Fanya. She was an expert in Krav Maga. She could probably take on Rocco Fontana with little effort. But how would she match up to the Mr. Universe physique of Peter Hauer? “We only want information. Technically, they didn’t do anything illegal. They have nothing to fear from us.”
I hoped I was right.
* * *
Crusher came home sometime after midnight, snuggled close to me in bed, and almost immediately began to snore. I didn’t know how I did it, but, despite the loud noises coming in irregular bursts, I managed to fall asleep again. Sunday morning I woke to an empty bed. He’d left a brief note on the bedside table. Going out of town again. Luv U!
“Out of town” was our code for Crusher going undercover, a part of his job with the ATF I hated. Undercover work was dangerous. And even though I knew he could handle himself, I still worried. Plus, I never knew how long he’d be gone. Sometimes he was absent for only a day or two. The longest time he was “out of town” had been for five agonizing weeks.
I needed coffee. I dressed in my usual jeans and a T-shirt and found Fanya and a half-empty pot of Italian roast in the kitchen. I sat across from her at the table, took the first sip of the day, and closed my eyes in pure pleasure.
When I opened them again, Fanya leaned in my direction. “Ettie called me this morning.”
“So soon? What did she say?”
“She talked to her son, Zelig. He said Alexander’s last name is Koslov. According to Zelig, Alexander visited their home several times during the week after Ze’ev’s funeral. Ostensibly to be part of the minyan.” Fanya referred to the quorum often Jewish men required to recite certain prayers. “But Zelig noticed Alexander seemed to spend a lot of time quietly watching Hadas.”
