Faye Kellerman - Decker 04 - Day of Atonement

by Day of Atonement

  'We can try,' Mahoney said. Three other sets of numbers appeared on the monitor. 'Now you want me to cross-reference those with other names.'

  'You bet,' Decker said. He held his breath.

  Nothing.

  Which meant either Tony/Hersh didn't have a record or the list of addresses was incomplete.

  'I'll have someone bring you out the last five years' worth of backwards directories,' Mahoney said. 'You can look up the addresses; they'll tell you name and phone numbers of the people they used to belong to.'

  'That would be super,' Decker said. 'In the meantime, can you punch in the name Hersh Schwartz, Shartz, or Shatz and see if anyone with those names has a record.'

  'You got it,' Mahoney said.

  Five minutes later, Decker saw a woman officer

  teetering under the weight of five large phone books. It wasn't until he took the books away that he noticed she was gravid, ready to drop any moment. She smiled as he stared, saying that the exercise was good for the baby.

  Decker parked himself at an empty table, out of the way of foot traffic.

  He opened the first book.

  Nothing.

  Mahoney called out that their computer had no record of any Hersh Schwartz, Shartz, or Shatz.

  A half hour later, Decker hit the mother lode with book number four. A Benedetto address was cross-referenced to a man named Tony Sacaretti. He walked over to Mahoney and asked him to feed the computer the name.

  'Tony Sacaretti?' Mahoney said, punching in the letters. 'Never heard of him.'

  It came out nehvahoidovem.

  Decker waited, jaw clenched. All he needed was for Hersh to fuck up just one time. For a scumbag like him, that wasn't too much to ask for.

  His faith in the depravity of human nature was rewarded.

  Bingo!

  Tony Sacaretti alias Hersh Schaltz. Arrested for misdemeanor possession three years ago, nineteen at the time. Sentenced to two years' probation. Hersh was now a free man. The computer hadn't mentioned the name the first time around because the address had been an old one - before Hersh had been entered into the computer.

  Mahoney said, 'That your man?'

  'Bet your ass,' Decker said.

  'OK,' Mahoney said. 'Now if you just hang on a sec.'

  He typed rapidly on to the keyboard, then waited. A few seconds later, there was another readout. 'Movin' right along, this is Schaltz's last known address according to Probation.'

  'There a phone number with the address?' Decker asked.

  'Yep.' Mahoney pushed another button. In a matter of seconds, the information on the monitor was printed on paper. He tore off the sheet.

  Decker regarded the printout. This address, this lone address. He hoped it was the place where Noam Levine was hiding out. But if Hersh Schaltz had nothing to do with Noam's disappearance, Decker had nothing. He asked Mahoney if he could use the phone. Mahoney said it was right behind him, press the third button.

  Decker called the number listed. It rang and rang and rang.

  At least it wasn't disconnected.

  Then he called the phone company. Using Mahoney's badge number, he asked for a name to match up the number in question.

  A deep-voiced woman told him the number was billed to a Hersh Schaltz.

  'And the number is still operable?'

  •Yes.'

  'When was the last time the bill was paid?'

  The woman told him to hold on a moment. She came back and announced that the bill was, in fact, a month overdue. If he was intending to talk to Mr. Schaltz, she'd appreciate it if he informed Mr. Schaltz of that fact.

  Decker thanked her and hung up.

  'I am out of here,' he announced to Mahoney. 'If you

  ever get out my way, you've got a free trip to Disneyland for you, the wife and kids.'

  Mahoney smiled broadly. 'No shit? Hey, that's real nice of you.'

  'M'pleasure,' Decker said, thinking: tickets to Disneyland were twenty-one fifty per adult, not much cheaper for kids. At this rate, he'd spend a week's worth of salary making good on his promises.

  Hersh Schaltz lived in a ten-story tenement house off Flatbush Avenue. It was a square brick thing, tattooed with graffiti, its front walkway overrun with papers, broken glass, and beer cans.

  Decker parked in front. He turned to Rina and said, 'I don't want you to come in with me, but I don't want to leave you alone outside. Maybe I should take you home.'

  'I don't want.you going inside by yourself,' Rina said. 'I'll be your backup.'

  'With an unloaded gun?'

  'Give me some bullets.'

  'I don't have any thirty-eight shells. All I have are clips.'

  'Well, nobody's going to know if the gun's loaded or not,' Rina said. 'It's all in the appearances.'

  Decker stared at her. She'd removed the old kerchief and looked about as threatening as a Playboy Bunny. 'You don't strike a mean pose, Rina.'

  'Well, I'm not going to wait out here by myself. And you'll waste a lot of time if you go back and forth. Let me come with you.'

  Against his better judgment, Decker agreed.

  When they got to the front door, they found out it was a security building. Directly to the left was a long column

  of numbered buttons with no names to identify the people living inside. Decker peered through the glass doors. A dimly lit hallway, old linoleum on the floor, paper peeling from the walls. A bank of mailboxes was visible to the right.

  'Your eyes are better than mine,' he said. 'Look at the mailboxes and see if you can find me the building manager's number.'

  Rina squinted. 'I can't make out anything.'

  'Damn,' Decker said.

  Rina pressed a random button.

  'What are you doing?' Decker asked.

  A speaker-slurred voice said a muffled 'Who's there?' through the intercom.

  'Waterworks,' Rina said. 'Which unit is the super's?'

  'One-oh-four,' the voice answered back.

  'Thank you,' Rina said. She looked at Decker and smiled.

  'Clever,' Decker said.

  'You can take it from here,' Rina said.

  Decker smiled sarcastically and pressed 104. He identified himself, and a second later they were buzzed in.

  The super met them in the hallway wearing a torn sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants a size too small. He was a rotund man with coarse black hair and matching mustache. He said his name - something Slavic and unpronounceable.

  The super knew it and said, 'You can call me Jerz.' He eyed Rina. 'What can I do for the police?'

  His voice was a foghorn, thickly accented.

  'I'm looking for a tenant named Hersh Schaltz.'

  'Hersh Schaltz?' Jerz thought a moment, then shook his head.

  'How about Tony Sacaretti?'

  Again, Jerz said no.

  Decker showed Jerz the printout. 'Who lives in unit six-eighteen?'

  'Six-eighteen?' Jerz scratched his head. 'That is the German... Heinrich Stremmer.'

  'Heinrich Stremmer?' Rina said.

  Jerz nodded. 'Kid 'bout twenty-one, skinny body but big shoulder muscles. Dark hair. He don't look German.'

  'I think he's the one,' Decker said. 'Can you open his place for us?'

  'Why don't you knock on door?'

  'I don't think he's in,' Decker said.

  'I don't know,' Jerz said. 'Two people snooping around.'

  Decker said, 'You do us this small favor, and I'll mail you back bus fare plus free passes to Disneyland for you and the family.'

  Jerz's eyes lit up. 'You not joking?'

  'I'm not joking.'

  'For me, my wife, and my son?'

  Thank God, he only had one kid.

  'For all three of you,' Decker said.

  Jerz shrugged. 'I do it for you. But you don't make no mess.'

  'No mess,' Rina said.

  'I believe you, young lady,' Jerz said. 'Follow me.'

  They climbed the stairs. Jerz was winded and wheezing when they reac
hed the sixth-floor landing. Heinrich Stremmer lived in a flat in the middle of a dark, musty hallway redolent of urine. Muted sounds could be heard from the other units, greasy smells leaked under

  doorways. The passageway was cold and Rina let out a small shiver. Jerz first knocked on the door. When that didn't produce a response, he pulled out a ring of keys.

  Decker said, 'Do you know if Mr. Stemmer—'

  'Stremmer, Stremmer.'

  'Mr. Stremmer,' Decker corrected himself, 'was behind on his rent.'

  'I don't know,' Jerz said. He sorted through his keys. 'You have to ask owners.'

  'Who owns the building?' Decker said.

  •Corporation with letters,' Jerz said. 'ICMB, IBMC, BCIM - ah, here's key.'

  Jerz inserted the key in the lock, the door opened.

  Rina said, 'Uh-oh.'

  Mentally, Decker echoed the sentiment. But the first words out of his mouth were 'Don't touch anything!' Jerz started to enter the flat, but Decker gently held him back.

  'Wait,' he said.

  Then he did what he always did when about to enter a crime scene. He used his eyes as cameras.

  The place was as stripped as a motel room past checkout time. The living room held a scarred coffee table scored with deep gouges, and two mismatched end tables also pocked with knife wounds. Both were void of any newspapers or magazines. The sofa was lumpy, the carpet spotted with grease. The shades were yellowed, pulled down, swallowing the incoming light. Only a beam sneaked through where one shade had been neatly slashed down the center.

  The kitchenette, done in high-gloss ivory enamel paint, was more of a closet than a room. It was right off the front door and hadn't been cleaned for a while. The

  linoleum floor was missing a few tiles and dotted with dozens of dead roaches. The burned Formica counter top was filthy, a trail of ants swarming around a large fishhead, marching in and out of the eye sockets and gaping mouth. The drawers and cupboards had been opened and left naked. Inside the sink was a paper garbage bag stuffed with used paper plates.

  The place stank of fish. But Decker was happy with what his nose told him. No decay. He told the others to wait by the doorway, he was going to investigate. Something about his tone of voice was commanding. Jerz didn't put up a squawk.

  Decker took a closer look at the trash - paper plates, dried pieces of fried fish - homemade, not your typical takeout stuff. Its odor was mixed with the acrid vinegar smell of leftover coleslaw and tartar sauce - both items prepackaged. Used plastic cutlery. He pulled his jacket sleeve over his hand and poked the plates out of the way, trying to avoid scampering roaches. He found a half dozen crumpled bits of paper and unfolded the first.

  Times, dates - an airline schedule. Or maybe a bus schedule.

  He unfolded the second one.

  More time schedules. The word UNITED printed in bold black letters.

  Airline schedule.

  Times of departure - 8:10, 9:20, 10:30...

  To where?

  He read the next wrinkled note, penned in the same crude, bold print.

  HANK STEWART.

  DR. HANK STEWART.

  HANK STEWART, ESQ.

  HANK STEWART, NUCLEAR PHYSICIST.

  Decker skimmed down the list. A psycho with delusions of grandeur. The last two entries scared him.

  GOD STEWART.

  Then just plain cod.

  He pocketed the note, unfolded another one.

  More times, dates - yesterday's date circled in red.

  Decker cursed to himself.

  Missed the fucker by one day.

  He heard Rina call his name.

  'I'm still here,' he said.

  'What do you have?'

  'Some paper.' He walked back over to her and Jerz. 'Was this apartment rented furnished?'

  'Don't know,' Jerz said. 'You have to call corporation with letters. You think Stremmer left without paying?'

  'I think Stremmer has just changed his name to Hank Stewart.' He showed Rina the letter.

  'Any sign that Noam has been here?' she asked.

  'Not so far.' He unraveled another note - more flight times - then took a look at the last note.

  A list of items, penned in a different script - cursive instead of printing. But lacking the assurance of an adult's handwriting.

  He said, 'This note seems to be written by a different person. We'll bring this back to Breina and Ezra. Find out if this is Noam's handwriting.'

  •What is it?' Rina asked.

  'A checklist,' Decker said. 'Toothbrush, hairbrush, flashlight, suntan lotion, two shirts, two pairs of pants, socks, underwear... like the kid was going off to camp.'

  'Any idea where they went?' Rina asked.

  'I haven't seen anything written down,' Decker said. 'But I'll bet money we should check United's flights to Fort Lauderdale, Miami, Los Angeles or Hawaii. Wintertime is around the corner and someone's packing suntan lotion.'

  'You're going to call up the airlines?' Rina asked.

  'Eventually,' Decker said. 'First I'm going to check the bedroom.'

  It was the same story - dresser drawers pulled out and empty, the tiny closet as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. The bed was unmade and smelled as if it had been awhile since the off-white linens had been changed. Decker bent down, looked under the bed. He spied a crumpled piece of white cloth, stretched his arm all the way, and pulled it out.

  When he unfolded it, Rina gasped.

  Tzitzit - the fringed prayer shawls Orthodox males wore under their shirts. It was sized a men's small. He turned to Jerz. 'I'm going to take this with me.'

  •What is it?' asked Jerz.

  'A religious garment,' Decker said. 'I think it belongs to the kid I'm looking for.'

  'You're looking for a kid?'

  The time was right. Decker told the super what was going on. Jerz listened, then said that he wasn't surprised, Stremmer always seemed strange. And was always with young boys. Once, when Jerz asked him about it, Stremmer claimed he was a Big Brother.

  Jerz said, 'But I always think he don't tell truth.'

  Decker showed him the picture of Noam. 'Ever seen this teenager before?' He described his stature to Jerz.

  The super studied the photo. 'No.' He shook his head. 'If boy come up here, he don't look like that.'

  'The face isn't familiar?'

  'No, sorry.'

  Decker handed him his card. 'You hear of anything from either of them, call me at this local number right away.'

  Jerz nodded. 'Do I still get trip to Disneyland?'

  'I'm a man of my word,' Decker said.

  It was easier to work straight through than to return to the family and let them know what was going on. So Decker took the coward's way out and made the phone calls from the Six-Seven. Rina sat by him, checking off flights as he called them out.

  He inquired about tickets issued yesterday to Florida or California, reservations made under the name of Hersh Schaltz, Tony Sacaretti, Heinrich Stremmer, Hank Stewart, or any male with the initials HS. With the exception of the Italian name, Hersh was choosing aliases close to home.

  There was nothing on any United Flight or on American Airlines or TWA. But Continental had booked a reservation for a Hank and Nolan Stewart on Flight 710. It had left yesterday at 10:30, had arrived in Los Angeles at 2:00 p.m. PDT.

  Were Mr. Hank Stewart and Mr. Nolan Stewart on the plane?

  I don't know, sir, but the tickets were cashed.

  One friggin' day off.

  'What are you going to do?' Rina asked.

  Decker said, 'Looks like I'm going to hop a plane back home.'

  'Now's your chance to back out,' Rina said. 'They aren't in the religious Jewish community any longer.'

  'But now I've lost my convenient excuse - a New York P.I. knows his way around better than me.' Decker shook his head. 'Unfortunately, the suckers had the audacity to invade my turf. So for better or worse, I'm going to get them.'