First Commandment

by Dick Yaeger

  Bubba wore the same thing he always did—starched khaki trousers and a custom-tailored dark blue shirt that outlined the details of his muscular upper body. I always suspected his wrestling and bodybuilding days left him a tad narcissistic.

  Jacob Horowitz lived in Monte Sereno, a tiny upscale bedroom community south of San Jose in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I couldn’t see his house from the wooded street, but through a wrought-iron gate and fifty yards up a curved cobblestone driveway was his sprawling single-story Spanish-style house. Built of stone with a red tiled roof, it sat on a hill, the coastal mountains sloping upward two thousand feet behind.

  A good-looking valet opened the door of my Jaguar F-Type. I was tempted to ask if he’d wash it. The Jag seemed more appropriate than Bubba’s truck for the suspected elitist gathering.

  At the top of the front steps was a familiar figure leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette—the organizer from yesterday’s anti-gun protest. He’d shaved the scrubby beard but kept the ponytail. Expensive-looking ironed slacks, a Ralph Lauren polo, and polished leather slip-ons belied my original impression of a wannabe hippy.

  “I saw you outside the police station,” he said as we neared. “You cops?”

  His tone was belligerent in a way that piqued my instincts.

  I instantly labeled him as a bad player—a trait of mine Braklin always said was too subjective and un-cop-like. Nevertheless, he apologized often during our time together.

  “No.”

  “What were you doing there?” he continued with the same combative tenor.

  I glanced at Bubba. He didn’t like him either.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, trying to keep my rush-to-judgement in check. “Have we been introduced?”

  “I’m Leonard.” He didn’t offer a hand.

  “Well, Lenny,” I said, “I don’t think I’ve known you long enough to share my personal—”

  “We needed a traffic-accident report,” Bubba interrupted with a wide smile.

  My instant dislike for the guy hadn’t eluded Bubba.

  “She’s not a good driver, and has a court appearance next week.”

  I feigned a scowl at my partner to show dissatisfaction with him revealing my personal info.

  Lenny looked at Bubba’s toothy grin, hesitated, nodded, and turned back to me.

  “That Jag too much for you, huh?”

  I wanted to slap the creep, but tendered my hand instead. “Sara. New employee for Mr. Horowitz.”

  We shook. On his right wrist was a tattoo of a knife overlaid on a cape.

  He turned to Bubba and offered his hand. “And you are . . . “

  “I’m Bubba, Sara’s escort.”

  I detected a twinge in Lenny as he hid the pain from Bubba’s crushing grip. He always did that with someone he didn’t like.

  We left Lenny flexing the fingers on his right hand and went into the house.

  “They’re meeting on the patio out back,” the concierge inside the door said. “Down the long hall to the left.” Her voice was the same one that answered the phone yesterday.

  “Did you see his tattoo?” Bubba asked as we walked down the hallway.

  “Yeah, looked like a Toga-and-Dagger, the symbol of an ancient Roman order of warriors called the Frumentarii.”

  “The what?”

  “The details are sketchy, but it’s believed to be the Roman army’s version of the CIA. In the early centuries AD, Roman legions used local farmers to roam the enemy countryside collecting strategic information. They were essentially spies. ”

  “How do you know this shit?”

  “I studied the classics, remember, while you were off killing bad guys in Afghanistan.”

  “Did these Frumentarii do anything other than gather intel?”

  “It’s hypothesized that they were assigned spy-like tasks to create regional disorder. Set fires, poison water supplies, spread rumors, stuff like that.”

  “Were they killers, assassins?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  T he back patio was not the average household sundeck with a couple weatherworn chairs and a Weber grill. Mature potted palms and a ten-foot-diameter leather sofa encircling a wood-burning fire pit mimicked the lobby of a luxurious hotel. In hot summer months, the trees would offer shade beside the pool and hot tub, but now a dozen propane heaters warmed the chilly November afternoon.

  The clatter of fifty chic adults—no children—mingled with faint classical music that I didn’t recognize. I scanned the area, looking for Jacob Horowitz’s website face. At the edge of the crowd, he stood beside the smoking grill of a stone kitchen island, talking with the apparent cook in full chef’s regalia.

  As we approached., I caught his eye.

  He turned toward us with a pleasant smile, and held out welcoming arms.

  “Sara,” he exclaimed. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  We’d never met—he shouldn’t have been able to identify me. It had to be Bubba he recognized, since he stood out like a singular oak in a meadow of lilies. Horowitz hugged me like a long-lost sister, overdoing the role-playing I had requested, and then shook hands with Bubba.

  Nearby guests glanced our way to see who had claimed their host’s attention.

  “First, Mr. Horowitz,” I said, “Bubba and I want to extend our condolences for your loss.”

  “Thank you. I’m not sure we’ll ever recover from Jenny’s death.” His demeanor, however, suggested he was recovering well. Was nine months enough? I had no reference to judge.

  “Your father is also struggling with the tragedy.”

  “It’s not what he needed right now.”

  I frowned at the hidden innuendo.

  “Dad is dying, you know,” he explained.

  “I didn’t. That’s awful.” Perhaps this explained Aaron’s eagerness to find the killer.

  “His heart and cancer have teamed up against him. Doctors have advised to him to put his personal effects in order as soon as possible.”

  “I’m surprised. Evidence of ill health wasn’t obvious when we met.”

  “He puts his physical pain aside much easier than the emotional pain of Jenny’s death. It terrifies him that he’ll die before her killer does.”

  I nodded toward the periphery of the crowd and whispered, “If you please, I have a few short questions.”

  “I’ll mingle,” Bubba said.

  As Bubba left, I noticed Lenny Ponytail come from the house’s interior. He walked slowly, scanning the scene, and then stopped, gazing directly at me.

  “There’s a young man standing near the back door,” I said. “Leonard’s his name. He seems a little out of place with the rest of your guests.”

  Jacob looked. “He’s with Senator Evans, but I don’t know their relationship. Perhaps a campaign worker, maybe a bodyguard.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “I don’t know, but I can find out if you like.”

  “I would. Thank you.”

  Jacob waved away a teenage girl who approached with a platter of shrimp hors d’oeuvres.

  “Regarding the newspaper left in your mailbox, Jacob, do you attach any significance to the word ‘we’ in the note.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it until the police asked the same question. They believe it suggests the killer had accomplices. Do you agree?”

  I probably did, but didn’t answer and changed the subject. “You manage your father’s construction business?”

  “Yes. Because of his health, it’s been transferred to me.”

  “And you have lots of employees?”

  “We’re a general contractor, but specialize in solar installations that use high-quality Israeli solar panels. We currently have thirty-four workers, but we’re growing fast and looking for more.”

  “All legal?”

  He hesitated, eyebrows lifted, as if he thought the question had a hidden agenda.

  “We’re not in the deportation busine
ss, Jacob,” I said. “We’re in the finding-killers business.”

  He sighed. “Our trade attracts hard-working immigrants, mostly Hispanic. We screen only for construction skills.”

  “Any problems with anyone who seemed bitter, who might harbor a grudge? Recent firings?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  “Can I get a list of everyone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. One last question. Are you a longtime supporter of Senator Evans?”

  “My father and I have backed Blake for several years because of his support for Israel’s fledgling solar industry. Father’s health has hindered recent involvement, but since Jenny’s death, I’ve become closer.”

  “How so?”

  His eyes shifted away from me.

  I turned to see the concierge waving.

  “Please excuse me,” he said. “I’m needed.”

  He walked across the patio, smiling, shaking hands, and patting shoulders before stepping on a short wooden platform apparently made for the occasion. He tapped a water glass with a knife. The crowd quieted and turned to watch.

  “I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves. Aren’t Chester’s ribs tasty?” He pointed to the chef beside the grill who waved and bowed to the approving applause.

  “Today is that rare occasion when we strive to set aside work. I’m sure our newly-elected senator agrees, but he wants to interrupt and offer his thanks to you all.” He smiled and added, “He’s assured me it will be short.”

  A weak round of applause accompanied Blake Evans as he stepped up and shook Jacob’s hand.

  “The ribs are great,” Evans said, “but that wine from the slopes of the Golan Heights remains unchallenged.”

  Several guests held their wine glasses up. Others clapped.

  “Jacob is right, friends. Winning is not difficult in California with a campaign advocating solar energy and abolishing guns. But it was your generosity with time and checkbooks that made it downright easy. Thank you.”

  A din of applause and shouts didn’t slow until he raised his hand.

  “Thank you. I want to take another second, however, to remind us all that the battle for gun control has only begun. We cannot let these hideous school shootings fade from memories so quickly. We cannot let the political will fade once the shock wears off. We must continue to remind Californians of the need to eradicate guns. My most-important goal for the next term is to keep these grievous atrocities and the importance of eliminating guns constantly in the conversations of our fellow citizens, in social media, on TV, in the newspapers, and on radio talk shows.”

  He waited for the applause to die away.

  “Toward this end, we are today announcing the establishment of a new PAC called First Commandment, a title to remind voters of the carnage months ago. It will be managed by my good friend here, Jacob Horowitz.”

  More applause. Guests whispered to their neighbors.

  He put his arm around Jacob’s shoulders. “But he can’t do this alone, so we must again ask for your support.” He waved to the applauding crowd. “Please give your checks to Jacob, and thank you all in advance.”

  They stepped down and walked into the crowd together, shaking every outstretched hand.

  It made sense that Jacob would align himself with a prominent anti-gun politician, but I wondered if gun control was a long-held passion or recently motivated by his grief. I wandered in their direction seeking an opportunity to ask.

  I noticed Bubba holding a beer near the buffet table, absorbed by a tale from an older gentleman with thinning white hair that outwardly called for emphatic arm waving.

  Jacob was also engaged with the senator as I approached, but Evans looked past him at me. I’d seen the same scrutinizing gaze many times. He was not anticipating a new acquaintance, but plotting his next conquest. I didn’t like it.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, Jacob,” he said when I was close enough to hear. “Who is this lovely vision?”

  I reluctantly smiled.

  Jacob looked surprised when he turned toward me. “Oh! Uhhh . . . Sara Ward is consulting for me, doing some creative accounting.”

  Creative accounting? That was a strange comment. I made a mental note to quiz him about it later.

  Evans held out his hand to me but addressed Jacob. “If you’re making too much money, Jacob,” he chuckled, “I can certainly put it to good use.”

  We shook. His grip was feeble, probably the result of millions of insincere political handshakes.

  “I’m curious, Jacob,” I said. “Has gun control been a longtime passion of yours?”

  “I’ve only become vocal with Jenny’s death.”

  While he elaborated, Evans remained quiet, listening, watching me, gauging me, I was certain.

  We chatted more. Jacob explained that he’d been silent on the gun-control issue because his father took the opposing stance, believing well-armed citizens were necessary to keep family and country safe. Perhaps that explained Aaron’s absence at this celebration despite his former business dealings with the senator.

  I inquired of Jacob’s wife who he said was on the East Coast with friends.

  Preparing to leave, I offered him my hand and complemented him on his fine home, splendid celebration, and skill as a host.

  “I might have some work for an accountant,” Senator Evans injected. He handed me his card. “This is my private number. Please call if you’re interested.”

  “Thank you. I will.” I grinned and left.

  I found Bubba near the buffet table. “These ribs are outstanding,” he said, wiping his face with a napkin.

  While we waited for the valet to bring the Jag around, I pondered Evans’ last comment.

  “Bubba, we need to update Sara Ward’s resume and online presence.”

  The valet brought my car, freshly washed. How did he know?

  Bubba gave him a twenty.

  “Thanks,” I said as we pulled away from the Horowitz estate. “Meet anyone exciting?”

  “One guy. Name of Mahmoud Elmahdy. Rich. Emigrated from Syria in the seventies.”

  “I think I saw him bending your ear. What’s his story?”

  “He’s Jacob’s neighbor. Apparently, they’re good friends. He’s also a veteran of the Six-Day War like our client Aaron.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah, but his experience was a lot different. His mother, wife, and young daughter were killed by a bomb from an Israeli Mirage.”

  I relaxed as the day’s events rushed through my mind, and turned on the car radio. In the middle of the Eagles’ “Take It Easy,” an announcer cut in.

  “Breaking news. There’s been another school shooting.”

  B ubba came into my office with a tall glass of something thick and green, and flopped on the sofa next to me as I watched TV. I wanted a smoke. Instead, I sucked on a second lemon drop that someone told me helped them quit. I wasn’t going to call them a liar until I’d had three.

  The blonde NBC reporter said, “We’re here at Altman Elementary with Detective Dick Braklin of the San Jose Police.”

  The camera pulled back to show them both. Braklin’s hair was unkempt, his tie undone, and he wore the same rumpled shirt as yesterday.

  “Detective, this shooting has stark similarities to the First Commandment shooting nine months ago.”

  “We’re still collecting information.”

  “Eight children mowed down with an assault weapon by a masked man who seems to have vanished.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  “Any clues you can share with us, Detective?”

  “The chief will have a statement later.”

  “He’s not gonna share shit,” Bubba said, “because he don’t know shit.”

  I agreed, but felt sorry for Dick. He was under a lot of pressure.

  “Has it occurred to you, Detective,” the reported said, “that First Commandment and Altman Elementary schools both have Jewish connections? Is thi
s a hate crime?”

  I detected a subtle change of expression on his face. This wasn’t an angle he’d likely considered in the three hours since this newest shooting. What is it that makes reporters want to hang placards of religion, race, or heritage associated with sensational crimes? I preferred motives I understood—money and sex.

  “We check all possibilities,” he said.

  Wow. I could already see the headlines tomorrow morning: Recent School Shootings Anti-Semitic Inspired?

  “Is the FBI helping?” the reporter asked.

  “They are, Jenna.” He wasn’t concentrating, seeming distracted by something beyond the camera’s view. “I need to go.”

  Oh my goodness. He’s on a first name basis with that pretty young thing. Just how well did he know her?

  Braklin left and Jenna began repeating herself—what she called “recapping.” I muted the TV.

  The third lemon drop was gone and I needed a smoke. I made a mental note to find out who suggested the lemon-drop cure and tell them they’re full of shit.

  “What do you think, Bubba?”

  “She’s right about one thing. The killers are hateful.” He frowned. “And it suggests an interesting question. Why those two schools? There has to be over a hundred K-through-twelve schools in San Jose.”

  “We should talk with the school administrators. See if there are other common issues.” He’s been doing some homework.

  “I’ll do it,” he volunteered.

  “And I’ll try to hook up with the FBI. Maybe get a different perspective.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Another thing’s clear,” I said. “Our friend Lenny Ponytail is off the hook. He was scarfing down free ribs and booze with us at Jacob’s barbeque.”

  My phone rang. I answered it.

  “Ms. Quinn, this is Jacob Horowitz. I assume you’ve heard about the Altman shooting.”

  “I have. It’s horrible.”

  “Our party for the senator disbanded immediately, but not before I got the name you wanted. It’s Guillory, Leonard Guillory.”

  “Thank you.”