An Old Man's Game

by Andy Weinberger

  “What do we know? Okay, Howie, it’s like this. They can’t prove anything yet, but in the not-so-humble opinion of the Los Angeles Police Department, Rabbi Ezra was more than likely murdered.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, then. They definitely know that much.”

  “If they could do an autopsy, they’d probably know for sure, yeah. But as it stands, the family’s dead set against it, and the judge won’t allow it.”

  “Huh. That’s disturbing. My friends on the Board aren’t going to like that.”

  “Here’s something else they won’t like. Not only are they leaning toward murder, right now they’re looking for a yeshiva student from Shir Emet. A kid named Jonah Siegel. You know him?”

  Howie shakes his head. “I might know the name, that’s all. We have a number of students. But what’s the connection?”

  “He was one of the people eating lunch with the rabbi at Canter’s. Not the only one, of course. Now he’s missing.”

  “So let me get this straight: they don’t know exactly how he died, but they think this Jonah person, one of our students, is involved?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. They certainly want to chat with him. He skipped town, though, which tells you something.”

  “What?”

  “Well, nothing good. A person only runs away when he’s scared. Or if he’s ashamed of something he’s done.”

  “But a yeshiva student. That makes no sense to me. Do they know why a young man like that would want to kill the rabbi?”

  “No. And murder’s still a stretch. The coroner could well be right in the end. Ezra Diamant could have just dropped dead.”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  “Belief has nothing to do with it, Howie. Jonah Siegel was one of the last folks to see him alive. He was there when it happened. So what does that tell you?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the detective.”

  “It tells you nothing, that’s what. Nothing at all. They didn’t arrest Mrs. Lincoln at Ford’s Theatre, did they? If it’s murder, we need a motive. And so far, it’s hard to figure. The rabbi was such a popular soul. At least with most people I’ve talked to.”

  Howie raises his eyebrows. “Ezra Diamant could be difficult at times. I think we’ve been over this already. He was often a polarizing figure. I myself had a love-hate relationship with him. Still, I can’t say I ever met anyone who actually wanted him dead.”

  “His daughter Ruth was more than clear about her feelings,” I say. “She didn’t kill him, naturally, but she sure as hell wasn’t sad when she heard what happened.”

  “Ruth’s a special case. Let’s not go there. I know all about that. That’s just families colliding. It’s painful, but it happens. You move on.”

  “I had a nice talk with her. And I think you’re right, Howie. She has moved on. Or at least she’s starting to.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Which reminds me. I know this has been a tough time for you, but I wanted to ask: have you moved on?”

  “From what?”

  “From Dr. Ewing’s death. I mean, that was absolutely murder. No question. Which is probably why the cops are taking a second look now at the rabbi.”

  “That figures, I suppose.”

  I take my glasses off briefly and blow some hot air on the lenses before I wipe them down with a Kleenex. “Someone whacked her over the head with a crowbar, you know.” I put the glasses back on. There now, all better. “How sad is that? And she was your tenant.”

  Howie’s face changes very slightly. I can’t tell quite what it is. A flinch. “My tenant. Of course.”

  “And your friend too.”

  He looks up at me. There’s a subtle movement now in his eyes, in his lips. He’s trying to adjust to my words. “What are you getting at, Amos?”

  “Well, just that you met her at Stanford last May and then the next thing you know you ended up giving her a nice office in Culver City to do her doctoring. That was pretty darn generous, don’t you think? You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t like her, would you?”

  His hands open in a vague plea for understanding. “She was my daughter’s friend. I had office space to spare. And I didn’t give it to her. We had a rental agreement. It was a happy coincidence, that’s all. Beshert. Meant to be.”

  “And was it meant to be that you also gave her a free apartment to live in on Doheny? That’s an exceptionally ritzy neighborhood, I understand.”

  “She had a mountain of debt from college,” he says. “You can’t imagine what medical school costs these days. Believe me, I was going to start collecting, just as soon as she got back on her feet.”

  “Tell me, Howie, I don’t mean to get too personal here, but—”

  “But what?” He’s staring at me now. It’s almost as if he can read my mind.

  “Well, I was just wondering. When you went up to Palo Alto for your daughter’s graduation, your wife came along with you, right?”

  “My wife? What’s she got to do with it?”

  “Just a question. Loretta and I, we don’t have any kids of our own. You’re fortunate. There’s nothing like a child. What I hear anyway.”

  “Having a child changes your life,” Howie says. “It’s true.”

  “So I’m assuming then that your wife, that she’d want to be there in the audience to see her little girl graduate. It’s a big day, right?”

  He stiffens. “Eleanor came up, certainly, she moved heaven and earth to be there, but she couldn’t take so many days away from work at the bank. She was in time for the ceremony, that’s the important thing. I was fortunate. My schedule let me stay the whole week.”

  I fold my arms. “Of course.”

  We’re both silent then. Howie heaves a sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand where you’re going with all this, Amos. Are you suggesting—?”

  “Oh, I’m way past suggesting, Howie. I’m wondering how long this little affair with Dr. Ewing was going on. I’m wondering whether your wife knew? Or is that something you’d rather not talk about?”

  “There was no affair.” He’s trying again to look me squarely in the eye but turns away. His hands are trembling slightly, and he clasps them together. “We were good friends, that’s all it was. Close friends. There was nothing romantic going on. Believe me.”

  “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” I reach into my side pocket, pull out my cardboard notebook, and pretend to consult it. “So many marriages on the rocks these days, know what I mean?”

  He nods. Then he asks me about Dora Ewing’s funeral arrangements. Has anything been done? Have the parents been notified?

  I tell him what Malloy told me: that her parents had flown out from St. Louis and they were shipping the body home for burial, just as soon as the police gave their final okay.

  “That’s good,” he says. “That’s good. I wouldn’t think they’d need to hold things up for long. I mean, yes, okay, somebody killed her, which is horrible, but there aren’t too many ambiguities, are there? No surprises.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t have the inside track on that one. I just hear things, is all.”

  “Such as?”

  “Things that would make any halfway decent cop sit up and pay attention. Like the idea, for instance, that she was living rent-free. That’s a red flag.”

  “I’ve already explained that to you, Amos.”

  “Sure, sure, but you’re gonna have to explain it to them, too. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t been by already. And they may not buy what you tell them.” I tap myself on the chest. “Me, I know you were just being a nice guy.”

  “I was,” he says. His voice starts to crack a little. “I was just trying to do the right thing, that’s all.”

  “And you know what? If I had that kind of dough—if I were in your shoes, I might do the same. But let’s be honest, Howie, that’s not how landlords usually treat their tenants.”

  “Well, if that’s t
he only thing bothering them—”

  “Not quite,” I say. “There was one other item. And you’ll probably be as surprised as I was when I heard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, it was murder, right, so the cops did an autopsy on her.”

  Now he’s upset. He clasps and unclasps his hands. “Why? Why on earth? How she died was no mystery. A simple blow to the head. Why would they desecrate her body like that?”

  “You’re right,” I say. “It’s a shame. And maybe it makes no sense. But that’s just what they always do. You know the law better than me. When there’s a murder, it’s automatic.”

  “Jesus,” he mumbles, “dear God.”

  “And you know what’s really sad, Howie? I’ll be honest with you, man. The part that really gets to me? She was pregnant.”

  His lips quiver, and a very small tear starts to well up in the corner of his eye. “Pregnant?”

  “But you two were just friends, right? That’s what you said. So it couldn’t possibly be yours.”

  Now he’s sobbing quietly. Whatever flimsy mask he was wearing before is gone. “I—I didn’t know,” he says. “Really, I didn’t. One thing led to another. It was like a dream, a beautiful, impossible dream. And I told myself, this is so wrong, this has got to stop, what about Ellie, what about the life we’ve made together, all that.” He reaches into his desk drawer for a tissue, blows his nose quietly, pulls out another one, dabs his eyes. “I’ve always had such control,” he sniffs. “Until I met her, anyway. Do you know what that’s like, Amos? To see your whole life—everything you thought you cared about—to watch it go, fly off into space? After all these years? How exhilarating that can be? How terrifying?”

  “Where did you think this was going to go, Howie?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, were you in love? Were you thinking about leaving your wife?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about anything, if you want to know the truth. I just—I was thinking about her. About when I could find the space, find the time, to see her again. That’s all I was thinking about. That’s been the sum total of my life these last few months.”

  “And Dr. Ewing? Was she as smitten with you?”

  “I don’t…I don’t get what you’re saying.”

  “Well, let’s face it, Howie. You have thirty years on her. I don’t mean to be crass, but what exactly did she see in you? Really? What did she expect out of this? Certainly not just a free apartment. “

  “She loved me.”

  “Oh, please, spare me. She said she loved you, I’ll buy that. But what did she want?”

  Now he’s sobbing again. “I don’t know,” he says finally, when he stops. “We didn’t talk about it like that.”

  “No, I don’t guess you did.”

  “I mean, it wasn’t as if she was blackmailing me. Nothing like that. She needed things, okay? Money, to pay her debts. But she had a kind heart. And there was so much to sort out.” He blows his nose a second time. “I loved her. I loved her more than any man has a right to, that’s the truth. That’s all that mattered.”

  I stand up and push aside my chair. “Okay then,” I say. “But was there anyone else who knew about this, Howie?”

  He shakes his head. “And please, Amos, I’m begging you. Please don’t let this go any farther than these four walls. It would just kill Ellie if she ever found out.”

  “I’m not saying a word. But the cops know what I know. It’s part of the case. And they’re going to be nosing around here, you can bet on that.”

  “Of course. But they’re only interested in the murderer, not our private…whatever.”

  My hand is on the doorknob. “They’re interested in justice,” I say, “which can be messy.”

  Chapter 13

  AS I PULL INTO my slot at Park La Brea, the cell phone rings. It’s Omar. “Just thought you’d like to know,” he says.

  “Know what?”

  “That you’re being followed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been watching you all afternoon, boss. Some guy in a brand-new Audi has been tailing you since Musso’s.”

  “How’d you know I was at Musso’s?”

  “You told me you’d be there with Malloy, remember?”

  “Yeah, and I think I also told you to take the weekend off. What happened to that idea?”

  “Since when have I ever listened to you, hombre?”

  “Okay, fine, so where is he now?”

  “He’s outside the gate, same as me. A black Audi. I don’t think he’s going to try to bullshit his way past the guard, but you never know.”

  “What’s he look like, this guy?”

  “Hard to say, man. The windows are tinted. I hate that, don’t you? Also, he hasn’t budged from the car. Oh, wait, now he’s pulling out into traffic. I’m going to take it from here. I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

  “Thanks, Omar. And hey, be careful, okay? Cuidado.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Around seven-thirty, we’ve just finished dinner when the phone rings again in my apartment. I’m very glad to hear his voice. “What do you have to say, Omar?”

  “I say we have two dark suits who like their falafel. They’re sitting three tables away from me. I’d even be willing to bet they’re the same suits who were eating lunch with the rabbi that day. I got no proof, of course. Just something about them.”

  “Where are you?”

  “A little restaurant here on West Pico called Eilat. That’s what it says here on the menu, anyway.”

  I grab a pad of paper and write down the name. “You want me to come down?”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you. I mean, these guys know what you look like, after all. It’s not supposed to go the other direction.”

  “Good point, amigo. I just don’t want you to tangle with them all by yourself.”

  “What are you talking about? There’s only two. Where I come from in Oaxaca, man, that’s a fair fight. Besides, one of them’s a much older dude. Your age, I’d say. He was already sitting down when I arrived. Must be the one in charge.”

  “Listen to me carefully, Omar. Does your phone have a camera on it?”

  “You mean, am I part of the new world? Can I push a button? Por supuesto, baby. Of course.”

  “So do you think you might be able to quietly snap a few discreet pictures of them? It could be useful down the road. And I’m sure our friend, Lieutenant Malloy, would appreciate it.”

  “There you go again, bringing the cops into this. You know how I feel about them. Wait a second, hang on.” The phone goes thump, and I hear him mumbling something. Then a moment later he’s back on. “I had to order. She talked me into the hummus plate, whatever that is.”

  “You’ll like it.”

  “I’m charging you extra for it if I don’t.”

  Because I’m cautious by nature, and because this is beginning to make me nervous, I tell Omar I have an idea. “I want to see those pictures,” I say, “and more to the point, I want to see you alive and in one piece. Let’s meet tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”

  “Okay, where?”

  “How about someplace nice. How’s the Beverly Hills Hotel sound?”

  Omar isn’t pleased. “I won’t go in there, man.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a Mexican, Amos. Think about it. I don’t belong there. Not sitting down with you. First thing you know they’re gonna ask me to go in the back and start doing dishes.”

  “No, they won’t. Nobody cares. Just put a jacket on, if you’re so uptight. I’ll buy you breakfast. It’ll make up for the hummus.”

  Later that night, when her favorite television shows have ended, I settle down on the couch next to Loretta. I’m holding another sermon by the rabbi. “You wanna hear this?” I ask her.

  “Depends,” she says. “If it’s not funny, I might fall asleep.”

  “It’s not funny,” I say, “but it might
be strange. You like strange, don’t you?”

  “Mmm.”

  “It’s kind of a fairy tale. Just listen.” I scan the first page. “This one also talks about Exodus. He’s obsessed with it, I figure, but here he comes at it from a slightly different angle:

  From the earliest days of my childhood, I was attracted to mysteries. And tonight I want to talk about what may be the biggest mystery of all. In rabbinical school we learned that Exodus took place around 1200 BCE. That’s known. That’s a fact. But what is also a fact is that we Jews never bothered to write everything down until about six hundred years later. There is a six hundred year gap, in other words. For six hundred years, all of us apparently just sat around the campfire and listened to people reciting the story from memory. Which is nice, but it’s also fantastic, and an amazing burden when you think about it.

  I don’t know about you, but when my wife sends me to the supermarket, I need her to write everything down. I have trouble remembering more than four items without a list. And I could barely memorize my Torah portion when I was bar mitzvahed. But the whole Torah? From Genesis to Deuteronomy? Word for word? Passed down from one generation to another? For six centuries? Now that’s an endeavor. None of it, not one word, so our tradition tells us, was written down until around 600 BCE. Why? It wasn’t as if we lacked for pen and papyrus. And maybe most of us were illiterate back then, but surely not everyone. What’s fascinating is that around 600 BCE there was another seismic event in Jewish history. I’m referring, of course, to the Babylonian Exile. When Nebuchadnezzar’s soldiers came and dragged us out of Zion. Egypt always gets top billing. But don’t you find it odd that hardly anyone talks about Babylon? That it’s almost never discussed? I do.

  Nowadays, we talk about anti-Semitism. We talk about Israel. We talk about the Holocaust, about what was done to us then, the gas chambers, the evil ignored by the world. All of that is still fresh in our minds. But pain is nothing new; we have an abundance of pain. Moreover, this particular pain—the pain of Babylon—has been with us for thousands of years, and I believe, as any psychiatrist in the room can tell you, that we make a serious mistake when we gloss over the experiences that have shaped us, or when we try to pick and choose who we are.”