An Old Man's Game

by Andy Weinberger

  “He has friends, he says, in the Israeli government. He also consults with a bunch of evangelical groups.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I have no reason to doubt him. It makes sense that the Israelis would be upset with any new-fangled brand of Judaism that denies the need for an Israeli state.”

  “That’s what the rabbi was up to, you think?”

  “If you read his sermons carefully, you could draw that conclusion. Israel—at least biblically—is promised to the Jews by God. That’s a pretty high authority, I’d say.”

  “So Ezra Diamant brings in all this new archaeology, all this research, and says No, no, it didn’t happen that way. I have proof. That’s bound to upset them.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for a while now, Bill.”

  “Guess I was a little dense. Sorry about that.” He goes to the kitchen, puts on a kettle to boil water for tea.

  “Where’s Jess?” I ask.

  “She’s at her rheumatologist’s in West Hollywood. You know, it’s always something.” He pulls out a ceramic mug from the cupboard, sets it on the countertop. “You want some? English Breakfast, that’s what cures a cold, I’ve found. Also good for a swelled head like yours.”

  I nod, and he pulls down another mug.

  Once the tea is brewing, we return to our chairs in the living room. I tell Bill that Malcolm Bloom just doesn’t strike me as a killer. “He’s a manipulator,” I tell him. “He works behind the scenes. He’s not the kind of guy who pulls the trigger.”

  “Maybe not,” he replies. “But what about Eric Blanchard?”

  “He’s a real mystery,” I agree. “I mean, he has a violent past. And it’s for damn sure something bad happened to him in Iraq. Add in his born-again Christianity, and you’ve got yourself a potent mix.”

  “So he might have been the one that did in Ewing.”

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t add up, somehow. For one thing, he claimed he didn’t even know who Ewing was. Never heard of her, he said. Also, Blanchard would never act on his own. He’s a soldier, he works for Bloom. And Bloom is playing some kind of long game. I believe him when he told me his clients don’t go in for murder. Besides, even if they did, once the rabbi’s in the ground, why continue? What’s the point? This isn’t Hamlet.”

  “I never saw Hamlet,” Malloy mumbles, “but I’m guessing a lot of folks die in it.”

  “That was my point, Lieutenant.” I take a long swallow of my tea and watch the steam rise. “You know what I think?” I say at last. “I think—I’m beginning to think that what happened to the rabbi and what happened to Dr. Ewing and Jonah Siegel are not related. They look related, sure. It would be nice and neat if they were related. But my gut tells me no.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “A couple of things. Let’s forget about the rabbi for a minute. We don’t know how he died, but if it was murder, chances are his killer was having lunch with him at the time.”

  “That’s four guys.”

  “But you can toss out Joey Marcus right away. Only reason he was there was to talk about Oprah. And if I’m right about Mr. Bloom and his friend, you can toss them as well.”

  “Which leaves Jonah Siegel.”

  “Right. Let’s think about him for a minute. Sophie Applebaum told me the Bible was everything to that kid. Everything. You saw how he underlined the rabbi’s sermons? He was clearly wrapped up in the subject.”

  “So if he thought the rabbi was going to destroy his religion, that’d give him a motive. I’d buy that.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “you probably would.”

  “And besides, we have all that other evidence from his apartment,” Malloy says. “The crowbar, the blue medical folder from Dr. Ewing’s office.”

  “Exactly. It all points to the idea that Jonah killed the rabbi, then tried to muddy the trail by breaking into Dr. Ewing’s place and stealing the file. Only she showed up and he had to kill her. That could have been an accident, who knows.”

  “Okay,” Malloy says. “So far, so good. But then we find him on the tracks. That’s not supposed to happen, is it?”

  “That was supposed to look like suicide,” I say. “You were supposed to think the kid just snapped after all the mayhem he created, took all his clothes off, and wandered in front of an oncoming train. The end.”

  “It is a scenario, I guess.”

  “Sure,” I say, “but it ignores a few inconvenient facts. Like the bullet hole in his head. You weren’t supposed to notice that. Or like, for example, Jonah Siegel couldn’t drive. How did he get from his apartment in Koreatown to the middle of nowhere in Pomona? And what happened to his clothes? Did he walk all the way out there naked? Also, how did he even know who the rabbi’s doctor was?”

  “He must have had some accomplices. And he must have known something,” Malloy says. “You have to figure that. Or why would they bother to kill him?”

  “I think Jonah Siegel was just the easiest person to blame. He was there when the rabbi died. And he had the crowbar with the doctor’s blood on it. He had the sermons. The empty medical file too. That last was a nice touch.”

  Malloy takes another sip of tea, turns his head to one side, and coughs politely. “You think those might have been plants?”

  I nod. “Don’t you see, Bill? I was supposed to find that stuff and lead you straight to it. Well, I did my job now, didn’t I? I fooled us both.”

  Malloy stares at me hard. “I dunno. I still think we could put together a pretty strong case against Bloom and Blanchard. I’m going to check with some folks in Washington, see what they know about Malcolm or Mordecai or whatever the fuck his name is. It’ll take a few days, but I’d be willing to bet on that. There’s something wrong with that pair, I can smell it.”

  “Oh, you’re right. They have a malicious streak. I just don’t think it extends to murder. At least not in this case.”

  Bill uncaps a bottle of aspirin sitting on the table and pops two in his mouth. He looks earnestly at my split lip and nose, then pushes the bottle to my side of the table. “Here, go on, help yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him. The aspirin have a sour taste on my tongue, but I wash them down quickly with hot English tea.

  “So where does that leave us?” he asks. “Who would want to see the rabbi dead?”

  “You know what I think?” I say, as I get slowly to my feet. “I think at the end of the day, what we’re going to learn is this really wasn’t about the rabbi. If Malcolm Bloom is telling the truth, and if the coroner’s report is even halfway accurate, the rabbi just happened to die. He was eating his soup and he died. There was nothing to be done. But someone decided to use that event. Someone wanted us to think there was more to it. And they were willing to kill two other people to prove it.”

  Malloy walks me to the door. His hand rests on my shoulder. We’re pals for life. “I’m going to keep Jason and Remo looking into Eric Blanchard. I’m sorry he clocked you on the head.” He looks at me slyly out of the corner of his eye. “But then maybe you had it coming.”

  Chapter 23

  IT RAINS SIDEWAYS for two days straight, which is just crazy at any time of the year for LA, but even crazier in the middle of November. Suddenly, no one remembers how to drive anymore, and there are spectacular accidents up and down Sepulveda and all along the Hollywood and Harbor freeways. I stay hunkered down in my study mostly, every now and then getting up and going into the bathroom to look in the mirror to watch my face heal. I sip more coffee than is good for me, and I stare at my computer screen until my eyes start to ache. I spend hours and hours looking up Mordecai Bloom and Malcolm Bloom on the internet. There are a number of entries with his name included, mostly business connections. He was (or maybe he still is) involved with exporting religious items from Israel—jewelry and menorahs and commemorative plates, stuff that would fill the gift shop at Shir Emet and a thousand other synagogues across America. That could be true, but it’s also probably j
ust a cover. There’s no mention of any ties to the Israeli government, although his name pops up in association with half a dozen Pentacostal groups in Kansas, Texas, and Oklahoma. Most often, they list him as a consultant. One, the Church of the Guiding Light in Enid, Oklahoma, calls him a blessed friend, whatever the hell that is. I note that Eric Blanchard had some fame in Kansas two years ago. He was a guest on several Christian radio shows to talk about God and the unborn; there’s a photo of him smiling and holding up one end of a Confederate flag at a rally; and there’s a small news item about his assault and battery arrest at a Planned Parenthood clinic. But those were two years ago. Now he’s migrated to California, and the trail is cold.

  Loretta is pleased that I’m staying at home more. She comes in every now and then and puts her arms around my shoulders. Sometimes she kisses me on the back of the neck and once in a while she whispers sweet little things in my ear like she used to do when we were first together. She remembers those days long ago as if they just happened. Ask her what she ate for breakfast, and she’ll have a problem.

  On Thursday afternoon, I look out the window and it’s still coming down, though they say the cold front is moving east into Arizona and sunshine is on the way. The phone rings. It’s Malloy, calling with an update. “A few new things you might want to tuck under your hat,” he begins. “First, I heard back from the FBI and from my old friend who’s an analyst at the Farm. The FBI knows nothing about either Malcolm Bloom or Eric Blanchard. But my CIA guy says Mordecai Bloom was an Israeli paratrooper once upon a time, and after the Six-Day War, he worked a short stint with Mossad. Doing what, we don’t know, but it wasn’t for more than a year or two. Then he left the country for good. So I guess what he was telling you about his patriotic past is on the money. He has indeed killed a few people.”

  “But that was so long ago, Bill. All that maybe suggests is that he might still remember how to fire an Uzi.”

  “True.”

  “What else you got?”

  “Oh, just a little more background on the Dora Ewing case. We got some help from the Palo Alto PD. They nosed around a few of her college friends, and one of them—her name was Rosalie Wells, I believe—told them that Dora Ewing had been seeing an older man off and on for a good six months before her graduation.”

  “How much older?”

  “Rosalie says she never met him, but from their girl talk, he was much older. Father figure, was the term she used. Could have easily been Rothbart, but that would mean their love affair predated everything he told us. What’s interesting is his own daughter, Zoey—she was Dora’s roommate, you know—she had no idea what was going on.”

  “The cops questioned her, too?”

  “You bet they did. But they didn’t mention Howard Rothbart by name, so she may still be in the dark about that.”

  “Probably not,” I say. “Howie told his wife about his indiscretion last week, and she’s already moving out. I’m sure the daughter knows by now. Bad news travels fast.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  He tells me a few other things that I jot down on the yellow legal pad I always keep handy at my desk. Like what they found when they entered Dora Ewing’s apartment. There was a half-finished letter she was evidently going to mail to her dad in St. Louis, all about how hard she was working to build up her practice, and how money was still very tight, but thank God, slowly getting a little better. There was a closet full of high-end Italian shoes and skirts and blouses. Also a wooden box on a table beside her bed filled with necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. “She had good taste,” Malloy goes, “I’ll say that for her.”

  After we hang up, I sit and stare out at the rain for a long time. Something’s wrong, I just can’t put my finger on it. And that night, after Loretta and I eat dinner and I tuck her into bed, I’m still restless. “I’m going for a walk,” I tell her. “I’ll be back in an hour.” Her eyes are nearly closed when I say this, so I don’t know if she hears me or not. I grab a jacket and put my Dodger cap on. Once the elevator rattles down to the mezzanine, I start wandering off toward Wilshire. The rain has stopped. The air feels clean. It’s dark, but it’s not that late, and there are still folks out on the pavement. LA wasn’t much of a walking town in the old days. Now, who knows? In just one block, I meet a pair of young single-minded Korean women in striped nylon running suits and an old bachelor trudging home from Ralph’s with a six-pack of Budweiser under his arm. The homeless guys on Wilshire, the ones I see almost daily, have vanished from their usual corners in front of Office Depot and Rite Aid and the Bank of America. Maybe the cops have moved them along, or maybe the rain has chased them away, or maybe they know a thing or two about shelter they’re not admitting. A half hour later, I’ve managed to hike all the way to La Brea. There are klieg lights on, and men walking around in hard hats. They’ve set down a series of orange traffic cones in the right-hand lane, and some poor fellow is waist deep in a muddy hole making lots of noise with a pneumatic drill. A sign says it’s an extension of the Metro Purple Line that’s coming, which I guess will be great news someday, but God only knows when. In the meantime, this is what you get.

  As I turn the corner at La Brea, I take out my cell phone and punch up Omar’s number. He answers on the fourth ring. There’s some sort of mariachi music playing in the background. “Hey boss, what you doing up at this hour?”

  I fill him in on what Malloy told me about Dora Ewing, also some of what happened in Pasadena. “My head still aches a little bit,” I say, “but I’m okay. I understand why he hit me. After what you did to him, hey, I’m not holding any grudges.”

  “Shit man, you’re just lucky he didn’t kill you. Why’d you go there without me?”

  “It’s a long story, Omar. I’m impulsive, I guess. I had an idea. Anyway, I called to tell you that I’ve been thinking it over. Much as it pains me to say this, we’re probably barking up the wrong tree with Mr. Bloom and Eric Blanchard.”

  “The wrong tree. The wrong tree, what the hell does that mean? You’re telling me they’re innocent? Those two?”

  “I’m telling you they didn’t kill anyone. At least the ones we’re interested in.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I feel so much better.” The mariachi music fades and I can hear other voices talking in Spanish. Someone—maybe Omar—turned down the volume. “So now what?” he wants to know. “Are we right back where we started from? Or do you have another person I should rough up?”

  “Not quite,” I say. “I have a lot of thoughts. And I need one more chat with Howie Rothbart, even though the temple has decided to move on. There are still some things to clear up. He’s not dangerous, but if you’d like to come along with me, well, we could have lunch afterwards.”

  “You think I’m doing this just to have lunch?”

  “No. I think you do this because you care about me, Omar.”

  “I worry about you, Amos. I guess that’s what you call caring.”

  “You know, my friend Malloy said more or less the same thing. He worries about me, too.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s about all Malloy and I have in common.”

  I keep walking. About an hour later, I slip the key into my front door. There’s sweat on my forehead; pieces of the puzzle have come together, but I’ve worn myself out. The light is still on in the living room. Loretta’s fast asleep, I can tell. Outside our bedroom window, the lights of Hollywood are twinkling away. I can see the Griffith Park Observatory, and there’s a muffled helicopter sounding in the distance. I climb in beside her and as quietly as I possibly can, pull the covers over my shoulders.

  “I love you,” Loretta coos in her sleep. “I love you more than milk.”

  She’s not talking to me. Or maybe, I think, she’s talking to the me she knew twenty years ago. Or whoever it is who’s lost in her head right now. It doesn’t matter.

  “I love you, too, babe,” I whisper back, and kiss her
lightly on the neck.

  Chapter 24

  THE SYNAGOGUE IS bustling on Saturday morning. It’s not quite nine o’clock and dozens of bearded men in black coats and white shirts and yarmulkes are coming and going purposefully, many with books and velvet tallis bags in their arms. Some young boys too, in similar dress, holding their fathers’ hands in their own as they are led down the hall to one classroom or another. Omar is here also. He’s standing with his back against the large plate glass window of the gift shop. He’s wearing a camel-colored sports jacket and dark pants and a light gray shirt. Because I told him he needs to dress up some, he’s even got a simple reddish tie on, and in most formal circumstances, he would probably blend right in. But not here. Here he is clearly a stranger. Nothing needs to be said. People are respectful, but they don’t approach him, and he stands there conspicuously waiting, looking left and right, his hands jammed in his pockets.

  “You’re early,” I say. I shake his hand. “Good shabbos, Omar.”

  “Yeah, right,” he mumbles, “whatever that means.”

  “It means that after he created the world, God took this day off. And generally speaking, you should too.”

  “So why are we here?”

  “Well, just because God decides to take the day off, that doesn’t necessarily apply to working stiffs like you and me.” I grab a couple of yarmulkes from the box and hand one to him. “Here, put this on.”

  “Why should I?”

  “It’s a sign of respect,” I say. “It’s like crossing yourself in church. It’s the same as when people like me order menudo in Boyle Heights. It says you identify.”

  “But I don’t identify, man,” he whispers. He holds the yarmulke tentatively in both hands.

  “Okay, you don’t identify. But while you’re here, you can pretend, can’t you? Just put it on, maybe they’ll think you’re a new convert.”

  He makes a face and slaps it down on his shaved head.

  I point at the small sanctuary at the end of the corridor. “That’s where they’re going to have the Torah study, I bet. I’d like you to stand just outside and wait till it’s over. They usually run about an hour.”