Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 07

by Sanctuary

  29

  As if she didn’t know, the sign said it all: Tourists were advised to turn back. If not, they traveled the roads at their own risk.

  Rina plowed ahead, tailing the Fiat at a brisk pace.

  Congestion eased as they moved out of downtown Jerusalem. The road wound its way out of the city, framed by old Arab homes—big houses with doors and grillwork painted blue to ward off the evil spirits. Flower boxes decorated the balconies, impromptu gardens springing up in empty spots. The hillsides were lush with vegetation. It must have been a wet winter. Farther along, past the old houses, were the newer Israeli developments. Hundreds of attractive-looking apartment houses waffled into the mountainside. Then as fast as they appeared, they faded. Once again, the ground was opened for cultivation.

  Rina passed olive groves, citrus groves, and cultivated fields. Here was strong land. Here was fertile land. And here was contested land.

  The sun was high, beating downward with unmolested power. The road to Hebron bordered on the Judean Desert and Rina had forgotten how hot the Mediterranean sun could be, even in the tail end of winter. She switched on the air conditioning.

  The road continued to ebb and flow through hilly terrain. Rina kept her eyes not only on the Fiat but on her rearview mirror. Though in hostile territory, Rina was calmed by the slew of army jeeps she had passed—in front of her, behind her. In about ten minutes, she knew she’d hit Bet Lechem—Bethlehem. Once the Christian Arab city had been a sleepy little berg that had catered to Christian tourists wishing to see the Church of the Nativity. It had been full of tiny little shops stocked with religious articles and icons. The stores had done a bang-up business around Christmas and Easter. But when the uprisings had swung into full gear, tours had been canceled. The result? Lots of empty shops.

  A few moments later, a large block of Israeli soldiers came into view. Rachel’s Tomb. Once visible from the road, it was now blocked by a wall. It was a holy spot for the Jews, especially infertile women. They would go there to beseech God for children, in the same manner that Rachel Emainu had beseeched the Almighty thousands of years ago.

  Rina felt comforted by the army’s presence, by the Uzis the boys held. There were many of them. So young. Dressed in khaki greens, the kids weren’t much older than Sammy. Rina briefly flashed on her other life, how it might have been for her boys if she and Yitzy had stayed in Israel. It had been her loneliness that had propelled them back to the States—to Rav Schulman’s yeshiva. And just as soon as they had settled in the United States, Rina wished they’d never left Israel. Everything had gone downhill after that.

  After incanting a quick prayer, Rina passed through the square blocks of Bet Lechem without incident. It was the same town she had known—open-market fruit and juice stands, cafés with Arab men passing around the hookah, playing long games of backgammon. Rina passed women balancing baskets on their heads as they walked down dusty roads in sandals or bare feet. Their hair was swathed in colorful scarves, their bodies covered with long, intricately embroidered black dresses.

  Abruptly, Rina realized that the Fiat had become a dot in the distance. She sped up, the car grunting as it accelerated, hugging the road as it twisted and turned. Once the Fiat was in striking distance, Rina allowed herself to relax.

  The hillsides had changed, no longer walls of rock. Instead, the mountains had been terraced, carved into steplike mesas of cultivated lands. This ingenious job of landscaping had been done hundreds of years ago, the barriers of granite and limestone still holding back the forces of Mother Nature with grace and beauty.

  The Fiat moved rapidly and so did Rina. They passed the turn off to Efrat, a town that had been mislabeled as a settlement. Settlements to Rina conjured up images of temporary inhabitance—people with backpacks wandering through fields, pitching tents and sleeping on the ground. Efrat was anything but. The town was perched atop the hill and was filled with modern apartment houses and sprawling private homes. It had its own school system, its own libraries, its own stores, and of course, its own synagogues. Rina had lots of American friends who had moved to Efrat to enjoy the fresh air, safety, and open land. Now, with the Arabs set to patrol this land, Rina feared for their safety.

  Rina thought about that as she drove farther into the West Bank. The road became not only emptier but decidedly more Arab. For every car she passed with an Israeli license, Rina had passed five with Arab plates. Her rental was a target, as vulnerable as if she were a blip on a radar screen. She rechecked her door locks, glanced in her rearview mirror, scanned the area for signs of an ambush.

  Everything appeared quiet. Another oncoming army jeep passed her in the opposite direction. It gave her courage to continue.

  The Fiat was speeding by now. The terraced mountainside had become a blur of rock. When it made the turn into Hebron, the wheels screeched. Rina followed, the air-conditioning blowing full force at her face. But the frosty air did little to relieve the internal heat. Sweat was running down Rina’s face, seeping through her clothing. The armpits of her blouse had become darkened stains. Taking the turnoff, Rina slowed as the roadway narrowed to the entrance to the city.

  Then things began to move in slow motion, the area growing dense with people as she delved deeper into the village, into the marketplace. Hostile, hateful stares cast upon her, the heat of anger born thousands of years ago and nurtured steadily by blood and revenge. Rina kept her eyes straight ahead, hands clutched to the steering wheel. She wanted to check her doors again, but that would show fear. Fear is always an invitation for trouble.

  The city seemed to reproduce before her eyes, the crowd thickening with each second that passed. The marketplace began to close in on her, fruit stands spilling onto the roadway. Donkey-driven carts sided her Subaru, animal and human faces staring into the car’s window. Some eyes were curious but most were unfriendly. Rina attempted to act outwardly calm, but inside her heart pounded furiously.

  Not an army jeep in sight.

  A “ping” echoed inside her car. The slightest sensation of movement—as if someone had tapped the trunk. A sudden rush of adrenaline shot into her system. Were the tires just spitting out gravel or was someone stoning the car?

  The Fiat had slowed to accommodate the heavy traffic of cars, carts, and camels. Rina’s Subaru was nudging against the Fiat’s back bumper. She was directly behind the car and that wasn’t good at all. But where was she to go? She was trapped in congestion.

  A louder clunk against the trunk of her car, this one heavier, more meaningful. She wanted to turn around but didn’t dare. A glance to her right showed she was hemmed in by another donkey cart. Her eyes panned her surroundings, assessing her options. In the distance, a flash of army green.

  Another hard clunk against her car.

  Rina slid down into her seat, amazed by how calm she was. All those safety drills she had done when she had lived out here years ago. It had all come back.

  The Fiat slowed, then hooked over to a small unpaved lane, not much more than a rut in the ground. Rina was not about to follow an Arab car into the isolated hillside. She had eavesdropped on Milligan’s conversation, had gotten the Fiat’s license plates, had tailed it into Hebron until it headed for the mountains. She had done enough. It was time to go home.

  Heart hammering in her chest, Rina did an abrupt U-turn and headed back to Derech Hebron, once again into town. Sweat poured off her forehead as she carefully drove the car back through the marketplace. Everything seemed under control.

  Then the deafening blast inside her car! Light flying, stinging her face! Instinctively, Rina ducked, but managed to keep control of the car. A donkey brayed, someone kicking at her car door, the sound of curses hurled in her direction. Through tear-stung eyes, Rina saw a streak of olive pass by.

  An army jeep!

  With finesse worthy of a race-car driver, she twisted and turned the Subaru, nearly knocking down a fruit stand, until she was tailing the jeep, until a platoon of army green came into view. A half doze
n jeeps and dozens of soldiers—men and women in Israeli uniforms armed with Uzis!

  Pools clouding her eyes, Rina realized where she was! Directly in front of her vision was a limestone building with a dark, cavernous archway for its entry. She had reached Ma’arat HaMachpelah—the Tomb of the Patriarchs. The ancient burial place of the holy ancestors. She brought the choking Subaru up a steep gravel hill, then pulled over and parked. Laying her forehead onto the steering wheel, she wiped glass off her hands and buried her face in the crook of her sweat-soaked arms.

  She wept aloud.

  Decker was trying to remain calm, but wasn’t succeeding. Having given up on Rina’s return to the Bursa, he went back to the hotel, deciding to wait for her there. But another hour had passed since she had left, two in all, and Decker was downright frantic.

  He hadn’t any idea where Rina had gone; he hadn’t a clue on how to proceed to find her. All he had was the license plate of the Subaru. Decker had called the rental agency and had asked in English if their cars had been equipped with tracking devices. The two people he spoke to hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was talking about. He hung up in disgust, his stomach sizzling in its own juices.

  The harsh ring of the phone made him jump. He grabbed it and muttered an angry hello.

  It was the long-distance operator.

  Fuck! Now something was wrong at home. And here he was, sick with worry ten thousand miles away.

  Thanks to good old fiber optics, the voice on the other end was familiar and clear. An instant wave of relief came over him. It wasn’t his mother-in-law or the baby nurse or Sammy or Jake. It was Marge.

  Decker caught his breath and said, “What time is it over there?”

  “Two in the morning. What’s it over there? About one in the afternoon?”

  “About.”

  “Yeah, I’m all messed up with the time zones. I called your hotel yesterday—four o’clock in the afternoon my time. Some indignant desk clerk informed me in no uncertain terms that it was two o’clock A.M. over there and she was not going to wake you for anything less than an emergency. I figured I’d call back later. You’ve been busy?”

  “Nonstop since we arrived yesterday.” Decker took out his pad and pencil. “I take it you have some news?”

  “First, a quick update on the Honey Klein case. I got a call from a Sturgis in West LA. I told him you were in Israel and he told me you should get a job as a clairvoyant.”

  “Honey is here?”

  “No one’s certain, but Manhattan police think so. Right after Klein’s murder, they set up a specialized team to go out to the village—a couple of Jewish cops on the force who could speak Yiddish, including one woman. The men were mute, of course. With the women, it was a different story. While they weren’t exactly chatty, some things about Honey did come out. She had been talking for a long time about going to live in Israel. Then, right before Honey left for vacation, one of the neighbors saw a thick envelope sitting in front of Honey’s house; the return address was a federal office building. She had asked Honey about it. Honey had replied that she had updated their passports.”

  “Interesting,” Decker said. “Do they have any evidence she was involved in her husband’s murder?”

  “No evidence. But police have got a motive.”

  “Let me guess. Her husband had been abusing her and the children. She wanted to get away, but he wouldn’t let her. So she took the kids and fled.”

  “You’re on the right track, but not quite.” Marge paused. “You being Jewish and all, Rabbi. Maybe you can explain this to me. Yes, Honey wanted to get away from her husband. She had been asking for a divorce for over a year, but Gershon Klein wanted to stay married. Now this is the part I’m confused about. Apparently, if you’re a devout Jew, a wife can’t get a divorce if her husband doesn’t want it. Is that true?”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  “How’s that possible, Pete? We have laws in this country. Equitable laws.”

  Decker was quiet. How could he possibly explain it to Marge when he didn’t understand it himself. “She can get a civil divorce, Marge, but she can’t get a religious divorce. Without a religious divorce, a Jewish woman can’t remarry.”

  There was a long pause over the line. Then Marge said, “I don’t know about you, but that seems imbalanced to me.”

  “Me, too,” Decker admitted. “I think it stinks. Has New York concluded how Gershon Klein died?”

  “He drowned,” Marge said. “Rather he was drowned.”

  “What kind of water was in the lungs?”

  “It was fresh water, not seawater. They think he drowned in a bathtub. And they think Honey did it.”

  “It would have been hard for Honey to get him into a bathtub,” Decker said. “Gershon had stopped bathing a while back.”

  “Stopped bathing? Why? Now that couldn’t be religion.”

  “It had nothing to do with religion,” Decker said. “Sounds like the guy was undergoing a breakdown. Go on.”

  Marge said, “The next part is speculation but I’ll run it by you anyway. New York seems to think that Honey had intentions of calling it in as an accident. But she suddenly panicked.”

  “I can see that,” Decker said. “It’s one thing to drown your husband in a frenzy of anger. It’s another thing to explain away a dead body.”

  Marge said, “New York thinks she dragged the body out of her house—”

  “This had to have taken place at night.”

  “I would think so. Anyway, she dragged the corpse down to her husband’s office and left.”

  “The body was shot.”

  “Yeah, they figure Honey purposely shot the body, trashed the office to make it look like a robbery, then told everyone that Gershon was out of town in Israel.”

  “Then Honey called up Rina,” Decker continued the story. “She made arrangements to be out of town when the body was discovered.” He became angry. “She chose to stay with a woman whose husband’s a cop. Got to give it to her. That took balls.”

  “Or some screws loose,” Marge said. “Honey had to have been stupid to think that someone wouldn’t catch on.”

  Decker said, “You know, Margie, dead bodies aren’t easy to maneuver. Drowning the guy, then dragging him into a car and up to his office…shooting him and tossing the place. That’s a lot of physical exertion for one little woman.”

  “My thoughts to a tee. She must have had help, Pete. Unfortunately, the police can’t finger an accessory.”

  “An accessory before the fact,” Decker said. “Someone had to have helped her with the drowning. She couldn’t have taken down a grown man by herself.”

  “Unless the guy was drugged.”

  “Anything in the blood?”

  “Sturgis didn’t say anything so I assume the tests were negative. Unless the guy was pumped with some rare poison that didn’t show up in a normal chemical profile.”

  “Honey had help,” Decker stated as fact.

  “Probably. Could have been a member of her community. Maybe even one of her kids…the teenaged boy.” Marge was quiet for a moment. “Didn’t you tell me that the kids looked like abused children?”

  “I was thinking out loud, but the signs are there.” Decker paused. “So they think Honey drowned him, then shot him in a panic to make it look like a robbery. Something’s missing, Marge.”

  “Agreed. So all you have to do, Rabbi, is find the woman and ask her a few questions. Shouldn’t be too hard. Israel’s a very small country. I know because I looked at a map.”

  Decker laughed. “It’s bigger in the flesh, Dunn. I’ll ask Rina if she has any ideas.”

  If I can find her!

  Marge said, “Department said as long as they paid your transatlantic way for the Yalom thing, you should look into Klein, too. Davidson was very excited about the latest developments. He’s going to ask Manhattan to kick in for some of your overseas expenses since you’re working on their case.”

  “Our Loo likes t
hings fiscally sound.”

  “Our Loo’s a jerk.”

  “Has he been giving you a hard time?”

  “Not really. Simply because I’ve been producing.” Marge took a breath. “Are you ready?”

  “Yep.”

  “We finally found the airline tickets for the Yalom boys. They took a flight from LA to Vancouver. Another one from Vancouver to Toronto. Then a third from Toronto to Israel. We finally have confirmation that the boys are in Israel.”

  “I’m looking for them as we speak. Nothing so far. But I’ve only been here a day. Anything else?”

  “Yep. I’ve been doing a little research on our friend Katie Milligan.”

  Decker felt himself gripping the receiver. He tried to quell a rush of anxiety, but it was a lost cause. “What?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Are you okay, Pete?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. What about Milligan?”

  Marge couldn’t understand the sudden harsh tone in his voice, but maybe he’d explain himself afterward. “It seems that Katie made some interesting recent investments for her pension plan. Namely Southwest Mines and West African Consolidated.”

  “The companies Arik Yalom had invested in.”

  “Pete, she bought Southwest Mines after it went bankrupt.”

  Decker thought a moment. “Maybe Milligan was bottom fishing. Or it may be that Milligan had insider’s information that the company was going to be picked up and restructured.”

  “And just who would pick up the company, Pete?”

  “VerHauten.”

  “On the nose, Rabbi,” Marge said. “VerHauten is listed as the majority shareholder of the recently defunct Southwest Mines with Milligan and Yalom listed as prominent minority shareholders. Would you like to hear some of my theories on what came to pass?”