Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 14

by Stone Kiss

  “Actually, we met at happier times.”

  “At my wedding,” Jonathan said.

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  “Auf simchas,” Lieber muttered. His hazel eyes were red rimmed. Then he rubbed his forehead. “We’ve looked for her everywhere. So there’s no need for you to…”

  “I’m sure you have. Still, sometimes in a panic we overlook—”

  “What I really need is for someone to talk to the police,” Lieber blurted out. “Maybe they know something that can help us find her… find Shay—” His voice choked. “Find Shayndie. If you could find out what the police know, that would help.”

  “I agree.”

  Lieber leaned forward. “Do you think they’ll talk to you?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Lieber—”

  “Chaim, please! It’s important that they talk to you. You know what questions to ask. We don’t.” He rubbed his forehead. “I want…” He broke into tears. “I want my daughter back!”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t be sorry! Instead, do something!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry—”

  “Please,” Decker said. “It’s fine. Can I ask you a few questions, Chaim?”

  “Anything at all.”

  “I know your daughter was doing some… experimenting—”

  “That’s a dead end!” Lieber stated. “We checked with those kids. The police checked with those kids. Nothing!”

  “Do you have some names?”

  “I don’t remember… goyish names. Ryan, Brian, Ian, Evan… You’ll have to talk to the Quinton Police. But that’s a dead end. You need to talk to the Manhattan Police. That’s where she disappeared.”

  “I have calls in to them.”

  “Did they call you back?”

  “Not yet.”

  “New York Police is understaffed now. You’ll have to keep at them.”

  “I figured I’d just go down and show up in person. I’m a lieutenant. Sometimes that’ll help. Sometimes not. Depends how cooperative they feel. I’d like to look at Shayndie’s room.”

  “Certain—oh no. You can’t. My father’s sleeping there. He was up all night.”

  Decker was quiet.

  “He’s an old man,” Lieber said. “Frail.”

  “It’s just the sooner I look, the more likely it is that I’ll find—”

  “Why don’t you come back?” Lieber suggested. “After you talk to the police. You can tell us what they say. And by then, I’m sure my father will be up. And my wife, too. You’d like to talk to her, I assume.”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s out cold. Yonasan told me to give her pills, right?”

  Jonathan nodded, but was clearly uncomfortable with the advice he had given.

  Decker said, “Can I just ask you about the other times Shaynda ran away?”

  Lieber turned his head. “Not times. A time. One time. She sneaked out and went to a party. The other kids started doing terrible things. She got scared and called us to pick her up. At least she had the sense to do that.”

  “What happened?”

  “I picked her up, what do you think?”

  “Did you punish her?”

  “Of course she was punished! She was lucky that the boys didn’t try anything with her. Stupid child!” He winced. “I was mad at her. Now I wish…”

  Decker nodded.

  “A rebellious child can take a lot from you.”

  “I know, sir. One of my boys has a mind of his own.”

  “It’s different with boys! They can protect themselves! Girls can’t. And girls get stupid when it comes to boys.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “One time!” Lieber insisted. “She promised that she’d do better after that. It really scared her.”

  “What in specific?”

  “I don’t know! I wasn’t there. I assume it was drugs and sex! All of those kids are wild animals. The parents have no control. They’re no better than the kids—divorce, affairs, drugs, and alcohol—no wonder the children are beasts.”

  Jonathan looked away, his jaw bulging under his cheek.

  “She was doing better,” Lieber said. “My brother… by no means a tzaddik… but he was… he had… She would talk to him. It was helping her. It was helping him. I thought he was doing better.”

  “Maybe he was doing better, Chaim,” Jonathan offered.

  “Yes, Yonasan, that’s why they found him naked in a hotel room!” Jonathan blew out air.

  Chaim punched his right hand inside his left. “Please, Akiva. Go down and talk to the police. If we find out what happened to Ephraim, then maybe we can find out what happened to Shayndie. Please. It’s Friday. You don’t have much time because of Shabbos. Go now!”

  “I’d still like to see her room,” Decker said.

  “Yes, yes. This afternoon. Come back and we’ll talk then.”

  “I could use a picture.”

  “The police have one. Go talk to the police.” Chaim stood up and extended his hand. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  Decker rose from the chair and shook the limp fingers. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Yes, you have. You’re here and that’s something.” He held up a finger. “Like Moshe Rabainu and Avraham Avenu, you came when you heard the call.”

  5

  The number left on Decker’s cell phone belonged to Detective Mick Novack of the two-eight—the 28th Precinct. The conversation consisted of a five-minute recap, Decker explaining who he was and why he was here.

  Novack said, “I just got all the paperwork I needed for searchin’ the vic’s apartment. Super’s gonna meet me there with the key, along with someone from the six-three. Betcha they’ll send Stan Gindi. The apartment’s in Flatbush. Wanna meet me there?”

  “Sounds good. Where’s Flatbush?”

  Dead space over the phone. Then Novack said, “It’s in Brooklyn. You heard of Brooklyn?”

  “We have Brooklyn Bagel Company in Los Angeles.”

  “Great. I’m working with a greener. Where are you calling from?”

  “Quinton.”

  “Quinton? What the hell you doing in Quinton?”

  “I’ve just come from a visit with the vic’s family—his brother.”

  “That’s right. So you’re upstate. You’ll still probably get there faster than me. I’m all the way uptown—Amsterdam and one sixty-two. Traffic’s a killer. Freaky Friday.” He gave Decker the address. “I don’t suppose you know how to get there… to Flatbush.”

  “Nope. But my brother’s driving. He knows the place. He’s the vic’s brother-in-law.”

  “The rabbi. Yeah, we talked to him yesterday. Seems like a nice guy. Except I heard he just hired a mouthpiece—Hershfield of all people.”

  “That was on my advice. I told my brother to hire the best defense attorney around.”

  “Your advice? What? You don’t trust us out here? C’mon. All of America loves New York’s finest.”

  “Indeed they do. It’s nothing like that. I don’t know what’s going on. The family needs to be protected.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “The side of truth, justice, and the American way.”

  “Another one from L.A.who thinks he’s Superman. I’ll give you the address. Got pencil and paper?”

  “Yep.”

  “A real pencil and paper?”

  Decker paused. There was hostility in the man’s voice, but that was to be expected. They weren’t exactly adversaries, but right now, they weren’t colleagues, either. “Last time I checked they weren’t figments of my imagination.”

  “It’s not a stupid question even though it seems like a stupid question. All you jokers from L.A. got these PalmPilots. One day, you’re gonna be caught in a thunderstorm and all your data’s gonna be fried to a crisp.”

  The first detective whom Decker met was five-ten, stick-skinny, and bald with round brown eyes and a big red mustache. He wore a gray suit w
ith a white shirt and a black tie. That was Gindi. Novack was a bit taller—around six feet and completely square. He had a broken boxer’s nose, wide, thick cheeks, and thick lips. His shoe polish–black hair was combed straight back revealing a dune’s worth of forehead, a deep brow, and hooded midnight blue eyes. His suit was dark blue, his shirt was white, and his tie was a dizzy pattern of thin red and blue stripes.

  “I’m the resident Jewish detective for uptown,” Novack explained. “Anytime one of the Chasids or Israelis or Jews gets whacked in Manhattanville or its environs, it’s either me, or Marc Greenbaum, or Alan Josephs. They like a Jew for the Jews, just like they like a black to deal with the blacks, or a Puerto Rican with Puerto Ricans. Sometimes they might assign a Cuban to the Doms uptown. We have several Koreans with Koreans, and a couple of Taiwanese. We got a separate guy for Haitians. Over in Brooklyn, if it’s a Jew, it’s Steve Gold, or Ken Geraldnick, or Stan here. Am I right about this?”

  “You are right,” Gindi concurred. “Not that I think that’s bad.”

  “I didn’t say it was bad.”

  Gindi said, “We got quite a few Jewish cops in Brooklyn. I think more in Brooklyn than in the city. Course we got a high concentration of Jews in Brooklyn. Not so many where you are, Mick.”

  “No, not so many, although all the West Side Jews keep on pushing the limits farther north. Then you go all the way north, you got the ones in Wash Heights. That’s why I was there this morning.”

  “What happened this morning?” Gindi asked.

  “Some discount jewelry store in my area was hit. The owner was a Chasid—took some lead in the ass of all places. Guy lives in Wash Heights. He won’t be making it to minyan tonight, but it coulda been lots worse.”

  They were standing in front of a six-story flat-faced brick building that had been overlaid with soot. The sky’s cloud cover had thinned, but the air was still cold and acrid. The side street that Ephraim had called home was narrow and filled with potholes. The sidewalks were cracked with a red, gritty slush leaking from the crevices. Next to the building was a small dirt lot containing lots of garbage and several bare-branched saplings.

  “What kind of area is this?” Decker asked. “Working class?”

  “This particular area, yeah. Very Jewish, very religious. Not where his people live.” Novack cocked a finger in Gindi’s direction. “This guy here is Syrian. Flatbush has lots of Syrian Jews. They all got these strange names—Zolta, Dweck, Pardo, Bada, Adjini.”

  “Flatbush has all sorts of Jews.”

  “Yeah, but the Syrians… they know how to live, right?”

  “You said it, Micky!”

  Novack looked at his watch. “Jeez. Twelve-thirty. Where’s the super?”

  “I have a key,” Jonathan announced.

  “You’ve got a key?” Novack repeated.

  “Yes, I have a key.”

  “You mind opening up?” Gindi asked.

  “Is that okay?” he asked Decker.

  Decker said, “He has all the paperwork, Jon. You’re just speeding things along.”

  “Then I’ll open up.”

  Jonathan brought them to the building’s elevator, which barely contained the body mass let alone the weight. It moved in jerks and jumps, as slow as a slug. Ephraim lived down a dimly lit hallway, wafting with the faint odor of garbage and urine. His unit was number four, and the doorjamb had the requisite mezuzah. As the detectives pulled out their gloves, so did Decker, his still in the protective wrapping with the official LAPD seal.

  “Whaddaya doing?” Novack asked. “Lieutenant or no lieutenant, you’re still a guest here. That means you and the rabbi watch.”

  “I had no intention of touching anything,” Decker lied. “I’m just a careful man. Last thing we want to do is screw something up accidentally. Let’s go.”

  “I sure hope you mean that,” Novack said.

  “Detective, you’re being nice to me,” Decker said. “I appreciate it.”

  Novack hesitated, then took the key from Jonathan and opened the door. As Jonathan walked across the threshold, he started to bring his fingers toward the mezuzah. Decker stopped him, and Novack caught it, nodding his thanks. Score a couple of brownie points for the greener from L.A.

  Ephraim lived in a tiny one-bedroom, almost devoid of furniture. The living room area had a five-foot shopworn sofa, upholstered in faded green chenille. There was a small coffee table, its top made of plastic laminate designed to look like wood. It was peeling from age. On the table was a stack of magazines: Time on top, the others obscured. A mug sat to one side, the remaining coffee inside congealed and cold. Underneath the table was a shelf. There Decker saw a Jewish prayer book, a Jewish bible, and several works by Rav Menachem Kaplan. One was entitled The Jewish Soul, and the other was Saving the Jewish Soul. Across from the couch were two mismatched chairs pushed against the back wall, a pole lamp between them.

  The dining area contained a square table with the top fashioned in ruby-colored linoleum that was meant to approximate marble; the legs were made from tubular steel. Four matching tubular steel chairs were placed around the table, the seats done in oxblood Naugahyde. It was probably an original 1950s table, and probably worth more than its original sale price.

  Gindi was busy looking through the kitchen cabinets. Not too many of those, since the kitchen was the size of a closet. Decker could see a tiny refrigerator and a hot plate. Jonathan stood in the center of the living room, hands in pockets, a woebegone expression in his eyes. Decker walked over to him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s so sad.”

  “I know.”

  “He was doing better, Akiva. He really was.”

  “This was doing better?”

  “A couple of years ago, he was almost living on the streets.”

  “What saved him?”

  “We gave him money, so did his father.”

  “Chaim?” “Chaim…” Jonathan shrugged. “Chaim has seven kids. He keeps things afloat, but one can hardly be critical if he was a bit cautious with his money.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ephraim used to thank us profusely for not giving up on him. We took him in for more meals than I can remember. We tried to offer as much as we could while still maintaining some privacy. I know his father was always there.” He shook his head. “God only knows what happened in that hotel room.”

  “How did he kick his drug habit?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t talk about that aspect of his life.” Jonathan sighed. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to step out and grab a cup of coffee. I spotted a café down the block. This is just too depressing.”

  Novack stepped into the room. “Leaving, Rabbi?”

  “Nothing for me to do. I feel like I’m in the way.”

  “You look tired, Rabbi. I can cart this guy around.” A thumb crooked in Decker’s direction. “He’s probably gonna want to see the crime scene, right?”

  “That would be helpful,” Decker said.

  “Why don’t you go home and see your family—or your congregation.”

  “Maybe the lieutenant needs me for something.” Jonathan’s voice was so dispirited.

  “I think Detective Novack is right,” Decker said. “The only thing I’ll need you to do is take me back to Quinton. I’d like to talk to Shayndie’s mom.” He turned to Novack. “Unless you want to come with me.”

  “I would except I have some pressing business in the afternoon. Besides, I’ve already talked to her—to both the parents.” A meaningful pause. “If you find out anything—”

  “Absolutely. I’ll tell you right away.”

  “I feel bad about leaving you, Akiva,” Jonathan said.

  “Tell you the truth, Jon, I think it would be easier.”

  “And we’re coming into the city anyway,” Novack said. “You know where the crime scene is? A hundred thirty-four between Broadway and Amsterdam.”

  “Yes, I know.” Jonathan wiped moisture from his eyes. “I
t’s not too far from my shul.”

  “Where’s your shul?”

  “One hundred seventeen between Morningside and St. Nick. Just across the park from Columbia.”

  “You’re a hop, skip, and a jump from the two-eight. I’ll drop him off at your synagogue. It’s not a problem.”

  “You’re being very kind.” Jonathan sounded so tired.

  “Go rest, Rabbi,” Novack said. “I’m sure a lot of people depend on you.”

  “You’re very right, Detective.”

  Decker walked his brother to the door and let him out. “I’ll call you in a couple of hours.”

  As soon as he left, Novack said, “Poor guy. First he’s got a fuckup brother-in-law. Then the relatives talked him into draggin’ you into it. Now he’s feelin’ pretty bad about that.”

  That about summed it up.

  Novack said, “The parents… they weren’t too helpful. For now, I’m saying it’s because they were overwrought. But I’m keeping my opinions open, know what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you.”

  “These kind of things. You always look to the family. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “That’s why I told them to hire a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, it was good advice.” He turned his head to the kitchen. “Yo, Stan the Man! Wanna see what I found in the bedroom?”

  The bald man closed the last of the kitchen cupboards. “I hope it’s more interesting than roaches. Cause I already seen a lot of those.”

  “What did you find?” Decker asked.

  “Magazines. And not the coffee-table kind.”

  “Bad?”

  “Legitimate stuff, at least. No kids or animals from what I could tell.”

  “Male?” Gindi asked.

  “No, female.”

  Decker looked at Ephraim’s coffee table. “I’m going to move Time off the pile of magazines. All right?”

  “Sure.”

  Decker scooted the weekly periodical onto the tabletop, exposing a copy of The New Yorker and a stapled set of loose-leaf papers with EMEK REFA’IM on the blue cover page. He turned to Novack. “Can I pick this up?”

  Novack shrugged. “You’re gloved.”

  Decker thumbed through the stapled papers.

  “What is it?” Novack asked. “Some homemade porno job?”