by Stone Kiss
“‘It is better to take refuge in Hashem than to rely on man,’” Decker quoted from the Hallel service.
“Yes, exactly.” Lieber’s eyes watered. “It’s so terrible.”
“Yes, it is. I’m so sorry.”
“Horrible.” Lieber wiped his eyes. “And you are leaving tomorrow?”
“Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see how it goes.”
Donatti had told him to wait for his call, but how long could Decker be patient?
“At the hespid yesterday, I spoke to people who worked with Ephraim. I also spoke with others who knew your son. Ephraim seemed like a man who was full of heart.”
“Who did you speak to?” Chaim challenged.
“A woman named Luisa—”
“Ephraim gave her money,” Chaim sneered. “Of course she liked him.”
“And since when is tzedaka considered a bad thing?” Raisie asked him.
“Charity begins at home,” Chaim said.
“Don’t fight,” another sister castigated. “Don’t we have enough to deal with?”
Raisie regarded Decker, then pointed to her sisters. “This is Esther; this is Malka.”
Decker offered his condolences to them.
“And who were the others who knew Ephraim?” Mr. Lieber wanted to know.
“I spoke to a man who met Ephraim in an organization called Emek Refa’im.”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Lieber said. “The counseling place.”
“A place for drug addicts, Papa,” Chaim stated.
“A place to help them,” Mr. Lieber insisted. “He was doing so well, Lieutenant. Ephraim was.”
“So I understand.”
The old man sighed. “So well.” Tears in his eyes. “In the business, too.”
“How long had he been working with you and Chaim?”
Lieber didn’t answer.
“Two years,” Chaim said dully.
“Two years,” the old man repeated. “He enjoyed it. I could tell he liked the business.”
Chaim rolled his eyes, but the old man didn’t see it.
“I’m sure he loved being part of the business,” Decker said. “What was his job there?”
“What difference does it make now?” Chaim snapped.
“The man wants to know,” Mr. Lieber said. “He was a jack of all boxes—”
“Jack of all trades,” Chaim corrected.
“He’d work the register, stock the shelves, take inventory in the stores and in the warehouse, fill in if people didn’t show up.”
“Assuming he’d show up,” Chaim said.
“Chaim!” Raisie chastised. “Please!”
Chaim rubbed his face. “I’m sorry.”
Jonathan returned with the tea. He handed a glass to his father, then one to Decker. “Thanks, Jon.”
Chaim said, “I’m going upstairs for a moment, Papa. I’ll be back.”
“I’ll go with you,” Jonathan said.
“Sure. Come on.”
The two men trudged through the crowds, standing close to each other, an unspoken message between them.
Sitting on something.
Did the girl bolt? Had she made contact with them? Last night, she had been petrified to have anything to do with any of her kinsmen, but a new dawn often brought a new perspective. Maybe she had decided that the safest place was home.
Or maybe he was reading too much into the camaraderie. Maybe they both wanted to get away from the crowd—which was certainly understandable.
Mr. Lieber sipped his tea. “I thought things were working out.”
Decker returned his concentration to the old man. “I’m sure they were working out.”
“Then why? Why?” Watery, rainbow-colored eyes took in Decker’s face. “The police said that it was drugs. Why was he with the drugs?”
Decker didn’t answer, masking his silence by drinking the diluted brew.
Mr. Lieber shook his head. “The flesh is weak.”
“Mr. Lieber,” Decker whispered, “maybe it wasn’t drugs. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt him?”
“No! No one!”
“I hate to ask you this, sir. But maybe you or your son have made someone angry?”
“Me?” The old man shrugged. “I make all my customers angry. Jews are impossible people to work with. Everyone wants a bargain. You don’t give them what they want, they complain. But no one would get mad enough to hurt me.”
“Can I ask you another personal—”
“Ask, ask.” Lieber put the tea glass down on the floor and took Decker’s free hand. “Ask.”
“Did you owe anyone money?”
“Just the bank… business loans. Nothing that would require Citibank to strong-arm me or my sons.”
“No individual loans?”
“None. I have money in a business account, money in a savings account. Nothing too big: Business hasn’t been so hot lately. My suppliers go under, lots of theft… always happens when times are tough. But not tough enough that I have to borrow from the loan sharks, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Yes.” Decker placed his empty glass by his chair. “That’s what I was asking.” He formulated his thoughts. “What about employees? Any problems with any specific individual?”
“Not that I know of. Most have been with me forever. The part-timers… that’s Chaim’s job. Hiring and firing. We get some turnover with the shleppers, the men who load and unload the heavy boxes at the warehouse. You hire who you can get at minimum wage. Sometimes it’s recent aliens with green cards, sometimes it’s high-school dropouts, sometimes students looking for a summer job.”
“Whoever’s available.”
“Yes. If you have some questions about them, ask Chaim.”
“I would if he’d talk to me. And if he doesn’t want to, it’s understandable.”
“Yes, it is,” the old man agreed. “Maybe another time.”
“Maybe.”
Decker could see that others wanted to draw close to Mr. Lieber, to participate in the mitzvah of comforting the mourner—menachem avel. He got up and uttered the customary Hebrew words of comfort to Raisie and her sisters, then to Mr. Lieber. He nudged his way through the crowd to the back of the room.
Chaim and Jonathan weren’t visible anywhere. So be it. Without fanfare, Decker left. As soon as he was outside, he let go with a deep exhalation. It had been so stifling in there, he hadn’t realized how much his chest had been hurting. Walking down the pathway, breathing a bit easier, he heard a car screech as it pulled up to the curb.
Minda Lieber rushed out of the dented van, slamming the door behind her. Completely disheveled, she had improperly paired the buttons of her dress with the corresponding buttonholes. Her wig was messy and askew. She was flapping her hands and weeping hysterically. Decker grabbed her.
“What’s wrong?”
She tried to break free of his hold, screaming how dare he touch her—a married woman. But Decker only held on tighter.
“Minda. What…is… wrong?”
The woman broke into high-pitched screams. “They found her! She’s dead! Oh God, she’s dead. She’s dead—”
“What!” Decker’s heart was hammering against his chest.
“She’s dead! Can’t you hear! She’s dead! She’s dead! She’s dead!”
The woman’s knees buckled. Decker caught her as she passed out.
21
He was operating on overdrive, pure speed and adrenaline tearing out of upstate, hitting the city by eleven, and getting off the parkway at 132nd. He found parking a block away, then ran over to the building. Punching the button. This time, it was Donatti’s voice from the intercom, annoyance in the bastard’s voice. Breathing hard, Decker announced his name and was buzzed in. The reception area was empty—no guard, no secretary— and that made sense because it was lunchtime. Decker marched through the metal detector, setting it off with his keys. He didn’t bother to retrace his steps because Donatti had opened the inner door. The kid was wearing a
loose Hawaiian shirt over jeans. Decker stomped past him, into the studio.
Donatti’s irritation turned to anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Dozens of pornographic photos were spread out over a large conference table—snapshots of teenage girls with pursed lips and bedroom eyes doing things to gray-haired, potbellied men. Obscene pictures made even more outrageous because Donatti was a hell of a photographer. Rage boiled over in Decker’s gut, turning his face into something feral. Donatti caught the look, his eyes equally furious.
“Who the fuck are you to judge me?! Get the fuck out—”
Decker caught him by the throat and threw him against the wall. Using his body weight, he leaned his knee hard against Donatti’s groin, tightening his fingers around the son of a bitch’s throat, trying to pin his hands with his shoulders. The harder Donatti struggled, the more pressure Decker applied to the windpipe. He pressed his kneecap harder against the kid’s crotch.
“What did you do to her?” Decker growled out.
Red-faced and flushed, Chris managed to shake his head.
“Talk to me, dammit!” He gripped harder and spoke louder. “What did you do to her?”
“Who?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Shayndie! She’s dead! What did you do—”
“Noth—”
“STOP LYING, YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?”
“I can’t talk.…”
His eyes rolled back in his head. Decker loosened his fingers, giving him enough air to breathe and speak. “Answer my question, or I’ll kill you.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I just saw her six hours ago,” he choked out in a whisper. “She was fine. Let me go!”
Decker gave a final squeeze, then abruptly pushed him away. Donatti fell down to his knees, holding his throat, gasping for breath. Decker paced with hard clomps against the wooden floor.
“You said she was safe with you! You said she’d be okay! You told me you’d take care of it, and I trusted you, Donatti. Either you were lying or you fucked up. And by fucked up, I mean fucked up big time!”
Still red from oxygen buildup, Donatti could only stare at him. He panted like an overworked bulldog, then abruptly broke out in a ripe, rich sweat, drenching his face, shirt, and pants. His mouth began to spew froth, and for a brief moment, Decker thought he was going to have a seizure. Instead, Donatti got wide-eyed, stood up, and kicked the underside of a conference table so hard that the pictures flew up, wafted in the air, then rained down. Another kick and the table fell over.
From that moment on, every item in the room became a projectile—articles from his prop box, his tripod, stands, chairs, lamps, the coffeemaker, the mugs, his booze, his glasses, whatever Chris could lay his hands on—except his cello. Objects whizzed by at Mach speed—the kid had an arm—and although nothing was deliberately directed toward Decker, it didn’t matter. So many things were flying rapidly and with such force. Solid objects hurtled across the room, crashing and smashing, splattering shards and blades of ceramic and glass. Decker couldn’t step or move anywhere. He balled himself up in a corner.
“Donatti, stop!” he ordered.
But Donatti didn’t stop. A decanter was pitched in Decker’s direction, missing his head by inches. A quick sidestep had saved his skull from massive injury.
“Donatti—”
CRASH!
“Chris…” Decker inched his way over to him, using his arms and jacket for protection. “Stop it, dammit! Chris!”
He touched Donatti’s shoulder. He should have known better. Even so, he would have successfully evaded the blow.
Except he had forgotten that Chris was left-handed.
Decker took the clip full-faced, staggering three steps backward before he hit the wall and collapsed. His vision was starry; his head felt as if broken into a million pieces. When he could see again, he real-ized—with some minor satisfaction—that his jaw was whole. His nose might be another story. It was bleeding profusely, as was his lip. He could see and hear, at least well enough to realize that Donatti had moved on—from throwing to ranting.
“… know what this is going to do to my reputation? Do you know what this is going to do to my bitches? If I don’t find this mother-fucker and fast, you might as well put a fucking bullet through my fucking head because I’m as good as fucking dead!”
Donatti was frothing at the mouth. He was shaking so hard his teeth were clattering. His face was dripping like a window in a rainstorm, sweat just pouring off his forehead. He was stomping back and forth, the heels of his boots stamping dents into the floor. Muttering, swearing, sweating, spewing. Then he punched the wall, knocking a hole in the drywall.
Still winded from the slam in the face, Decker continued to sit, hunched up on the floor. He wiped his nose on his shirt. “Help me up.”
Donatti whipped around and glowered in the direction of the voice, his eyes searching the room. When they found Decker, they regarded him as if he were a stranger.
“I said, help me up, dammit!” Decker ordered.
Donatti stopped pacing, still staring at Decker’s face. But he extended a hand and hoisted Decker back on his feet. Then he took two giant steps backward, shaking with rage and neurotransmitters. “Are you going to coldcock me if I turn my back?”
“Don’t tempt me!” Decker growled. He smoothed out his clothing and gingerly touched his face. “You need a drink. I’m going to get you some booze. Keep your friggin’ hands in your pockets!”
Donatti’s voice was still hoarse from being choked. He cleared his throat. “Get your face some ice while you’re at it.”
Pulling out a single bottle of scotch that had managed to survive the onslaught, Decker gave it to the kid. Then he took out an ice tray and liberated the frozen cubes. He wrapped them up in a paper towel and placed it against his rapidly swelling face.
Donatti offered the bottle to Decker, who grabbed it and took a healthy swig. Then he returned it. Chris took another drink.
Passing the bottle back and forth for another fifteen minutes, neither talking, but both of them snorting and swearing. The room was a disaster area—hot and stale and reeking of male stink. Decker felt his stomach lurch, but refused to show weakness by sitting down.
Minutes passed—five of them, then ten. Finally, Donatti took out his keys and opened the door to his private, bug-free office. As soon as they were both inside—the door locked and the switches on—they both collapsed into chairs. Donatti draped his upper body down on the table, cradling his head in his arms. His eyes were closed. He was still breathing hard, still sweating, although not nearly as copiously.
“I gotta think.”
“You didn’t clean her—”
“No, I didn’t clean her. Why would I clean her?”
“Money.”
“If I wanted money, I would have sold her.”
Silence. Decker nursed his very sore face. The ice had turned to cold water, the towel clammy in his hands. “Any ideas?”
“Shut up and let me think.”
“Is it possible that someone found out—”
“No.” Donatti lifted his head, then sat up. “No! I’ve got people watching—”
“They were bought off.”
“It’s impossible. They would know what I’d do.” He shook his head with despair. “She must have left on her own.”
“After last night, I find that hard to believe.”
“After this morning, I find it impossible to believe!” Donatti reached into his file cabinet and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I gave it up for Terry.” He liberated a smoke. “Filthy habit.” He lit one up and exhaled a gush of tar and nicotine. “But right now, my nerves are shot.”
“Give me one.”
Donatti lit another smoke and passed it to Decker. Within moments, the room took on a chemical haze. “When I left this morning, that little girl was so clingy, I had nicknamed her Saran Wrap.”
“So what happened?” D
ecker took in deep puffs. He’d forgotten how wonderful a nicotine rush was.
“I don’t know.”
“Someone took her—”
“Impossible!”
“No, Chris. Nothing’s impossible!”
Donatti exhaled a plume of sour, booze-laden breath. “She left on her own.” He stubbed out his cigarette and pulled out two water bottles, tossing one to Decker. “Something changed her mind.”
Decker drank greedily. “Any ideas what?”
“No.” Donatti looked at him. “I told you she was unstable. She was even more freaked after she met with you. You probably scared her away.”
“Me?” Decker answered.
“Yeah, you! You freaked her out.”
“Then it was up to you to calm her back down—”
“Fuck you, Decker!”
Neither one spoke as they gulped down water. Decker touched his nose. It was throbbing with pain. “Assuming she left on her own, where could she have gone?”
“I don’t know. There’s no place as safe as mine.” Donatti gritted his teeth. “I can’t imagine why she bolted! It doesn’t make sense. You gotta leave now. I gotta make some calls.”
Decker said, “You want to do me a big favor?”
“No. Get the fuck out of here!”
“Stop being so vile!” Decker finished the smoke and the water. “You want to make some headway, do yourself a favor and stay out of it. At least, for now.”
Donatti jerked his head up. “I think my fist scrambled your brains. Get out of here!” He pulled out a gun. “OUT!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Decker felt his lip. That throbbed, too. “What is that? A Walther double automatic? Twenty-four rounds, right? It’s a nice one.”
Donatti squinted at him, then erupted into laughter. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Put it down, Chris…please.”
“Since you said please.” He placed it on the table and picked up the booze.
“Donatti, let’s think this out logically,” Decker began. “I came to New York as this big-cop lieutenant to help out with a homicide. What happened? I fanned, kiddo. Zilch as far as Lieber’s murder, and now Shayndie’s dead. The local heat have got to be thinking that I’m a bust—this big, dumb lug from hick town L.A. who couldn’t detect his way out of a paper bag.”