Street Dreams

by Street Dreams

  “You did this by yourself?”

  “All by my little lonesome.”

  “On your own time?”

  “Yes, sir, on my own time.”

  He was still staring at me.

  “Golly, that woman does have a brain in her head—”

  “Decker!”

  “Sorry, sir.” I stifled a smile.

  He tapped his foot. “You’re putting me in conflict, Decker, and right before my vacation. I’m not thrilled about this.”

  “Next time, I’ll try to be less effective.”

  He glowered at me, but it lacked feeling. “The case belongs to Russ, but he don’t deserve the credit. You do.”

  “It may not be anything, sir.”

  He handed me back the slip of paper. “So why don’t you check it out first?”

  “Then what if it is something?”

  “Follow it up.”

  “Should I contact Russ?”

  “Play it by ear.”

  Giving me leeway. He was being very gentlemanly. I thanked him and stowed the slip of paper in my pocket. He noticed the uncertainty that I felt.

  “What?”

  “This is a little different from what I’m used to. Talking to a retarded girl about babies and sex.” That sounded fearful. “I can do it. No problem. Just . . . any suggestions? I don’t want to blow your case.”

  “More likeyour case.” He held out his hands helplessly. “I’m on vacation, Decker. You got contacts in the Department. Use ’em.”

  ∇

  Home had always been Decker’s refuge, but of late, it was his office as well. At the station, there were issues and problems and details. There were meetings with superiors, meetings with the detectives, meetings with county supervisors or reps from the city council or congressional districts. There was PR that amounted to a lot of BS. Smiling through all of it gave him one giant headache. Once he’d been able to handle it, fielding calls as smoothly as a Vegas dealer. Now he constantly felt distracted, and the sudden images of blood and death didn’t help.

  He took off his glasses and set them on the desktop, rubbing his eyes without relief. Rina had set up a comfortable home office in the guest room/den. In the daytime, the back windows showed a view of the mature fruit trees. At the current hour, the vista was dark. But because the room was situated next to a pittosporum tree in full bloom, sweet jasmine scents wafted through the open louver slats. In the peace and quiet of his own sanctuary, he could go through some of the more puzzling case files, often breathing life into stagnating investigations.

  He was able to keep his job and his equilibrium because he was working twice as hard as he should have been. He’d get through it—he had no choice, his family needed the money—but it would take a while. Rina’s confession had helped, but Decker knew she wasn’t being completely honest with him. By and by, it would all come out.

  “How much longer?”

  Decker jerked his head up. Rina was dressed in black sweats. With no makeup and her hair down, she could have passed for her twenties.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Did I say something about coming in at eleven?”

  “You did.”

  “Sorry.”

  “S’right.” Rina stood behind him and began to massage his neck. “You look tense. Maybe this will help.”

  “Oh man, that feels good. What’s the catch?”

  “I’ve got another file for you to look at.”

  “Now?”

  “It’ll take you five minutes.”

  “Nothing ever takes five minutes anymore.”

  Rina gave his back a slap. “Thank goodness for that. Now I’m going to make some tea while you clear the desk.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do I get tea, too?”

  “You do.”

  He smiled, watching her sway as she went. By the time she returned from the kitchen, the desktop was visible. She was carrying a tray with a pot of tea, two mugs, and a Pendaflex folder. She set the tray down and pulled up a chair.

  “How about you pour and I explain what I’ve done?”

  “Are you evernot organized, Rina?”

  “It’s part of my job description. I don’t see you pouring.”

  Decker took up the steaming teapot dressed in a quilted cozy, held the lid, and poured two cups of steaming, brewed tea. “One lump or two? Or three if you count me.”

  She kissed his cheek. “You are far from a lump. And you know I take my tea plain.” She pulled out three neat stacks of typewritten pages. “Maybe you’d like to take notes?”

  Decker laughed and held up a pen. “I’m ready, Professor.”

  “Very funny. This sheet has the names of all the people in the file.”

  “Who translated the file for you?”

  “Laurie Manheim’s mother-in-law. But we didn’t get through all of it. Do you know Laurie? She’s Rabbi Manheim’s wife.”

  “I know neither Laurie nor Rabbi Manheim.”

  “He teaches at the high school. Yonkie had him for tenth-grade Gemara. I got to know him very well because Yonkie wasn’t doing well in his class.”

  “Well, he’s doing well now. The child has hit his stride.”

  “Yeshiva life agrees with him.”

  “More like college, Rina. But we digress.”

  “Indeed.” Rina smiled. “Anyway, as far as Laurie’s mother-in-law could tell, I think this guy at the top of the list—Rudolf Kalmer—was the lead investigator in the case. But this other guy—Heinreich Messersmit—was also involved.”

  “Partners?”

  “I don’t know. It almost seems that both of them were working on it, but independently. Different handwriting.”

  “Who’s this number three guy—Axel Berg?”

  “He came in a little later. Berg had been working on two other unsolved homicides, and we think that Kalmer and Messersmit asked him for a consult on my grandmother’s death. Berg later took over.”

  “What other homicides?”

  “Here . . . wait.” Rina flipped through the pages of her translated text. “It’s hard to tell, Peter, because they, like you guys here, use abbreviations. Mrs. Manheim thought that this page”—Rina sifted through the faxed copies of the original documents—“here, this over here. They brought in Berg for a consult on the MAK of two women—Anna Gross and Marlena Durer.” Rina read to herself. “Okay . . . this word—‘tötungsdelikt’—that’s premeditated homicide. ‘Totschlag’ could be like regular homicide.”

  “Regular homicide?”

  Rina was exasperated as she groped for words. “You know . . . like defensible homicide.”

  “Self-defense?”

  “Yeah, yeah. It could mean killing in self-defense.” She hit her head. “ ‘Tötungsdelikt’ implies lying in wait.”

  “Okay. So these two women, Durer and Gross, were premeditated murder victims.”

  “Yes, we think so.”

  “What does ‘MAK’ mean?”

  “We’re not sure. Mrs. Manheim thinks itmight be an abbreviation for ‘mordakten,’ which would be a homicide file. ‘Mord’ is murder. ‘Akte’ is any file. See? They have it in front of my grandmother’s name—MAK Regina Gottlieb.”

  Decker regarded his wife’s blue eyes. “Regina? So you’re named after her?”

  Rina nodded.

  “Ah.”

  “I think that Kalmer and Messersmit wanted to know if my grandmother’s murder was related to the murders of Durer and Gross.”

  “What? Like a serial killing?”

  Rina shrugged. “Beats me. That’s your domain.”

  Decker scanned through Rina’s translated notes as he sipped tea. “You translated the autopsy report.”

  “Yes, we did. It was gruesome.”

  Again he regarded his wife. “Your grandfather allowed the body to be autopsied.”

  “He didn’t have a choice because her death was unnatural.”

  Reading over the specifics:a w
hite Jewess, well developed, well nourished, 155 centimeters in height, with a weight of 45 kilograms. “They specified her religion?”

  “There’s a shock.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m surprised they didn’t write her up as ‘Jewess dog.’ ”

  “But 1928 was pre-Hitler.”

  “In Germany, yes. He didn’t come into official power until 1933. But Munich was a different story. In the late ’20s, Hitler was a very strong force. Munich was where his family had originally settled from Austria. That’s where he led the famous Beer Hall Putsch in the early ’20s.”

  “Sorry. I slept through world history. What’s a ‘putsch’?”

  “A ‘putsch’ is like a . . . It’s like a coup . . . an insurrection. The Nazis tried to take over Munich. It was unsuccessful. They threw Hitler into jail. That’s where he wroteMein Kampf. Any of this sound familiar?”

  “I knew Hitler was from Austria. I also know he was a failed artist. You might have to give me a crash course in prewar Germany.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “No, Rina, it might be important. Maybe the murder was an act of anti-Semitism.” Decker skimmed through the sheets for several minutes.

  Rina let him read, then said, “Anything in there to verify your theory?”

  “Nothing so far. I have to study this in detail.” He backtracked several pages. “Yeah, definitely this guy Berg was working on several female homicide cases. And they considered your grandmother to be a possibility. Except in these two cases—Durer and Gross—they were strangled . . . and your grandmother was bludgeoned on the back of the head.” He closed the file and connected with Rina’s eyes. “Do you really want to find out about this?”

  “I know it’s weird, but yes.”

  “It’s not weird, Rina. But you’re getting into some very strong material.”

  “It can’t be worse than the camps.”

  “You have a point, but things that are less than horrendous can still affect you deeply.” Decker tapped the ends of the sheets to even them up. “I’m a little tired now. But I’ll read it over carefully tomorrow night and let you know what I come up with.”

  “Thank you.”

  Decker thought a moment. “Don’t underplay the historical context, Rina. I think the anti-Semitism is going to be very relevant somewhere down the line.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Rina sighed. “And that’s really sad.”

  ∇

  It was after midnight by the time I crawled into bed, but Dad was a night owl. I phoned his business number and he picked up after two rings.

  “Decker.”

  “It’s me. Did I wake you?”

  “No, you caught me just in time. Why are you calling my work line?”

  “I thought if I called the private line, I’d scare you.”

  “You would have. Good thinking. Thank you. What’s up?”

  “A couple of things. First off, can I come over Friday night for dinner?”

  “Of course. You don’t even have to ask. The boys are home, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know. What’s the occasion?”

  “Summer vacation.”

  “It’s only mid-May.”

  “Both got their finals over with very early. Lucky me.”

  I smiled. “Poor Dad. So beleaguered.”

  “Nah, I’m just joking. It’ll be wonderful to see my entire family in one sitting. Any particular reason why you’re coming?”

  “Not really.” An out-and-out lie. “But I was thinking about bringing a friend. But if it’s too much work for Rina, we can make it another time.”

  A momentary pause. “Of course, you can bring a friend. Is it a he or a she?”

  “It’s nobody serious, Daddy. I just met him a few days ago.”

  “And already you’re bringing him to your parents’ house forShabbat dinner?”

  “My father’s house. Mom doesn’t know about him because it’s not relevant. I’monly bringing him because he’s traditional. His family lives in Israel and I thought it would be nice for him to have a realShabbat. ”

  “An Israeli?”

  There was excitement in his voice. I could picture the smile on his face. I wondered how wide it would stay once he saw Koby’s complexion. I should have said more, if nothing else than to prepare him, but then I figured why should I? My parents had raised me without prejudice. Now was the time to test their theoretical tolerance.

  “He’s lived here for eight years. This is stupid, Dad. He’s just a friend,all right ?”

  “I hear you, Princess. Sure. Bring him over.”

  “I have another reason for calling.”

  “Uh-oh, this sounds more serious.”

  “It has to do with business. Imight have tracked down a good candidate for the baby’s mother.” I told him everything I had found out. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re terrific.”

  He was still thinking about my “friend.” I could hear it in his voice.

  “I gave the information to Greg Van Horn, but he’s going on vacation. He told me to check the lead and see if it goes anywhere. If it does, he told me to play it by ear.”

  “He’s giving you opportunity to flex your muscles. He’s being nice, Cin.”

  “I know that. I thanked him. He’s giving me a chance and I don’t want to mess it up. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare morning, would you?”

  His laughter was immediate. “Now, what good would it do if I tagged along?”

  “You could poke me in the ribs if I get off track?”

  “Go get a pencil.”

  “Okay.” I pulled out a pencil and a pad of paper from my nightstand. I always kept them there in case I thought of something inspirational. “I’m armed and ready.”

  “Listen up! You want to find out about this girl, but you have to go through the sister. What you don’t want to do is alienate the sister. First you introduce yourself. You ask if you can come in and say that you won’t take very long. That’s important. If they think you’re going to take a long time, it makes them even more nervous. You act casual. You tell them you’ve been doing a little searching that led to the Fordham home. The girl . . . What’s her name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Sarah hasn’t been in school for a while. Is everything okay? The sister may not answer the question. She may ask, ‘What is this all about?’ You say, you’re coming to that. How is Sarah? Now the sister will probably say something about her health. ‘Yes, she’s fine,’ or ‘No, she hasn’t been fine. What’s going on?’ ”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” I was writing so fast that my hand was cramping. “Okay. Continue.”

  “When she asks about your business the second time, you get to the point. It should go something like this.

  “You say: ‘A couple of days ago, LAPD found an abandoned baby in a Dumpster. Maybe you read about it in the paper?’

  “She says: ‘Yes, that was terrible, but I still don’t understand why you’re here.’

  “You say: ‘Mrs. So and so—’ ”

  “I don’t think she’s married,” I interjected. “The name is Sanders, by the way.”

  “Okay. So say something like . . . ‘Ms. Sanders, I think you might like to know that we’re actively looking for the mother of this child. It’s very important that we find her, not topunish her, but tohelp her.’ By now, if she has any brain in her head, she knows what you’re getting at.”

  I wrote furiously, then put the pencil down for a break. “Well, then, let’s hope she has a brain.” I laced my fingers together, flipped them around, and stretched out my arms until my knuckles cracked.

  Dad continued. “Cindy, it’s very important that you talk to Ms. Sanders and get her on your side before she brings in Sarah. She’s probably used to treating Sarah like a child, so her first reaction might be to yell at her or confront her. . . . Don’t let her do this. Calm Ms. Sanders down first and then interview Sarah. It’s very important that no one feels threatened—the
sister or the girl. When people are defensive, they don’t talk.

  “There’s another possibility—that the sister will be completely protective and not let you get within ten feet of Sarah. If this happens, you calm the sister down and assure her that you have Sarah’s medical and psychological interest at heart.”

  “I do. It’s the truth.”

  “I know, honey. Look, Cindy, it’s late. I’ve got to get some sleep. But I’ll be reachable all morning. If you have a problem, don’t hesitate to call me on my cell. But honestly, I don’t think you’ll need to, because I know you’ll handle it perfectly. After what you’ve gone through, this should be easy.”

  “Thanks for the confidence. I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too.” A pause. “So how’d you meet this guy?”

  “We’re not having this conversation, Dad.”

  “Just use me and discard me.”

  “What else are parents for?”

  12

  It was a one-storySpanish house sitting in a block of Arts and Crafts bungalows, the stucco so white it sparkled like snowdrift. Nestled among large-leaf banana plants and cocoa palms, the home had the requisite red-tiled roof and the little gated courtyard. Full of curb appeal: That was real estate lingo for something that looked good on the outside. I had tried to dress soothingly—a sage blazer over cream-colored blouse and slacks—but I suspected that Ms. Sanders wouldn’t be focusing on my sartorial splendor.

  It was just past eight in the morning, early enough to catch her before she went to work, and I chose not to phone beforehand because I didn’t want to scare anyone off. I rang the bell. The peephole door opened.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning. I’m Officer Cynthia Decker. I’m looking for Louise Sanders.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Officer Cynthia Decker of Los Angeles Police—Hollywood.”

  She opened the door a fraction of an inch. The chain was still attached. “Can I see some ID, please?”

  Billfold already in hand, I slipped it through the crack. She took it and, after a few moments, passed it back. The door opened all the way.

  She was much older than I expected—in her late forties or early fifties. I was led to believe that Sarah was in her twenties. That meant there was quite an age gap between them. Louise had short, blunt-cut gray hair that framed an oval face and gray-green eyes. Her features were regular, and once, she had been pretty. Now, she was handsome in her black skirt suit and crisp white blouse.