Street Dreams

by Street Dreams

  “I don’t know where your grandmother lived. Would she have walked through the park to go home?”

  “My grandmother lived around here.” Rina located the area on the map. “Near the Gartnerplatz off Reichenbachstrasse.”

  “These names are going to kill me,” Decker said.

  “You’ve got to add imaginary slash marks.”

  “Your grandparents’ house was nowhere near the park,” Decker pointed out. “And to get to Julia Schoennacht’s house near . . . what’s this street . . . Ludwigstrasse or is it Leopoldstrasse . . . they look like they run into one another. . . . Anyway, there wouldn’t be any reason for your grandmother to walk through the Englischer Garten. It’s out of the way.”

  “It’s not that much out of the way and it is more scenic. And look here”—Rina flipped through several pages—“Look at this, Peter. My grandmother was—quote unquote—relieved of her services about two weeks before she was murdered. Do you want to hear my theory?”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Maybe she went back to the house for some unfinished business. Maybe there was a pay dispute or something. Maybe a fight broke out and a tragedy occurred. The house was near the garden, so that was the easiest place to hide the body. And of course, Julia Schoennacht wouldn’t tell the police any of this.”

  “So already you have decided that your grandmother’s killer was her former employer. It’s as good a theory as any.” Decker closed the file. “So why don’t we leave it at that. Besides, there’re too manystrasses on the map.”

  Rina said, “I want to know the truth—or as close as I can come to the truth. Besides, I can’t picture a wealthy, aristocratic woman dragging my grandmother into a park and bludgeoning her to death.”

  “She hired a servant to do it. You said it yourself, Rina. What would be the big deal? Another dead Jew? Good riddance to bad rubbish. When was Kristallnacht?”

  “In 1938.”

  “So this was before.”

  “About ten years before. But Hitler was already a dominant force.” Rina rubbed her hands together. “Since everything was going so well with Mama, I accepted an invitation for dinner at her house on Tuesday night—if that’s okay with you.”

  “If you want to be a masochist.”

  Rina hit him. “Don’t be like that.”

  “I like your parents. I don’t fight with them. You do.”

  Silence.

  “Okay, you have a point,” Rina admitted. “Look. I promise I won’t fight. Besides, they want to see the boys. So maybe we can continue the family-tree ruse?”

  “And you don’t think Mama will catch on when I start to take notes?”

  “Could you be a little more subtle?”

  “Subtlety is not my strong suit,” Decker remarked. “However, if I should think up the questions and you should ask them . . .”

  “Better still, let Hannah ask them.”

  “What kind of a mother would use her own daughter as a shill?”

  “Not a shill—a cohort.” Rina patted his shoulder. “Detection as a family affair. I see a screenplay in the making.”

  “Funny. All I see is trouble in the making.”

  18

  The urge to combthe streets for information was overwhelming. But I had made a promise to my father, and that was that. Even so, I devised a mental list of how I’d proceed if I were a gold shield. First I’d talk to Klinghoffner, and find out all I could about David—who he was and where he might have gone. Then I’d ask him if there had been any trouble between his students and street gangs. There were also the girls I had talked with at the high school. If anyone would know about street gangs, it would be those who lived where the hoodlums operated. I also knew street people: Alice Anne, Magenta and others of her ilk, and even her pimp, Burton. There were times I could have busted him, but I chose not to because, after some strong prodding, he had closed shop for the night. I had come by my “ears” honestly.

  I also thought about how to approach Russ MacGregor. Would he want my help? Would he care about a six-month-old crime? Would he bother with a case that had never been reported to the police, where there was no physical evidence,and where the primary witness was a mentally disabled girl who had just abandoned her baby? I sorted through all these what-ifs because the morning’s conversation with Sarah and Louise Sanders had piqued my curiosity.

  Then I remembered the last time I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. A year of therapy and I could almost get through a session without breaking down. Progress was slow, and I didn’t need another trauma. I kept telling myself to play by the rules, but the old rebellious urges kept surfacing like bottles bobbing in the ocean. I guess that meant I was getting better.

  At loose ends, I wanted to be anywhere but home. Once, I had loved my place, but now it was just a pit stop. I should have moved, but I didn’t want yet another upheaval in my life. So I slept and I ate and I pretended I was doing fine. With Dad gone, I felt very much alone. I put on a bright blue blouse, black wool crepe trousers, and four-inch-high black boots that adjusted my height to almost six feet. I made up my face and hit the road in my five-year-old black Lexus, courtesy of Dad and Mom. They had thought a big car would increase my sense of well-being. All it did was increase my gas allowance. I wasn’t complaining, though. My wheels had a drop-dead stereo and cushy seats with lumbar support, which helped my sore back as well as my bruised ego.

  As I looked in the mirror, I struck a pose that said I hadn’t a care in the world. I was always an accomplished fibber.

  From my apartment, I drove north on Beverly Drive, passing the green lawns and flower beds of suburban Beverlywood, through the shopping district of Beverly Hills—lots of foot traffic out today—into the astronomically expensive and bloated estates of Beverly Hills. From there, I continued north until I hooked a right onto Sunset. I cruised through West Hollywood in slow-moving traffic, passing all the hot clubs, one of them sporting long lines even though opening time was hours away. I drove by a half-dozen edgy clothing boutiques, a couple of live theaters, and a block filled with kissy-kissy restaurants offering sidewalk dining, overpriced grub, and lots of lost souls.

  When I turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, I purposely avoided looking for any of my sources, figuring why screw if you can’t come. I opened the moon roof and enjoyed the heat and sunlight on my skin, the red downy hair of my arms bleached strawberry blond in the bright rays. Here, in the heart of old Tinseltown, pedestrians abounded. There were the tourists who gaped at the street show and snapped picture after picture of weirdo after weirdo. Joining the fray were scores of pierced and spike-haired kids, snacking on junk food, just hanging around. I even spotted some families out for the afternoon, reading the names on the famous star-studded sidewalks. I passed the Kodak Theatre, Mann’s Chinese Theatre, the El Capitan, the newly constructed shopping malls, the old kiosk gift shops, the tattoo parlors, the tacky lingerie boutiques, the sex shops, and other various and sundry scamsters including budget lawyers advertising special rates for bail bonds. Mixed into the scene were the ubiquitous high-rise office buildings. I turned left onto Western, riding the boulevard until it dead-ended at Griffith Park. More people and more traffic, but I didn’t care. I had a destination in mind, but I wasn’t in any hurry to get there.

  The route to Koby’s place was circuitous, requiring me to snake through unfamiliar areas of Los Feliz. We had arranged to meet for dinner at a small Italian restaurant, a couple of miles from his house—good and fine, except I was four hours early. If he wasn’t home, well, no big whoop. Maybe I’d drop in on my little sweetie still resting in the baby nursery at Mid-City Peds, pending the outcome of the court custody hearing. I sure hoped the infant wound up with Louise, whoreally wanted her. The woman was a saint and I hoped a judge was smart enough to see that.

  I started the climb into the hills of Silver Lake. The day was bright and beautiful, and when the reservoir came into view, iridescent cobalt against the cityscape, my spirits lifted. There wa
s a whole big world out there, my perspective reminded me. It was up to me to make the most of it.

  Koby’s ten-year-old Toyota was in the driveway. I parked curbside, got out, and skipped to the front door, where I rang the bell. It was one of those chimes that couldn’t be heard from the outside. When there was no response, I knocked hard and waited.

  After a minute of loitering, I figured he had probably taken a bike ride or a walk. The day was certainly gorgeous enough. I went around to the back metal gate that spanned the driveway. It was rectangular, about five feet tall, and easily scalable. Feeling a bit like a Peeping Thomasina, I gripped the iron top bar and hoisted myself up, peering down his driveway. Toward the back, I could make out an open door, from which I heard the clipped notes of reggae music. The gate latch was padlocked, but that didn’t stop me. I flung myself over the top with minimum effort.

  The music got louder as I approached the door, walking along the right side of his house. It was planted with espaliered citrus trees—vines of green weaving through white lattice. The leafy branches were frosted with perfumed white blossoms, and a gentle breeze blew through smogless skies. I was about to knock on the open door, but instead I elected to peer inside.

  The room was devoid of conventional furniture, holding only a workbench with a circular saw. Koby was kneeling on all fours, hand-sanding the floor, dust flying every which way. He wore a yellow tank top and jeans, pads protecting his knees, and a surgical mask covering his nose and mouth. His well-defined muscles gleamed with sweat, as if sculpted and oiled. If I had areal vivid imagination, I could have added some jazz. Then the setting would have made a perfect backdrop for a blue movie.

  I watched him for several moments, then rapped forcefully on the door. He looked up, turned to the source of the sound, then leaped to his feet, as graceful as a panther. He pulled his mask off his face and turned down the music. With Bob Marley in retreat, I heard the stream of fast patter/talk that could only come from a sports announcer. His face registered confusion.

  “What time is it?” he said.

  “I’m early,” I told him. “Very early.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Just fine.” I walked inside the room. He was repairing the floorboards, replacing the rotted pieces with fresh strips of wood. The room was small but held a beautiful backyard view: the red-tipped leaves of rosebushes not far from bloom, beyond the bushes a glimpse of the lake. There was sawdust all over the place. It speckled his dark skin like freckles.

  “You do your own gardening as well?”

  His eyes followed mine out the back window. “The yard is tiny—mostly the rosebushes. I love the roses. In a week or two, it should fill with flowers.”

  “It must be beautiful.”

  “It is very beautiful.”

  I looked at the repairs he had done. The new strips fit perfectly into the running-board pattern. In the corner of the room was a small TV resting on the floor. The Lakers game was on. Conference play-offs.

  I pointed to the TV. “What’s the score?”

  “Lakers are up by three, two minutes to go to the end of the second quarter. Lawrence Funderburke just scored off the bench for the Kings. They’ve been trading baskets. It’s going to be close.”

  I tapped my foot. “I’m restless. Need any help?”

  “If you give me about twenty minutes to clean up this mess, and another twenty minutes to clean up myself, we can do something together.”

  “You’ll miss the game then.”

  “They will survive without my suggestions.”

  “Really, I don’t mind helping out.” I looked at the workbench. “I wouldn’t trust myself with the circular saw, but I can sand with the best of them.”

  “You’ve done woodwork before?”

  “I used to help my dad out when he did the add-ons. He’s one of those handy guys.” I regarded his repairs with admiration. “Probably not unlike yourself. Are you a perfectionist, too?”

  Koby shrugged. “Is there any other way?”

  “Nowthat sounds like my father.” I continued to gaze outside. “I saw my father this morning. I asked him for help on a case, and he came through. It was productive. We got some good information. I would have loved to act on it right away, but I promised him that I’d wait until the lead detective got back from his weekend vacation.”

  “Why did you promise to wait?”

  “Because technically, it’s his case.” I turned to face him. “There’s this thing in LAPD. You’ve got to follow protocol. I have a little problem with that.”

  “It’s a tightrope,” Koby said. “To think independently—but nottoo independently.”

  “That sums it up.”

  “It is the same in my field. I am the one to spot the first signs of trouble, but I’m not supposed to act without consultation. I must talk to the doctor; I must talk to the psychologist. I consult with the physical therapist, the occupational therapist, the play therapist, and if the kids are older, the speech therapist, the educational therapist, and the reading therapist. In the end”—he smiled—“I use my own judgment. I was a medic in the army. If it’s an emergency, I do what I have to do.”

  “Does it get you into trouble?”

  “No, because most of the time, I do the consults. I even see the point of the consults. It slows me down. In medicine, to be too quick is often not good.”

  “Are you always this rational?”

  “Most of the time, yes.”

  “That’s also like my dad. Rational.”

  “Why do you sneer when you say that?”

  I laughed. “I apologize. It is a compliment—even though I’m saying it like it was an insult. My dad is very rational. It makes him really good at what he does.”

  Koby caught my eye. “And how is he as a father?”

  “He’s . . . very caring. In general, I’d say we have a good relationship.”

  “I enjoyed meeting him.”

  Suave, I thought. The man was diplomatic. I said, “He was a bit miffed with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t tell him you were black.”

  “The color of my skin is important to him?”

  “No. I think he was just taken aback. On the positive side, he thought that you were a good guy.”

  “That sounds promising. Unless you don’t like good guys.”

  “No, I like good guys very much. I just haven’t done a very good job of choosing them in the past.”

  Koby was quiet.

  “You don’t know me,” I said.

  “But isn’t that what dating is for?”

  I looked at the flowerless rosebushes. “True.”

  Koby studied his dust-coated hands. “So . . . this lack of good guys . . . Is there like an ex-husband in the picture?”

  “No . . . thank God for that.”

  “So you . . . you’ve never been married or . . .”

  I studied his quizzical face. “No, I’ve never been married. No kids, either. I’m a free agent. What about you? Have you ever been married?”

  He shook his head, but his eyes seemed rife with relief. “Cindy, there’s nothing wrong with experimenting, no? That is what youth is for. And it’s good that both of us have never been married. One less piece of baggage.”

  “I’ve still got plenty to deal with.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Abruptly, he took my face in his hands and kissed me hard. When I didn’t object, he kissed me again, this time long and slow, his teeth nibbling my lips, his tongue dancing against mine. It was a kiss filled with lust and desire, a kiss that was hot and vibrant. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into his body, his hands sweeping over my rear, his erection digging into my hip. I didn’t mean to do it, but the next thing I knew, I was stoking the engine, so to speak.

  Not that it mattered, but the man was more than proportional.

  Who the hell was I kidding?

  It mattered.

  He close
d his eyes and moaned. “I am sweaty.”

  “You smell like a man,” I told him. “That’s just fine with me.”

  ∇

  Eventually, he did shower. We both did . . . together . . . an act almost as intimate as the ones that preceded it. As he soaped my back, he kissed the nape of my neck, a sinewy arm snaking around me, his hand resting on my breast. I looked at his fingers, at his nutmeg-colored digits against my pale, freckled complexion, and for a moment, I fantasized about the progeny we’d produce—café au lait skin, with brown eyes and thick, thick hair. I always hated my complexion, and welcomed the thought of it changing in the next generation.

  I got out first, toweling dry as I pulled off my shower cap, shaking out my hair. I shivered as water evaporated off my skin, then slipped under the crumpled sheets to get warm and catch my breath.

  Several minutes later, he entered the room stark naked and eyed me in the bed.

  “I’m just resting,” I told him. “I’m spent. At least, for a couple of hours.”

  He picked up the watch on his nightstand, then slipped it on his wrist—still nude but now he could tell time. “Hungry?”

  I sat up, letting the sheet fall from my breasts. “Actually, I am.”

  His topaz eyes were still on my body. But he said, “I’ll get dressed then.”

  He was one of those lucky people who looked great in or out of clothing, and I enjoyed watching him move. He opened a door to a tiny closet, his shirts hanging neatly inside. He stared at the array for almost a minute—something a woman would do—then picked out two shirts to show me. One was lilac, the other was tomato red.

  “What color pants?” I asked.

  “Black.”

  I thought a moment. “The red.”

  He placed the lilac shirt back in the closet. “Red to match your hair.”

  “Then you’d need orange.”

  He slipped the shirt on. “Not orange. The shirt would be the color of a sunset—brilliant and fiery with copper—and even that wouldn’t capture it.”