'Peter?'
•Yeah, it's me.'
His voice sounded tired.
A plastic bag fell next to her leg.
'What's this?'she asked.
'Don't open it,' Decker said.
Ginger kept barking.
'Could you acknowledge your dog, please?' Rina
asked.
Decker bent down and scratched the setter behind her ears. Then he sat beside Rina and ran his hands over his face. 'In that bag is physical evidence that puts Noam Levine at the site of a very nasty assault.'
'Oh, my God!'
'You said it.' Decker looked up and broke into a smile. 'Man, you're a sight for sore eyes. Give your old man a
hug.'
Rina embraced him tightly, kissed his chest. He stretched out on the couch and laid his head in her lap. She brushed hair off his forehead and said, 'What are you going to do with it?'
Decker said, 'I wish I knew Shakespeare. He must have a line that would fit this kind of moral dilemma.' He sighed. 'I'm not legally required to turn it in because I'm not working in any sort of official capacity. But I'm a cop, I saw what they did to the victim. No one should be allowed to walk away from that kind of thing.'
'What did Noam actually do? Or shouldn't I ask?'
'Well, I'm not sure he actually did anything,' Decker said. 'But I think he was present when the assault took place. How much he participated...' He shrugged.
'You're very tired, aren't you?' Rina said. 'And you smell of tobacco and alcohol. Where'd you find the evidence?'
'In a little shantytown beneath an overpass of the Ten-East. Apparently, Noam gave it to one of the transients.'
'They spent the night there?'
'Part of the night,' Decker said. 'They're gone now. They're not in any of the downtown spots. Benderhoff checked them out.'
'Should I know who Benderhoff is?'
Decker smiled. 'No, you've never met him. He's from Central - a CAPS detective assigned to the case. Hersh and Noam aren't in any of the homeless spots in the downtown area, either. I checked those out personally. I haven't the foggiest idea where they went.'
'If you think they might be hiding with the homeless, what about Santa Monica? Lots of them roam the Palisades just above Pacific Coast Highway. They're always there. Even in the wintertime. Venice, too.'
'Actually, the beach is warmer than the valleys in the winter. Something about the ocean currents...' Decker turned onto his side, snuggled deeper in her lap and closed his eyes. Ginger stood on her hind paws and licked Decker's nose. 'I planned on checking out the beach area. But first I need some sleep.'
'Are you hungry?' Rina asked, stroking his hair.
'Too tired to be hungry.' He petted Ginger's head. 'Man come to feed the horses?'
'Yes, dear.'
'Good.'
'I'm making a big dinner,' she said. 'By the way, Cindy returned your phone call while you were gone. She asked me what we were doing back here so early. Rather than explain it all on the phone, I invited her to dinner.'
'Is she coming?'
'She said yes.'
Decker smiled. Whenever he thought about his daughter, he smiled. Then he thought about Frieda Levine and her family. Was it fair with his news to hold this knowledge from Cynthia? After all, she was a blood relative to these people. He had told her about his origins when she was eight, after she'd mentioned that nobody in Daddy's
family looked like each other. It was hard, but he thought she was mature enough to deal with the truth. She'd understood it all very well. She also knew better than to pry deeply into Daddy's life and never again brought up the topic.
It wasn't from lack of curiosity. Cindy had been a very inquisitive child, interested in everything. But she respected Daddy's privacy, just as he respected hers. He loved her enthusiasm, loved to talk to her. He was delighted she was coming to dinner. Maybe he'd bring up the adoption tonight and see how she'd react. No, he probably wouldn't.
Too much to assess on so little sleep. He'd think about it later. Rina was talking to him.
'What are you going to do about the evidence?' Decker opened his eyes. 'The evidence?' Rina held up the bag.
'Oh, that,' Decker said. 'I've come to a decision - a semi-ethical compromise. When this thing is over - if it ever gets over - I'm going to evaluate Noam myself. If I think he's salvageable, I'll close my eyes to justice and throw the damn thing away. But if he's not... I throw him to the wolves, and damn the family consequences.' 'I think that sounds very fair, Peter,' Rina said. 'You're very supportive,' Decker said. 'Good night.' When he was deep asleep, Rina slithered out from under him. She debated for a moment whether she should write a note, then thought, the heck with it. He'd just have a fit and it wasn't worth that.
She went inside the kitchen and found Peter's spare key ring hanging on the wall. He must have twenty keys in his possession - probably a key to every men's bathroom at the station house. It looked like a janitor's ring.
Among the lot were bound to be the keys to the Porsche. She jingled the ring for a moment, then peered inside her purse. The gun was nestled at the bottom, tucked between loose tissues. She slung her bag over her shoulder and closed the door quietly behind her.
Hank brushed lint off English worsted gray flannel slacks, thinking: if the boys back home could see him now. Hundred and fifty bucks for the pants, seventy-seven for the shirt - Sea Island cotton. Then there was another fifty for the tie 'cause it was pure silk and imported from Wopland. Count Heinrich Stremmer would wear pure silk ties, natch.
Only trouble was that the duds ate up almost half the take. The rest was taken up by food - a real waste, you'd eat it, then shit it out - and cash shelled out for the roachtrap they had checked into. Then, there was Nick-O. As promised, Nick-O, or Nicholas, when Heinrich Stremmer was in his German mood, got his Aerosmith T-shirt and a new pair of black jeans. Hank thought Nick-O would be happy, but the kid just tossed the bag on the fleabag mattress and went back to sulking.
Hank had screamed, I just spent afuckin' hourpickin' that out for you and you toss it away like it was garbage?
Nick-O had a strange expression on his face. All he had said was: So return it.
Strange reaction. Hank wasn't sure he liked it. Last night had changed Nick-O. He sulked, but he stopped whining. Which was good in a way 'cause the whining was really getting on Hank's nerves. But it was bad, 'cause Nick-O didn't seem as scared of him. Yeah, he still did what he was told to do, but it was the 'tude. A totally different 'tude. He wasn't freaked when Hank
brought in the fish, when Hank started sharpening the knives. When he brought in the trout, Nick-O told him -yeah, told him, not asked him - to take it in the bathroom.
You tellin' me what to do?
I'm not telling you what to do, Nick-O had answered. I'm just telling you to take it into the bathroom. I'm tired of smelling the fish. What is it with you and fish anyway?
Hank would have backhanded the kid right there and then, but Nick-O was playing with the gun. And it was loaded this time. Hank didn't think it was smart to backhand a kid when he was holding a loaded Beretta.
Why are you so hung up on fish? Nick-O had pressed.
That little fucker. Questioning him again. And with no respect! Hank would have pounced on him, gun or no gun, but a little voice stopped him. And that same little voice had told him maybe it was good that Nick-O was a little tougher. Did he really want a wimp to protect him? Still, he had to keep Nick-O in line. But do it subtle like. Don't explode. Forget about the pounding in the head, the hot fire behind the eyes.
Teach him with class.
Slowly, Hank had sauntered over to the kid, twirling the knife between his fingers as if it were a baton. Measured steps, each one brought just a tiny bit of fear back into Nick-O's eyes.
Good, good.
With lightning fast reflexes, he swatted the gun out of Nick-O's hands, locked the boy's head in his arms and held the knife under his nose. Then Hank had said,
/ like fish, 'cause I like to practice gutting things.
Nick-O didn't answer. Not even after Hank had released him.
Very good.
Hank had noticed immediately that Nick-O's eyes weren't quite as cocky as they were a moment ago. But they weren't as scared as he would have liked, either. Then Hank had broken into a smile, feeling the right side of his Up curl higher than the left side.
But if it bothers you, Nick-O...
Slap on the shoulder.
Hey, if it bothers you, guy, I'll take it in the bathroom. Running water. Easier to clean up anyway. After I'm done, we'll get ourselves some duds.
Yeah, the clothes were great, but they couldn't possibly compare to that feeling. That first stab when you break skin and feel that wet stream roll over your fingers. And you dig a little deeper until you feel the guts of the fish. Then you uncoil it slowly, bit by bit, inch by inch. Stick your hands in the blood. Then you look up at the sucker's face and see it flail and squirm. But goddamn it, it knows it's trapped.
Squirm, squirm, squirm.
And the fish begins to fight for its life. Just like the dickhead would squirm for his life.
But the dickhead would know it was over. Over, man, it's over.
Now, you slice. A little nick here, a little nick there. The dickhead's beggin' you.
No mercy. No rachmanos.
Did the dickhead have rachmanos on you when he made you wear those smelly old clothes and all the kids made fun of you?
A deeper slice.
Or did the dickhead have mercy on you, when he made you sit alone in your room and spend hours
tryin' to read shit you couldn't understand?
A sudden big stab.
Or when he punished you by not talkin' to you for days. Or when he laughed at your schoolwork. Or when he called you dumb. Or when he told you you were just like the old lady. Or when he left you alone with the old lady for weeks at a time 'cause he had to go away on business.
Sure, it was business. Pussy business.
Then you plunge the sucker in!
Harder!
Harder! Harder! Twisting! And turning! And mashing until the insides ain't nothin' but soup.
Tears streaming down his eyes. His zeyde telling him to stop. Screaming at him to stop.
Hershela, what's wrong, bubelah?
I was mad, Zeyde, he had answered back in Yiddish. Mad at my tati.
Zeyde shook his head sadly. Even he knew his son was for shit.
Everyone knew the dickhead was for shit.
The noise of a supercharged engine idling woke Decker. He stretched, wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. His brown suit was as wrinkled as a discarded paper sack and he smelted like a distillery. Ginger was barking. He quieted her, craned his head to see Rina walking through the door. 'Hi.'
'Hello there,' Rina said. 'Did you have a nice nap?' He stood up, feeling as ripe as a compost pile. 'Don't come too close. I need a shower.' He stretched. 'What time is it? It's dark outside. Where were you?'
Rina said, 'It's around six-thirty. And it's more dusky than dark. I was at Santa Monica sorting through the homeless—'
•What!'
'I didn't find Hersh or Noam,' Rina answered. 'I'm not sure what I would have done had I spotted them. Probably called you. I took the Porsche. Found your spare key ring. I hope you don't mind.'
'I do mind,' Decker shot back. 'What on earth possessed you to go searching out there?'
'To help you out,' Rina said. 'You looked so tired—'
'I can't discuss anything with you, can I?' Decker peeled off his jacket and shirt and gathered them under his arm. 'What are you trying to do, Rina? Play Batman and Robin? I don't want your help. You're not helping me when you do these kinds of things.'
'All right, all right,' Rina said. 'Take a shower—'
'Stop dismissing me,' Decker said. 'Some of those homeless are dangerous. And don't tell me not to worry because you had your gun.'
'I did have my gun.'
Decker said, 'Rina, I've worked with these people. We've got a host of them in our area. They're junkies, they're psychos, they're cons and ex-cons. We are talking dregs of dregs—'
'I'm used to that, darling.' She went inside the kitchen and took three cleaned game birds out of the refrigerator. 'I've been living in New York.'
Decker followed her into the kitchen. 'Rina, I don't give a good goddamn—' He stopped abruptly. 'New York!' He pointed his finger in the air. 'I forgot about New York.'
'Yeah, New York,' Rina said. 'The big city on the
Atlantic Ocean.' She shook her head. 'How does Cornish hens sound? I'll make rice stuffing. I know Cindy likes rice. Is three enough? I know you can eat a whole bird by yourself.'
'What time is it?' Decker asked.
'It's still around six-thirty,' Rina said. 'Why do I feel we're not communicating?'
'Around six-thirty.' Decker scratched his head. 'That would make it nine-thirty in New York. I've got to make a phone call.'
'I've already called the boys this morning,' Rina said. 'I didn't know when you'd get home. You can call them again if you want. They'd love to hear from you.'
The boys?
He'd forgotten to call the boys.
'I've got a few phone calls to make,' Decker said. 'We'll discuss you and your pathological need to help later.'
Rina smiled. 'OK, Peter.'
'You're shining me on,' Decker said. 'I hate that.' He looked at the clothes tucked under his arms.
'Would you like me to take those for you?' Rina asked.
'The jacket has to be dry-cleaned.'
'I know that, Peter.'
Decker saw her wrinkle her nose. 'Don't worry, I'll shower before dinner.'
Rina thought that was a very good idea.
'Hersh Schaltz is my first cousin.' The deep voice paused a moment. 'I haven't seen him in years. What did he do this time?'
Decker could have kissed the phone. Big Hersh, the fish vendor from Crown Heights, was indeed a link to Psycho Hersh's past. Even if the man couldn't provide information as to Psycho Hersh's whereabouts, perhaps he could shed some light upon his enigmatic cousin.
'How's he related to you,' Decker asked. 'I mean, are your mothers sisters or what?'
'You tell me you're a cop and a frum yid,' Hersh said. 'You tell me you're looking for Hershie Schaltz. Now you're asking me personal questions. Vos macht?'
Decker wasn't sure what he meant, but the fish vendor's tone of voice seemed to indicate he wanted to know what was going on. Decker spent the next ten minutes rehashing the last six days, explaining Hersh Schaltz's involvement in the affair. Afterward, there was a long pause on the other end of the line.
'I have no idea where Hershie is,' Big Hersh said. 'Like I said, I haven't seen him in years.'
'You don't have any family connections in Los Angeles?' Decker asked.
'I have second cousins living in Beverly Woods,' Big Hersh said.
'You mean Beverly Hills?' Decker said.
'No, Beverly Woods.'
He meant Beverlywood - the gilded ghetto of L.A. Jewry. Beverlywood housed a lot of L.A.'s Orthodox professionals, many with parents who'd been camp survivors. Would Hersh try to make contact with distant relatives? It was worth looking into.
'Can you give me their names and address?' Decker said.
Another pause. Then Big Hersh said, 'You sound honest. And my wife does remember talking to you. But I still feel funny about giving out my cousins' names over the phone.'
Decker told him to hold on a moment and called Rina. He covered the receiver with his palm and said, 'I've got Hersh Berger, the fish vendor from Crown Heights, on the line. He's first cousins with Hersh Schaltz. I'm trying to squeeze information from him, but he's reluctant to talk to me. Talk to him. Convince him I'm legitimate.'
Rina stared at him, thinking: So now you want my help? Instead, she took the receiver and spoke to Big Hersh in Yiddish. They talked for five minutes, mentioning a lot of names D
ecker had never heard before. Then she handed him back the receiver and nodded.
Faye Kellerman - Decker 04 - Day of Atonement Page 28