The Forgotten
The Forgotten
Faye Kellerman
The thirteenth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanA horrifying crime…Rina Lazarus and her husband, Detective Peter Decker, are appalled when their synagogue is desecrated with swastikas and horrific photos from Nazi concentration camps. Who would strike at the heart of the community in this way?A tormented teenager…An arrest is soon made – 17-year-old Ernesto Golding. Ernesto is a privileged, wealthy kid obsessed with discovering the truth about his Polish grandfather, who moved to Argentina after the collapse of the Nazi regime.A case with devastating consequences…Despite Ernesto’s confession, Decker is unconvinced. And when Ernesto is found brutally murdered at an exclusive camp that caters to troubled kids, the investigation takes a sinister twist. Could this be Decker’s most dangerous case yet?
The Forgotten
Faye Kellerman
Copyright (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 2001
This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Faye Kellerman 2001
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photography © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293604
Version: 2018-12-13
Dedication (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
For Andy, Joanne, and Miriam
In memory of Shira—aleha ha’shalom
Contents
Cover (#u6bd08468-5a71-57c2-ab02-8a44945c0d93)
Title Page (#u4ecdc730-54fd-5fb6-a277-9b193cdb8c71)
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
Keep Reading
About the Author
Faye Kellerman booklist
About the Publisher
1 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
The call was from the police. Not from Rina’s lieutenant husband, but from the police police. She listened as the man spoke, and when she heard that it had nothing to do with Peter or the children, she felt a “Thank you, God” wave of instant relief. After discovering the reason behind the contact, Rina wasn’t as shocked as she should have been.
The Jewish population of L.A.’s West Valley had been rocked by hate crimes in the past, culminating in that hideous ordeal a couple of years ago when a subspecies of human life had gotten off the public bus and had shot up the Jewish Community Center. The center had been and still was a refuge for all people, offering everything from toddler day camps to dance movements to exercise classes for the elderly. Miraculously, no one had been killed—there. But the monster—who had later in the day committed the atrocious act of murder—had injured several children and had left the entire area with numbing fears that maybe it could happen again. Since then, many of the L.A. Jews took special precautions to safeguard their people and their institutions. Extra locks were put on the doors of the centers and synagogues. Rina’s shul, a small rented storefront, had even gone so far as to padlock the Aron Kodesh—the Holy Ark that housed the sacred Torah scrolls.
The police had phoned Rina because her number was the one left on the shul’s answering machine—for emergencies only. She was the synagogue’s unofficial caretaker—the buck-stops-here person who called the contractors when a pipe burst or when the roof leaked. Because it was a new congregation, its members could only afford a part-time rabbi. The congregants often pitched in by delivering a Shabbos sermon or sponsoring an after-prayer kiddush. People were always more social when food was served. The tiny house of worship had lots of mettle, and that made the dreadful news even harder to digest.
Driving to the destination, Rina was a mass of anxiety and apprehension. Nine in the morning and her stomach was knotted and burning. The police hadn’t described the damage, other than use the word vandalize over and over. From what she could gather, it sounded more like cosmetic mischief than actual constructional harm, but maybe that was wishful thinking.
She passed homes, stores, and strip malls, barely glancing at the scenery. She straightened the black tam perched atop her head, tucking in a few dangling locks of ebony hair. Even under ordinary circumstances, she rarely spent time in front of the mirror. This morning, she had rushed out as soon as she hung up the phone, wearing the most basic of clothing—a black skirt, a white long-sleeved shirt, slip-on shoes, a head covering. At least her blue eyes were clear. There had been no time for her makeup; the cops were going to see the uncensored Rina Decker. The red traffic lights seemed overly long, because she was so antsy to get there.
The shul meant so much to her. It had been the motivating factor behind selling Peter’s old ranch and buying their new house. Because hers was a Sabbath-observant Jewish home, she had wanted a place of worship that was within walking distance—real walking distance, not something two and a half miles away as Peter’s ranch had been. It wasn’t that she minded the walk to her previous shul, Yeshivat Ohavei Torah, and the boys certainly could make the jaunt, but Hannah, at the time, had been five. The new house was perfect for Hannah, a fifteen-minute walk, plus there were plenty of little children for her to play with. Not many older children, but that didn’t matter, since her older sons were nearly grown. Shmueli had left for Israel, and Yonkie, though only in eleventh grade, would probably spend his senior year back east, finishing yeshiva high school while simultaneously attending college. Peter’s daughter, Cindy, was now a veteran cop, having survived a wholly traumatic year. Occasionally, she’d eat Shabbat dinner with them, visiting her little sister—a thrill since Cindy had grown up an only child. Rina was the mother of a genuine blended family, though sometimes it felt more like genuine chaos.
Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the storefront. The tiny house of worship was in a building that also rented space to a real estate office, a dry cleaners, a nail salon, and a take-out Thai café. Upstairs were a travel agency and an attorney who advertised on late-night cable with happy testimonials from former clients. Two black-and-white cruisers had parked askew, taking up most of the space in the minuscule lot, their light bars alternately blinking out red and blue beams. A small crowd had gathered in front of the synagogue, but through them, Rina could see hints of a freshly painted black swastika.
Her heart sank.
She inched her Volvo into the lot and parked adjacent to a cruiser. Before she even got out of the car, a uniform was waving her off. He was a thick block of a man in his thirties. Rina didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything because she didn’t know most of the uniformed officers in the Devonshire station. Peter had transferred there as a detective, not a patrol cop.
The officer was saying, “You can’t park here, ma’am.”
Rina rolled down the window. “The police called me down. I have the keys to the synagogue.”
The officer waited; she waited.
Rina said, “I’m Rina Decker, Lieutenant Decker’s wife …”
Instant recognition. The uniformed officer nodded by way of an apology, then muttered, “Kids!”
“Then you know who did it?” Rina got out of the car.
The officer’s cheeks took on color. “No, not yet. But we’ll find whoever did this.”
Another cop walked up to her, this one a sergeant by his uniform stripes, with Shearing printed on his nametag. He was stocky with wavy, dishwater-colored hair and a ruddy complexion. Older: mid to late fifties. She had a vague sense of having met him at a picnic or some social gathering. The name Mike came to mind.
He held out his hand. “Mickey Shearing, Mrs. Decker. I’m awfully sorry to bring you down like this.” He led her through the small gathering of onlookers, irritated by the interference. “Everybody … a couple of steps back … Better yet, go home.” Shouting to his men, “Someone rope off the area, now!”
As the lookie-loos thinned, Rina could see the exterior wall—one big swastika, a couple of baby ones on either side. Someone had spray-painted Death to the Inferior, Gutter Races. Angry moisture filled her eyes. “Is the door lock broken?” she asked the sergeant.
“’Fraid so.”
“You’ve been inside?”
“Unfortunately, I have. It’s …” He shook his head. “It’s pretty strong.”
“My parents were concentration-camp survivors. I know this kind of thing.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Watch your step. We don’t want to mess up anything for the detectives.”
“Who’s being brought in?” Rina said. “Who investigates hate crimes?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. As she stepped across the threshold, she felt her muscles tighten, and her jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder that her teeth didn’t crack.
All the walls had been tattooed with one vicious slogan after another, each derogatory, each advocating different ways to exterminate Jews. So many swastikas, it could have been a wallpaper pattern. Eggs and ketchup had been thrown against the plaster, leaving behind vitreous splotches. But the walls weren’t the worst part, minor compared to the holy books that had been torn and shredded and strewn across the floor. And even the sacrilege of the religious tomes and prayer books wasn’t as bad as the horrific photographs of concentration-camp victims that lay atop the ruined Hebrew texts. She averted her eyes but had already seen too much—ghastly black-and-white snapshots depicting individual bodies with tortured faces and gaping mouths. Some were clothed, some nude.
Shearing was staring, too, shaking his head back and forth, while uttering “Oh man, oh man” under his breath. He seemed to have forgotten about her. Rina cleared her throat, partially to break Mickey’s trance, but also to stave back tears. “I suppose I should look around to see if anything valuable is missing.”
Mickey looked at Rina’s face. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Did the place have anything valuable …? I mean, I know the books are valuable, but like flashy valuable things. Like silver ecumenical things … is ‘ecumenical’ the right word?”
“I know what you mean.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Decker.”
The apology was stated with such clear sincerity that it brought down the tears. “No one died, no one got hurt. It helps to get perspective.” Rina wiped her eyes. “Most of our silver and gold objects are locked up in that cabinet … the one with the grates. That’s our Holy Ark.”
“Lucky that you had the grates installed.”
“We did that after the Jewish Community Center shootings.” She walked over to the Aron Kodesh.
Shearing said, “Don’t touch the lock, Mrs. Decker.”
Rina stopped.
He tried out a tired smile. “Fingerprints.”
Rina regarded the lock with her hands behind her back. “Someone tried to break inside. There are fresh scratch marks.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Because you have the lock, they musta figured that’s where you keep all your valuables.”
“They would have been right.” A pause. “You said ‘they.’ More than one?”
“With this much damage, I’d say yeah, but I’m not a detective. I leave that up to pros like your husband.”
Abruptly, she was seized with vertigo and leaned against the grate for support. Mickey was at her side.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Decker?”
Her voice came out a whisper. “Fine.” She straightened up, surveying the room like a contractor. “Most of the damage seems superficial. Nothing a good bucket of soapy water and a paintbrush could take care of. The books, of course, are another story.” Replacing them would put them back at least a thousand dollars, money that they had been saving for a part-time youth director. Like most labors of love, the shul operated on a shoestring budget. A tear leaked down her cheek.
“At least no one tried to burn it down.” She bit her lip. “We have to be positive, right?”
“Absolutely!” Mickey joined in. “You’re a real trooper.”
Again, Rina’s eyes skittered across the floor. Among the photos were Xeroxed ink drawings of Jews sporting exaggerated hooked noses. They probably had been copied out of the old Der Stuermer or the Protocol of the Elders of Zion. Again, she glanced at the grainy photographs. Upon inspection, she realized that the black-and-whites did not look like copies. They looked like genuine snapshots taken by someone who had been there. The thought—someone visually recording dead people—sickened her. Now someone was leaving them around as a frightful reminder or a threat.
Again, her eyes filled with furious tears. She was so angry, so desolate, that she wanted to scream at the world. Instead, she took out her cell phone and paged her husband.
Decker had many thoughts rattling through his brain, most of them having to do with how Rina was coping. Still, there was some space left over for his own feelings. Anger? No. Way beyond anger, and that wasn’t good. Such blinding rage caused people to make mistakes, and Decker couldn’t afford them right now. So instead of mulling over a crime he had yet to see, he looked out the windshield and tried to get distracted by the scenery. By the rows of houses that had once been citrus orchards, by the warehouses and strip malls that lined Devonshire Boulevard. He tried not to think about his stepson in Israel or his other stepson at a Jewish high school. Or Hannah, who was currently in second grade—young and trusting and as innocent as those rows of preschoolers led out of the JCC a couple of years ago after that god-awful shooting.
He realized he was sweating. Though it was the usual overcast May in L.A.—the air cool and a bit moldy—he turned the air conditioner on full blast. Someone had given him the address as a formality, but even if he hadn’t known the locale, the cruisers would have been a tip-off.
He parked his car in a red zone, got out, and told himself to take a deep breath. He’d need to be calm, not to deal with the crime but to deal with Rina. A quartet of uniforms was buzzing around the space like flies. Decker hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when Mickey Shearing caught him.
“Where is she?” Decker’s voice was a growl.
“Inside the synagogue,” Shearing answered. “You want the details?”
“You have details?”
“I have …” Mickey flipped through his book. “… that the first report came in at eight-thirty in the morning from the guy who operates the dry cleaning. I arrived about ten minutes later, found the door lock broken. I called up the synagogue to find out if there was a rabbi or someone in charge. I got a machine with a phone number on it. Turned out to be your wife.”
“And you didn’t think to call me before you called her?” Decker’s glare was harsh.
“There was just a phone number on it, Lieutenant. I didn’t realize it was your wife until afterward.”
Decker broke eye contact and rubbed his forehead. “S’right. Maybe it’s better coming from you. Anyone been interviewed?”
“We’re making the rounds.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. Probably done in the wee hours of the morning.” Shearing slid his toe against the ground. “Probably by kids.”
“Kids as in more than one?”
“A lot of damage. I think so.”
“Tell me about the guy in the dry cleaners.”
“Gregory Blansk. Young kid himself. Uh … nineteen …” He flipped through more pages. “Yeah, nineteen.”
“Any chance he did it and is sticking around to see people admire his handiwork?”
“I think he’s Jewish, sir.”
“You think?”
“Uh … yeah. Here we go. He is Jewish.” Shearing looked up. “He seemed appalled and more than a little frightened. He’s a Russian import himself. Two strikes against him—Jewish and a foreigner. This has to scare him.”
“Currently, Detective Wanda Bontemps from Juvenile is assigned to Hate Crimes. Make sure she interviews him when she comes out. Keep the area clear. I’ll be back.”
Having worked Juvenile for a number of years, Decker was familiar with errant kids and lots of vandalism. He had worked in an area noted for biker bums, white trash, hoodlum Chicanos, and teens who just couldn’t get behind high school. But this? Too damn close to home. He was so distracted by the surroundings, he didn’t even notice Rina until she spoke. It jolted him, and he took a step backward, bumping into her, almost knocking her down.
“I’m sorry.” He grabbed her hand, then clasped her body tightly. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m …” She shrugged in his arms. Don’t cry! “How long before we can start cleaning this up?”
“Not for a while. I’d like to take photographs and comb the area for prints—”
“I can’t stand to look at this!” Rina pulled away and turned her eyes away from his. “How long?”
“I don’t know, Rina. I’ve got to get the techs out here. It isn’t a murder scene, so it isn’t top priority.”
“Oh. I see. We have to wait until someone gets shot.”
Decker tried to keep his voice even. “I’m as anxious as you are to clean this up, but if we want to do this right, we can’t rush things. After the crews leave, I will personally come over here with mop and broom in hand and scrub away every inch of this abomination. Okay?”
Rina covered her mouth, then blinked back droplets. She whispered back, “Okay.”
“Friends?” Decker smiled.
She smiled back with wet eyes.
Decker’s smile faded as the horror hit him. “Good Lord!” He threw his head back. “This is … awful!”
“They took the kiddush cup, Peter.”
“What?”
“The kiddush cup is gone. We kept it in the cabinet. It was silver plate with turquoise stones and just the type of item that would get stolen because it was accessible and flashy.”
Decker thought a moment. “Kids.”
“That’s what they’re all saying. Why not some evil hate group?”
“Sure, it could be that. One thing I will say on record is it’s probably not a hype. If he wanted something to swap for instant drug money, the crime would have been clean theft.”
“Maybe the cup is hidden underneath all this wreckage.” Rina shrugged. “All I know is the cup isn’t in the cabinet.”
Decker took out his notebook. “Anything else?”
“Fresh scratch marks on the padlock on the Aron—the Holy Ark. They tried to get into it, but weren’t successful.”
“Thank goodness.” He folded his notebook and studied her face. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m … all right. I’ll feel better once this is cleaned up. I suppose I should call Mark Gruman.”
Decker sighed. “He and I painted the walls the first time. Looks like we’re going to paint them again.”
Rina whispered, “Once word gets out, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of willing volunteers.”
“Hope so.” Decker stamped his foot. An infantile gesture but he was so damn angry. “Man, I am pi … mad. I’d love to swear except I don’t want to further desecrate the place.”
“What’s the first step in this type of investigation?”
“To check out juveniles with past records of vandalism.”
“Aren’t records of juveniles sealed?”
“Of course. But that doesn’t mean the arresting officers can’t talk. A couple of names would be a good start.”
“How about checking out real hate groups?”
“Definitely, Rina. We’ll work this to the max. Nothing in this geographical area comes to mind. But I remember a group in Foothills—the Ethnic Preservation Society or something like that. It’s been a while. I have to check the records, and to do that properly I need to go back to the office.”
“Go on. Go back. I’ll be okay.” She turned to face him. “Who’s coming down?”
“Wanda Bontemps. She’s from the Hate Crimes Unit. Try not to bite her head off. She had a bad experience with Jews in the past.”
“And this is who they bring down for a Jewish hate crime?”
“She’s black—”
“So she’s a black, and an anti-Semite. That makes it better?”
“She’s not anti-Semitic at all. She’s a good woman who was honest enough to admit her issues to me early on. I’m just … I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” He looked around and grimaced. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut. I’ll chalk it up to being a little rattled. Wanda’s new and has worked hard to get her gold. It hasn’t been an easy ride for a black forty-year-old woman.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Rina answered. “Don’t worry about her, Peter. If she just does her job, we’ll get along just fine.”
2 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
The pictures of the concentration-camp victims had to have come from somewhere. It was possible that they were downloaded from a neo-Nazi on-line site and enhanced to make them look like real photographs. Still, it was equally as likely that they had come from some kind of local organized fascist group. The fringe group that Decker had remembered from his Foothills days had tagged itself the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity. When he had worked Juvenile, it hadn’t been much more than a post-office box and a once-every-six-months meeting in the park. A few quick phone calls told him that the group was still in existence and that it had evolved into something with an address on Roscoe Boulevard. Decker wasn’t sure what they did or what they espoused, but with that kind of a name, the hidden message had to be white supremacy.
He checked his watch, which now read close to eleven. He got up from his desk and went out into the squad room. There were lots of empty spots, signifying that most of Devonshire’s detectives had been called into the field, but luck placed Tom Webster at his desk, and on the phone. The junior homicide detective was blond, blue-eyed, and spoke with a good-ole-boy drawl. If anyone could pose as an Aryan sympathizer, it would be Webster … except for the dress. Neo-Nazis didn’t usually sport designer suits. Today, Tom had donned a navy suit, white shirt, and a maroon mini-print tie—probably Zegna. Not that Decker wore hundred-dollar ties, but he knew the brand because Rina’s father liked Zegna and often gave Sammy and Jake his cast-off cravats.
Webster looked up, and Decker caught his eye, pointing to his office. A minute later, Tom came in and closed the door. His hair had been recently shorn, but several locks still brushed his eyebrows, giving him that “aw shucks” look of a schoolboy.
“Sorry about this morning, Loo.” Webster took a seat across Decker’s desk. “We all heard it was pretty bad.”
“Y’all heard right.” Decker sat at his desk and sifted through his computer until he found what he wanted. Then he pressed the print button. “What’s your schedule like?”
“I was just doing a follow-up on the Gonzalez shooting. Talking to the widow …” He sighed. “The trial’s been delayed again. Perez’s lawyer quit, and they’re assigning him a new PD who is not familiar with the case. Poor Mrs. Gonzalez wants closure and it isn’t going to happen soon.”
“That’s too bad,” Decker stated.
“Yeah, it’s too bad and all too typical,” Webster answered. “I have court at one-thirty. I thought I’d go over my notes.”
“You’re a college grad, Webster. That shouldn’t take you long.” Decker handed him the printout. “I want you to check this out.”
Webster looked at the sheet. “Preservers of Ethnic Integrity? What is all this? A Nazi group?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out.”
“When? Now?”
“Yes.” Decker smiled. “Right now.”
“What am I inquiring about? The temple vandalism?”
“Yes.”
“Am I supposed to be simpatico to the cause?”
“You want information, Tom; do what you need to do. As a matter of fact, take Martinez with you. You’re white, he’s Hispanic. With racists, you can do good cop, bad cop just by using the color of your skin.”
From the synagogue, Bontemps called Decker and told him about the three kids she had hauled in for prior vandalism. All of them had sealed records.
“How about a couple of names?” Decker asked.
Bontemps said, “Jerad Benderhurst—a fifteen-year-old white male. Last I heard, he was living with an aunt in Oklahoma. Jamal Williams—a sixteen-year-old African-American male—picked up not only for vandalism, but also petty theft and drug possession. I think he moved back east.”
“That’s not promising. Anyone else?”
“Carlos Aguillar. I think he’s fourteen, and I think he’s still at Buck’s correction center. Those are the ones I remember for vandalism. If you check with Sherri and Ridel, they might have others.” A pause. “Then again, Lieutenant, you might want to consider the bigger picture when it comes to tagging.”
Decker knew exactly to whom she was referring—a specific group of white, middle-to-upper-class males who were not only testosterone laden, but also terribly bored with life. Recently, after having been caught, the kids had secured their daddies’ highly paid lawyers before they had even been booked. The entire bunch had gotten off, the tagging expunged from the records, and in record time. Most of the kids were enrolled in private schools. For them, even drugs and sex had become too commonplace. Crime was the last vestige of rebellion.
“There was a group of them last year,” Wanda said. “Around twenty of them dressing like homies and trying to act very baaaad. They defaced a lot of property. If I thought about it, I could remember some names.”
“You could also have your ass sued for giving me the names,” Decker said. “As far as the records are concerned, they don’t exist. But I know who you mean.” A glance at the wrist told him it was eleven-twenty. “How’s it going over there?”
“Photographers are almost done. So are the techs. Your wife is waiting with a crew of people—all of them armed with soapy water pails, cleaning solutions, rags, and mops. They are ready to start scrubbing, and they are angry. If the police don’t hurry up, someone’s gonna get impaled on a broomstick.”
“That sounds like Rina’s doing,” Decker stated.
“You want to talk to her? She’s hanging over my shoulder.”
“I am not hanging,” Rina said, off side. “I am waiting.”
Wanda handed her the phone. Rina said, “Detective Bontemps has offered to spend her lunch hour helping us clean.”
“Is that a pointed comment?”
“Well, you might want to take a cue.”
Decker smiled. “I’ll be there as soon as I get off work. I will paint and clean the entire night if necessary. How’s that?”
“Acceptable, although by the time you get here, it may not be necessary.”
“I hear you have quite a gang.”
“Specifically, we’ve got the entire sisterhood here with brooms and buckets. Someone also made an announcement over at the JCC. Six people came down to clean and paint—one guy actually being a professional painter. Wanda, who’s been a doll, actually called up her church and recruited several volunteers. Even the people from the press have offered to help. We’d like to start already.”
“Detective Bontemps told me they’re almost done.”
“It’s just so … ugly, Peter. Every time I look at it, I get sick all over. Everyone feels the same way.”
“Who is down there from the press?”
“L.A. Times, Daily News, there are some TV cameras, but Wanda isn’t letting them in yet.”
“Good for her.”
“Have you narrowed down your suspect list?” Rina asked.
“I’m making a couple of calls. I’ll let you know if I have any luck.” He waited a moment. “I love you, darlin’. I’m glad you have so much support over there.”
“I love you, too. And those mumzerim haven’t heard the last from me. This isn’t going to happen again!”
“I admire your commitment.”
“Nothing to admire. This isn’t a choice, this is an assignment. Have you checked out the pawnshops?”
“What?”
“For the silver kiddush cup. Someone may have tried to pawn it.”
“Actually no, I haven’t checked out the pawnshops.”
“You should do that right away. Before the pawnbroker gets wind of the fact that he has something hot.”
“Anything else, General?”
“Nothing for the moment. Someone’s calling me, Peter. I’ll give you back to Detective Bontemps.”
Wanda said, “She’s quite the organizer.”
“That’s certainly true. Thanks for helping out.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Decker said, “The taggers you were referring to, Wanda. Most of them went to private school.”
“Some of them did—Foreman Prep … Beckerman’s.”
“That could work in our favor. I’d have a hard time doing search and seizure with kids in public school. But in private school, they are subjected to different rules. Lots of the places have bylaws allowing the administration to open up random lockers to do contraband searches.”
“Why would a private school administrator agree to do that for us, sir?”
“Because it would look bad if they didn’t help us out. Like they were hiding something. Chances are I won’t find much … a secret stash or two.”
“What specific contraband would you be looking for, sir? Anti-Semitic material?”
“A silver wine cup.”
“Aha. That makes sense.”
“It’s worth a try,” Decker said.
But one not without controversy or consequences. Because in order to appear objective—and the police needed to appear objective—he’d have to search several of the private schools, including Jacob’s Jewish high school. He’d start with that one.
3 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
What’s the address?” Webster asked.
Martinez gave him the number while taking a big bite out of his turkey, tomato, and mustard sandwich, rye bread crumbs sprinkling his steel-wool mustache. He had been thinking about shaving it off now that it was more gray than black. But his wife told him that after all these years of something draping over his mouth, he probably had no upper lip left. “Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?”
“Probably because I was in the squadroom.” He looked at his partner’s sandwich. “You carryin’ an extra one, Bertie?”
“Oh, sure.” Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. “You didn’t eat lunch?”
“When did I have time?” He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. “Decker cornered me just as I was hangin’ up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.”
“Yeah, it’s personal.”
“It’s personal. It’s also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.”
“Nothing wrong with us bagging a bunch of punks.” Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. “You know anything about these jokers?”
“Just what’s on the printout. They’ve been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.”
Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by a 99 Cents store advertising things in denomination of—you guessed it—ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoe store, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. “I don’t see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”
“The address is a half-number,” Martinez said. “We should try around the side of the building.”
Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door’s visibility blocked by a gathered white curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer.
The intercom spat back in painful static. “We’re closed for lunch.”
“Police,” Martinez barked. “Open up!”
A pause, then a long buzz. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses.
“Police?” She stood and looked to her left—at an interior door left ajar. “What’s going on?”
Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames—Grant Wood’s American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer—affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different-colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby-blue sheet of paper containing an article. The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later.
“A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.” Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. “We were wondering what you knew about it.”
Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s all over the news,” Webster said.
“I don’t watch the news.”
“You’ve got a radio on. I b’lieve it’s tuned to a news station.”
“That’s not me, that’s Darrell. Why are you here?”
“Because we know what this place is all about,” Martinez said. “We’re just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in.”
A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffee-colored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races.
“May I ask who you all are?” he said.
“Police,” Webster said. “We’d like to ask y’all a few questions, if that’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay,” the man said. “Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them. If not, you can show yourself to the door.”
“That’s downright unneighborly of you,” Webster said.
The man turned his wrath toward the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t let anyone in unless you’re sure of who they are!”
“They said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?”
“And since when do you believe everything someone says? You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?” Darrell turned toward them. “Can I see some ID?”
Webster pulled out his badge. “We’re not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we’re not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple that was vandalized this morning. Y’all know anything about that?”
“Absolutely not!” Darrell insisted. “Why should we?”
“Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?” Martinez asked.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Darrell said. “If I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.”
“S’cuse me?” Webster said. “This is being raked over the coals?”
“You barge in—”
“She buzzed us in,” Martinez interrupted. “And you haven’t answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?”
“I was home.” Darrell was smoldering. “In bed. Sleeping.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Alone. Unless you count my cat. Her name is Shockley.”
“And this morning?” Webster inquired.
“Let’s see. I woke up at eight-thirty … or thereabouts. I don’t want to be held to the exact time.”
“Go on,” Webster pushed.
“I exercised on my treadmill … ate breakfast … read the paper. I got here at around ten-fifty, ten-thirty. Erin was already here.” His eyes moved from the cops’ faces to the pitchfork of the Grant Wood classic. “What exactly do you want?”
“How about your complete names for starters.”
“Darrell Holt.”
Martinez looked at the woman. “You’re next, ma’am.”
“Erin Kershan.”
Holt tapped his foot, then released a storage cell of aggression. “I had nothing to do with the vandalism of a synagogue! That isn’t what this group is all about! We don’t hate! We don’t persecute! And if you were told that, you’ve been misinformed. We do just the opposite of persecute. We encourage ethnic integrity. I applaud Jews who wish to congregate with one another. Jews should be with other Jews. African-Americans should be with African-Americans, Hispanics with Hispanics, and Caucasians with Caucasians—”
“And what exact ethnicity are you?” Webster asked Holt.
“I’m Acadian, if you must know.”
“You don’t sound like any Cajun I ever met,” Webster said.
“The original Acadians came from Canada—Nova Scotia specifically.” Holt gave off a practiced smile. It was condescending and ugly. “I am proud of my heritage, which is why I feel so strong about preserving cultural purity. And it has nothing to do with racism, because as you can see for yourself …” He pointed to his hair and nose. “I have black blood in me.”
“So you admit to being a mutt,” Webster said.
Holt bristled. “I am not talking about bloodlines, I’m talking ethnicity. My ethnicity is Acadian and it is my wish to preserve my ethnic purity. It is our opinion that the mixing of ethnicities has ruined civilization and certainly the individualization and pride of too many cultures. Immigration has turned everything into one big amorphous blob. Look at cuisine! You go out to a French restaurant when you’re in the mood for French food. Or perhaps a Mexican restaurant when you want enchiladas. Or Italian or American or Southern or Tunisian whenever you want the various cuisines. Imagine what it would be like if you mixed up all these nuances, all the flavors. Individually they work; together, they’d make for one horrible stew.”
“We are not beef Stroganoff, sir,” Martinez said. “Food isn’t the issue. Crime is the issue. Vandalism is a crime. What happened today at the synagogue constitutes a hate crime. The vandals will be found, and they will be punished. So if you know something, I suggest you get a load off now. Because if we come back, it’s going to be bad for you.”
“You have us all wrong.” Holt picked up a handful of leaflets and handed them to Martinez. “You’ll probably throw them away. But should you care to enlighten yourself enough to give us a fair shake, you’ll see that what we say makes a lot of sense.”
Erin broke in. “We have all kinds of members.”
“All kinds of ethnicities,” Holt added. “We cater to the disenfranchised.”
“Like who?” Martinez asked.
“Read our flyers. Our members write the articles.” He plunked a few from the table. “This one—on the ills of affirmative action—was written by an African-American, Joe Staples. This one is on English as a second language in America, written by an ex-Marine turned psychologist.” He focused in on Martinez. “Mr. Tarpin is just elucidating a well-known point. That in the United States we have only one official language and that language is English. If you read it, you’ll see that he has nothing against Hispanics. Everyone who lives in the U.S. should speak English.” He smiled. “Just like you’re doing right now.”
“I’m glad Mr. …” Martinez looked at the flyer. “Mr. Tarpin would approve of my English skills.”
“Which makes sense, being as Detective Martinez is American,” Webster stated. “Which means, if you’re Canadian, Mr. Holt, Detective Martinez is more of an American than you are. And if you advocate people staying with their own kind, maybe you should go back to Canada.”
Webster was florid with fury, his hands bunched into fists. Martinez, on the other hand, was completely impassive, glancing at Mr. Tarpin’s words on why English was such a wonderful, expressive, and large language. That was certainly true enough. Compared to Spanish’s blooming buds, English was an entire bouquet of flowers because it used words from a variety of other languages. The irony was lost on the author.
Martinez said, “Did you print these flyers yourself?”
“The PEI did. Absolutely.”
“Things were left behind in the synagogue,” Martinez said. “Nazi slogans that were printed on flyers just like these.”
“There’s a Kinko’s about a mile away from here,” Holt retorted. “Why don’t you ask them about it?”
Webster said, “And if we were to download your computer files, we wouldn’t find neo-Nazi groups bookmarked on your favorite places?”
“No, you would not,” Holt said confidently. “But even if you did find anything you deem as offensive, it still proves nothing. I did not vandalize anything!”
“There were also photographs left behind at the temple,” Martinez said. “Horrible pictures of holocaust victims—”
“That’s terrible,” Erin piped up. “That’s not our thing.”
“What is your thing?”
“Erin, I’ll handle this,” Holt said.
She ignored him. “Our thing is keeping ethnic identity pure. Gosh, we do it with animals—purebred this and purebred that. So what’s so wrong about wanting people to stay pure? You call it racism, but like Darrell stated, we are not racists! We are preservationists. We have nothing against Jews as long as they stick with Jews, and stop controlling the stock market—”
“Erin—”
“I’m just saying what Ricky says. He says the Jews control all the computers. Just look at Microsoft!”
“Erin, the head of Microsoft is William Gates III,” Holt said. “Does that sound like a Jewish name?”
“No.”
“That’s because William Gates III is not Jewish. If Ricky told you that, Ricky is full of shit!”
Erin’s mouth formed a soft O.
“Who’s Ricky?” Martinez asked.
“Some jerk …” Holt made a face at Erin. “Why do you bring him up?”
“You said he was your friend. Didn’t you go to Berkeley together?”
Holt rolled his eyes. To the cops, he said, “Ricky Moke is to the right of Hitler. Why don’t you go hassle him?”
“Where can we find him?”
“That’s a good question,” Erin said. “He hides out a lot.”
“Erin, shut up!”
“Don’t yell at me, Darrell. You were the one who gave the cops his last name.”
“Is this Moke a fugitive?”
Erin and Darrell exchanged glances. Holt said, “Moke tells lots of stories. Among them is this tale about his being a wanted fugitive.”
“What is Moke supposedly wanted for?”
“Bombings.”
The cops exchanged glances.
“Bombing what?” Webster asked. “Synagogues?”
Holt shook his head. “Animal laboratories. Not the actual cages, just the data centers. Ricky, by his own admission, is an animal lover.”
4 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
Torah Academy of West Hills had been molded from an old veterinary clinic. It must have been a thriving practice, and for big animals, because the examination rooms were extra large though still too small for classrooms. So the majority of actual learning took place in prefab trailers that filled the parking lot, save for a few science classes that were held in the animal morgue. The other clinic rooms had been turned into offices for the administration. Decker knew that the school, like everything in this community, was run on hope, volunteers, and the occasional out-of-the-blue donation.
Rabbi Jeremy Culter was in charge of secular studies. He was in his mid-thirties, and considered very modern for an Orthodox rabbi. In addition to being ordained as a rabbi, he had a Ph.D. in education and, most telling, he didn’t have a beard. He was fair complexioned and on the short side—trim with very long and developed arms. His office held a minimal look—a desk, a couple of chairs, and a bookshelf filled with sepharim—Jewish books—as well as books on psychology, sociology, and philosophy. The walls were cedar-paneled and still retained a faint antiseptic odor, along with an occasional waft of urine.
Usually, when Decker visited the school, he wore a yarmulke—a skullcap. But today he was there not as a father but in an official capacity. He didn’t wear a yarmulke when he worked because he often dealt with people who hated him in particular and cops in general, and he didn’t want to give any psycho-felon anti-Semite any more fodder to use against Jews. Still, sitting in front of Culter, he felt exposed without a head covering. If Culter noticed, he didn’t let on.
He said, “I can’t believe you actually think that one of our own boys—your son’s classmates—desecrated a shul and left concentration-camp photos around? Children with grandparents who are survivors!”
Decker looked at him. “How’d you find out about the specifics of the crime?”
“This is a small community. Do I really have to explain this to you?”
“Did my wife call you?”
The rabbi shook his head.
“Must have been one of the members of the bucket brigade.” Decker smiled at him. “I’ve just assigned you the role of my clergyman. Now I have confidentiality. Okay with you?”
Rabbi Culter said, “Go on.”
“This is the deal. We’re calling it a random drug check for the boys. I’m going to use that ruse with all the schools I’m going to. What I’m looking for is evidence of who might have done this. If you and your school cooperate with me, Rabbi, I’ll have muscle when dealing with the other privates.”
Culter nodded. “The law is an objective animal and so are the police.”
“Exactly,” Decker said. “If I searched my own son’s school, then what excuses can the other principals give me?”
“You’re getting resistance?”
“You’re the first school, so I’ll find out. But I can tell you that no swanky private school will freely admit having vandals in their student body. It doesn’t sit well with the parents who pay enormous tuition bills.” He pointed to his chest. “I can attest to that personally.”
“Are you positive that kids did the crime?”
“No, I’m not. The police are checking out a number of leads. I’ve assigned myself the role of school snoop. Lucky me. This isn’t going to give me status with my stepson—invading the privacy of Jacob and his friends. But it’s worth it if I get results. When other principals see a clergyman not attempting to protect his own, what excuse do they have?”
“The parents are not going to be pleased.”
“Rabbi, I want to nail these bastards. I know you do, too.”
Culter lifted his brows. “So I’m supposed to tell everyone that it’s just a random drug check.”
“If you could do that, it would be extremely helpful.”
“What if …” The rabbi folded his hands over his desk. “What if you find something incriminating on your son?”
“Meaning?” Decker kept his face flat.
“I think you know what I mean. Yaakov has given me the impression that you two talk about personal matters.” A very long pause. He rubbed his nose with his index finger. “Perhaps I just spoke out of turn.”
“You mean drugs?”
Culter shrugged.
Decker said, “Jake spoke to me about marijuana use. If it’s more than that, I don’t know about it.”
The rabbi was stoic. “What are you going to do, Lieutenant, if you find anything in his locker?”
It was a legitimate question, and it churned Decker’s stomach. “I’ll decide if and when I have to deal with it. Right now, I’m willing to take a chance. Because I really want these punks behind bars. Please help me out. Help the community out. Not only do we want to find the perpetrators, but we don’t want this to happen again.”
“I agree.”
“So you’ll help me?”
“With reluctance, but yes, I will help you.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Decker stood. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
“Are you personally going to do the searches?”
“Yep. If it turns out okay, I’ll take the credit. If not, I’ll accept the blame. Where do you want to be during this fiasco?”
“By your side,” Culter said. “You’re not the only one who believes in justice.”
The contraband consisted of a few dirty magazines, as well as several plastic bags of suspicious-looking dried herbs, enough for Decker to act the bad guy and scare a few kids into behaving better. He used fear rather than actual punishment, effective in getting the point across. Yonkie’s locker was literally clean, stacked neatly and free of garbage. The teen’s recent behavior had indicated a change for the good, but Decker couldn’t deny the relief of just one less thing to worry about. As it was, there were going to be repercussions because the kids didn’t understand why Decker—an Orthodox Jewish lieutenant—had singled them out. It played to the boys as the gestapo sending in Jewish capos to persecute their own. Yonkie did have the sense to keep his mouth shut, but his eyes burned with anger and humiliation.
There’d be trouble at home, but Decker would tolerate it. His strategy had worked. Even before he had cleared out of the yeshiva, Decker had phoned and received an appointment with Headmaster Keats Williams from the exclusive Foreman Prep boys’ school. If the rabbis had agreed to a check, what excuse did the others now have?
Decker was at his car when Yonkie caught up to him. Almost seventeen, the boy had heart-throbbing good looks with piercing ice-blue eyes and coal-black hair. Even in the school’s uniform—white shirt and blue slacks—he was more matinee idol than bumbling teen. The kid was glancing over his shoulder, his body jumping like fat on a griddle.
He said, “This had nothing to do with my former drug use, right?”
“Right.”
“Because you couldn’t have orchestrated all this just to check up on me.”
“Correct.”
“I mean, even you don’t have that kind of power.”
“No, I don’t have that kind of power, and that would be a big abuse of power.”
“Yeah … right. So there had to be another reason.”
Decker could have kissed the boy. “Very good.”
“My friends don’t know that, though. They’re totally wigged. They think you’re pissed at me and taking it out on them.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I told them that you’re not from Narcotics. That this is a separate thing. So this whole drug search is probably a screen for something. Does this have anything to do with the shul being vandalized?”
Decker hesitated. “Who told you about that?”
“Dad, it’s all over the school. Everyone knows and is pretty freaked out about it. Now you’re here … You couldn’t think that one of us did it? I can’t believe you’d think that. It’s ludicrous.”
Decker didn’t answer.
“Oh, man!” Yonkie turned away, then faced him again. His face was moist and flushed. “You know, they’re going to talk against you. About how you’re picking on your own people because we’re easy targets. Eema’s going to take a lot of flak. If you had to do this, why did you come personally? To show your bosses that you’re not biased? You should be biased. You should have excused yourself. You should be at Beckerman’s or Foreman Prep. Or do the rich get special privileges?”
Yonkie was a mass of burning indignation, and Decker tried to take it in stride. What had to be done, had to be done. But the words hurt more than he’d like to admit. “I’m not responding to this. You’d better go back to class—”
“It’s not enough that they snicker behind your back,” Yonkie shot out. “You have to make me and Eema and Hannah pariahs as well?”
The barbs cut deep. Such venom from the mouth of a child that he had raised and had taken on as his own. “Jacob, I’m sorry that my position as a cop put you at odds with your friends. But it can’t be helped. I really have to go.”
“Where are you going?” Yonkie demanded to know.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to Foreman Prep.”
The boy was quiet, his mind tumbling for something to say. He had reddened with embarrassment. “So you’re like … checking out all the schools?”
Decker offered him a tolerant smile. “I’m checking out everything. The vandalism was vicious. It qualifies as a hate crime that carries extra weight and extra punishments. I’d like to nab the perps. I assume you’d like that, too. That much we can agree upon. Good-bye.”
Jacob blurted out, “Did I just put my foot in my mouth?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The boy turned his head away but didn’t move. “I used to keep my mouth shut. I never spoke my mind no matter what I was thinking.” He scratched his face. Bits of beard stubble were shadowing his cheek and it irritated him. Jacob used to have a stunning complexion. Porcelain smooth with hints of red at the cheekbones. His skin was still blemish free, but coarser now, like that of a young man. “What the hell happened to me?”
“You had secrets, and were afraid to talk. Now you don’t have secrets. The trade-off is a big mouth. It’s fine, Jake. I’m a tough guy; I can take a little sassing. I’ll see you at home tonight.”
“This whole thing was just a setup.” Jacob was whispering, more to himself than to Decker. “So you could go to the other places and say, ‘I’m checking out everyone, including my own son’s high school.’ Then they wouldn’t have an excuse.” He looked at his stepdad. “Am I right?”
“Shut up and go back to class.”
“I’m really stupid.”
“More like impulsive.”
“That’s true, too.” Instinctively, the kid reached out and hugged him quickly. Then he took off, embarrassed by his sudden display of emotion.
Decker bit his lip and watched him run away. Standing alone, he whispered, “I love you, too.”
5 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
Driving up to Foreman Prep, Decker was sorely reminded of the difference between parochial private schools and preparatory private schools. The acreage of Foreman was vast and green, shaded by specimen willows and stately sycamores. Behind the layers of arboreal fence were sprawling, Federalist-style, brick buildings. Or probably brick-faced, because architects did not design solid brick structures in earthquake-prone Los Angeles. Whether they were brick or brick-faced, the edifices were impressive and sufficiently ivy-covered to evoke dreams of the eastern universities. Decker didn’t care about the form, but he did care about the content. Foreman Prep had a course catalogue that could rival those of most colleges. Both Decker’s stepsons could have gotten in, but Rina wouldn’t hear of it. Religious education was paramount even if the current yeshiva had minimal grounds and rotating teachers. For her—and for the memory of her late husband—some things were nonnegotiable.
The headmaster, Keats Williams, was a double for Basil Rathbone except for the bald head—a topographic map of veins and bumps pressing against shiny skin. His eyes were hazel green, and his speech held a slight British accent. Affected? Probably. But at least he allowed Decker to present his scheme without sneering. As the headmaster lectured back his response, Decker’s eyes sneaked glances, trying not to widen at the richness of Williams’s office—something that Churchill would have been comfortable in. He wasn’t just a headmaster. Nor was he just a doctor of sociology as indicated by his Ivy League diploma. No, Williams was more. Much more. Williams was a friggin’ CEO.
“We just had an all-school drug check,” the headmaster informed Decker. “We have a zero tolerance for drugs at the school. Drugs, weapons, and explicitly sexual material. Even the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated is not to be brought to school, although it isn’t grounds for suspension—the first time. It’s impossible to keep teenage boys from thinking about sex. It’s always there just like a pulse. Still, that doesn’t mean it has to be addressed all the time. We’re out to train progressive minds.”
Decker said, “I heard about that. I’ve also heard that your school offers a very liberal freedom-of-speech policy, including platforms on abortion, legalization of opiates and prostitution, and euthanasia.”
“You’ve heard correctly.”
“You don’t shy away from controversy.”
“Indeed. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that these are but some of the issues that have come before our legislative body. We like to keep our students up-to-date … topical if you will. However, controversial issues do not extend to hate crimes, which are odious and against the law. I know you’re using drugs as an entrée to students’ lockers, but if you find any … and I do mean any evidence … that any of our boys are behind this heinous event, I want to know about it immediately. Proper remedies will be taken to assure that this issue will be addressed.”
“Doctor, if I find proof that one of your boys was part of this morning’s vandalism, he will be arrested.”
Williams was silent. It was one thing for him to reprimand and even to punish the students involved. It was quite another for their felonies to be broadcast over airwaves—not the PR that Foreman Prep liked. “Exactly how do you determine proof?”
“It varies.”
“If you should find proof … or perhaps the correct word might be ‘evidence’?”
“‘Evidence’ is fine,” Decker said.
“And if it should be necessary … for you to take appropriate action, is there a way that this can be handled … without a tremendous amount of fanfare?”
“I have no intention of calling up the press.”
“And if the press should call you?”
Decker was silent.
The headmaster placed his hands, fingers fanned out, on his highly polished walnut desktop. “Our boys are minors. If their names are released to the press, there will be problems.”
“Dr. Williams,” Decker chided. “Surely you don’t advocate suppression of the public’s right to know.”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” Williams stated.
Decker smiled. Spoken like a true American with his ass against the wall.
“I’m Dr. Jaime Dahl—special services administrator.”
Decker stuck out his hand. “Thank you for taking the time—”
“I didn’t volunteer for this witch-hunt, it was foisted upon me.” A swish of blond hair. “Let’s get that straight. I don’t approve of any kind of searches. I believe it’s a violation of civil rights.”
His day to get grief. Yet it wasn’t entirely her fault. At Decker’s behest, Dr. Williams hadn’t informed her or anyone else of the true purpose of the search. She’d probably be appalled by hate crimes, though she’d no doubt retort with, “One violation doesn’t excuse another.”
Through designer eyeglasses, she was slinging wicked looks his way. What made it worse was she was a fox—around twenty-five, with lush lips and knockout legs. She was wearing a black business suit and looked more like an actress playing the part of a school administrator. If this were a Hollywood script, they’d be in bed an hour from now. He must have inadvertently smiled, because her eyes grew angrier. She sneered at him. Too bad. He hated being dissed by anyone, let alone a fox.
She spoke in a clipped cadence. “Follow me.”
She led him down a flight of stairs, through a long, wide Berber-carpeted hallway, designated the student locker area. They were waiting for him—rows of adolescent boys standing next to their little bit of privacy, their hands at their sides. Two uniformed guards were watching them. The scene made Decker feel as if he were the aggressor, and that didn’t sit well with him. He stopped. “Is there any specific place I should start?”
“One is as good as the next.” Jaime tapped her toe, her left buttock moving with each rhythmical click of the shoe. “Let’s go from freshmen to seniors. They know what to do. They just went through the routine drill a few weeks ago.”
“They may know the drill, but I don’t.”
Jaime sighed impatiently. “One boy at a time will open his locker, swing the door all the way out, then take two steps back. Then you do your search and seizure. When you’re done, you step away and let the boy close his locker. Give them back a little piece of their stripped dignity.”
“That sounds fine—”
“I’m glad you approve,” Jaime snapped back. “Shall we get on with it?”
“The quicker I’m out of here, the happier I am.”
“I suppose that about sums it up for me, as well.”
“Why are you so unhappy about this, Dr. Dahl? Drug checks are part of standard operation in this school. You had to have known that when you took the job.”
“For the administration to do what’s necessary to maintain standards—that’s one thing. We don’t need the gendarmes telling us how to run our school.”
“Ah—”
“Yes, ah!”
Decker’s smile was wide. He tried to hold it back and that only made her angrier. She stomped over to the first lad—a fourteen-year-old moonfaced kid with a sprig of freckles across the nose—and asked him to open his locker.
He did, following Jaime Dahl’s drill to a tee. Decker was impressed.
Inside were papers, notebooks, pens, a few car magazines, and lots of candy wrappers.
“Thank you,” Decker said, taking a step backward.
The boy closed his locker. Jaime told him that he could go.
The boy left.
One down, about three hundred to go.
The tenth kid had a locker containing two bottles of pills. They looked to be prescription. He asked Jaime about them.
“As long as the medicine is from a doctor, we allow it into the school.”
“Can I pick up the bottles?” he asked her.
“Why are you asking me? You’re in charge.”
He picked up the bottles. “It’s all the same medicine.”
“I have a note,” the kid said anxiously. “You can call my mom.”
Decker looked him over. A stick of a kid: he was shaking. “I’m just wondering why you need sixty pills of any kind at school when the dose is one a day … at night.”
The kid said nothing.
Decker put the bottle back inside his locker. “Something you might want to think about. Someone could get the wrong idea … like you were selling off the excess. Of course, I know that’s not the case. But … it kinda looks bad.”
The kid mumbled a pathetic “Yessir.”
“It’s all right, Harry,” Jaime comforted him. “We can talk about this later.”
“Yes, Dr. Dahl.”
Decker went on to the next one, then the next. Over the course of the next hour, he found lots of bottles that looked suspect. Either they were genuine pharmaceutical containers with pills that didn’t match the prescribed medicine, or they carried counterfeited labels altogether. Since medicine was allowed, Decker left it up to Jaime to discipline. Usually, a stern look from the beautiful doctor was enough to send the boys into paroxysms. Decker felt for the kids, just like he had felt for Jacob after the boy had confessed his drug use. Kids had a way of doing that to him, making him feel bad even when he was just doing his job.
Rooting through the trash of rotting food, old papers, wrappers, and garbage. Not to mention old, wet gym clothes that smelled riper than decayed roadkill. Besides the pills, Decker found more than a fair share of cigarette butts—tobacco and otherwise. He pretended not to notice them. He also came upon packages of condoms—most of them unopened. There were also lots of pinups—mostly female, but there were some studly males as well. All of the posers wore smiles and adequate amounts of clothing. He also found several indiscreet Polaroids that he conveniently overlooked. It didn’t take long before Jaime Dahl became acutely aware of his omissions. It didn’t make her friendlier, but it did make her curious.
She said, “You’re not taking notes.”
“Pardon?”
“I see you’re not making note of any of the material you’re finding.”
“I haven’t found anything significant.”
“What would you consider significant?” The blue eyes narrowed. “You’re obviously not from Narcotics. Why are you here?” Suddenly, she took his arm and pulled him aside, out of earshot of the waiting students. She whispered, “Surely a police lieutenant has better things to do with himself than to hassle young minds in the throes of experimentation for freedom.”
“Surely.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
It was Decker’s turn to narrow his eyes. It seemed to unnerve her. “If we can’t be buddies, maybe we can try civility?”
“I know your type. Don’t even think about asking me out!”
He stared at her, then laughed. What’s on your mind, honey? He said, “My wife would have a few choice words to say to me if I did.”
Her eyes went to his hand.
Decker said, “Not all married men wear wedding rings.”
“Only the ones who don’t want women to know they’re married.”
“Dr. Dahl, I’ve got a wife, four kids, three stifling private-school tuitions, a choking home mortgage, and car payments on a Volvo station wagon that’s already out of alignment. I’ve got the whole nine yards of suburbia. And I’m still smiling because deep down inside, despite my cynical view of this entire planet that we call Earth, I am a very happy man. Can we move on, please? I have a schedule and I bet you do as well.”
She regarded his face but said nothing. Decker took the silence as an invitation to finish up. He was up to the senior class, and had gone halfway through its roster without finding anything incriminating. He was discouraged by his failure, but encouraged by it as well. Maybe the school was really the best and the brightest.
He was almost done, finishing the last row of lockers. One of them belonged to a good-looking boy of seventeen—around six feet tall and muscular. He wore his brown hair in a buzz cut and had storm-colored eyes—electric and very dark blue. His locker was free of contraband and very neat. No pictures, nothing chemical, nothing out of place. Yet there was something on the kid’s face, a smirk that spoke of privilege. Decker met the kid’s eyes, held them for a moment.
“Let me see your backpack—”
“What?” The boy blinked, then recovered.
“This isn’t the procedure,” Jaime stated.
“I know,” Decker said. He turned to the boy. “Do you object?”
“Yes, I do.” The muscular boy tapped his foot several times. “I object on principle. It’s an invasion of my civil rights.”
Again, Decker met the kid’s eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Do I have to answer that?” the boy asked.
Decker smiled, turned to Jaime Dahl. “What’s his name?”
Putting her in a bind. It was beginning to look like the stud was hiding something. If she didn’t at least minimally cooperate, she’d look like she was hiding something as well. Reluctantly, she said, “Answer the question.”
The boy’s name was Ernesto Golding.
Decker said, “Let me make a deal with you, Ernesto. I’m not interested in drugs, pills, weapons … well, maybe weapons. You have a stash in there, and tell me it’s fish food, I’ll believe you.”
“Then why do you want to look in his backpack?” Jaime asked.
“I have my reasons.” He smiled. “What do you say?”
The boy was silent. Jaime looked at him. “Ernie, it’s up to you.”
“This is clearly police abuse.”
Decker shrugged. “If she won’t make you do it, I don’t have any choice. But you’ll hear from me again, son. Next time I may not be so generous.”
Ernesto stood on his tiptoes, attempting a pugilistic stance. “Are you threatening me?”
“Nah, I never threaten—”
“Sounds like a threat to me.”
“Shall we move on, Dr. Dahl?”
But Jaime didn’t move on. Instead, she said, “Ernie, give him your backpack.”
“What?”
“Do it!”
The boy’s face turned an intense red. He dropped the pack at his feet, the storm in his eyes shooting lightning. Decker picked the knapsack up and immediately gave it to Jaime. “You look through it. I don’t want to be accused of planting anything. Tell me if you see anything unusual.”
“What am I looking for?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
What Decker expected to find were obscene photographs of concentration-camp victims. What Jaime Dahl pulled out was a silver kiddush cup.
6 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
It stood out, a surface of metal against books and papers. Decker brought his eyes over to the young man’s face. Ernesto Golding was dressed in khakis and a white shirt. Ernesto Golding had intense eyes on a good-looking face, a broad forehead, and weightlifter’s arms. Ernesto Golding didn’t look like a thug. He looked like a macho teen with better things on his mind than killing Jews. Decker took a handkerchief from his pocket and held up the kiddush cup. “Where’d you get this?”
Ernesto folded his arms across his chest, pushing out his bulging biceps with his fists. “It’s a family heirloom.”
“And why are you bringing a family heirloom to school?”
The boy’s face was an odd combination of fear and defiance. “Show-and-tell, sir.”
I’ll bet you’ve been doing lots of show-and-tell, Decker thought. Jaime spoke up. “What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Decker answered. But his eyes remained on his prey. “The cup has some Hebrew writing on it. See here?” He showed it to Golding. “It’s easy Hebrew. Read it for me.”
“I don’t read Hebrew—”
“I thought you said it was a family heirloom.”
“My family’s origins are Jewish. But that doesn’t mean that I know Hebrew. It’s like assuming every Italian knows Latin.”
Decker was taken aback. “Your family’s Jewish?”
“No, my family is not Jewish. We’re humanists with ancestry in the Jewish race.”
The Jewish race—a Nazi buzz phrase.
“I don’t want to repeat myself,” Jaime stated bluntly, “but what is going on?”
Decker said, “Did you listen to the news this morning, Dr. Dahl?”
“Of course.”
“Then you must know that a local synagogue was broken into and vandalized. I was down there. Most of the damage was ugly, but it can be repaired. The one thing that was reported stolen was a silver benediction cup.”
Jaime looked at Ernesto, then at Decker, who held up the cup. “This family heirloom is inscribed with the words ‘Beit Yosef.’ That’s the name of the vandalized synagogue.”
“It’s a family heirloom,” Ernesto insisted. “We’re doing a family history. A family tree for honors civics. Dr. Dahl is aware of this assignment. Back me up on this one, Doctor.”
“There is a family-tree assignment in honors civics—Dr. Ramparts.”
“Yeah. Third period.” Ernesto rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I brought this in specifically to illustrate my family’s past, and to give Dr. Ramparts a more … genuine feel for where I came from. I’m sure there is more than one Beit Yosef in the world.”
The kid was oh so cool. And he probably thought he was pulling it off. Never mind about the beads of sweat that dotted his upper lip. “I’m sure there are, Mr. Golding. Even so, you’re coming with me.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“That can be arranged.”
They took him to Dr. Williams’s office, Decker standing over Ernesto’s shoulder as the kid called his parents—Jill and Carter Golding. Decker could hear outraged voices on the other side of the line. He couldn’t discern much, but he did hear them instruct Ernesto to refrain from talking to anyone. From that point on, things moved quickly.
Mom made it down in six minutes. She was a pixie of a thing with pinched features and thin, light brown hair that was long, straight, and parted in the center. She wore rimless glasses and no makeup. Behind the specs, her eyes were smoldering with anger that only a parent knew how to muster. First, there were a few choice glances thrown in Decker’s direction. The stronger ones were reserved for her son. Decker knew what that was about.
Dad arrived about ten minutes later. He was short and thin. The eyes were dark and most of the face was covered with a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with silver. He appeared more befuddled than angry. He even shook hands with Decker when introduced. Ernesto didn’t resemble either of his parents, leaving Decker to wonder if the boy had been adopted.
The last part of the equation came in on Dad’s heels. Everett Melrose was an Encino lawyer who had made a name in California Democratic politics. He was well built, well tanned, and had the appropriate amount of sincerity in the eyes and distinction in the curly gray hair. He wore designer suits and dressed with flair. He had a wife, six kids, and was active in his church. He had defended some very big and bad people in his years, and had come out on top. Melrose’s past was squeaky clean as far as Decker knew. Amazing—a lawyer and a politician with nothing to hide. He shook hands all the way around and requested that he speak to his client, the young Ernesto, in private.
His request was granted.
The twenty minutes that followed were protracted and tense.
When they came back into Headmaster Williams’s CEO office, Ernesto looked upset, but Melrose was unreadable. He said, “Can you tell me the basis for this detainment?”
Decker said, “Your client has a stolen cup in his possession—”
“Have we determined that the cup was stolen?” Melrose asked innocently. “My client claims that the cup was an heirloom.”
Decker said, “Counselor, the cup belonged to the synagogue, Beit Yosef, that was vandalized this morning—”
“That’s impossible!” Jill broke in.
“Impossible that the synagogue was vandalized, or impossible that your son could have some involvement in the crime—”
“Don’t answer that!” Melrose interrupted.
“Ernesto, what is going on?” Carter asked.
“I wish I knew, Dad.” Ernesto tapped his toe and made eye contact with the floor.
A good bluff, but not a great one. Decker said, “The cup was taken from Ernesto’s backpack. That’s a fact. Dr. Dahl was there as a witness.”
“Did he give you permission to search his backpack?”
“Absolutely not,” Ernesto stated.
“It’s irrelevant whether or not you gave him permission!” Carter Golding spoke out. “I’d like to know what it’s doing in your possession.”
“So you’re saying it’s not a family heirloom?” Decker remarked.
“Carter, please!” Melrose said. “He’s not saying anything. He’s not the subject of this inquiry. What I’m hearing is that no one was granted permission to check Ernesto’s backpack!”
Dr. Williams came alive. “The school’s bylaws state that faculty can search lockers and personal property of any student at any given time to hunt out contraband or unlawful substances. Mr. Golding is aware of the bylaws. He has signed an honor code, acknowledging such rules with a promise to abide by them. So have Mr. and Mrs. Golding. It is a requirement of attending the school.”
“Lieutenant Decker is not faculty.”
“Dr. Dahl is faculty,” Decker countered. “She was the one who ordered Ernesto to open his knapsack.”
A few seconds of silence before Melrose turned his curious eyes on Jaime Dahl. “If you do routine searches for contraband, I’m assuming you have a list as to what constitutes contraband?”
“Of course.”
“And does it say specifically what items are contraband?”
“Stolen items are contraband,” Williams interjected.
“So a cup is not illegal.”
“The stolen cup is illegal,” Decker said.
“According to you, Lieutenant, a silver cup was reported stolen from a synagogue,” Melrose pointed out. “How do you know for certain that this is the cup in question? There may be hundreds like it.”
“Do you want proof that the cup belongs to the synagogue? That can be arranged. I can probably even dig up the original sales receipt. But I’ll tell you one thing for your own benefit, in case your client wants to change his story. That cup isn’t an heirloom. We bought it a year ago when the synagogue began having regular kiddushes after services.”
“What’s a kiddushes?” Jaime Dahl asked.
“Hors d’oeuvres after the Sabbath prayers. Before you eat, you need to make a benediction using wine. Hence, the silver cup.” Decker just realized that suddenly he was the resident Jewish expert. A position usually reserved for Rina, he felt strange occupying it now.
Melrose said, “You know a lot about this particular synagogue. May I ask if you’re a member?”
“You may ask, and I’ll even answer it, Counselor. Yes, I am a member.”
“So you’re hardly an unbiased party in this investigation.”
“That may be. But that doesn’t negate the fact that I can identify this cup as stolen.”
Melrose bluffed it out. “None of this will hold up in court. It’s an illegal search and seizure done under false pretenses. You told the students that this was a routine contraband check.”
Carter stood up. “Aren’t we missing the main issue? What were you doing with a cup from a vandalized synagogue, Ernesto?”
“It isn’t the right time to talk about this,” Melrose said.
Jill said, “This is all a mistake. Our son would never have anything to do—”
“Are you going to arrest the boy?” Melrose asked. “Yes or no?”
Decker sat back. He addressed his comments to Ernesto. “Mr. Golding, this isn’t going to go away. I am going to find out what happened, and if you’re involved, it’s going to come out. You can be in the catbird seat, or one of your cohorts can bring you down. Take your pick!”
“Ernie, what’s going on?” his mother asked.
“Nothing, Mom,” Ernesto answered. His breathing suddenly became audible. “He’s trying to psych you out. He’s a part of an organization of brutality. Police lie all the time. They’re never to be trusted. How many times have you told me that?”
Decker saw Jill Golding’s cheeks turn pink. “Ernesto,” he said, “you talk to me, I can ask a judge for leniency. Most you’ll do is some community service. More important, if you cooperate, I can try to get your records sealed even though you’re almost eighteen. The Ivies would never have to hear about it.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” Ernesto answered. “Cops are pathological liars.”
Decker raised his eyebrows. “Fine, son. Have it your way. I’ll recommend that you’re tried as an adult.”
Ernesto stood up. “You can’t bully me into submission! I’ve had way worse nightmares!” He stomped out, slamming the door as he left. Mom was the next one out the door. Dad waited a beat, swore under his breath, and then took off as well. The quiet ticked away for a few moments.
Decker said, “You want to bring him down, Mr. Melrose, or do I take out the handcuffs?”
“I’ll get him.” Melrose left.
Again the room fell silent. Jaime Dahl broke it. “I can’t believe it! Almost anyone but him!” She regarded Decker. “You still have a few boys left to search. Would you like me to do that?”
“I’ll do it when I’m done with Ernesto. I’ll need a list of his friends—”
“I don’t think I can do that, Lieutenant,” Jaime answered. “Finking is not part of the contract.”
“Finking?”
“It’s one thing to catch a student with stolen goods, it’s quite another to have a boy rat another out.”
“The synagogue was a horrible mess,” Decker said. “Pictures of dead Jews were thrown all over the place. He didn’t do it alone. I want names!”
Williams was about to offer some words, but the discussion was cut short. The door opened, and Ernesto tromped in. Still short of breath, he gasped out, “I want to talk to you.”
Decker pointed to his chest. “Are you talking to me, Mr. Golding?”
“Yeah, I’m talking to you … sir.”
“I like the ‘sir’ part,” Decker said. “It shows civility.”
The parents and Melrose materialized. Carter Golding was red-faced and furious. “I am the boy’s father. I demand to know what’s going on!”
“I’m trying to get that done, Dad,” Ernesto said with anger. “Can you just … like lay off for a few moments—”
“You’ve been accused of vandalizing a house of worship, and you want me to lay off?”
“Carter, I know you’re upset, but please, let’s deal with one issue at a time,” Melrose said.
Ernesto said, “I’ll tell this cop what’s going on, but first you’ve got to guarantee me what you just said … about it being sealed.”
Melrose said, “Ernesto, the man is a police lieutenant. If you want someone to do you favors, start acting appropriately humble.” He looked at Decker. “What can you do?”
“I could probably get his part pled down to malicious mischief, which will require some explaining since it’s a hate crime. But if it turns out he’s jiving me, all bets are off.”
“What is malicious mischief?” Jill asked. “What does it mean?”
“It means it’s a misdemeanor,” Melrose stated flatly. “I’m still not sure this is the best way.”
“Why the change of heart?” Decker asked Ernesto.
“I have my reasons,” the teen answered. “If you want to know about them, give me a guarantee.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” Decker said.
“Not good enough,” Ernesto stated.
Decker stood and took out the cuffs. “Fair enough. You’re under arrest—”
“Wait a damn minute!” Carter broke in. “Ernesto, once this man arrests you, you can’t be unarrested! Are you aware of that?”
Ernesto was quiet.
“It won’t hold up, Carter,” Melrose assured him. “He doesn’t have any rights here.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
No one spoke.
“This is the situation, Ernesto,” Decker said. “You talk, I listen. If I like what I hear, I go to bat for you. If I don’t, you’re no worse off. I’ll still arrest you. But what you told me will be inadmissible because you spoke without a lawyer.”
“No, no, no!” Melrose broke in. “Who said anything about his talking without representation?”
“Counselor, if you’re there, then it’s official. I have to read him his rights. Then, as we all know, I can use his statements in a trial. If you’re not there, I can’t use anything.”
“So what happens if you like what you hear?” Carter wanted to know.
“He writes it all down in a witnessed confession statement. We seal it. Then I take it to the D.A. and probably he’ll plead him down to a simple wrist slap—”
“Probably?”
“Yes, probably. I can’t say for sure. This is the best I can do—”
“I’ll take it,” Ernesto said.
“Ernesto, you’re seventeen. You don’t have the final word. Do you understand that?”
“And you’re fired, Mr. Melrose. Do you understand that?”
“Ernie, what in the world is wrong with you?” Jill screamed. “Apologize!”
“This is precisely why I can’t trust him without representation,” Melrose said.
Ernesto tightened his fists. “This is my life here, Mr. Melrose. Not yours, not my mom’s, not Dad’s … my life.” He looked at Decker. “I can speak for myself.”
Melrose said, “Carter, you can’t let him do this!”
“Yes, he can,” Ernesto said. “My parents raised me with independence. Now they’re going to put their money where their mouths are and trust me to do the right thing!”
And what could the Goldings say to that? Decker couldn’t have scripted it better. He broke in. “Where do you want to talk, Mr. Golding?” A pause. “Is there a vacant classroom somewhere?”
“You can have the faculty lounge annex,” Williams stated.
Ernesto said, “I have a calculus test last period. That’s in an hour. Can we wrap it up by then?”
“That depends on what you have to tell me,” Decker said.
“I’m not gonna miss my test,” Ernesto insisted. “I studied two hours for that sucker.”
“Ernesto, calculus should not be foremost on your mind!” Jill barged in.
“Calculus isn’t foremost on my mind, Ma, only getting an A in calculus. If I don’t get an A in calculus, I can kiss off the Ivies.” To Decker, he said, “You said the records would be sealed?”
“If I like what I hear, I’ll make that recommendation.”
“So I wouldn’t have to put anything on my college applications?”
“Not if they’re sealed.”
“So the universities wouldn’t know—”
“Forget about college right now!” Carter snapped.
“How can I forget about college, Dad!” Ernesto exploded. “Other than sex, college is all I ever think about. Because it’s all you and Mom ever think about!”
7 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
The prep school supplied lots of perks, among them the faculty lounge. It was set up like a café in a bookstore with tables, chairs, a few comfy sofas, and several computer stations, allowing teachers to go on-line and check their E-mail. Plenty of reading material—novels, nonfiction, magazines, and papers—sat on the built-in shelves that lined the walls. A few excellent pieces of student artwork were displayed. The biggest benefit, in Decker’s mind, was the in-house laundry service. When Dr. Dahl saw him gaping at the counter, she explained that the faculty worked long hours. It was the least they could do.
Decker had to strain to hear her because, as they walked, Ernesto was sandwiched between them. He followed the administrator through the area, ignoring the steely looks of those who occupied the space. He said, “A place that does the wash. What’s your starting salary?”
The woman actually cracked a smile. “It’s on the high side because all of our teachers have postcollege education.”
An obvious slap in the face meant to put him in his place. Decker just shrugged. “I’m an attorney. Does that count?”
She slowed, giving him a quick glance. “You’re an attorney?”
“Once upon a time.”
“You actually passed the bar?”
“Now you’re getting insulting.”
She blushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, I passed the bar,” Decker said.
Gently, Jaime guided Ernesto. “This way.”
The annex was a blip of a room off the lounge. It was paneled, cozy, and held two tables, each with a computer, and several couches. It also had its own private rest rooms, which Decker found very impressive. They had interrupted a couple involved in a deep conversation. The young blond woman stood up, red-faced and red-eyed, smiling nervously at Dr. Dahl. The man—a bit older, in his thirties—remained on the couch, trying to adopt a casual demeanor, raking his hair with his fingers.
Jaime said, “We need the room, Brent.”
Slowly, the man got up. “Sure. Of course.” He walked out with the blond woman, a healthy distance between them.
Jaime tried to stifle a sigh. To Decker, she said, “Can I get you some coffee?”
“How about some water for the both of us?”
Ernesto said, “I’m fine.”
“I’ll bring some in, just in case.” Jaime left.
“Where do I sit?”
“Anywhere you want,” Decker answered.
The teen looked around, deciding on the couch. “Are you really an attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you a cop then?” Ernesto looked down. “Not that it’s any of my business.”
“I like the job.” Decker took out his notebook.
Ernesto said, “I saw this documentary once … about cops. Once they retire, they have a hard time readjusting to the civilian world. That’s what they call it, right?” He looked to Decker for confirmation, but Decker didn’t react. “Anyway, the moderator or narrator said something about cops being adrenaline junkies … that the regular world was a boring place compared to what they were used to. A high percentage of them commit suicide. Because they’ve been hooked on the adrenaline like others get hooked on drugs.”
Decker said, “Are you hooked on drugs?”
Ernesto shrugged. “Nah. Drugs are just for recreation. Something to do because the parties are so damn boring.”
“Is that why you vandalized the synagogue? Because you were bored?”
Jaime Dahl came back in the room with a bottle of Evian and two glasses. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” Decker couldn’t keep the edge off his voice. He had wanted to say, Leave us the hell alone.
Jaime picked up on it. “I’ll be waiting in the lounge.”
“Where are my parents?” Ernesto asked her.
“With Dr. Williams.”
“Is Mr. Melrose there, too?”
“Yes.”
Decker said, “Any time you want to stop and consult your parents or lawyer, just let me know.”
Ernesto took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m all right. I can handle myself.”
No one spoke. Jaime finally said, “I’ll be going, then.”
Decker smiled. He even kept the smile after she closed the door, as he waited for the kid to speak. He tried to make eye contact. It lasted for a few seconds, then Ernesto’s gaze fell on other things. The computers’ screen savers, the candy machine, the landscape on the wall. His posture was casual, but the vein in the kid’s temple was pulsating, his jaw taut and bulging. He didn’t appear the least bit cocky. On the contrary, Ernesto was worried … troubled.
“Actually, this is a good thing.”
“What is?” Decker asked.
“You and me here. I don’t want my parents or their lawyer to hear the full details of what happened.”
“Their lawyer is your lawyer. You’re going to have to tell him.”
“I will, but he doesn’t have to hear the details, either. I mean he needs details, but he doesn’t need …” Ernesto groped for the words.
“Explicit details?” Decker tried.
“Yeah. Exactly. I’ll tell you and maybe you can soften it around the edges.”
“You can present it to your lawyer however you’d like.”
“No one was hurt, you know.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“You think we can work something out?”
“I’ll know better once I hear what you have to say.”
“And if you can’t work something out?”
“Then you’re no worse off than you were a few minutes ago.”
He folded his hands into his lap, a sheen of sweat draped across the big forehead. “I am not out of control. I know you think I am, but I’m not. Despite what I did, I am not angry with anyone or anything. My life’s okay. I don’t hate my parents. I’ve got friends. I’m not hooked on drugs even if I do drop dope occasionally. I’m a top student, a lettered athlete. I’ve got lots of spending cash. My own set of wheels …”
Silence.
“But you’re bored,” Decker said.
“Not really.” The teen licked his lips. “I’ve got this problem. I need help.”
No one spoke. Then Decker said, “Are you asking me to suggest that the judge recommend counseling in lieu of punishment?”
“No, I’m willing to do community service. I fucked up. I know that. It wasn’t anything personal, Lieutenant Decker. I want you to know that. I just have this … obsession. I … had to do it.”
“You felt obliged to trash a synagogue?” Decker’s voice was neutral. “How so?”
“Just kept thinking about it. Over and over and over and over. I need help. But I’ve got to make sure I have the right therapist.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking for, Ernesto. I have no recommendations.”
“My parents would love to see me in therapy.” Head down. “They’ve been in therapy, like, forever. They think everyone needs therapy. So I guess by going to a shrink, I’ll make them happy.”
Decker waited.
“I don’t want their therapist or his recommendation,” Ernesto said. “He’s not what I need … a good friend to talk things over with. I need some guidance here. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“I’m not a therapist, Ernesto.”
“I know, I know. You’re only interested in a confession and putting this baby to bed. But maybe if you know the background, you can go to the D.A. and get some suggestions.”
If the kid was acting, he was doing a great job. He seemed genuinely perturbed, down to the fidgets and the squirms. Decker, ever the optimist, was willing to hear him out. Perhaps this boy, who had desecrated a synagogue with obscene slogans and left horrific pictures, had a story to tell.
“Ernesto, I’ll do what I can. But first I have to hear something. So if you want to tell me certain things, I’ll listen.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. It’s hard, though. Despite my family’s liberal-bordering-on-radical attitudes, we’re not a family with open communication. I know what my parents want, and if I deliver, I get the goodies. I don’t rock the boat, I sail on smooth waters. So here it goes.”
Decker nodded encouragement.
“When you asked me if my family is Jewish, and I said way back when, I wasn’t being snide. But I wasn’t being entirely truthful, and that’s the problem. My last name is Golding. My father’s father … my paternal grandfather … was Jewish. My paternal grandmother was Catholic. My mother’s mother is Dutch Lutheran, her dad was Irish Catholic. I’m a real mutt as far as any faith goes. So my parents—like the good liberals they are—raised me with no organized religion and just a concept of justice for all. Not that I’m putting my parents down … Do you know what they do?”
“Golding Recycling.”
“Yeah. Did you know that they are among L.A.’s top one hundred industrialists?”
“Your parents are an entity.”
“I’ve got to give them credit. They’re sincere. Everything they do has the environment or civil rights or the homeless or AIDS or some other cause behind it. They are the consummate fund-raisers. Sometimes it got in the way at home—it’s just my brother and me—but at least fifty percent of the time, one parent was there for me or for Karl. That’s Karl with a K.”
“As in Marx. And you’re named after Che.”
“You got it. My parents weren’t masters of subtlety. They’ve become more sophisticated since the naming days, but even in their most radical days, they talked the talk, but they never crossed the line. That’s why they’re living in a seven-thousand-square-foot house in Canoga Estates instead of creating false identities and running from the law.”
“You like your parents.”
“Yeah … yeah, I do. I … admire them although I’m aware of their faults. That’s why this is all so screwed up.”
“What’s screwed up?”
“Me. I’ll tell you my part in the mess, but that’s as far as I’ll take it. I’m not a rat, I don’t name names.”
“So there are others?”
“I didn’t say that. For your purposes, I was the sole perpetrator.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s my story. Should I go on?”
“I’m still here,” Decker said. The boy didn’t seem to know how to start. Decker helped him out. “Why did you vandalize the synagogue?”
“That’s a good question. I have nothing against Jews.” He looked away. “It has more to do with my personal problems. I’ve always been obsessive-compulsive, and I’m not just throwing out psych terms. I’ve always had weird rituals. Some of them I’ve outgrown. But some … I can’t help it. We don’t have to go into specifics, but my obsessions are relevant because once I get a thought into my head, I can’t let go. And that’s the problem. I have these dreams … more like fantasies because I’m awake when I think about them. It has to do with my Jewish grandfather—Isaac Golding. Well, it turns out that he wasn’t Jewish. Matter of fact, I think he was a Nazi.”
Decker kept his face flat. “Isaac’s a strange name for a Nazi.”
“That’s because it wasn’t a real name. I found this all out about six months ago. Remember I told you the honors civics assignment?”
“The family tree. Dr. Ramparts.”
“Yeah. Exactly. It’s a semester project. Dr. Ramparts wants it done in detail and correctly. So I’ve been working on this for a while, mostly getting oral history down from my parents because all my grandparents are dead. But then I figure I should do paper research for the sake of completion. So I started going through trunks of old documents that my dad has buried in the attic.”
“An attic?” Decker asked.
“Yeah. I know that’s weird for L.A. homes. But like I said, we have a big home.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on. You’re digging through old documents.”
“Yeah, right. I think my dad didn’t even know about the shit. It was given to him after his mother died.” Ernesto hesitated, then drank some water. “Anyway, my grandfather supposedly escaped the Nazis and moved to Argentina in 1937. Except old papers showed me that Grandpa’s account was off by ten years. From what I could tell, Grandpa actually came to South America in 1946 or 1947 under the name of Yitzchak Golding. Yitzchak is Isaac in Hebrew. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
Decker nodded. Yitzchak was the name of Rina’s late husband—the father of his stepsons.
Ernesto took a breather and went on. “So I figure okay … so Grandpa came after the war. He made a mistake. When I knew him, he was old and a little senile, so his absentmindedness is completely within context. So, I point out this little discrepancy to my dad, expecting a logical explanation. Instead, Dad freezes up, then accuses me of trying to stir up trouble … which was totally ridiculous. Usually, if Dad doesn’t want to talk about it, he just kind of gets this condescending smile and says something like ‘another time, Che.’ Dad calls me Che when he’s trying to prove a point. But this time he gets mad. He gets red in the face. He stomps off. I’m shocked. This means, you know, I hit a nerve.”
Silence.
Decker said, “So what happened?”
“Nothing. I never brought it up, and certainly Dad never brought it up again.”
“So now you’re curious and you have no logical explanation and no one to talk to.”
“Exactly! I technically dropped it, but it’s been plaguing me. It’s on my mind all the time. Because I get to thinking that if Grandpa did come over in ’47, that must have meant that he was in Europe at the time of the war. And being a Jew during the war, he must have suffered somehow. Because I have a couple of friends whose grandparents were European and Jewish, and they have war stories. But I never remember hearing any war stories. Nothing about the … the Holocaust … the death camps. No survival tales, either.”
“I understand.”
“And furthermore, my grandfather’s family was intact—his parents and a sister—which would make sense if they all had come to South America in 1937. The camps weren’t in full operation until later on. But it wouldn’t make any sense for all of them to be alive if Grandpa came over in 1947. You get my drift?”
“Your grandfather was an imposter.”
“That was my conclusion. My dad told me that I got the dates mixed up. But I don’t think so.”
“Do you have your grandfather’s birth certificate?”
“No, and that’s a problem. Just some old papers. I did some further probing … a little of this and that. Called up some resources. I did find a Yitzchak Golding who was sent to Treblinka, a camp in Poland, in 1940. He never came back. His brothers and sisters were also sent to the death camps. So were his parents. None of them came back. No aunts, uncles, cousins … all of them gone. Dead. The family is as extinct as dinosaurs. I’m carrying the name for a bunch of Jewish ghosts. They’re haunting me, Lieutenant Decker. Day in and day out, they’re haunting me. Their faces and their corpses.” Golding looked up, his stormy eyes wild and wet. “I had to get rid of them. So I did what I had to do.”
“You vandalized the synagogue.”
He nodded.
“Are the ghosts gone now?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. They’ll never be gone unless I make peace with them. I don’t know if that’s possible. It’s hard to talk to ghosts. They only talk in dreams, you know.” Ernesto swiped his eyes. “I had this girlfriend for over a year. Lisa. She was wonderful—terrific, beautiful, smart. I broke up with her when I found out about Grandpa. I just couldn’t be with her anymore.”
“She’s Jewish?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s why you broke up with her?”
“Of course. I was afraid of hurting her. Because of these dreams … these fantasies I have. I would never want to hurt her. I loved her. I still love her. But even after breaking up with her, the fantasies won’t go away.
“The fantasies … they’re sexual. They repel me, but they also—in some sick, primal way—they excite me. We were having sex, but it was the normal kind. Now all I can think about is the sick kind. Demeaning her … hurting her. It makes me sick to think I’m like that. But I can’t help myself. Certain things you can’t hide, you know.”
His pants were bulging.
“All this shit going through my brain while I’m trying to take my SATs and SAT IIs. I … need … help!”
It was a compelling case, and a sympathetic teenager. Decker was no shrink, but the kid seemed sincere. Not overly done, but clearly troubled. And what would Rina think if she found out that Decker was feeling sorry for the kid?
“Tell me the details about the vandalism,” he said. “Where did you get the pictures? They looked original. Were they from a neo-Nazi group or part of the stuff you found in your attic?”
“What difference does it make? I just got them.”
Decker was blunt. “Who else from your school was involved?”
“Look, I admit that I did it. That’s as far as I’m going. I’m not taking anyone else with me. That’s your job, not mine.”
Decker could have pushed it. And maybe on down the road, he would push it. But his motto was to deal with issues one at a time. And now that Decker knew about Ernesto’s involvement, other things would fall into place. “I’m sure that whoever adjudicates the case will demand that you get some kind of rudimentary counseling.”
“I need more than that.”
“I agree.”
Ernesto jerked his head up, surprised by Decker’s honesty.
Decker said, “You’ll have to talk to your parents—”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no! That’s not possible! As a matter of fact, I am forbidding you to say anything to them about this. I’ll admit to the vandalism. I think Dad understands where it came from because deep down, I think he knows about Grandpa’s past, too. But he hasn’t faced the truth yet. Maybe he never will. In any event, they don’t need to know the details. My fantasies …”
“You’ll tell your therapist?”
“I’d like to. If I can find one I can trust.”
Yet he told Decker all his thoughts without much hesitation.
Ernesto seemed to have picked up on the thoughts. “My parents have this elevated image of me. Why spoil it for them totally? So what if you think I’m an asshole—a spoiled rich kid flirting with neo-Nazism because I’m bored and a jerk. What do I have to lose? I’m telling you what you already think. I’m not that way, really. I mean, I’ve got my problems but I’m certainly not a Nazi freak. Just ask Jake.”
At the mention of his stepson’s name, Decker felt his heart skip a beat. He didn’t answer.
Ernesto said, “We used to go to the same parties. Everyone knew that Jake’s stepdad was a big-shot cop. We weren’t close, but we knew each other.”
Meaning they probably toked together. Decker remained quiet.
“Not that Jake talked about you.” Ernesto looked somewhere over Decker’s shoulder. “Actually, he didn’t talk about anything personal. He had this way of talking to you without ever talking about himself. Like he was really interested in what was going on in your life. It made him a girl magnet—that and the fact that he looks like he does. Me? I always felt he was hiding something. Kind of like being a cop, I guess. I haven’t seen him around in a long time. How’s he doing?”
“Let’s keep the conversation on you, Ernesto. What do you want me to present to the D.A.?”
“How about if … I, like, give you a statement? And we’ll play around with it until we’re both satisfied.”
“How about if you give me what you want me to present to the D.A.?”
“You can’t help me?”
“No. That’s called putting words into your mouth.”
“All right. I’ll figure it out on my own. What do I do?”
Decker reached into his briefcase and took out a piece of paper and a pencil. “You can start by writing.”
8 (#ulink_38d95a05-92e3-5773-87de-2476d88f33ba)
His orders were to pick up Hannah after school at three-thirty on the dot. This was not subject to debate, this was something he had to do because Rina was still busy cleaning up the shul. She refused to leave the sanctuary until it had been restored to pristine condition. No matter that Decker was in the middle of a pressing investigation of the crime that had caused it all, he’d just have to stop and do this parental duty.
He understood his wife’s agitation. The thought of the synagogue in a state of obscene disarray was something she—the daughter of camp survivors—couldn’t handle. Cleaning was a way of not only negating what had taken place, but of doing something. Action as opposed to sitting around and being victimized. The techs had taken the better part of the afternoon to do their thing, so not only was the synagogue messy from vandals, but it was covered with print dust. The hate-filled leaflets and horrible pictures had been bagged and carted away for evidence. And though it might take a while to put all the pieces together, Decker was sure that it would work out. Now it was just a matter of retracing the kid’s steps, finding out whom he had associated with. This was a good case for Wanda Bontemps to sink her teeth into. As a newly arrived detective, she’d get a chance to show her mettle. And if she needed mentors, she couldn’t ask for better ones than Webster and Martinez.
Decker pulled the unmarked next to the schoolyard. Which is what it was: a schoolyard, because it certainly wasn’t a playground. Not much more than a six-car parking lot sided by two basketball hoops. Twenty minutes, twice a day, the little kids were let out to ride tricycles, hit a tetherball around a pole, and run around. He got out of the car and stared at the asphalt.
“Where are the swings and slides?” Decker had asked his wife.
“Where’s the money? You find money, you’ll find swings and slides.”
Waiting among the group of gabbing mothers, he once again felt like a wart on a beauty queen. One of them attempted a smile. Decker tried to smile back, but from the look on the woman’s face, he had probably retorted with a sneer. She gave him the back of her head and went back to talking with the other moms.
Rina wouldn’t have approved of his reserve, but she’d never tell him. She knew his heart was in the right place—as were his hands. He had revamped the bathroom of the shul practically single-handed. Although they had thanked him heartily, he had known what they’d been thinking. The goyim … they’re good with their hands—as if he couldn’t be smart and coordinated at the same time.
Everything in their small Orthodox Jewish community was operated on spit and prayer. The primary school had originally been a thirty-year-old medical building. A step away from being demolished, then someone had stepped in at the last moment with a down payment. The architect—the brother of a member of the shul—had managed to join all the suites under a common ceiling. The classrooms weren’t much bigger than closets, but it was home. At least one of the docs had had the courtesy to leave a skeleton behind for the science lab—their most up-to-date prop. There had been a to-do about keeping the bones. Although the body was plastic, the head had once belonged to a genuine human being. In the end, the more modern outvoted the less modern, and Mr. Skeleton stayed.
Hannah came running out of the gate. “Daddddeeeeee!”
“Hannah Rosieeeeee!” Decker answered back, picking the seven-year-old up in his arms. “How was school?”
“Great! How many bad guys did you catch today?”
“A zillion billion.”
“Yes!” Hannah’s feet kicked the air. She squirmed her way down until she was standing on her own power. “Where’s Eema?”
“She’s busy.”
“Is she at the shul?”
Decker looked at her. “Uh, yeah, she is.” He bent down and looked his daughter in the eye. “What do you know about the shul?”
“The teachers told us that a bad man made it messy.” Her brow was knitted in sorrow and fear. “Someone who doesn’t like the Jewish people. Is he going to hurt us, Daddy? Like that bad man who shot the kids at the center?”
“No, honey. No one is going to get hurt. It’s all under control.”
“Did you catch the bad man, Daddy?”
“Sort of.”
“I’m scared. Why is Eema there?”
“To clean up the mess, that’s all.”
“But no one got shot?”
“No, honey, no one got shot.” What a world! “Let’s go, Hannah. Cartoons are waiting.”
Hannah was quiet on the ride home. Decker tried conversation, but the little girl didn’t respond. Four blocks before home, she started talking, although it had nothing to do with the shul. It was a diatribe about how Moshe always took her pencils … just grabbed them from her hand without even asking!
“That’s very rude,” Decker concurred.
“He never even once asked,” she said in outrage. “And … he never said thank you.”
“Very rude.” Decker parked the car in the driveway, helping his daughter out of the car. Then he took out Hannah’s backpack, which must have weighed twenty pounds. “How do you carry this?”
“On my back.”
“No. I mean it’s so heavy!”
“Yes, it is,” Hannah agreed. “Sometimes I use the wheels. Can I have Mike and Ike for snack?”
“No candy before dinner. How about milk and cookies?”
“I don’t like cookies. How about milk and Mike and Ike?”
Decker was too tired to argue. “Sure.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Hannah crooned, hugging his waist with thin little arms. “You’re the best!”
Translation: Between you and Eema, you’re the sucker. He parked her in front of the TV and used the quiet time to call his wife. “Just wanted to let you know that I got her.”
“Thank you, Peter. Is everything okay?”
“As long as you don’t mind her snacking on Mike and Ike.”
“And if I did?”
“I’d say, next time you pick her up.”
Rina laughed over the phone. “I do appreciate you picking her up. I can’t stand the shul in this state.”
“Are you almost done?”
“Not even close. I don’t know who made the bigger mess—the vandals or the techs. Judith Marmelson and Reneé Boxstein are here. Reneé’s husband, Paul, is bringing over cans of paint. If you want to leave Hannah with her friend, Ariella Hackerman, you can join the party.”
“This time I’m going to have to pass. I’m waiting for Yonkie to get home. I’d like him to baby-sit while I go back to work. I cut short what I was doing to pick Hannah up. But that’s okay. Actually, it was good to get out.”
“How’s the investigation going?”
“Promising. I can’t tell you any more.”
“Promising is good. Promising is encouraging.”
“It is indeed.”
“A suspect—”
“I can’t tell you any more.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Yeah, but you knew that when you married me.”
Yonkie was home on time. Decker waited until he settled into his room before intruding on his life. A moment later he heard ear-blasting punk rock coming from Yonkie’s stereo. Decker had to bang on the wood to be heard over the din. The music volume took a nosedive, and then his stepson opened the door, looking at him with grave eyes. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Decker tried out a smile. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” He stepped aside. “What’s up?”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“No, not at all. Sorry about today. I spoke without thinking.”
“Did you get a lot of flak from your friends?”
“It’s okay. I can handle myself.”
Same words as Ernesto. It was the adolescent creed.
Yonkie licked his lips. “What I don’t want is help, okay?”
Neatly stated. Decker nodded.
Yonkie was restless, clearly anxious for him to leave. “Anything else?”
“I left work early to pick up Hannah,” Decker said. “I’ve left some things unfinished. Can you watch her for a couple of hours until Eema gets home?”
“No problem.”
Being agreeable, but there was anger behind it. “Are you all right, Jacob?”
“Fine. Don’t worry about it.” A pause. “How’s Eema?”
His voice took on concern. The kid loved his mother. That made two of them. “She’s scrubbing out the synagogue. It was pretty bad.”
“Does she need help?”
“You’re helping her by watching Hannah. You sure it’s okay?”
“Positive. If she gets bored, I’ll take her out somewhere.”
“Thanks.” Decker patted the boy’s shoulder, but there was no response. Like Jacob was made of stone. Or maybe he was just plain stoned. Jacob knew he was being sized up. He didn’t flinch from Decker’s scrutiny. “Uh … are you going out now?”
“Yeah, give me a few minutes.”
“Take your time. Call me when you need me.”
He closed the door in Decker’s face. Jake’s life was a giant tumor of repressed anger. Decker tried not to take it personally, but the tension left him queasy. He went over to Hannah, who was steadily working her way through the box of candy.
“How about a grilled cheese sandwich?”
The girl’s eyes were glued on the TV—Scooby Doo. Man, that had longevity. The talking Great Dane had been around when Cindy was a little girl.
“Hannah, did you hear me?”
“Grilled cheese is okay.”
She had heard him. Decker made up a grilled cheese sandwich, courtesy of an electronic sandwich maker that not only grilled but also molded the bread into an attractive shell shape. The aesthetics were lost on Hannah. She asked him to wrap it in a napkin so grease wouldn’t get all over her fingers. Meticulous at times, downright messy at other times. Kids never failed to mystify him.
He said, “Hannah, I’m going back to work now. Yonkie’s here if you need anything.”
“Where’s Eema?” she asked again.
As if repeating the question would make her mother appear.
“She’s at the shul.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going now.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.” He bent down and gave her a kiss. “Bye.”
The little girl chewed off a piece of dripping cheese. “Bye.”
The child was in TV narcolepsy. He patted her head, then heard Jacob summoning him. Actually, Jacob had called out, “Dad,” and that was good. When Jacob was angry, he called him Peter.
“Are you still here?” Jacob yelled from his room.
“I’m still here. What’s wrong?”
“Can you c’mere for a sec?”
Decker patted Hannah’s head again, then entered the inner sanctum of Jacob’s private space. Jacob always made his bed and kept his floor cleared of junk, but his desktop was covered with books, papers, candy wrappers, doodads, and other odd-shaped items that Decker couldn’t identify. Sammy’s bed and desk had been left in pristine condition, completely cleared of anything extraneous. Jacob refused to let his mess carry over to his absent brother’s side of the room. It was as if Jacob kept it clean in hopes that Sammy would materialize.
“I think you’d better hear this.” Jacob turned on his answering machine.
Hi, Jake. This is Ernesto Golding. Long time, huh? I don’t know if your stepdad told you what was flying. Probably not. At least, he shouldn’t be talking about me, but you never know. Anyway, don’t go postal, but you’ll probably hear it from someone. So I figured you might as well hear it from me … that I B-and-E’d your temple … messed up some stuff, spray-painted some swastikas, and threw around some Nazi shit on the floor. I was just fooling around, getting stoned one day, and one dare led to another and things kinda got outta hand. I dunno … it was nothing personal against Jews or anything. It was just something to do. I feel bad about it, but like I said, it was nothing personal. And I don’t know how much you and your stepdad talk, but you can tell him that if you talk about it. I’m sorta rambling, I know. Anyway, I haven’t seen you around in a while. I suspect I won’t see you around anymore. I’m going to hang up now.
There was a click, then the droning buzz of the phone line.
Jacob looked at his stepfather with curious eyes. “Did you arrest Ernesto Golding for vandalizing the shul?”
“What he tells you is his business. But as far as I’m concerned, he’s a juvenile, and I don’t talk about juveniles.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Jacob began to pace. “What a prick! What an absolute prick!”
“Why do you think he called you?” Decker asked.
“I don’t know. I barely knew him.”
“Do you have any opinions about him?”
Jacob gave out a breathy laugh. “I have four grandparents who are camp survivors—two of them with numbers. This guy vandalizes the shul and leaves Nazi crap and hate graffiti all over the place. But I’m not supposed to take it personally?” He bit his lip. “Yeah, I have opinions about him. I think he’s a butt wipe.”
Decker restrained a smile.
“He’s a rich kid,” Jacob said. “But he makes a big point of not flaunting it. He’s so concerned about not flaunting it that he flaunts it. Money meant nothing to him because he was always flush.”
“Is he a smart guy?”
“No dummy. He took the SAT twice. Did over 1400 the second time.”
“Better than I could have done,” Decker said. “Of course, that’s not in your league—”
“Stop it!” Jacob snapped.
“Good Lord, take it easy, will you!” Decker barked back. “I’m trying to be nice.”
Jacob looked away. “I’m sorry.” He touched his forehead. “I think I’ve inherited your tendencies toward headaches. Pretty good trick, considering we’re not genetically related.”
Decker wanted to smile but couldn’t get it out. “I’m going now. If you need anything, call me, not Eema. She’s got her hands full.”
“Yeah, sure.” Jacob kneaded his hands. “Look, if you want to ask me stuff, it’s okay. I don’t know much about Golding. I knew him from the parties. I haven’t seen him or any of them in six months. I hope you know that.”
“Yonkie, I’m not looking over your shoulder.”
The teen considered the words, but gave no indication that he agreed with them.
“You miss Sammy?” Decker asked.
“Yeah.” He licked his lips. “Yeah, I do. We E-mail each other almost every day, so in a way I talk to him as much as ever. But then things come up … things you don’t want to write about. It’s not the same.” He caught Decker’s eye. “Golding had a really nice girlfriend … Lisa Halloway. They were real tight, and then he broke up with her. She was upset about it. Totally baffled. At least, that’s what she told me. I felt bad for her. I almost asked her out. Not because I felt bad for her, but because I liked her. She was smart enough and really good-looking.”
“So why didn’t you ask her out?”
“What’s the point?”
“I’m sure she would have gone out with you, Jacob,” Decker said. “Besides the brains, you got your mother’s baby blues.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I know she would have gone out with me. But it wouldn’t have lasted, so why make Eema upset? Eventually, I would have been too Jewish for her, and she would have been too goyish for me.”
He shrugged with resignation.
“You know, it’s not the rabbis and all the mantras they feed us at school that keeps me Orthodox. It’s idiots like Ernesto Golding. It makes me realize how alienated I am from the vast majority of this country. I can’t be a typical American teenager, starting with the fact that I’ve never eaten a cheeseburger. So maybe the rabbis did their job on some level.”
“Do you like being Jewish?”
Jacob turned hostile. “What kind of question is that? Do you like being Jewish?”
“Most of the time, yes. Can you stop biting my head off?”
“Sorry.” Jacob tapped his toe. “I’m okay with being Jewish. Better with it than I was six months ago. Now that the pressure’s off, and I can choose a secular college without feeling guilty, I feel a lot better about it.”
“That’s good.” Decker leaned down and kissed Jacob’s head. Not that he had to lean down much. The kid was inching his way to six feet. “I’ve got a mound of paperwork that’s weighing down my desk.”
“Go jam,” Jacob said. “Don’t worry about anything. Hannah will be fine.”
“And you?”
“I’m fine.” A pause. “A bunch of us are thinking of going to Magic Mountain Saturday night. I’m driving, but the guys are chipping in for the gas. I have enough for admission, but that’ll bust me. Do you have any odd jobs I can do for a couple of bucks?”
“I suppose baby-sitting counts for something.” Decker handed him a twenty. “That should tide you over for a while.”
“This is very generous.” A big smile … a genuine smile. “Thanks a lot. I’d better go study. I’m pulling high B’s in Gemora and would like to keep it that way.”
“Absolutely.” Decker left the boy in peace. Money. It certainly wasn’t love, but sometimes it acted as a damn good imposter.
9 (#ulink_ec545ab3-ad74-5b43-8850-288583c20913)
Microwaving the pizza had left it tasteless with soggy crust to boot, but it was hot and filling and that was the best that Decker had hoped for at this point in time and space. He made it back to the station house by six-thirty with a belly full of grease and a head spinning with ideas. He knew that Ernesto Golding had not worked alone, but other culprits continued to be elusive entities. Decker would have liked to question Ernesto’s friends extensively—find out if they had information—but he knew that their parents wouldn’t allow contact. Without proof of involvement, Decker couldn’t muscle his way into their living rooms, and no other evidence was forthcoming because Ernesto insisted he was the sole perpetrator. Furthermore, since Ernesto had cooperated with the D.A., Melrose had high hopes of getting the charges knocked down to a malicious mischief misdemeanor—probation combined with community service, and a sealed record.
Now that Ernesto had entered into the legal system, Decker’s part in the play had been relegated to the role of supporting cast. He didn’t have a lot of working time. If he didn’t come up with something new very soon, the entire case would slip from his grasp—officially closed, naming Ernesto Golding as the one and only vandal.
Entering the detectives’ squad room, Decker was heartened to find Martinez and Webster at their desks. Wanda Bontemps was also finishing up her paperwork. She was hunched over her desk, her fingers playing with a cap of tightly knit curls. She wore black pants and a blue turtleneck. A black blazer was draped across the back of her chair. He flagged her down, along with Martinez and Webster, and the quartet convened in Decker’s office.
Webster said, “Was Golding arraigned yet?”
“An hour ago,” Decker answered. “No contest. He’s back home—own recognizance. Court date will be in about six weeks.”
“Was he expelled from school?” Wanda asked.
“That I don’t know,” Decker said. “I have this gut feeling that there’ve been some quiet negotiations behind the scene. You know how it is with institutions and money.”
“The way of the world,” Webster said. “Nothing you can’t buy with money. Even money.”
Decker said, “I don’t know what the headmaster is planning to do. In a perfect world, Golding should be expelled.”
“In a perfect world, he should be in jail,” Wanda said.
“This is very true. But given the fact that Melrose pushed through a rush job, it’s unlikely.” Decker felt glum, as if he somehow had failed Rina. “What’d you find out about the Preservers of Ethnic Whatever.”
“It’s run by a guy named Darrell Holt, who is a mixture of lots of races,” Martinez said. “So I can’t figure out how he reconciles his own genetic variety with his ethnic purity crap. Anyway, he’s wrangled endorsements for his cause from some token minorities—one Filipino, one Hispanic, one African-American, one Asian, one Jew, and for sake of completion, one Anglo.”
“What kind of endorsements?” Decker asked.
“You can see for yourself, sir.” Webster handed him the flyers. “It’s all the same crud. Y’all can’t pin them down just by reading the articles. They play the separate but equal over and over and over.”
Decker thumbed through the pages, scanning the paragraphs. “Here’s one that recommends an English-only policy.”
“Yeah, that’s the one by the Marine.”
“Hank Tarpin.” Decker scanned the printed material. “Superficially, there’s lots here that my wife would agree with. She would kill her sons if they married outside the religion.”
“She isn’t the only one,” Wanda said. “I’d like my daughter to marry a good African-American man. Life is hard enough. At least in your own community, you can go around without getting stares and snickers. I talk from experience. About three months ago she had a Hispanic boyfriend.” She looked at Martinez. “People gave them looks.”
“What happened?” Martinez said.
“They broke up, but not because of the race … although I’m sure that didn’t help. He was a cop and she’s a cop and that wasn’t good.”
“One of my kids married an Anglo,” Martinez said. “The other married a nice kid whose family was originally from Cuba. I’m from Mexico, and that’s another ball of wax. I can’t say I feel more comfortable with one son-in-law over the other. But that’s not the case with my parents, who don’t speak English all that well. There’s a language barrier. Which is why, personally, I’m big on an English-only policy in school. If you don’t speak and write the language of the country, you’re second class. No way my kids and grandkids are going to be second-class citizens.”
“I agree with you, Bert,” Webster said, “but I reckon that you and the Marine are coming at it from different angles.”
“That’s true, but it’s irrelevant.” Decker put down the papers. “But the only pertinent question now is, do we have anything to link Holt to the vandalized synagogue?”
“Nope,” Martinez said. “But we talked to Holt before you arrested Golding. Maybe if we went back and mentioned Golding—”
“And then maybe Golding’s lawyer would be all over our asses for giving out the name of a minor,” Decker interrupted. “Pulling the Ernesto card is out. If the Preservers of Ethnic ‘Racists’ is involved, we’ve got to get them without asking about Golding.”
“How about harboring a fugitive?” Bontemps said. “Tell the loo what you told me about Ricky Moke.”
“Who’s Ricky Moke?” Decker asked.
Webster explained. “Supposedly Moke has been implicated in blowing up university animal laboratories. Supposedly Holt knows Moke. Supposedly Moke has dropped by their office. Supposedly Moke is an ardent racist.”
“That’s an awful lot of supposedly,” Decker said. “Does this bad guy have a sheet?”
“Nothing I could find,” Martinez said. “But I’ve only checked locally.”
“If he’s implicated with bombs, the FBI would have information on him. Make a couple of calls tomorrow.” Decker sat back. “What about Darrell Holt? Does he have a sheet?”
Webster shook his head.
“Any information on him?” Decker asked.
“The Preservers have a Web site,” Webster said. “But that’s all fluff.”
“Find out what you can about him.” Decker scanned through the leaflets. “Are these the only papers you found? I’m wondering if Golding ever wrote anything for them.”
“I’ll check it out tomorrow.”
Decker thought about what Golding had told him, about his German grandfather and his dubious past. “While you’re looking up people in the computer, find out what you can about Jill and Carter Golding. I want to know everything I can about Ernesto, and it doesn’t hurt to start with the parents. Since they’re well known, it should be easy to find information about them. Also do a search with Golding and Holt and/or Golding and Ricky Moke as a common subject and see if the computer throws out any association.”
Webster said, “The Preservers also have a girl working there. She looks about twelve.”
“Name?”
“Erin Kershan.”
“Look her up.”
Wanda said, “Should we put a watch on them, Lieutenant?”
Decker considered the idea. “Are they local?”
“Yes, they are,” Martinez told him. “Matter of fact, they live in the same building although different apartments. I’ll do it.”
“I’ll do it, Bert,” Webster volunteered. “I got the two A.M. feeding anyway.” He looked at Decker. “Could I leave at about one?”
“Sounds fine, Tom. You can put in for overtime.”
“I can use the money, sir. Thank you.”
Decker started writing down a schedule. “While you’re doing stakeout, I’ll drop by the Goldings and run Holt, Moke, and the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity by Ernesto. The boy isn’t going to admit to anything, but a good nuance is worth a thousand words.”
The Goldings weren’t home, leaving Decker to wonder if they were hiding out somewhere. Just as likely, they were out to dinner. It was only a little past eight. Decker called Jacob and was apprehensive when no one picked up the phone. He tried Jacob’s car phone. The boy answered after two rings. “Yo.”
“Are you two all right?”
“Oh, hi, Dad. We went out for ice cream.”
In the background, he heard Hannah scream, “Hi, Daddy!”
“Hi, Hannah Rosie.” To Jacob, Decker said, “Is she in the backseat?”
“Backseat with her seat belt on,” Jacob replied. “We’re on our way home.”
“I was thinking about stopping by the shul to see Eema.”
“That’s fine. Don’t worry about us. I can put Hannah to bed.”
“Could you do me another favor?”
“What?”
“Before you put her to bed, can you two come down and bring me some junk clothes and my sneakers from home in case I want to help paint later tonight.”
“No problem.”
“Or maybe I should just go home, so Hannah won’t be subjected to—”
But the line had already gone dead. He thought about calling Jacob back. He didn’t want Hannah reading all that hate-filled graffiti or seeing those dreadful pictures. Then again, Rina had been there for a while: the shul was probably somewhat sanitized by now.
He arrived at the shul by seven and parked on the street because the tiny lot was full. A few broken windows had been boarded up, but light shone through the translucent curtains covering the intact glass doors. When he went in, he entered a construction site. Tarps and drop cloths had been laid down everywhere. More than a dozen people were working, brushes and rollers in hand. The walls had been primed, and open paint cans were everywhere. Rina was wearing overalls and a big red bandana over her head. Her face was dotted with Navaho white. She gave him an air kiss.
“How’s it going?” Decker asked.
“Baruch Hashem!” She was smiling and it was genuine. “Let me introduce you to some of our volunteers that you don’t know.” She walked over to two African-American women. One was tall and skinny, the other was short and fat. Mutt and Jeff. “This is Letitia and this is Bernadette. They’re friends of Wanda Bontemps from her church. As soon as she called them, they came right down to help.” She patted Decker’s shoulder with a paint-splattered hand. “This is my husband, Peter.”
“Your husband.” It was the one named Bernadette. She had a smooth, round face and a stern look. She rocked from side to side. She was as tall as she was wide. “The police lieutenant.”
It sounded as if she was holding his title against him; in light of the past allegations of his department, that could very well be the case. He held out his hand to her and she took it.
Decker said, “Nice of you to help out.”
“It was nice of Wanda to call them down,” Rina said.
“Our church has an outreach program to help,” Bernadette said. “No one should be able to get away with defaming a house of God.”
“I agree,” Decker said.
“We need to start something like that in our community.” Rina turned to her new friends. “It’s not that we’re so provincial, although that’s part of it. It’s just that we’ve been so busy trying to make this congregation work. We barely have enough time and money to get our own services in order. But that’s going to change. We have to get more involved.”
“This was an eye-opener to me,” Letitia said. Her face was long and she had a wide, horsey smile. “I always thought the Jews had the big synagogues.”
“Some do,” Rina said. “We sure don’t. We’re lucky to pay the rent.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s my own prejudice talking,” Letitia said. “I’d better stop yakking and get back to painting.” She smiled again. “Go with my strengths.”
“How about some more coffee?” Rina asked. “I need more coffee.”
Decker was happy to see Rina so charged up and filled with action. It helped mitigate the pain of why she was there in the first place. He said, “The way you’re flitting around, do you think you really need more caffeine?”
“I don’t flit, I move in a purposeful manner,” Rina explained.
Bernadette said, “She just appears to be flitting because she’s so graceful.”
“Uh-huh,” Decker said. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
Rina yelled out, “Moishe, we could use some fresh coffee.”
Moishe Miller—a big bear of a man—was standing in front of several folding tables piled high with shredded paper and abused books. At the moment, the bearded dentist was painstakingly piecing together torn bits from prayer books. “Reg or decaf?”
The women looked about the room, then at each other. “Full strength,” Rina ordered. To Decker, she said, “Are you going to help out? We took down all the bookshelves. We need someone to paint them and put them back up.”
“Yes, I’m going to help out. Jacob’s bringing over some junk clothes. I have a little more work to do, and then I’m all yours.”
“Good to have someone who knows what he’s doing. House painting is a lot harder than it looks. It’s not just slopping paint over the walls.”
“So you’ve discovered.”
“It actually takes some practice.”
“Does this mean you appreciate me more?”
“I’ve always admired your manual skills. You just don’t work fast enough.”
“But I do a good job. And the cost is cheap. You get what you pay for.”
Rina nodded, then smiled at the women. But the expression was a taut one.
Bernadette caught the tension. “Well, nice meeting you … Lieutenant.”
“Peter is fine,” Decker said.
“Peter then.” Again, Bernadette shook his hand, then nodded to Letitia. The two of them went back to their artwork. Rina used the moment to take Peter aside. She said, “Yonkie called me—”
“I can’t talk about it,” Decker said. “The party is a minor.”
“The party is a kid named Ernesto Golding,” Rina whispered. “You didn’t tell me, Yonkie did.”
“Do you know this kid?” Decker asked Rina.
“Never heard of him until Yonkie told me. There must be someone else involved. This isn’t the work of just one person.”
Decker shrugged.
“C’mon. Yes or no? Is there someone else?”
“No comment.”
“Now you’re sounding like a politician.”
“If you’re trying to get me angry, I’ve had worse insults.”
Rina grew impatient. “Peter, this is your shul, too.”
“I’m painfully aware of that, Rina.” Then he said, “Please tell me that you haven’t mentioned Golding’s name to anyone else.”
“Do I look like an idiot?”
Now she was glaring at him. He said, “Don’t we have enough on our minds without fighting?”
“This isn’t a fight,” Rina announced.
“It isn’t?”
“No. It isn’t. This is … both of us glaring at each other because we’re both under a lot of stress.”
“I’m glaring at you?” Decker asked.
“Yes, you’re glaring at me.”
“You’re glaring at me!”
“I know,” Rina said. “That’s why I said we were glaring at each other!”
Decker paused, then started laughing. It broke the strain, allowing Rina to laugh with him. She reached out and took his hand and squeezed it. “I’d hug you except I’d get paint all over your suit.”
“Hug me anyway.” Decker took her into his arms.
They hugged—a long and romantic one. And she did get paint on his suit. He didn’t care. That’s why God invented dry cleaning.
10 (#ulink_996a926b-a105-5a2e-bff1-103fcc506323)
It was past eight and the Goldings still hadn’t made it home. Decker would try them in the morning. Still, he wasn’t ready to call it a working day. Six months ago, Ernesto Golding had a girlfriend named Lisa Halloway. Golding had mentioned her, and so had Yonkie. His stepson had stated that she had been devastated by the breakup. Decker wondered if she had picked up any telltale signs of Ernesto’s antisocial behavior before the actual vandalism.
The problem was getting past the parents. But that turned out to be the easy part: the parents weren’t home.
At least she didn’t slam the door in his face.
Under the illumination of a porch lamp, he noticed the winking of metal—multiple studs in her ears and a small stone in the side of her nose. Who knew what was in her belly button? Decker realized he shouldn’t judge by externals—if Yonkie had liked her, she must be a girl of some substance—but he was a middle-aged guy with old-guy prejudices. Trying to be objective, if he looked beyond the holes, he saw a pretty, dark-eyed girl with a clear complexion, an oval face, and dimples in the cheeks. Lots of long curls framed her face. She had her shoulders hunched over as if she was cold, and her arms were folded across her chest. She was unhappy and not afraid to express it.
“I don’t know anything about the vandalism.” Her voice was raspy and low. “But even if I did know anything about the vandalism, I wouldn’t rat on Ernesto.”
“All I want to do is talk for a few minutes,” Decker said.
“Why should I let you in? You could be a rapist!”
Decker smoothed his ginger mustache, aware of Lisa as an angry, young girl wearing a clingy, white tank top and jeans and no underclothes. He could see her nipples even in the poor light. Being alone with her—in private—was not a good idea. He said, “So we’ll talk out here.”
“For all the neighbors to see?”
“Yeah.” Decker smiled. “That’s the point. You’ll feel more comfortable that way.”
“You can come in,” Lisa sneered. “I don’t seriously believe you’re a rapist.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine out here.” Decker kept his face flat. “Can I talk to you on a conceptual level for a moment, Lisa? Let’s say we are given competing attributes—loyalty and justice. Both are admirable traits, agreed?”
“I don’t see the point of all this!” She rubbed her arms. “Also, I’m cold.”
“I’ll wait while you get a sweater.”
“Never mind!”
She was thoroughly sullen, but Decker continued anyway. “If the party in question is accused of doing something criminal, but there is no definitive guilt or innocence, maybe the party deserves the benefit of the doubt, ergo loyalty. But if you know for sure that he did it—because he himself has admitted it—doesn’t his criminal act abnegate his right to expect loyalty, and isn’t loyalty moot because he already admitted the act?”
She swished her curls. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why be loyal when you know he did it?”
“Lieutenant Lazarus, it’s all moot. I don’t know anything about the vandalism. Can I go now?”
Lieutenant Lazarus—using Yonkie’s surname. “It’s Lieutenant Decker,” he corrected. “And it’s a free country. You can leave anytime you want.”
But she didn’t leave.
Decker said, “You went with Ernesto for a while, didn’t you?”
“You know I did. Otherwise, why would you talk to me? What’s the point?”
“Any of his friends twang your antenna?”
“You mean did he hang out with Brown Shirts?” She rolled her eyes. “And if he did, do you think he would have told me about it? I’m Jewish.” She gave a snort. “Not the right kind of Jewish for you.”
Decker’s eyes bored into hers. “What did you say?”
The intensity in his voice threw her off-balance. She blushed, then pressed her lips together and turned away, the implicit message being she blew it with her mouth. The other implicit message was that it probably hadn’t been the first time.
“Who have you been talking to, Lisa?” Decker pressed.
He knew damn well whom she’d been talking to. Now Decker had the advantage. She knew she had gotten Jacob in trouble. She’d have to call him and explain. But first she’d have to deal with Decker. If she remained snotty, she would add to Jacob’s woes.
Now she was scared, didn’t make eye contact. “Can I go now?”
Decker was relentless. “Have you been talking to my son?”
“Stepson—”
“I stand corrected. Where do you know him from?”
“Just around—”
“Where?”
“I met him at a party. What’s the big deal? Jesus! Now I know why—” Again she stopped herself.
“Go on!”
Lisa rubbed her hands together. “Look! I met Jake at a party. Ernesto was there. Maybe Jake mentioned Ernesto or me to you in passing.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“Well, then, okay. Maybe he didn’t. I’m just saying that parents don’t need an excuse to rag on their children. Even my parents … who are pretty cool … they still snoop. All parents snoop. Jake told me you snooped. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. But let me tell you something about your son—”
“Stepson.”
“He feels brainwashed by your stifling way of life. He struggles with it. But in the end you must have succeeded because he hasn’t answered my phone calls for the last four months. Congratulations.”
So she had made a play for Jake, and it had failed. So not only was it his fault that Jake was conflicted, but it was also his fault that she didn’t succeed in getting him. “You know what, Lisa? I’m going to do you a big favor. I’m going to forget what you just said and how you just insulted two thousand years of my stepson’s heritage. Let’s go back to talking about Ernesto—”
“It’s my heritage, too, you know,” she defended herself.
“Then if it is, you should be even more offended by what your ex-boyfriend did. I’m going to ask you straight out. Did Ernesto have any friends that made you nervous?”
She paused for a long time. So many emotions walked past on her face—defiance, shame, insecurity, embarrassment, anger, hate—the whole gamut. Finally, she settled on resignation. “I hope I’m not sounding spiteful. I don’t want to appear like the scorned woman.”
“Go on.”
She sighed. “There’s a kid in our class—Doug Ranger. He has an older sister—Ruby. She’s around twenty-two or -three … graduated from Berkeley with a degree in computer science. She’s smart … sexy … not to me, but to the boys. She’s full of ideas … more like full of shit!” Wet eyes. “I’ve seen her car at Ernesto’s house a couple of times.”
“Maybe it’s Doug’s car and he’s visiting Ernesto.”
“It’s not him, it’s her.”
“I guess parents aren’t the only people who snoop?”
She wilted, her voice soft and plaintive. “Please, Lieutenant.”
“So you’ve seen Ruby Ranger go into Ernesto’s house? Yes or no?”
“Yes.” Totally defeated now. “Several times.”
“What’s she like?”
A long sigh. “Politicized.”
“What kind of ideas does she have?”
“Libertarian stuff. Government should stop being everyone’s baby-sitter. And it certainly doesn’t have any right to be a censor when it’s so corrupt itself. She’s really big on a free Internet. That’s her raison d’être at the moment—to maintain an uncensored Internet. You’re twelve years old and wanna talk about porn in the chat room with convicted sex offenders, that’s your perogative. Fine with her. You wanna talk about incest or NAMBLA, fine. You wanna talk about scoring drugs, fine. You wanna talk about neo-Nazis and Hitler as heroes or buy Nazi stuff over the Internet, that’s fine, too. She said that … those exact words.”
Decker nodded.
“She also said—right to my face while people were listening in—she also said that I would have been perfect concentration-camp fodder because I have typical Jewish looks.”
Decker winced. “That’s awful. Not that you look Jewish, but the Nazi fodder part. That’s absolutely disgusting.”
“It creeped me out.”
“I can certainly understand that.” Immediately, Decker was thinking about how this woman might be stoking Ernesto’s sadistic sexual fantasies. Her prodding would be especially potent if Ernesto felt that he was from Nazi heritage. “What’d you say to her?”
“Nothing. I was too shocked to respond. And, of course, that’s exactly what she wanted. To get attention by being outrageous.” Her eyes were focused somewhere on her bare toes. “Jake wasn’t there. I told him about it afterward. He told me his grandparents were in concentration camps.”
Decker nodded.
“But they’re not your parents?”
“My parents are American,” Decker said.
“So are mine. And my father isn’t even Jewish. I was very offended by her statement. Then there’s this side of me … I was embarrassed by looking so Jewish, because Jewish girls don’t have a reputation for being hotties. That’s why I got the nose pierce. You probably think that’s awful, right?”
He did think it was awful. Awful and an awful shame. But he tried to keep his face neutral. “Feelings aren’t awful.”
She wasn’t buying. “Not true. Self-destructive feelings are very awful.”
Decker softened his tone. “Do you know where Ruby Ranger lives?”
Lisa nodded. “With her parents. Are you going to go talk to her?”
“Definitely,” Decker said. “But it didn’t come from you, all right?”
“She’ll think it came from Jake. He hated her. Every time she walked in the room, he’d leave. She once confronted him … something about him living an outdated life. That was a mistake! Wow, he got real scar—”
She suddenly shut down.
Jake got real scary, she had wanted to say. Decker would bring it up with him, a task he dreaded. The father part of him just didn’t have the energy to deal with another crisis. But the cop part kept pushing him on. He folded his notebook. “Thank you. You’ve been helpful.”
“Maybe I’ve been helpful to you,” she said. “But I certainly have not been helpful to Jake or to Ruby.”
He was minutes away from the shul. But his head was still spinning from what Lisa Halloway had just told him. He decided to make a quick pit stop at home. Be a concerned father and check up on his children. Besides, the longer car ride to his house would give him a few more minutes of thinking time.
How to approach Ruby Ranger. At twenty-two, she was not a minor, but he imagined that her parents still exercised monetary control over her. If he could get them on his side, maybe that would give him an in with Ruby. Still, if the young woman were so strongly opinionated with such outrageous ideas, it indicated that she wasn’t dominated by her parents. The age, early to mid twenties, was unpredictable.
It was getting late. The best thing was to wait until tomorrow. Maybe he’d have some other clever idea as to how to approach her. Maybe if she enjoyed baiting people, baiting a cop would be a big kick for her. He’d play dumb. If she hated Jacob, it would be even more of a kick to mess up his cop father.
Which brought him back to his stepson. After fifteen years of having a no-fuss, no-hassle kid, he was getting paid back in spades. Jacob was moody, sullen, and sarcastic. But scary? The kid never failed to surprise him.
He opened his front door, then went into the kitchen. Jacob looked up from the kitchen table. He was in his pajama bottoms, eating a sandwich, and reading Beowulf, yellow highlight marker in his hand. “Hi. What are you doing home? I thought you were going to the shul to help out?”
“I decided to come home first … see if you need anything.”
“I’m fine. Hannah’s asleep.”
“Any problems?”
“Nah, she’s a great kid.”
“Yes, she is.”
“You look tired,” Jacob said. “Like you just had a very bad conversation with a hysterical seventeen-year-old girl.”
Decker sat down at the table. “I’m loath to get you involved. But I need help. As a cop, the more information the better.” He stared at Jacob’s food. “What are you eating?”
“Tuna. There’s more in the fridge. I’ll make you dinner.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Sit.” Jacob got up. “Kibud Av. Honoring your dad gives you brownie points upstairs. I could use extra.” He fixed Decker a tuna on rye, complete with lettuce and tomato. Decker ritually washed his hands, then said the blessing over the breaking of bread. With two bites, half the sandwich was gone.
“You are hungry.”
“I’m always hungry.” Decker patted his stomach. Still firm but a bit wider. “Can we talk about Lisa?”
“If you want.”
“Actually, I’m more interested in a woman named Ruby Ranger. Lisa told me you knew her, also that you disliked her.”
“That is a gross understatement. Ruby Ranger is psycho!”
“Lisa said that Ruby tried to bait you once. You took offense and got pretty aggressive.”
“What really happened was I told her if she ever got in my face again, I’d blast her face to smithereens.”
Decker didn’t answer, too stunned to talk.
Jacob said, “I not only threatened to kill her, I told her how I’d do it. Then I told her how I’d cover it up. Then I told her I knew all about homicide investigations and how to trip them up because I was your son, and I’d seen you conduct enough of them to know the pitfalls.” He looked at his lap. “Actually, I think she believed me.”
Decker bit his lip, trying to figure out how to respond. He couldn’t get any words out.
“She never talked to me again,” Jacob said. “Course, I never saw her again. I stopped going to the parties. So I guess I’ll never know what she really thought.”
“Did people hear you threaten her?”
“Yeah, we attracted quite a crowd. For a while, I was worried that someone was going to report me to the authorities—the real authorities, not you. Which would have been the correct thing to do. But no one did. All of them … the convictions of a turnip.”
Silence.
Jacob said, “Being arrested would have been consistent with my self-image. I was in the nadir period of my life. I was smoking weed and taking pills and screwing around and screwing up. I was out of control. Thank God, you got to me first.” He looked up. “That’s a compliment.”
“Thank you.” Decker stared at him, as if looking at a stranger. “You didn’t tell me you were taking pills.”
He waved Decker off.
“What else didn’t you tell me?”
Jacob threw his head back. “You’re a good guy, Dad. You try to be understanding. But even good guys have their limits.” He faced his stepfather. “I’m scaring the hell out of you, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“I hate everything and everyone,” Jacob said. “I’m furious all the time. But I’m the problem, not the world. I’m trying to channel it all into constructive endeavors. Probably sounds like a crock of crud to you, but it’s true.”
Decker was quiet.
Jacob looked away. “I really am trying. For Eema, especially, because she deserves better. I haven’t touched anything chemical beyond an aspirin in six months. I’m doing well in school. I’m still working the suicide hot line once a week. I feed the homeless once a month. I am trying! But it’s hard!”
Decker put his hand on his son’s shoulder. He leaned over and kissed his forehead. “What can I do for you, Jacob?”
He shook his head. “I guess you can just keep doing what you’re doing. Like not freaking when I tell you these things.”
“It’s hard,” Decker said. “Inside, I’m freaking pretty badly.”
The teen pushed his plate away and closed the book. “You’ve seen a lot of psychos in your day, right?”
“Right.”
“Do I fit the profile?”
Decker didn’t dare contemplate the thought. “No.”
Jacob smiled with watery eyes. “You’re just being nice.”
“You have a conscience,” Decker said. “Psychos don’t. But that doesn’t mean that you couldn’t do damage if you blew.”
“I know that.”
“Were you just spouting off at Ruby Ranger or did you really mean it?”
“At the time, I think I really meant it. She’s a bad person. She defends people like Hitler and Stalin and Pol Pot. When I threatened her, she played it real cool. In truth, I think she liked it. I know she liked it. She got excited—aroused. Her nipples got hard.”
“That could have been fear.”
“It was a sexual thing, Dad. Believe me, I know. These people … they are so rich, so privileged. Nothing is novel to them, so they’re always looking for kicks. When drugs don’t do it anymore, they move on to other things. Ruby Ranger thinks mass murderers and serial killers are misunderstood geniuses. Do I think she’s behind the vandalism after what Lisa told me—that she and Ernesto are playing the mating game? Absolutely! I wouldn’t be surprised if Ruby did it just to get to me, that she was waiting for me to come after her with a gun. She’s probably all wet and horny about it—”
“Jacob, please!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He covered his face. “I’m such a pain in the butt.”
“You’re not a pain … yeah, you are a pain. You’re very worrisome. I’m stymied. I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid, I promise you.”
“Are you being open with Dr. Gruen, Jake?”
“Bit by bit. Like I am with you. I tell him partial truths until I get the nerve to tell him the whole truth. He can tell what I’m doing, but lets me go at my own pace. He’s much better than the first one. I didn’t like her at all.”
“Did you tell him about your threatening remarks to Ruby Ranger?”
“Yeah. We’ve been working on that.”
“Okay.” Decker chose his words carefully. “Would you mind if I called him? I could use some guidance on what to do for you.”
“You’re doing fine, Dad. I probably talk to you as much as I talk to him.”
No, I am not doing fine! Mildly, Decker said, “So you’d prefer that I don’t call him?”
“Let me talk to him first, okay?”
“Fair enough. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“About Ruby Ranger or about me?”
“At the moment, I’m more interested in you than in Ruby Ranger.”
“What specifically? Drugs? Yeah, I took pills, too. Mostly downers when pot wasn’t enough. I liked being zonked out. It took the edge off the anger.”
“What else, Yonkie?”
“That’s it.”
Silence.
“No, really. That’s it.” He showed Decker his forearms. “See? I’m clean. I’m very angry, but I’m not chemically altered. You’re seeing the unadulterated Yonkel.”
Decker tried out a smile. He thought he was partially successful. “What about sex?”
“What about it?”
“Are you sexually active? I’d like to be sure that you’re protecting yourself.”
“Very much so.” Jacob smiled. “I’m not doing anything.”
Decker’s laugh was real. “Okay.”
“I made this deal with myself, that I’d wait with girls until I go away next year to Johns Hopkins. I have to work to keep the grades up, and girls are a distraction. Mostly, I’ll be older, the girls will be older. It ain’t easy, but I can wait.”
“That’s very smart.” Decker stalled. Somehow he got the words out. “Actually, when I asked you if you’d like to tell me something, I was thinking about criminal activity, Jacob.”
Jacob turned red and looked away.
“Am I way off base?” Decker asked.
Jacob continued to stare off. “I shoplifted.”
“B-and-Es?”
“No.” He looked at Decker. “No.”
Decker was about to say, “Okay, I believe you,” but he couldn’t find his voice.
Jacob said, “I shoplifted. Mostly booze, but I also stole about a dozen CDs over about a three-month period.” A pause. “Sixteen CDs. Don’t ask me how I did it with all those metal detectors. There are ways. I’m doing kapparah for it.”
“What kind of atonement?” Decker asked, using the English word.
“I never opened the CDs. They were still in their wrappers.” A beat. “Two months ago Dr. Gruen called the store manager. He explained the situation without mentioning names. Then he returned the CDs for me, no questions asked. As far as the stolen booze goes, I screwed up my nerve and did that myself. I used to hit this mom-and-pop liquor store. The owner—Mr. Kim—he’s being decent about the whole thing. We reached an agreement—a price. I’m working it off—manual labor stuff. Stocking shelves, sweeping, cleaning … watching kids for theft. Now, that is ironic, Alanis Morissette. I do it on Shabbos because it’s the only day I have off. Eema thinks I’m with friends, but I’m not. You can check it out if you want.”
“Where is this place?”
“About four miles from the house. I walk there after lunch. Yossie picks me up after dark. I used to see some of the old crowd there. Now they stay clear of me and of Mr. Kim. I may not have scared Ruby Ranger, but I think I scared lots of them.”
Decker rubbed his head.
“I’ve given you a headache.”
“I’m just glad you told me all this after the fact.”
Jacob said, “I’m doing better, Dad. It’s hard, but I’ll be all right.”
“Yonkie …” Decker cleared his throat. “Am I wrong in assuming that the bastard who molested you did more than you’ve admitted?”
Again the teen turned red. “I told you everything that I remembered. But there may be stuff that … that I blocked out. I was only seven, so … you know.”
Decker felt sick to his stomach. What did that motherfucker do? Calmly, he said, “Are you talking about it with Dr. Gruen?”
“Bit by bit. When it comes back to me.” Jacob flashed him a quick smile. “You want to talk about Ruby Ranger?”
Decker was happy to change the subject. Did that indicate a weakness on his part as a parent not to probe deeper? Or was he rationalizing it by telling himself that it was best left to the professional? Decker was only human. There was only so much he could absorb at one time. “What can you tell me about her?”
“Objectively, she’s smart—a computer person. I bet she’s an amateur hacker. She’s sexy enough to get plenty of guys if you’re into that severe Goth look. I could see her talking Ernesto into vandalizing the shul. She’d get off on that. But she’d never get her own hands dirty. That wouldn’t be fun for her. Her thing is manipulation, getting you to act out her pathology.” He grinned. “I sound pretty shrinky, don’t I?”
“You’ve learned the lingo.”
“When in Rome …” He looked at Decker. “If you talk to her, tell her to go to hell for me.”
“She’ll be interviewed but not by me.”
“Ah!” Jacob smiled. “Conflict of interest.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry to be such a burden to you. Don’t worry. I’m out of your hair in a few months. Surely, you can hang with that.”
“Jacob, you’re not in my hair.”
“Sure, Dad.” He gave him a sour smile. “Actually, I’m looking forward to Johns Hopkins and getting out on my own. And I’m not going to shoot anyone. Although if I did pop Ruby Ranger, I’d be doing the world a service.”
“That’s not funny, Jacob.”
“I didn’t mean it to be.”
11 (#ulink_03a518d1-6e6b-5aa6-a518-292b59205c3b)
Installing and painting bookshelves gave Decker much needed downtime, using his body instead of his mind. By two in the morning, the chemical cleaning fumes had become overwhelming, so the shul gang broke for the night. Rina was out as soon as she hit the pillow, but Decker remained fitful, dreaming in dribs and drabs about rebellious boys, his own stepson included. He awoke with a start at five-thirty—it was still dark—and drowned his lethargy with three cups of espresso. At six, he took his prayer shawl and his phylacteries and rushed over to the synagogue to join the men in morning services—an anomaly because usually their small house of worship couldn’t round up a quorum. But the events of yesterday motivated the community to try a little harder.
Right before the services started, half of Yonkie’s school—including Yonkie—came in to join them. Some smart kid even had the grace to bring in Danishes and juice as a reward for participation. It was downright homespun and everyone seemed friendlier, more social and a lot more grateful—praying with sincerity … making it count. By eight—after demolishing the snacks—the men started leaving to begin their working day. Rina, along with several other women, came in just as the men were filing out. They were holding pails, scrub brushes, scouring pads, and lots of Scotch tape to piece together torn bits of the holy books. Decker helped them unload the cleaning material.
“I’ve never seen the place so spotless,” he remarked to his wife.
“Almost like it never happened,” Rina answered. “What’s with that kid? Why on earth would he do such a terrible thing? I know you can’t answer me. I’m just wondering out loud.”
“Darling, I’m just as confused as you.”
Rina regarded her husband. “Poor Peter. You look tired.”
“I’m fine.” Decker smiled to prove the point. “How come you look so good? It’s not fair.”
“It’s called foundation to hide the dark circles.”
“Ah.”
“Also, you’re not wearing your glasses.”
“I don’t need glasses!” Decker insisted. “Only with medicine bottles. Let’s not rush things.”
Rina grinned. “Did I tell you I love you this morning?”
“No, you didn’t.”
She did. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Then she handed him a paper bag. “I packed you lunch. Please remember to eat it.”
“That’s never been my problem … not eating.”
She pinched his ribs. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Below the belt, kid.”
“Stop talking that way.” Rina smiled. “We’re in a shul.”
Decker laughed and hugged her. She felt tense and tight. He said, “Don’t overdo it with all the cleaning, Rina. You’re punishing muscles that you’re not used to using.”
She broke away and rubbed her shoulder. “I’m aware of that.”
“I’m going to remember that ‘below the belt’ comment,” Decker said. “Especially tonight.”
“I sure hope so.”
Decker laughed again, then gave her a final wave and returned to his car. Before he started the engine, he tried the Goldings’ home phone number. When no one picked up, he left another message. He had almost made it to the precinct’s parking lot when impulse overtook reason. He did a safe but illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, backtracking until he hit the Goldings’ neighborhood—a ritzy area containing blocks of spacious homes on acre lots. The development had its own tennis courts, swimming pools, saunas, Jacuzzis, workout gymnasiums, and recreation rooms as well as its own private patrol. As Decker groped around for the specific address, a white-and-blue rent-a-cop slowed his cruiser to check him out. Decker flashed his badge. The private cop nodded, then parked in the middle of the street and got out. He showed Decker the route to the Golding abode.
Ernesto lived in a house that was an amorphous blob, resembling a mound of melting chocolate ice cream. It was constructed out of adobe and probably would have looked great in Santa Fe, but since it sat in a lane of traditional Tudor, colonial, and Mediterranean houses, the place looked unfinished. More than unfinished, it looked like a project that someone forgot to start. The front landscaping was an assemblage of rocks and stones, sitting in beds of sand, and drought-resistant plants, mostly varieties of cacti, but there were also ice plants for ground cover and other flowering mint-colored foliage. A couple of stunted pines framed an old, carved door—the front entrance.
Decker knocked but didn’t expect anything. To his surprise, Carter Golding answered with Jill peeking over his shoulder. Even more surprising, they acted as if they wanted to see him.
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Faye Kellerman
The thirteenth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanA horrifying crime…Rina Lazarus and her husband, Detective Peter Decker, are appalled when their synagogue is desecrated with swastikas and horrific photos from Nazi concentration camps. Who would strike at the heart of the community in this way?A tormented teenager…An arrest is soon made – 17-year-old Ernesto Golding. Ernesto is a privileged, wealthy kid obsessed with discovering the truth about his Polish grandfather, who moved to Argentina after the collapse of the Nazi regime.A case with devastating consequences…Despite Ernesto’s confession, Decker is unconvinced. And when Ernesto is found brutally murdered at an exclusive camp that caters to troubled kids, the investigation takes a sinister twist. Could this be Decker’s most dangerous case yet?
The Forgotten
Faye Kellerman
Copyright (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 2001
This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Faye Kellerman 2001
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photography © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293604
Version: 2018-12-13
Dedication (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
For Andy, Joanne, and Miriam
In memory of Shira—aleha ha’shalom
Contents
Cover (#u6bd08468-5a71-57c2-ab02-8a44945c0d93)
Title Page (#u4ecdc730-54fd-5fb6-a277-9b193cdb8c71)
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
Keep Reading
About the Author
Faye Kellerman booklist
About the Publisher
1 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
The call was from the police. Not from Rina’s lieutenant husband, but from the police police. She listened as the man spoke, and when she heard that it had nothing to do with Peter or the children, she felt a “Thank you, God” wave of instant relief. After discovering the reason behind the contact, Rina wasn’t as shocked as she should have been.
The Jewish population of L.A.’s West Valley had been rocked by hate crimes in the past, culminating in that hideous ordeal a couple of years ago when a subspecies of human life had gotten off the public bus and had shot up the Jewish Community Center. The center had been and still was a refuge for all people, offering everything from toddler day camps to dance movements to exercise classes for the elderly. Miraculously, no one had been killed—there. But the monster—who had later in the day committed the atrocious act of murder—had injured several children and had left the entire area with numbing fears that maybe it could happen again. Since then, many of the L.A. Jews took special precautions to safeguard their people and their institutions. Extra locks were put on the doors of the centers and synagogues. Rina’s shul, a small rented storefront, had even gone so far as to padlock the Aron Kodesh—the Holy Ark that housed the sacred Torah scrolls.
The police had phoned Rina because her number was the one left on the shul’s answering machine—for emergencies only. She was the synagogue’s unofficial caretaker—the buck-stops-here person who called the contractors when a pipe burst or when the roof leaked. Because it was a new congregation, its members could only afford a part-time rabbi. The congregants often pitched in by delivering a Shabbos sermon or sponsoring an after-prayer kiddush. People were always more social when food was served. The tiny house of worship had lots of mettle, and that made the dreadful news even harder to digest.
Driving to the destination, Rina was a mass of anxiety and apprehension. Nine in the morning and her stomach was knotted and burning. The police hadn’t described the damage, other than use the word vandalize over and over. From what she could gather, it sounded more like cosmetic mischief than actual constructional harm, but maybe that was wishful thinking.
She passed homes, stores, and strip malls, barely glancing at the scenery. She straightened the black tam perched atop her head, tucking in a few dangling locks of ebony hair. Even under ordinary circumstances, she rarely spent time in front of the mirror. This morning, she had rushed out as soon as she hung up the phone, wearing the most basic of clothing—a black skirt, a white long-sleeved shirt, slip-on shoes, a head covering. At least her blue eyes were clear. There had been no time for her makeup; the cops were going to see the uncensored Rina Decker. The red traffic lights seemed overly long, because she was so antsy to get there.
The shul meant so much to her. It had been the motivating factor behind selling Peter’s old ranch and buying their new house. Because hers was a Sabbath-observant Jewish home, she had wanted a place of worship that was within walking distance—real walking distance, not something two and a half miles away as Peter’s ranch had been. It wasn’t that she minded the walk to her previous shul, Yeshivat Ohavei Torah, and the boys certainly could make the jaunt, but Hannah, at the time, had been five. The new house was perfect for Hannah, a fifteen-minute walk, plus there were plenty of little children for her to play with. Not many older children, but that didn’t matter, since her older sons were nearly grown. Shmueli had left for Israel, and Yonkie, though only in eleventh grade, would probably spend his senior year back east, finishing yeshiva high school while simultaneously attending college. Peter’s daughter, Cindy, was now a veteran cop, having survived a wholly traumatic year. Occasionally, she’d eat Shabbat dinner with them, visiting her little sister—a thrill since Cindy had grown up an only child. Rina was the mother of a genuine blended family, though sometimes it felt more like genuine chaos.
Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the storefront. The tiny house of worship was in a building that also rented space to a real estate office, a dry cleaners, a nail salon, and a take-out Thai café. Upstairs were a travel agency and an attorney who advertised on late-night cable with happy testimonials from former clients. Two black-and-white cruisers had parked askew, taking up most of the space in the minuscule lot, their light bars alternately blinking out red and blue beams. A small crowd had gathered in front of the synagogue, but through them, Rina could see hints of a freshly painted black swastika.
Her heart sank.
She inched her Volvo into the lot and parked adjacent to a cruiser. Before she even got out of the car, a uniform was waving her off. He was a thick block of a man in his thirties. Rina didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything because she didn’t know most of the uniformed officers in the Devonshire station. Peter had transferred there as a detective, not a patrol cop.
The officer was saying, “You can’t park here, ma’am.”
Rina rolled down the window. “The police called me down. I have the keys to the synagogue.”
The officer waited; she waited.
Rina said, “I’m Rina Decker, Lieutenant Decker’s wife …”
Instant recognition. The uniformed officer nodded by way of an apology, then muttered, “Kids!”
“Then you know who did it?” Rina got out of the car.
The officer’s cheeks took on color. “No, not yet. But we’ll find whoever did this.”
Another cop walked up to her, this one a sergeant by his uniform stripes, with Shearing printed on his nametag. He was stocky with wavy, dishwater-colored hair and a ruddy complexion. Older: mid to late fifties. She had a vague sense of having met him at a picnic or some social gathering. The name Mike came to mind.
He held out his hand. “Mickey Shearing, Mrs. Decker. I’m awfully sorry to bring you down like this.” He led her through the small gathering of onlookers, irritated by the interference. “Everybody … a couple of steps back … Better yet, go home.” Shouting to his men, “Someone rope off the area, now!”
As the lookie-loos thinned, Rina could see the exterior wall—one big swastika, a couple of baby ones on either side. Someone had spray-painted Death to the Inferior, Gutter Races. Angry moisture filled her eyes. “Is the door lock broken?” she asked the sergeant.
“’Fraid so.”
“You’ve been inside?”
“Unfortunately, I have. It’s …” He shook his head. “It’s pretty strong.”
“My parents were concentration-camp survivors. I know this kind of thing.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Watch your step. We don’t want to mess up anything for the detectives.”
“Who’s being brought in?” Rina said. “Who investigates hate crimes?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. As she stepped across the threshold, she felt her muscles tighten, and her jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder that her teeth didn’t crack.
All the walls had been tattooed with one vicious slogan after another, each derogatory, each advocating different ways to exterminate Jews. So many swastikas, it could have been a wallpaper pattern. Eggs and ketchup had been thrown against the plaster, leaving behind vitreous splotches. But the walls weren’t the worst part, minor compared to the holy books that had been torn and shredded and strewn across the floor. And even the sacrilege of the religious tomes and prayer books wasn’t as bad as the horrific photographs of concentration-camp victims that lay atop the ruined Hebrew texts. She averted her eyes but had already seen too much—ghastly black-and-white snapshots depicting individual bodies with tortured faces and gaping mouths. Some were clothed, some nude.
Shearing was staring, too, shaking his head back and forth, while uttering “Oh man, oh man” under his breath. He seemed to have forgotten about her. Rina cleared her throat, partially to break Mickey’s trance, but also to stave back tears. “I suppose I should look around to see if anything valuable is missing.”
Mickey looked at Rina’s face. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Did the place have anything valuable …? I mean, I know the books are valuable, but like flashy valuable things. Like silver ecumenical things … is ‘ecumenical’ the right word?”
“I know what you mean.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Decker.”
The apology was stated with such clear sincerity that it brought down the tears. “No one died, no one got hurt. It helps to get perspective.” Rina wiped her eyes. “Most of our silver and gold objects are locked up in that cabinet … the one with the grates. That’s our Holy Ark.”
“Lucky that you had the grates installed.”
“We did that after the Jewish Community Center shootings.” She walked over to the Aron Kodesh.
Shearing said, “Don’t touch the lock, Mrs. Decker.”
Rina stopped.
He tried out a tired smile. “Fingerprints.”
Rina regarded the lock with her hands behind her back. “Someone tried to break inside. There are fresh scratch marks.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Because you have the lock, they musta figured that’s where you keep all your valuables.”
“They would have been right.” A pause. “You said ‘they.’ More than one?”
“With this much damage, I’d say yeah, but I’m not a detective. I leave that up to pros like your husband.”
Abruptly, she was seized with vertigo and leaned against the grate for support. Mickey was at her side.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Decker?”
Her voice came out a whisper. “Fine.” She straightened up, surveying the room like a contractor. “Most of the damage seems superficial. Nothing a good bucket of soapy water and a paintbrush could take care of. The books, of course, are another story.” Replacing them would put them back at least a thousand dollars, money that they had been saving for a part-time youth director. Like most labors of love, the shul operated on a shoestring budget. A tear leaked down her cheek.
“At least no one tried to burn it down.” She bit her lip. “We have to be positive, right?”
“Absolutely!” Mickey joined in. “You’re a real trooper.”
Again, Rina’s eyes skittered across the floor. Among the photos were Xeroxed ink drawings of Jews sporting exaggerated hooked noses. They probably had been copied out of the old Der Stuermer or the Protocol of the Elders of Zion. Again, she glanced at the grainy photographs. Upon inspection, she realized that the black-and-whites did not look like copies. They looked like genuine snapshots taken by someone who had been there. The thought—someone visually recording dead people—sickened her. Now someone was leaving them around as a frightful reminder or a threat.
Again, her eyes filled with furious tears. She was so angry, so desolate, that she wanted to scream at the world. Instead, she took out her cell phone and paged her husband.
Decker had many thoughts rattling through his brain, most of them having to do with how Rina was coping. Still, there was some space left over for his own feelings. Anger? No. Way beyond anger, and that wasn’t good. Such blinding rage caused people to make mistakes, and Decker couldn’t afford them right now. So instead of mulling over a crime he had yet to see, he looked out the windshield and tried to get distracted by the scenery. By the rows of houses that had once been citrus orchards, by the warehouses and strip malls that lined Devonshire Boulevard. He tried not to think about his stepson in Israel or his other stepson at a Jewish high school. Or Hannah, who was currently in second grade—young and trusting and as innocent as those rows of preschoolers led out of the JCC a couple of years ago after that god-awful shooting.
He realized he was sweating. Though it was the usual overcast May in L.A.—the air cool and a bit moldy—he turned the air conditioner on full blast. Someone had given him the address as a formality, but even if he hadn’t known the locale, the cruisers would have been a tip-off.
He parked his car in a red zone, got out, and told himself to take a deep breath. He’d need to be calm, not to deal with the crime but to deal with Rina. A quartet of uniforms was buzzing around the space like flies. Decker hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when Mickey Shearing caught him.
“Where is she?” Decker’s voice was a growl.
“Inside the synagogue,” Shearing answered. “You want the details?”
“You have details?”
“I have …” Mickey flipped through his book. “… that the first report came in at eight-thirty in the morning from the guy who operates the dry cleaning. I arrived about ten minutes later, found the door lock broken. I called up the synagogue to find out if there was a rabbi or someone in charge. I got a machine with a phone number on it. Turned out to be your wife.”
“And you didn’t think to call me before you called her?” Decker’s glare was harsh.
“There was just a phone number on it, Lieutenant. I didn’t realize it was your wife until afterward.”
Decker broke eye contact and rubbed his forehead. “S’right. Maybe it’s better coming from you. Anyone been interviewed?”
“We’re making the rounds.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. Probably done in the wee hours of the morning.” Shearing slid his toe against the ground. “Probably by kids.”
“Kids as in more than one?”
“A lot of damage. I think so.”
“Tell me about the guy in the dry cleaners.”
“Gregory Blansk. Young kid himself. Uh … nineteen …” He flipped through more pages. “Yeah, nineteen.”
“Any chance he did it and is sticking around to see people admire his handiwork?”
“I think he’s Jewish, sir.”
“You think?”
“Uh … yeah. Here we go. He is Jewish.” Shearing looked up. “He seemed appalled and more than a little frightened. He’s a Russian import himself. Two strikes against him—Jewish and a foreigner. This has to scare him.”
“Currently, Detective Wanda Bontemps from Juvenile is assigned to Hate Crimes. Make sure she interviews him when she comes out. Keep the area clear. I’ll be back.”
Having worked Juvenile for a number of years, Decker was familiar with errant kids and lots of vandalism. He had worked in an area noted for biker bums, white trash, hoodlum Chicanos, and teens who just couldn’t get behind high school. But this? Too damn close to home. He was so distracted by the surroundings, he didn’t even notice Rina until she spoke. It jolted him, and he took a step backward, bumping into her, almost knocking her down.
“I’m sorry.” He grabbed her hand, then clasped her body tightly. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m …” She shrugged in his arms. Don’t cry! “How long before we can start cleaning this up?”
“Not for a while. I’d like to take photographs and comb the area for prints—”
“I can’t stand to look at this!” Rina pulled away and turned her eyes away from his. “How long?”
“I don’t know, Rina. I’ve got to get the techs out here. It isn’t a murder scene, so it isn’t top priority.”
“Oh. I see. We have to wait until someone gets shot.”
Decker tried to keep his voice even. “I’m as anxious as you are to clean this up, but if we want to do this right, we can’t rush things. After the crews leave, I will personally come over here with mop and broom in hand and scrub away every inch of this abomination. Okay?”
Rina covered her mouth, then blinked back droplets. She whispered back, “Okay.”
“Friends?” Decker smiled.
She smiled back with wet eyes.
Decker’s smile faded as the horror hit him. “Good Lord!” He threw his head back. “This is … awful!”
“They took the kiddush cup, Peter.”
“What?”
“The kiddush cup is gone. We kept it in the cabinet. It was silver plate with turquoise stones and just the type of item that would get stolen because it was accessible and flashy.”
Decker thought a moment. “Kids.”
“That’s what they’re all saying. Why not some evil hate group?”
“Sure, it could be that. One thing I will say on record is it’s probably not a hype. If he wanted something to swap for instant drug money, the crime would have been clean theft.”
“Maybe the cup is hidden underneath all this wreckage.” Rina shrugged. “All I know is the cup isn’t in the cabinet.”
Decker took out his notebook. “Anything else?”
“Fresh scratch marks on the padlock on the Aron—the Holy Ark. They tried to get into it, but weren’t successful.”
“Thank goodness.” He folded his notebook and studied her face. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m … all right. I’ll feel better once this is cleaned up. I suppose I should call Mark Gruman.”
Decker sighed. “He and I painted the walls the first time. Looks like we’re going to paint them again.”
Rina whispered, “Once word gets out, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of willing volunteers.”
“Hope so.” Decker stamped his foot. An infantile gesture but he was so damn angry. “Man, I am pi … mad. I’d love to swear except I don’t want to further desecrate the place.”
“What’s the first step in this type of investigation?”
“To check out juveniles with past records of vandalism.”
“Aren’t records of juveniles sealed?”
“Of course. But that doesn’t mean the arresting officers can’t talk. A couple of names would be a good start.”
“How about checking out real hate groups?”
“Definitely, Rina. We’ll work this to the max. Nothing in this geographical area comes to mind. But I remember a group in Foothills—the Ethnic Preservation Society or something like that. It’s been a while. I have to check the records, and to do that properly I need to go back to the office.”
“Go on. Go back. I’ll be okay.” She turned to face him. “Who’s coming down?”
“Wanda Bontemps. She’s from the Hate Crimes Unit. Try not to bite her head off. She had a bad experience with Jews in the past.”
“And this is who they bring down for a Jewish hate crime?”
“She’s black—”
“So she’s a black, and an anti-Semite. That makes it better?”
“She’s not anti-Semitic at all. She’s a good woman who was honest enough to admit her issues to me early on. I’m just … I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” He looked around and grimaced. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut. I’ll chalk it up to being a little rattled. Wanda’s new and has worked hard to get her gold. It hasn’t been an easy ride for a black forty-year-old woman.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Rina answered. “Don’t worry about her, Peter. If she just does her job, we’ll get along just fine.”
2 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
The pictures of the concentration-camp victims had to have come from somewhere. It was possible that they were downloaded from a neo-Nazi on-line site and enhanced to make them look like real photographs. Still, it was equally as likely that they had come from some kind of local organized fascist group. The fringe group that Decker had remembered from his Foothills days had tagged itself the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity. When he had worked Juvenile, it hadn’t been much more than a post-office box and a once-every-six-months meeting in the park. A few quick phone calls told him that the group was still in existence and that it had evolved into something with an address on Roscoe Boulevard. Decker wasn’t sure what they did or what they espoused, but with that kind of a name, the hidden message had to be white supremacy.
He checked his watch, which now read close to eleven. He got up from his desk and went out into the squad room. There were lots of empty spots, signifying that most of Devonshire’s detectives had been called into the field, but luck placed Tom Webster at his desk, and on the phone. The junior homicide detective was blond, blue-eyed, and spoke with a good-ole-boy drawl. If anyone could pose as an Aryan sympathizer, it would be Webster … except for the dress. Neo-Nazis didn’t usually sport designer suits. Today, Tom had donned a navy suit, white shirt, and a maroon mini-print tie—probably Zegna. Not that Decker wore hundred-dollar ties, but he knew the brand because Rina’s father liked Zegna and often gave Sammy and Jake his cast-off cravats.
Webster looked up, and Decker caught his eye, pointing to his office. A minute later, Tom came in and closed the door. His hair had been recently shorn, but several locks still brushed his eyebrows, giving him that “aw shucks” look of a schoolboy.
“Sorry about this morning, Loo.” Webster took a seat across Decker’s desk. “We all heard it was pretty bad.”
“Y’all heard right.” Decker sat at his desk and sifted through his computer until he found what he wanted. Then he pressed the print button. “What’s your schedule like?”
“I was just doing a follow-up on the Gonzalez shooting. Talking to the widow …” He sighed. “The trial’s been delayed again. Perez’s lawyer quit, and they’re assigning him a new PD who is not familiar with the case. Poor Mrs. Gonzalez wants closure and it isn’t going to happen soon.”
“That’s too bad,” Decker stated.
“Yeah, it’s too bad and all too typical,” Webster answered. “I have court at one-thirty. I thought I’d go over my notes.”
“You’re a college grad, Webster. That shouldn’t take you long.” Decker handed him the printout. “I want you to check this out.”
Webster looked at the sheet. “Preservers of Ethnic Integrity? What is all this? A Nazi group?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out.”
“When? Now?”
“Yes.” Decker smiled. “Right now.”
“What am I inquiring about? The temple vandalism?”
“Yes.”
“Am I supposed to be simpatico to the cause?”
“You want information, Tom; do what you need to do. As a matter of fact, take Martinez with you. You’re white, he’s Hispanic. With racists, you can do good cop, bad cop just by using the color of your skin.”
From the synagogue, Bontemps called Decker and told him about the three kids she had hauled in for prior vandalism. All of them had sealed records.
“How about a couple of names?” Decker asked.
Bontemps said, “Jerad Benderhurst—a fifteen-year-old white male. Last I heard, he was living with an aunt in Oklahoma. Jamal Williams—a sixteen-year-old African-American male—picked up not only for vandalism, but also petty theft and drug possession. I think he moved back east.”
“That’s not promising. Anyone else?”
“Carlos Aguillar. I think he’s fourteen, and I think he’s still at Buck’s correction center. Those are the ones I remember for vandalism. If you check with Sherri and Ridel, they might have others.” A pause. “Then again, Lieutenant, you might want to consider the bigger picture when it comes to tagging.”
Decker knew exactly to whom she was referring—a specific group of white, middle-to-upper-class males who were not only testosterone laden, but also terribly bored with life. Recently, after having been caught, the kids had secured their daddies’ highly paid lawyers before they had even been booked. The entire bunch had gotten off, the tagging expunged from the records, and in record time. Most of the kids were enrolled in private schools. For them, even drugs and sex had become too commonplace. Crime was the last vestige of rebellion.
“There was a group of them last year,” Wanda said. “Around twenty of them dressing like homies and trying to act very baaaad. They defaced a lot of property. If I thought about it, I could remember some names.”
“You could also have your ass sued for giving me the names,” Decker said. “As far as the records are concerned, they don’t exist. But I know who you mean.” A glance at the wrist told him it was eleven-twenty. “How’s it going over there?”
“Photographers are almost done. So are the techs. Your wife is waiting with a crew of people—all of them armed with soapy water pails, cleaning solutions, rags, and mops. They are ready to start scrubbing, and they are angry. If the police don’t hurry up, someone’s gonna get impaled on a broomstick.”
“That sounds like Rina’s doing,” Decker stated.
“You want to talk to her? She’s hanging over my shoulder.”
“I am not hanging,” Rina said, off side. “I am waiting.”
Wanda handed her the phone. Rina said, “Detective Bontemps has offered to spend her lunch hour helping us clean.”
“Is that a pointed comment?”
“Well, you might want to take a cue.”
Decker smiled. “I’ll be there as soon as I get off work. I will paint and clean the entire night if necessary. How’s that?”
“Acceptable, although by the time you get here, it may not be necessary.”
“I hear you have quite a gang.”
“Specifically, we’ve got the entire sisterhood here with brooms and buckets. Someone also made an announcement over at the JCC. Six people came down to clean and paint—one guy actually being a professional painter. Wanda, who’s been a doll, actually called up her church and recruited several volunteers. Even the people from the press have offered to help. We’d like to start already.”
“Detective Bontemps told me they’re almost done.”
“It’s just so … ugly, Peter. Every time I look at it, I get sick all over. Everyone feels the same way.”
“Who is down there from the press?”
“L.A. Times, Daily News, there are some TV cameras, but Wanda isn’t letting them in yet.”
“Good for her.”
“Have you narrowed down your suspect list?” Rina asked.
“I’m making a couple of calls. I’ll let you know if I have any luck.” He waited a moment. “I love you, darlin’. I’m glad you have so much support over there.”
“I love you, too. And those mumzerim haven’t heard the last from me. This isn’t going to happen again!”
“I admire your commitment.”
“Nothing to admire. This isn’t a choice, this is an assignment. Have you checked out the pawnshops?”
“What?”
“For the silver kiddush cup. Someone may have tried to pawn it.”
“Actually no, I haven’t checked out the pawnshops.”
“You should do that right away. Before the pawnbroker gets wind of the fact that he has something hot.”
“Anything else, General?”
“Nothing for the moment. Someone’s calling me, Peter. I’ll give you back to Detective Bontemps.”
Wanda said, “She’s quite the organizer.”
“That’s certainly true. Thanks for helping out.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Decker said, “The taggers you were referring to, Wanda. Most of them went to private school.”
“Some of them did—Foreman Prep … Beckerman’s.”
“That could work in our favor. I’d have a hard time doing search and seizure with kids in public school. But in private school, they are subjected to different rules. Lots of the places have bylaws allowing the administration to open up random lockers to do contraband searches.”
“Why would a private school administrator agree to do that for us, sir?”
“Because it would look bad if they didn’t help us out. Like they were hiding something. Chances are I won’t find much … a secret stash or two.”
“What specific contraband would you be looking for, sir? Anti-Semitic material?”
“A silver wine cup.”
“Aha. That makes sense.”
“It’s worth a try,” Decker said.
But one not without controversy or consequences. Because in order to appear objective—and the police needed to appear objective—he’d have to search several of the private schools, including Jacob’s Jewish high school. He’d start with that one.
3 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
What’s the address?” Webster asked.
Martinez gave him the number while taking a big bite out of his turkey, tomato, and mustard sandwich, rye bread crumbs sprinkling his steel-wool mustache. He had been thinking about shaving it off now that it was more gray than black. But his wife told him that after all these years of something draping over his mouth, he probably had no upper lip left. “Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?”
“Probably because I was in the squadroom.” He looked at his partner’s sandwich. “You carryin’ an extra one, Bertie?”
“Oh, sure.” Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. “You didn’t eat lunch?”
“When did I have time?” He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. “Decker cornered me just as I was hangin’ up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.”
“Yeah, it’s personal.”
“It’s personal. It’s also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.”
“Nothing wrong with us bagging a bunch of punks.” Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. “You know anything about these jokers?”
“Just what’s on the printout. They’ve been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.”
Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by a 99 Cents store advertising things in denomination of—you guessed it—ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoe store, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. “I don’t see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”
“The address is a half-number,” Martinez said. “We should try around the side of the building.”
Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door’s visibility blocked by a gathered white curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer.
The intercom spat back in painful static. “We’re closed for lunch.”
“Police,” Martinez barked. “Open up!”
A pause, then a long buzz. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses.
“Police?” She stood and looked to her left—at an interior door left ajar. “What’s going on?”
Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames—Grant Wood’s American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer—affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different-colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby-blue sheet of paper containing an article. The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later.
“A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.” Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. “We were wondering what you knew about it.”
Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s all over the news,” Webster said.
“I don’t watch the news.”
“You’ve got a radio on. I b’lieve it’s tuned to a news station.”
“That’s not me, that’s Darrell. Why are you here?”
“Because we know what this place is all about,” Martinez said. “We’re just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in.”
A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffee-colored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races.
“May I ask who you all are?” he said.
“Police,” Webster said. “We’d like to ask y’all a few questions, if that’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay,” the man said. “Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them. If not, you can show yourself to the door.”
“That’s downright unneighborly of you,” Webster said.
The man turned his wrath toward the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t let anyone in unless you’re sure of who they are!”
“They said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?”
“And since when do you believe everything someone says? You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?” Darrell turned toward them. “Can I see some ID?”
Webster pulled out his badge. “We’re not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we’re not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple that was vandalized this morning. Y’all know anything about that?”
“Absolutely not!” Darrell insisted. “Why should we?”
“Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?” Martinez asked.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Darrell said. “If I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.”
“S’cuse me?” Webster said. “This is being raked over the coals?”
“You barge in—”
“She buzzed us in,” Martinez interrupted. “And you haven’t answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?”
“I was home.” Darrell was smoldering. “In bed. Sleeping.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Alone. Unless you count my cat. Her name is Shockley.”
“And this morning?” Webster inquired.
“Let’s see. I woke up at eight-thirty … or thereabouts. I don’t want to be held to the exact time.”
“Go on,” Webster pushed.
“I exercised on my treadmill … ate breakfast … read the paper. I got here at around ten-fifty, ten-thirty. Erin was already here.” His eyes moved from the cops’ faces to the pitchfork of the Grant Wood classic. “What exactly do you want?”
“How about your complete names for starters.”
“Darrell Holt.”
Martinez looked at the woman. “You’re next, ma’am.”
“Erin Kershan.”
Holt tapped his foot, then released a storage cell of aggression. “I had nothing to do with the vandalism of a synagogue! That isn’t what this group is all about! We don’t hate! We don’t persecute! And if you were told that, you’ve been misinformed. We do just the opposite of persecute. We encourage ethnic integrity. I applaud Jews who wish to congregate with one another. Jews should be with other Jews. African-Americans should be with African-Americans, Hispanics with Hispanics, and Caucasians with Caucasians—”
“And what exact ethnicity are you?” Webster asked Holt.
“I’m Acadian, if you must know.”
“You don’t sound like any Cajun I ever met,” Webster said.
“The original Acadians came from Canada—Nova Scotia specifically.” Holt gave off a practiced smile. It was condescending and ugly. “I am proud of my heritage, which is why I feel so strong about preserving cultural purity. And it has nothing to do with racism, because as you can see for yourself …” He pointed to his hair and nose. “I have black blood in me.”
“So you admit to being a mutt,” Webster said.
Holt bristled. “I am not talking about bloodlines, I’m talking ethnicity. My ethnicity is Acadian and it is my wish to preserve my ethnic purity. It is our opinion that the mixing of ethnicities has ruined civilization and certainly the individualization and pride of too many cultures. Immigration has turned everything into one big amorphous blob. Look at cuisine! You go out to a French restaurant when you’re in the mood for French food. Or perhaps a Mexican restaurant when you want enchiladas. Or Italian or American or Southern or Tunisian whenever you want the various cuisines. Imagine what it would be like if you mixed up all these nuances, all the flavors. Individually they work; together, they’d make for one horrible stew.”
“We are not beef Stroganoff, sir,” Martinez said. “Food isn’t the issue. Crime is the issue. Vandalism is a crime. What happened today at the synagogue constitutes a hate crime. The vandals will be found, and they will be punished. So if you know something, I suggest you get a load off now. Because if we come back, it’s going to be bad for you.”
“You have us all wrong.” Holt picked up a handful of leaflets and handed them to Martinez. “You’ll probably throw them away. But should you care to enlighten yourself enough to give us a fair shake, you’ll see that what we say makes a lot of sense.”
Erin broke in. “We have all kinds of members.”
“All kinds of ethnicities,” Holt added. “We cater to the disenfranchised.”
“Like who?” Martinez asked.
“Read our flyers. Our members write the articles.” He plunked a few from the table. “This one—on the ills of affirmative action—was written by an African-American, Joe Staples. This one is on English as a second language in America, written by an ex-Marine turned psychologist.” He focused in on Martinez. “Mr. Tarpin is just elucidating a well-known point. That in the United States we have only one official language and that language is English. If you read it, you’ll see that he has nothing against Hispanics. Everyone who lives in the U.S. should speak English.” He smiled. “Just like you’re doing right now.”
“I’m glad Mr. …” Martinez looked at the flyer. “Mr. Tarpin would approve of my English skills.”
“Which makes sense, being as Detective Martinez is American,” Webster stated. “Which means, if you’re Canadian, Mr. Holt, Detective Martinez is more of an American than you are. And if you advocate people staying with their own kind, maybe you should go back to Canada.”
Webster was florid with fury, his hands bunched into fists. Martinez, on the other hand, was completely impassive, glancing at Mr. Tarpin’s words on why English was such a wonderful, expressive, and large language. That was certainly true enough. Compared to Spanish’s blooming buds, English was an entire bouquet of flowers because it used words from a variety of other languages. The irony was lost on the author.
Martinez said, “Did you print these flyers yourself?”
“The PEI did. Absolutely.”
“Things were left behind in the synagogue,” Martinez said. “Nazi slogans that were printed on flyers just like these.”
“There’s a Kinko’s about a mile away from here,” Holt retorted. “Why don’t you ask them about it?”
Webster said, “And if we were to download your computer files, we wouldn’t find neo-Nazi groups bookmarked on your favorite places?”
“No, you would not,” Holt said confidently. “But even if you did find anything you deem as offensive, it still proves nothing. I did not vandalize anything!”
“There were also photographs left behind at the temple,” Martinez said. “Horrible pictures of holocaust victims—”
“That’s terrible,” Erin piped up. “That’s not our thing.”
“What is your thing?”
“Erin, I’ll handle this,” Holt said.
She ignored him. “Our thing is keeping ethnic identity pure. Gosh, we do it with animals—purebred this and purebred that. So what’s so wrong about wanting people to stay pure? You call it racism, but like Darrell stated, we are not racists! We are preservationists. We have nothing against Jews as long as they stick with Jews, and stop controlling the stock market—”
“Erin—”
“I’m just saying what Ricky says. He says the Jews control all the computers. Just look at Microsoft!”
“Erin, the head of Microsoft is William Gates III,” Holt said. “Does that sound like a Jewish name?”
“No.”
“That’s because William Gates III is not Jewish. If Ricky told you that, Ricky is full of shit!”
Erin’s mouth formed a soft O.
“Who’s Ricky?” Martinez asked.
“Some jerk …” Holt made a face at Erin. “Why do you bring him up?”
“You said he was your friend. Didn’t you go to Berkeley together?”
Holt rolled his eyes. To the cops, he said, “Ricky Moke is to the right of Hitler. Why don’t you go hassle him?”
“Where can we find him?”
“That’s a good question,” Erin said. “He hides out a lot.”
“Erin, shut up!”
“Don’t yell at me, Darrell. You were the one who gave the cops his last name.”
“Is this Moke a fugitive?”
Erin and Darrell exchanged glances. Holt said, “Moke tells lots of stories. Among them is this tale about his being a wanted fugitive.”
“What is Moke supposedly wanted for?”
“Bombings.”
The cops exchanged glances.
“Bombing what?” Webster asked. “Synagogues?”
Holt shook his head. “Animal laboratories. Not the actual cages, just the data centers. Ricky, by his own admission, is an animal lover.”
4 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
Torah Academy of West Hills had been molded from an old veterinary clinic. It must have been a thriving practice, and for big animals, because the examination rooms were extra large though still too small for classrooms. So the majority of actual learning took place in prefab trailers that filled the parking lot, save for a few science classes that were held in the animal morgue. The other clinic rooms had been turned into offices for the administration. Decker knew that the school, like everything in this community, was run on hope, volunteers, and the occasional out-of-the-blue donation.
Rabbi Jeremy Culter was in charge of secular studies. He was in his mid-thirties, and considered very modern for an Orthodox rabbi. In addition to being ordained as a rabbi, he had a Ph.D. in education and, most telling, he didn’t have a beard. He was fair complexioned and on the short side—trim with very long and developed arms. His office held a minimal look—a desk, a couple of chairs, and a bookshelf filled with sepharim—Jewish books—as well as books on psychology, sociology, and philosophy. The walls were cedar-paneled and still retained a faint antiseptic odor, along with an occasional waft of urine.
Usually, when Decker visited the school, he wore a yarmulke—a skullcap. But today he was there not as a father but in an official capacity. He didn’t wear a yarmulke when he worked because he often dealt with people who hated him in particular and cops in general, and he didn’t want to give any psycho-felon anti-Semite any more fodder to use against Jews. Still, sitting in front of Culter, he felt exposed without a head covering. If Culter noticed, he didn’t let on.
He said, “I can’t believe you actually think that one of our own boys—your son’s classmates—desecrated a shul and left concentration-camp photos around? Children with grandparents who are survivors!”
Decker looked at him. “How’d you find out about the specifics of the crime?”
“This is a small community. Do I really have to explain this to you?”
“Did my wife call you?”
The rabbi shook his head.
“Must have been one of the members of the bucket brigade.” Decker smiled at him. “I’ve just assigned you the role of my clergyman. Now I have confidentiality. Okay with you?”
Rabbi Culter said, “Go on.”
“This is the deal. We’re calling it a random drug check for the boys. I’m going to use that ruse with all the schools I’m going to. What I’m looking for is evidence of who might have done this. If you and your school cooperate with me, Rabbi, I’ll have muscle when dealing with the other privates.”
Culter nodded. “The law is an objective animal and so are the police.”
“Exactly,” Decker said. “If I searched my own son’s school, then what excuses can the other principals give me?”
“You’re getting resistance?”
“You’re the first school, so I’ll find out. But I can tell you that no swanky private school will freely admit having vandals in their student body. It doesn’t sit well with the parents who pay enormous tuition bills.” He pointed to his chest. “I can attest to that personally.”
“Are you positive that kids did the crime?”
“No, I’m not. The police are checking out a number of leads. I’ve assigned myself the role of school snoop. Lucky me. This isn’t going to give me status with my stepson—invading the privacy of Jacob and his friends. But it’s worth it if I get results. When other principals see a clergyman not attempting to protect his own, what excuse do they have?”
“The parents are not going to be pleased.”
“Rabbi, I want to nail these bastards. I know you do, too.”
Culter lifted his brows. “So I’m supposed to tell everyone that it’s just a random drug check.”
“If you could do that, it would be extremely helpful.”
“What if …” The rabbi folded his hands over his desk. “What if you find something incriminating on your son?”
“Meaning?” Decker kept his face flat.
“I think you know what I mean. Yaakov has given me the impression that you two talk about personal matters.” A very long pause. He rubbed his nose with his index finger. “Perhaps I just spoke out of turn.”
“You mean drugs?”
Culter shrugged.
Decker said, “Jake spoke to me about marijuana use. If it’s more than that, I don’t know about it.”
The rabbi was stoic. “What are you going to do, Lieutenant, if you find anything in his locker?”
It was a legitimate question, and it churned Decker’s stomach. “I’ll decide if and when I have to deal with it. Right now, I’m willing to take a chance. Because I really want these punks behind bars. Please help me out. Help the community out. Not only do we want to find the perpetrators, but we don’t want this to happen again.”
“I agree.”
“So you’ll help me?”
“With reluctance, but yes, I will help you.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Decker stood. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
“Are you personally going to do the searches?”
“Yep. If it turns out okay, I’ll take the credit. If not, I’ll accept the blame. Where do you want to be during this fiasco?”
“By your side,” Culter said. “You’re not the only one who believes in justice.”
The contraband consisted of a few dirty magazines, as well as several plastic bags of suspicious-looking dried herbs, enough for Decker to act the bad guy and scare a few kids into behaving better. He used fear rather than actual punishment, effective in getting the point across. Yonkie’s locker was literally clean, stacked neatly and free of garbage. The teen’s recent behavior had indicated a change for the good, but Decker couldn’t deny the relief of just one less thing to worry about. As it was, there were going to be repercussions because the kids didn’t understand why Decker—an Orthodox Jewish lieutenant—had singled them out. It played to the boys as the gestapo sending in Jewish capos to persecute their own. Yonkie did have the sense to keep his mouth shut, but his eyes burned with anger and humiliation.
There’d be trouble at home, but Decker would tolerate it. His strategy had worked. Even before he had cleared out of the yeshiva, Decker had phoned and received an appointment with Headmaster Keats Williams from the exclusive Foreman Prep boys’ school. If the rabbis had agreed to a check, what excuse did the others now have?
Decker was at his car when Yonkie caught up to him. Almost seventeen, the boy had heart-throbbing good looks with piercing ice-blue eyes and coal-black hair. Even in the school’s uniform—white shirt and blue slacks—he was more matinee idol than bumbling teen. The kid was glancing over his shoulder, his body jumping like fat on a griddle.
He said, “This had nothing to do with my former drug use, right?”
“Right.”
“Because you couldn’t have orchestrated all this just to check up on me.”
“Correct.”
“I mean, even you don’t have that kind of power.”
“No, I don’t have that kind of power, and that would be a big abuse of power.”
“Yeah … right. So there had to be another reason.”
Decker could have kissed the boy. “Very good.”
“My friends don’t know that, though. They’re totally wigged. They think you’re pissed at me and taking it out on them.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I told them that you’re not from Narcotics. That this is a separate thing. So this whole drug search is probably a screen for something. Does this have anything to do with the shul being vandalized?”
Decker hesitated. “Who told you about that?”
“Dad, it’s all over the school. Everyone knows and is pretty freaked out about it. Now you’re here … You couldn’t think that one of us did it? I can’t believe you’d think that. It’s ludicrous.”
Decker didn’t answer.
“Oh, man!” Yonkie turned away, then faced him again. His face was moist and flushed. “You know, they’re going to talk against you. About how you’re picking on your own people because we’re easy targets. Eema’s going to take a lot of flak. If you had to do this, why did you come personally? To show your bosses that you’re not biased? You should be biased. You should have excused yourself. You should be at Beckerman’s or Foreman Prep. Or do the rich get special privileges?”
Yonkie was a mass of burning indignation, and Decker tried to take it in stride. What had to be done, had to be done. But the words hurt more than he’d like to admit. “I’m not responding to this. You’d better go back to class—”
“It’s not enough that they snicker behind your back,” Yonkie shot out. “You have to make me and Eema and Hannah pariahs as well?”
The barbs cut deep. Such venom from the mouth of a child that he had raised and had taken on as his own. “Jacob, I’m sorry that my position as a cop put you at odds with your friends. But it can’t be helped. I really have to go.”
“Where are you going?” Yonkie demanded to know.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to Foreman Prep.”
The boy was quiet, his mind tumbling for something to say. He had reddened with embarrassment. “So you’re like … checking out all the schools?”
Decker offered him a tolerant smile. “I’m checking out everything. The vandalism was vicious. It qualifies as a hate crime that carries extra weight and extra punishments. I’d like to nab the perps. I assume you’d like that, too. That much we can agree upon. Good-bye.”
Jacob blurted out, “Did I just put my foot in my mouth?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The boy turned his head away but didn’t move. “I used to keep my mouth shut. I never spoke my mind no matter what I was thinking.” He scratched his face. Bits of beard stubble were shadowing his cheek and it irritated him. Jacob used to have a stunning complexion. Porcelain smooth with hints of red at the cheekbones. His skin was still blemish free, but coarser now, like that of a young man. “What the hell happened to me?”
“You had secrets, and were afraid to talk. Now you don’t have secrets. The trade-off is a big mouth. It’s fine, Jake. I’m a tough guy; I can take a little sassing. I’ll see you at home tonight.”
“This whole thing was just a setup.” Jacob was whispering, more to himself than to Decker. “So you could go to the other places and say, ‘I’m checking out everyone, including my own son’s high school.’ Then they wouldn’t have an excuse.” He looked at his stepdad. “Am I right?”
“Shut up and go back to class.”
“I’m really stupid.”
“More like impulsive.”
“That’s true, too.” Instinctively, the kid reached out and hugged him quickly. Then he took off, embarrassed by his sudden display of emotion.
Decker bit his lip and watched him run away. Standing alone, he whispered, “I love you, too.”
5 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
Driving up to Foreman Prep, Decker was sorely reminded of the difference between parochial private schools and preparatory private schools. The acreage of Foreman was vast and green, shaded by specimen willows and stately sycamores. Behind the layers of arboreal fence were sprawling, Federalist-style, brick buildings. Or probably brick-faced, because architects did not design solid brick structures in earthquake-prone Los Angeles. Whether they were brick or brick-faced, the edifices were impressive and sufficiently ivy-covered to evoke dreams of the eastern universities. Decker didn’t care about the form, but he did care about the content. Foreman Prep had a course catalogue that could rival those of most colleges. Both Decker’s stepsons could have gotten in, but Rina wouldn’t hear of it. Religious education was paramount even if the current yeshiva had minimal grounds and rotating teachers. For her—and for the memory of her late husband—some things were nonnegotiable.
The headmaster, Keats Williams, was a double for Basil Rathbone except for the bald head—a topographic map of veins and bumps pressing against shiny skin. His eyes were hazel green, and his speech held a slight British accent. Affected? Probably. But at least he allowed Decker to present his scheme without sneering. As the headmaster lectured back his response, Decker’s eyes sneaked glances, trying not to widen at the richness of Williams’s office—something that Churchill would have been comfortable in. He wasn’t just a headmaster. Nor was he just a doctor of sociology as indicated by his Ivy League diploma. No, Williams was more. Much more. Williams was a friggin’ CEO.
“We just had an all-school drug check,” the headmaster informed Decker. “We have a zero tolerance for drugs at the school. Drugs, weapons, and explicitly sexual material. Even the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated is not to be brought to school, although it isn’t grounds for suspension—the first time. It’s impossible to keep teenage boys from thinking about sex. It’s always there just like a pulse. Still, that doesn’t mean it has to be addressed all the time. We’re out to train progressive minds.”
Decker said, “I heard about that. I’ve also heard that your school offers a very liberal freedom-of-speech policy, including platforms on abortion, legalization of opiates and prostitution, and euthanasia.”
“You’ve heard correctly.”
“You don’t shy away from controversy.”
“Indeed. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that these are but some of the issues that have come before our legislative body. We like to keep our students up-to-date … topical if you will. However, controversial issues do not extend to hate crimes, which are odious and against the law. I know you’re using drugs as an entrée to students’ lockers, but if you find any … and I do mean any evidence … that any of our boys are behind this heinous event, I want to know about it immediately. Proper remedies will be taken to assure that this issue will be addressed.”
“Doctor, if I find proof that one of your boys was part of this morning’s vandalism, he will be arrested.”
Williams was silent. It was one thing for him to reprimand and even to punish the students involved. It was quite another for their felonies to be broadcast over airwaves—not the PR that Foreman Prep liked. “Exactly how do you determine proof?”
“It varies.”
“If you should find proof … or perhaps the correct word might be ‘evidence’?”
“‘Evidence’ is fine,” Decker said.
“And if it should be necessary … for you to take appropriate action, is there a way that this can be handled … without a tremendous amount of fanfare?”
“I have no intention of calling up the press.”
“And if the press should call you?”
Decker was silent.
The headmaster placed his hands, fingers fanned out, on his highly polished walnut desktop. “Our boys are minors. If their names are released to the press, there will be problems.”
“Dr. Williams,” Decker chided. “Surely you don’t advocate suppression of the public’s right to know.”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” Williams stated.
Decker smiled. Spoken like a true American with his ass against the wall.
“I’m Dr. Jaime Dahl—special services administrator.”
Decker stuck out his hand. “Thank you for taking the time—”
“I didn’t volunteer for this witch-hunt, it was foisted upon me.” A swish of blond hair. “Let’s get that straight. I don’t approve of any kind of searches. I believe it’s a violation of civil rights.”
His day to get grief. Yet it wasn’t entirely her fault. At Decker’s behest, Dr. Williams hadn’t informed her or anyone else of the true purpose of the search. She’d probably be appalled by hate crimes, though she’d no doubt retort with, “One violation doesn’t excuse another.”
Through designer eyeglasses, she was slinging wicked looks his way. What made it worse was she was a fox—around twenty-five, with lush lips and knockout legs. She was wearing a black business suit and looked more like an actress playing the part of a school administrator. If this were a Hollywood script, they’d be in bed an hour from now. He must have inadvertently smiled, because her eyes grew angrier. She sneered at him. Too bad. He hated being dissed by anyone, let alone a fox.
She spoke in a clipped cadence. “Follow me.”
She led him down a flight of stairs, through a long, wide Berber-carpeted hallway, designated the student locker area. They were waiting for him—rows of adolescent boys standing next to their little bit of privacy, their hands at their sides. Two uniformed guards were watching them. The scene made Decker feel as if he were the aggressor, and that didn’t sit well with him. He stopped. “Is there any specific place I should start?”
“One is as good as the next.” Jaime tapped her toe, her left buttock moving with each rhythmical click of the shoe. “Let’s go from freshmen to seniors. They know what to do. They just went through the routine drill a few weeks ago.”
“They may know the drill, but I don’t.”
Jaime sighed impatiently. “One boy at a time will open his locker, swing the door all the way out, then take two steps back. Then you do your search and seizure. When you’re done, you step away and let the boy close his locker. Give them back a little piece of their stripped dignity.”
“That sounds fine—”
“I’m glad you approve,” Jaime snapped back. “Shall we get on with it?”
“The quicker I’m out of here, the happier I am.”
“I suppose that about sums it up for me, as well.”
“Why are you so unhappy about this, Dr. Dahl? Drug checks are part of standard operation in this school. You had to have known that when you took the job.”
“For the administration to do what’s necessary to maintain standards—that’s one thing. We don’t need the gendarmes telling us how to run our school.”
“Ah—”
“Yes, ah!”
Decker’s smile was wide. He tried to hold it back and that only made her angrier. She stomped over to the first lad—a fourteen-year-old moonfaced kid with a sprig of freckles across the nose—and asked him to open his locker.
He did, following Jaime Dahl’s drill to a tee. Decker was impressed.
Inside were papers, notebooks, pens, a few car magazines, and lots of candy wrappers.
“Thank you,” Decker said, taking a step backward.
The boy closed his locker. Jaime told him that he could go.
The boy left.
One down, about three hundred to go.
The tenth kid had a locker containing two bottles of pills. They looked to be prescription. He asked Jaime about them.
“As long as the medicine is from a doctor, we allow it into the school.”
“Can I pick up the bottles?” he asked her.
“Why are you asking me? You’re in charge.”
He picked up the bottles. “It’s all the same medicine.”
“I have a note,” the kid said anxiously. “You can call my mom.”
Decker looked him over. A stick of a kid: he was shaking. “I’m just wondering why you need sixty pills of any kind at school when the dose is one a day … at night.”
The kid said nothing.
Decker put the bottle back inside his locker. “Something you might want to think about. Someone could get the wrong idea … like you were selling off the excess. Of course, I know that’s not the case. But … it kinda looks bad.”
The kid mumbled a pathetic “Yessir.”
“It’s all right, Harry,” Jaime comforted him. “We can talk about this later.”
“Yes, Dr. Dahl.”
Decker went on to the next one, then the next. Over the course of the next hour, he found lots of bottles that looked suspect. Either they were genuine pharmaceutical containers with pills that didn’t match the prescribed medicine, or they carried counterfeited labels altogether. Since medicine was allowed, Decker left it up to Jaime to discipline. Usually, a stern look from the beautiful doctor was enough to send the boys into paroxysms. Decker felt for the kids, just like he had felt for Jacob after the boy had confessed his drug use. Kids had a way of doing that to him, making him feel bad even when he was just doing his job.
Rooting through the trash of rotting food, old papers, wrappers, and garbage. Not to mention old, wet gym clothes that smelled riper than decayed roadkill. Besides the pills, Decker found more than a fair share of cigarette butts—tobacco and otherwise. He pretended not to notice them. He also came upon packages of condoms—most of them unopened. There were also lots of pinups—mostly female, but there were some studly males as well. All of the posers wore smiles and adequate amounts of clothing. He also found several indiscreet Polaroids that he conveniently overlooked. It didn’t take long before Jaime Dahl became acutely aware of his omissions. It didn’t make her friendlier, but it did make her curious.
She said, “You’re not taking notes.”
“Pardon?”
“I see you’re not making note of any of the material you’re finding.”
“I haven’t found anything significant.”
“What would you consider significant?” The blue eyes narrowed. “You’re obviously not from Narcotics. Why are you here?” Suddenly, she took his arm and pulled him aside, out of earshot of the waiting students. She whispered, “Surely a police lieutenant has better things to do with himself than to hassle young minds in the throes of experimentation for freedom.”
“Surely.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
It was Decker’s turn to narrow his eyes. It seemed to unnerve her. “If we can’t be buddies, maybe we can try civility?”
“I know your type. Don’t even think about asking me out!”
He stared at her, then laughed. What’s on your mind, honey? He said, “My wife would have a few choice words to say to me if I did.”
Her eyes went to his hand.
Decker said, “Not all married men wear wedding rings.”
“Only the ones who don’t want women to know they’re married.”
“Dr. Dahl, I’ve got a wife, four kids, three stifling private-school tuitions, a choking home mortgage, and car payments on a Volvo station wagon that’s already out of alignment. I’ve got the whole nine yards of suburbia. And I’m still smiling because deep down inside, despite my cynical view of this entire planet that we call Earth, I am a very happy man. Can we move on, please? I have a schedule and I bet you do as well.”
She regarded his face but said nothing. Decker took the silence as an invitation to finish up. He was up to the senior class, and had gone halfway through its roster without finding anything incriminating. He was discouraged by his failure, but encouraged by it as well. Maybe the school was really the best and the brightest.
He was almost done, finishing the last row of lockers. One of them belonged to a good-looking boy of seventeen—around six feet tall and muscular. He wore his brown hair in a buzz cut and had storm-colored eyes—electric and very dark blue. His locker was free of contraband and very neat. No pictures, nothing chemical, nothing out of place. Yet there was something on the kid’s face, a smirk that spoke of privilege. Decker met the kid’s eyes, held them for a moment.
“Let me see your backpack—”
“What?” The boy blinked, then recovered.
“This isn’t the procedure,” Jaime stated.
“I know,” Decker said. He turned to the boy. “Do you object?”
“Yes, I do.” The muscular boy tapped his foot several times. “I object on principle. It’s an invasion of my civil rights.”
Again, Decker met the kid’s eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Do I have to answer that?” the boy asked.
Decker smiled, turned to Jaime Dahl. “What’s his name?”
Putting her in a bind. It was beginning to look like the stud was hiding something. If she didn’t at least minimally cooperate, she’d look like she was hiding something as well. Reluctantly, she said, “Answer the question.”
The boy’s name was Ernesto Golding.
Decker said, “Let me make a deal with you, Ernesto. I’m not interested in drugs, pills, weapons … well, maybe weapons. You have a stash in there, and tell me it’s fish food, I’ll believe you.”
“Then why do you want to look in his backpack?” Jaime asked.
“I have my reasons.” He smiled. “What do you say?”
The boy was silent. Jaime looked at him. “Ernie, it’s up to you.”
“This is clearly police abuse.”
Decker shrugged. “If she won’t make you do it, I don’t have any choice. But you’ll hear from me again, son. Next time I may not be so generous.”
Ernesto stood on his tiptoes, attempting a pugilistic stance. “Are you threatening me?”
“Nah, I never threaten—”
“Sounds like a threat to me.”
“Shall we move on, Dr. Dahl?”
But Jaime didn’t move on. Instead, she said, “Ernie, give him your backpack.”
“What?”
“Do it!”
The boy’s face turned an intense red. He dropped the pack at his feet, the storm in his eyes shooting lightning. Decker picked the knapsack up and immediately gave it to Jaime. “You look through it. I don’t want to be accused of planting anything. Tell me if you see anything unusual.”
“What am I looking for?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
What Decker expected to find were obscene photographs of concentration-camp victims. What Jaime Dahl pulled out was a silver kiddush cup.
6 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
It stood out, a surface of metal against books and papers. Decker brought his eyes over to the young man’s face. Ernesto Golding was dressed in khakis and a white shirt. Ernesto Golding had intense eyes on a good-looking face, a broad forehead, and weightlifter’s arms. Ernesto Golding didn’t look like a thug. He looked like a macho teen with better things on his mind than killing Jews. Decker took a handkerchief from his pocket and held up the kiddush cup. “Where’d you get this?”
Ernesto folded his arms across his chest, pushing out his bulging biceps with his fists. “It’s a family heirloom.”
“And why are you bringing a family heirloom to school?”
The boy’s face was an odd combination of fear and defiance. “Show-and-tell, sir.”
I’ll bet you’ve been doing lots of show-and-tell, Decker thought. Jaime spoke up. “What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Decker answered. But his eyes remained on his prey. “The cup has some Hebrew writing on it. See here?” He showed it to Golding. “It’s easy Hebrew. Read it for me.”
“I don’t read Hebrew—”
“I thought you said it was a family heirloom.”
“My family’s origins are Jewish. But that doesn’t mean that I know Hebrew. It’s like assuming every Italian knows Latin.”
Decker was taken aback. “Your family’s Jewish?”
“No, my family is not Jewish. We’re humanists with ancestry in the Jewish race.”
The Jewish race—a Nazi buzz phrase.
“I don’t want to repeat myself,” Jaime stated bluntly, “but what is going on?”
Decker said, “Did you listen to the news this morning, Dr. Dahl?”
“Of course.”
“Then you must know that a local synagogue was broken into and vandalized. I was down there. Most of the damage was ugly, but it can be repaired. The one thing that was reported stolen was a silver benediction cup.”
Jaime looked at Ernesto, then at Decker, who held up the cup. “This family heirloom is inscribed with the words ‘Beit Yosef.’ That’s the name of the vandalized synagogue.”
“It’s a family heirloom,” Ernesto insisted. “We’re doing a family history. A family tree for honors civics. Dr. Dahl is aware of this assignment. Back me up on this one, Doctor.”
“There is a family-tree assignment in honors civics—Dr. Ramparts.”
“Yeah. Third period.” Ernesto rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I brought this in specifically to illustrate my family’s past, and to give Dr. Ramparts a more … genuine feel for where I came from. I’m sure there is more than one Beit Yosef in the world.”
The kid was oh so cool. And he probably thought he was pulling it off. Never mind about the beads of sweat that dotted his upper lip. “I’m sure there are, Mr. Golding. Even so, you’re coming with me.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“That can be arranged.”
They took him to Dr. Williams’s office, Decker standing over Ernesto’s shoulder as the kid called his parents—Jill and Carter Golding. Decker could hear outraged voices on the other side of the line. He couldn’t discern much, but he did hear them instruct Ernesto to refrain from talking to anyone. From that point on, things moved quickly.
Mom made it down in six minutes. She was a pixie of a thing with pinched features and thin, light brown hair that was long, straight, and parted in the center. She wore rimless glasses and no makeup. Behind the specs, her eyes were smoldering with anger that only a parent knew how to muster. First, there were a few choice glances thrown in Decker’s direction. The stronger ones were reserved for her son. Decker knew what that was about.
Dad arrived about ten minutes later. He was short and thin. The eyes were dark and most of the face was covered with a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with silver. He appeared more befuddled than angry. He even shook hands with Decker when introduced. Ernesto didn’t resemble either of his parents, leaving Decker to wonder if the boy had been adopted.
The last part of the equation came in on Dad’s heels. Everett Melrose was an Encino lawyer who had made a name in California Democratic politics. He was well built, well tanned, and had the appropriate amount of sincerity in the eyes and distinction in the curly gray hair. He wore designer suits and dressed with flair. He had a wife, six kids, and was active in his church. He had defended some very big and bad people in his years, and had come out on top. Melrose’s past was squeaky clean as far as Decker knew. Amazing—a lawyer and a politician with nothing to hide. He shook hands all the way around and requested that he speak to his client, the young Ernesto, in private.
His request was granted.
The twenty minutes that followed were protracted and tense.
When they came back into Headmaster Williams’s CEO office, Ernesto looked upset, but Melrose was unreadable. He said, “Can you tell me the basis for this detainment?”
Decker said, “Your client has a stolen cup in his possession—”
“Have we determined that the cup was stolen?” Melrose asked innocently. “My client claims that the cup was an heirloom.”
Decker said, “Counselor, the cup belonged to the synagogue, Beit Yosef, that was vandalized this morning—”
“That’s impossible!” Jill broke in.
“Impossible that the synagogue was vandalized, or impossible that your son could have some involvement in the crime—”
“Don’t answer that!” Melrose interrupted.
“Ernesto, what is going on?” Carter asked.
“I wish I knew, Dad.” Ernesto tapped his toe and made eye contact with the floor.
A good bluff, but not a great one. Decker said, “The cup was taken from Ernesto’s backpack. That’s a fact. Dr. Dahl was there as a witness.”
“Did he give you permission to search his backpack?”
“Absolutely not,” Ernesto stated.
“It’s irrelevant whether or not you gave him permission!” Carter Golding spoke out. “I’d like to know what it’s doing in your possession.”
“So you’re saying it’s not a family heirloom?” Decker remarked.
“Carter, please!” Melrose said. “He’s not saying anything. He’s not the subject of this inquiry. What I’m hearing is that no one was granted permission to check Ernesto’s backpack!”
Dr. Williams came alive. “The school’s bylaws state that faculty can search lockers and personal property of any student at any given time to hunt out contraband or unlawful substances. Mr. Golding is aware of the bylaws. He has signed an honor code, acknowledging such rules with a promise to abide by them. So have Mr. and Mrs. Golding. It is a requirement of attending the school.”
“Lieutenant Decker is not faculty.”
“Dr. Dahl is faculty,” Decker countered. “She was the one who ordered Ernesto to open his knapsack.”
A few seconds of silence before Melrose turned his curious eyes on Jaime Dahl. “If you do routine searches for contraband, I’m assuming you have a list as to what constitutes contraband?”
“Of course.”
“And does it say specifically what items are contraband?”
“Stolen items are contraband,” Williams interjected.
“So a cup is not illegal.”
“The stolen cup is illegal,” Decker said.
“According to you, Lieutenant, a silver cup was reported stolen from a synagogue,” Melrose pointed out. “How do you know for certain that this is the cup in question? There may be hundreds like it.”
“Do you want proof that the cup belongs to the synagogue? That can be arranged. I can probably even dig up the original sales receipt. But I’ll tell you one thing for your own benefit, in case your client wants to change his story. That cup isn’t an heirloom. We bought it a year ago when the synagogue began having regular kiddushes after services.”
“What’s a kiddushes?” Jaime Dahl asked.
“Hors d’oeuvres after the Sabbath prayers. Before you eat, you need to make a benediction using wine. Hence, the silver cup.” Decker just realized that suddenly he was the resident Jewish expert. A position usually reserved for Rina, he felt strange occupying it now.
Melrose said, “You know a lot about this particular synagogue. May I ask if you’re a member?”
“You may ask, and I’ll even answer it, Counselor. Yes, I am a member.”
“So you’re hardly an unbiased party in this investigation.”
“That may be. But that doesn’t negate the fact that I can identify this cup as stolen.”
Melrose bluffed it out. “None of this will hold up in court. It’s an illegal search and seizure done under false pretenses. You told the students that this was a routine contraband check.”
Carter stood up. “Aren’t we missing the main issue? What were you doing with a cup from a vandalized synagogue, Ernesto?”
“It isn’t the right time to talk about this,” Melrose said.
Jill said, “This is all a mistake. Our son would never have anything to do—”
“Are you going to arrest the boy?” Melrose asked. “Yes or no?”
Decker sat back. He addressed his comments to Ernesto. “Mr. Golding, this isn’t going to go away. I am going to find out what happened, and if you’re involved, it’s going to come out. You can be in the catbird seat, or one of your cohorts can bring you down. Take your pick!”
“Ernie, what’s going on?” his mother asked.
“Nothing, Mom,” Ernesto answered. His breathing suddenly became audible. “He’s trying to psych you out. He’s a part of an organization of brutality. Police lie all the time. They’re never to be trusted. How many times have you told me that?”
Decker saw Jill Golding’s cheeks turn pink. “Ernesto,” he said, “you talk to me, I can ask a judge for leniency. Most you’ll do is some community service. More important, if you cooperate, I can try to get your records sealed even though you’re almost eighteen. The Ivies would never have to hear about it.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” Ernesto answered. “Cops are pathological liars.”
Decker raised his eyebrows. “Fine, son. Have it your way. I’ll recommend that you’re tried as an adult.”
Ernesto stood up. “You can’t bully me into submission! I’ve had way worse nightmares!” He stomped out, slamming the door as he left. Mom was the next one out the door. Dad waited a beat, swore under his breath, and then took off as well. The quiet ticked away for a few moments.
Decker said, “You want to bring him down, Mr. Melrose, or do I take out the handcuffs?”
“I’ll get him.” Melrose left.
Again the room fell silent. Jaime Dahl broke it. “I can’t believe it! Almost anyone but him!” She regarded Decker. “You still have a few boys left to search. Would you like me to do that?”
“I’ll do it when I’m done with Ernesto. I’ll need a list of his friends—”
“I don’t think I can do that, Lieutenant,” Jaime answered. “Finking is not part of the contract.”
“Finking?”
“It’s one thing to catch a student with stolen goods, it’s quite another to have a boy rat another out.”
“The synagogue was a horrible mess,” Decker said. “Pictures of dead Jews were thrown all over the place. He didn’t do it alone. I want names!”
Williams was about to offer some words, but the discussion was cut short. The door opened, and Ernesto tromped in. Still short of breath, he gasped out, “I want to talk to you.”
Decker pointed to his chest. “Are you talking to me, Mr. Golding?”
“Yeah, I’m talking to you … sir.”
“I like the ‘sir’ part,” Decker said. “It shows civility.”
The parents and Melrose materialized. Carter Golding was red-faced and furious. “I am the boy’s father. I demand to know what’s going on!”
“I’m trying to get that done, Dad,” Ernesto said with anger. “Can you just … like lay off for a few moments—”
“You’ve been accused of vandalizing a house of worship, and you want me to lay off?”
“Carter, I know you’re upset, but please, let’s deal with one issue at a time,” Melrose said.
Ernesto said, “I’ll tell this cop what’s going on, but first you’ve got to guarantee me what you just said … about it being sealed.”
Melrose said, “Ernesto, the man is a police lieutenant. If you want someone to do you favors, start acting appropriately humble.” He looked at Decker. “What can you do?”
“I could probably get his part pled down to malicious mischief, which will require some explaining since it’s a hate crime. But if it turns out he’s jiving me, all bets are off.”
“What is malicious mischief?” Jill asked. “What does it mean?”
“It means it’s a misdemeanor,” Melrose stated flatly. “I’m still not sure this is the best way.”
“Why the change of heart?” Decker asked Ernesto.
“I have my reasons,” the teen answered. “If you want to know about them, give me a guarantee.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” Decker said.
“Not good enough,” Ernesto stated.
Decker stood and took out the cuffs. “Fair enough. You’re under arrest—”
“Wait a damn minute!” Carter broke in. “Ernesto, once this man arrests you, you can’t be unarrested! Are you aware of that?”
Ernesto was quiet.
“It won’t hold up, Carter,” Melrose assured him. “He doesn’t have any rights here.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
No one spoke.
“This is the situation, Ernesto,” Decker said. “You talk, I listen. If I like what I hear, I go to bat for you. If I don’t, you’re no worse off. I’ll still arrest you. But what you told me will be inadmissible because you spoke without a lawyer.”
“No, no, no!” Melrose broke in. “Who said anything about his talking without representation?”
“Counselor, if you’re there, then it’s official. I have to read him his rights. Then, as we all know, I can use his statements in a trial. If you’re not there, I can’t use anything.”
“So what happens if you like what you hear?” Carter wanted to know.
“He writes it all down in a witnessed confession statement. We seal it. Then I take it to the D.A. and probably he’ll plead him down to a simple wrist slap—”
“Probably?”
“Yes, probably. I can’t say for sure. This is the best I can do—”
“I’ll take it,” Ernesto said.
“Ernesto, you’re seventeen. You don’t have the final word. Do you understand that?”
“And you’re fired, Mr. Melrose. Do you understand that?”
“Ernie, what in the world is wrong with you?” Jill screamed. “Apologize!”
“This is precisely why I can’t trust him without representation,” Melrose said.
Ernesto tightened his fists. “This is my life here, Mr. Melrose. Not yours, not my mom’s, not Dad’s … my life.” He looked at Decker. “I can speak for myself.”
Melrose said, “Carter, you can’t let him do this!”
“Yes, he can,” Ernesto said. “My parents raised me with independence. Now they’re going to put their money where their mouths are and trust me to do the right thing!”
And what could the Goldings say to that? Decker couldn’t have scripted it better. He broke in. “Where do you want to talk, Mr. Golding?” A pause. “Is there a vacant classroom somewhere?”
“You can have the faculty lounge annex,” Williams stated.
Ernesto said, “I have a calculus test last period. That’s in an hour. Can we wrap it up by then?”
“That depends on what you have to tell me,” Decker said.
“I’m not gonna miss my test,” Ernesto insisted. “I studied two hours for that sucker.”
“Ernesto, calculus should not be foremost on your mind!” Jill barged in.
“Calculus isn’t foremost on my mind, Ma, only getting an A in calculus. If I don’t get an A in calculus, I can kiss off the Ivies.” To Decker, he said, “You said the records would be sealed?”
“If I like what I hear, I’ll make that recommendation.”
“So I wouldn’t have to put anything on my college applications?”
“Not if they’re sealed.”
“So the universities wouldn’t know—”
“Forget about college right now!” Carter snapped.
“How can I forget about college, Dad!” Ernesto exploded. “Other than sex, college is all I ever think about. Because it’s all you and Mom ever think about!”
7 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)
The prep school supplied lots of perks, among them the faculty lounge. It was set up like a café in a bookstore with tables, chairs, a few comfy sofas, and several computer stations, allowing teachers to go on-line and check their E-mail. Plenty of reading material—novels, nonfiction, magazines, and papers—sat on the built-in shelves that lined the walls. A few excellent pieces of student artwork were displayed. The biggest benefit, in Decker’s mind, was the in-house laundry service. When Dr. Dahl saw him gaping at the counter, she explained that the faculty worked long hours. It was the least they could do.
Decker had to strain to hear her because, as they walked, Ernesto was sandwiched between them. He followed the administrator through the area, ignoring the steely looks of those who occupied the space. He said, “A place that does the wash. What’s your starting salary?”
The woman actually cracked a smile. “It’s on the high side because all of our teachers have postcollege education.”
An obvious slap in the face meant to put him in his place. Decker just shrugged. “I’m an attorney. Does that count?”
She slowed, giving him a quick glance. “You’re an attorney?”
“Once upon a time.”
“You actually passed the bar?”
“Now you’re getting insulting.”
She blushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, I passed the bar,” Decker said.
Gently, Jaime guided Ernesto. “This way.”
The annex was a blip of a room off the lounge. It was paneled, cozy, and held two tables, each with a computer, and several couches. It also had its own private rest rooms, which Decker found very impressive. They had interrupted a couple involved in a deep conversation. The young blond woman stood up, red-faced and red-eyed, smiling nervously at Dr. Dahl. The man—a bit older, in his thirties—remained on the couch, trying to adopt a casual demeanor, raking his hair with his fingers.
Jaime said, “We need the room, Brent.”
Slowly, the man got up. “Sure. Of course.” He walked out with the blond woman, a healthy distance between them.
Jaime tried to stifle a sigh. To Decker, she said, “Can I get you some coffee?”
“How about some water for the both of us?”
Ernesto said, “I’m fine.”
“I’ll bring some in, just in case.” Jaime left.
“Where do I sit?”
“Anywhere you want,” Decker answered.
The teen looked around, deciding on the couch. “Are you really an attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you a cop then?” Ernesto looked down. “Not that it’s any of my business.”
“I like the job.” Decker took out his notebook.
Ernesto said, “I saw this documentary once … about cops. Once they retire, they have a hard time readjusting to the civilian world. That’s what they call it, right?” He looked to Decker for confirmation, but Decker didn’t react. “Anyway, the moderator or narrator said something about cops being adrenaline junkies … that the regular world was a boring place compared to what they were used to. A high percentage of them commit suicide. Because they’ve been hooked on the adrenaline like others get hooked on drugs.”
Decker said, “Are you hooked on drugs?”
Ernesto shrugged. “Nah. Drugs are just for recreation. Something to do because the parties are so damn boring.”
“Is that why you vandalized the synagogue? Because you were bored?”
Jaime Dahl came back in the room with a bottle of Evian and two glasses. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” Decker couldn’t keep the edge off his voice. He had wanted to say, Leave us the hell alone.
Jaime picked up on it. “I’ll be waiting in the lounge.”
“Where are my parents?” Ernesto asked her.
“With Dr. Williams.”
“Is Mr. Melrose there, too?”
“Yes.”
Decker said, “Any time you want to stop and consult your parents or lawyer, just let me know.”
Ernesto took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m all right. I can handle myself.”
No one spoke. Jaime finally said, “I’ll be going, then.”
Decker smiled. He even kept the smile after she closed the door, as he waited for the kid to speak. He tried to make eye contact. It lasted for a few seconds, then Ernesto’s gaze fell on other things. The computers’ screen savers, the candy machine, the landscape on the wall. His posture was casual, but the vein in the kid’s temple was pulsating, his jaw taut and bulging. He didn’t appear the least bit cocky. On the contrary, Ernesto was worried … troubled.
“Actually, this is a good thing.”
“What is?” Decker asked.
“You and me here. I don’t want my parents or their lawyer to hear the full details of what happened.”
“Their lawyer is your lawyer. You’re going to have to tell him.”
“I will, but he doesn’t have to hear the details, either. I mean he needs details, but he doesn’t need …” Ernesto groped for the words.
“Explicit details?” Decker tried.
“Yeah. Exactly. I’ll tell you and maybe you can soften it around the edges.”
“You can present it to your lawyer however you’d like.”
“No one was hurt, you know.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“You think we can work something out?”
“I’ll know better once I hear what you have to say.”
“And if you can’t work something out?”
“Then you’re no worse off than you were a few minutes ago.”
He folded his hands into his lap, a sheen of sweat draped across the big forehead. “I am not out of control. I know you think I am, but I’m not. Despite what I did, I am not angry with anyone or anything. My life’s okay. I don’t hate my parents. I’ve got friends. I’m not hooked on drugs even if I do drop dope occasionally. I’m a top student, a lettered athlete. I’ve got lots of spending cash. My own set of wheels …”
Silence.
“But you’re bored,” Decker said.
“Not really.” The teen licked his lips. “I’ve got this problem. I need help.”
No one spoke. Then Decker said, “Are you asking me to suggest that the judge recommend counseling in lieu of punishment?”
“No, I’m willing to do community service. I fucked up. I know that. It wasn’t anything personal, Lieutenant Decker. I want you to know that. I just have this … obsession. I … had to do it.”
“You felt obliged to trash a synagogue?” Decker’s voice was neutral. “How so?”
“Just kept thinking about it. Over and over and over and over. I need help. But I’ve got to make sure I have the right therapist.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking for, Ernesto. I have no recommendations.”
“My parents would love to see me in therapy.” Head down. “They’ve been in therapy, like, forever. They think everyone needs therapy. So I guess by going to a shrink, I’ll make them happy.”
Decker waited.
“I don’t want their therapist or his recommendation,” Ernesto said. “He’s not what I need … a good friend to talk things over with. I need some guidance here. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“I’m not a therapist, Ernesto.”
“I know, I know. You’re only interested in a confession and putting this baby to bed. But maybe if you know the background, you can go to the D.A. and get some suggestions.”
If the kid was acting, he was doing a great job. He seemed genuinely perturbed, down to the fidgets and the squirms. Decker, ever the optimist, was willing to hear him out. Perhaps this boy, who had desecrated a synagogue with obscene slogans and left horrific pictures, had a story to tell.
“Ernesto, I’ll do what I can. But first I have to hear something. So if you want to tell me certain things, I’ll listen.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. It’s hard, though. Despite my family’s liberal-bordering-on-radical attitudes, we’re not a family with open communication. I know what my parents want, and if I deliver, I get the goodies. I don’t rock the boat, I sail on smooth waters. So here it goes.”
Decker nodded encouragement.
“When you asked me if my family is Jewish, and I said way back when, I wasn’t being snide. But I wasn’t being entirely truthful, and that’s the problem. My last name is Golding. My father’s father … my paternal grandfather … was Jewish. My paternal grandmother was Catholic. My mother’s mother is Dutch Lutheran, her dad was Irish Catholic. I’m a real mutt as far as any faith goes. So my parents—like the good liberals they are—raised me with no organized religion and just a concept of justice for all. Not that I’m putting my parents down … Do you know what they do?”
“Golding Recycling.”
“Yeah. Did you know that they are among L.A.’s top one hundred industrialists?”
“Your parents are an entity.”
“I’ve got to give them credit. They’re sincere. Everything they do has the environment or civil rights or the homeless or AIDS or some other cause behind it. They are the consummate fund-raisers. Sometimes it got in the way at home—it’s just my brother and me—but at least fifty percent of the time, one parent was there for me or for Karl. That’s Karl with a K.”
“As in Marx. And you’re named after Che.”
“You got it. My parents weren’t masters of subtlety. They’ve become more sophisticated since the naming days, but even in their most radical days, they talked the talk, but they never crossed the line. That’s why they’re living in a seven-thousand-square-foot house in Canoga Estates instead of creating false identities and running from the law.”
“You like your parents.”
“Yeah … yeah, I do. I … admire them although I’m aware of their faults. That’s why this is all so screwed up.”
“What’s screwed up?”
“Me. I’ll tell you my part in the mess, but that’s as far as I’ll take it. I’m not a rat, I don’t name names.”
“So there are others?”
“I didn’t say that. For your purposes, I was the sole perpetrator.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s my story. Should I go on?”
“I’m still here,” Decker said. The boy didn’t seem to know how to start. Decker helped him out. “Why did you vandalize the synagogue?”
“That’s a good question. I have nothing against Jews.” He looked away. “It has more to do with my personal problems. I’ve always been obsessive-compulsive, and I’m not just throwing out psych terms. I’ve always had weird rituals. Some of them I’ve outgrown. But some … I can’t help it. We don’t have to go into specifics, but my obsessions are relevant because once I get a thought into my head, I can’t let go. And that’s the problem. I have these dreams … more like fantasies because I’m awake when I think about them. It has to do with my Jewish grandfather—Isaac Golding. Well, it turns out that he wasn’t Jewish. Matter of fact, I think he was a Nazi.”
Decker kept his face flat. “Isaac’s a strange name for a Nazi.”
“That’s because it wasn’t a real name. I found this all out about six months ago. Remember I told you the honors civics assignment?”
“The family tree. Dr. Ramparts.”
“Yeah. Exactly. It’s a semester project. Dr. Ramparts wants it done in detail and correctly. So I’ve been working on this for a while, mostly getting oral history down from my parents because all my grandparents are dead. But then I figure I should do paper research for the sake of completion. So I started going through trunks of old documents that my dad has buried in the attic.”
“An attic?” Decker asked.
“Yeah. I know that’s weird for L.A. homes. But like I said, we have a big home.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on. You’re digging through old documents.”
“Yeah, right. I think my dad didn’t even know about the shit. It was given to him after his mother died.” Ernesto hesitated, then drank some water. “Anyway, my grandfather supposedly escaped the Nazis and moved to Argentina in 1937. Except old papers showed me that Grandpa’s account was off by ten years. From what I could tell, Grandpa actually came to South America in 1946 or 1947 under the name of Yitzchak Golding. Yitzchak is Isaac in Hebrew. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
Decker nodded. Yitzchak was the name of Rina’s late husband—the father of his stepsons.
Ernesto took a breather and went on. “So I figure okay … so Grandpa came after the war. He made a mistake. When I knew him, he was old and a little senile, so his absentmindedness is completely within context. So, I point out this little discrepancy to my dad, expecting a logical explanation. Instead, Dad freezes up, then accuses me of trying to stir up trouble … which was totally ridiculous. Usually, if Dad doesn’t want to talk about it, he just kind of gets this condescending smile and says something like ‘another time, Che.’ Dad calls me Che when he’s trying to prove a point. But this time he gets mad. He gets red in the face. He stomps off. I’m shocked. This means, you know, I hit a nerve.”
Silence.
Decker said, “So what happened?”
“Nothing. I never brought it up, and certainly Dad never brought it up again.”
“So now you’re curious and you have no logical explanation and no one to talk to.”
“Exactly! I technically dropped it, but it’s been plaguing me. It’s on my mind all the time. Because I get to thinking that if Grandpa did come over in ’47, that must have meant that he was in Europe at the time of the war. And being a Jew during the war, he must have suffered somehow. Because I have a couple of friends whose grandparents were European and Jewish, and they have war stories. But I never remember hearing any war stories. Nothing about the … the Holocaust … the death camps. No survival tales, either.”
“I understand.”
“And furthermore, my grandfather’s family was intact—his parents and a sister—which would make sense if they all had come to South America in 1937. The camps weren’t in full operation until later on. But it wouldn’t make any sense for all of them to be alive if Grandpa came over in 1947. You get my drift?”
“Your grandfather was an imposter.”
“That was my conclusion. My dad told me that I got the dates mixed up. But I don’t think so.”
“Do you have your grandfather’s birth certificate?”
“No, and that’s a problem. Just some old papers. I did some further probing … a little of this and that. Called up some resources. I did find a Yitzchak Golding who was sent to Treblinka, a camp in Poland, in 1940. He never came back. His brothers and sisters were also sent to the death camps. So were his parents. None of them came back. No aunts, uncles, cousins … all of them gone. Dead. The family is as extinct as dinosaurs. I’m carrying the name for a bunch of Jewish ghosts. They’re haunting me, Lieutenant Decker. Day in and day out, they’re haunting me. Their faces and their corpses.” Golding looked up, his stormy eyes wild and wet. “I had to get rid of them. So I did what I had to do.”
“You vandalized the synagogue.”
He nodded.
“Are the ghosts gone now?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. They’ll never be gone unless I make peace with them. I don’t know if that’s possible. It’s hard to talk to ghosts. They only talk in dreams, you know.” Ernesto swiped his eyes. “I had this girlfriend for over a year. Lisa. She was wonderful—terrific, beautiful, smart. I broke up with her when I found out about Grandpa. I just couldn’t be with her anymore.”
“She’s Jewish?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s why you broke up with her?”
“Of course. I was afraid of hurting her. Because of these dreams … these fantasies I have. I would never want to hurt her. I loved her. I still love her. But even after breaking up with her, the fantasies won’t go away.
“The fantasies … they’re sexual. They repel me, but they also—in some sick, primal way—they excite me. We were having sex, but it was the normal kind. Now all I can think about is the sick kind. Demeaning her … hurting her. It makes me sick to think I’m like that. But I can’t help myself. Certain things you can’t hide, you know.”
His pants were bulging.
“All this shit going through my brain while I’m trying to take my SATs and SAT IIs. I … need … help!”
It was a compelling case, and a sympathetic teenager. Decker was no shrink, but the kid seemed sincere. Not overly done, but clearly troubled. And what would Rina think if she found out that Decker was feeling sorry for the kid?
“Tell me the details about the vandalism,” he said. “Where did you get the pictures? They looked original. Were they from a neo-Nazi group or part of the stuff you found in your attic?”
“What difference does it make? I just got them.”
Decker was blunt. “Who else from your school was involved?”
“Look, I admit that I did it. That’s as far as I’m going. I’m not taking anyone else with me. That’s your job, not mine.”
Decker could have pushed it. And maybe on down the road, he would push it. But his motto was to deal with issues one at a time. And now that Decker knew about Ernesto’s involvement, other things would fall into place. “I’m sure that whoever adjudicates the case will demand that you get some kind of rudimentary counseling.”
“I need more than that.”
“I agree.”
Ernesto jerked his head up, surprised by Decker’s honesty.
Decker said, “You’ll have to talk to your parents—”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no! That’s not possible! As a matter of fact, I am forbidding you to say anything to them about this. I’ll admit to the vandalism. I think Dad understands where it came from because deep down, I think he knows about Grandpa’s past, too. But he hasn’t faced the truth yet. Maybe he never will. In any event, they don’t need to know the details. My fantasies …”
“You’ll tell your therapist?”
“I’d like to. If I can find one I can trust.”
Yet he told Decker all his thoughts without much hesitation.
Ernesto seemed to have picked up on the thoughts. “My parents have this elevated image of me. Why spoil it for them totally? So what if you think I’m an asshole—a spoiled rich kid flirting with neo-Nazism because I’m bored and a jerk. What do I have to lose? I’m telling you what you already think. I’m not that way, really. I mean, I’ve got my problems but I’m certainly not a Nazi freak. Just ask Jake.”
At the mention of his stepson’s name, Decker felt his heart skip a beat. He didn’t answer.
Ernesto said, “We used to go to the same parties. Everyone knew that Jake’s stepdad was a big-shot cop. We weren’t close, but we knew each other.”
Meaning they probably toked together. Decker remained quiet.
“Not that Jake talked about you.” Ernesto looked somewhere over Decker’s shoulder. “Actually, he didn’t talk about anything personal. He had this way of talking to you without ever talking about himself. Like he was really interested in what was going on in your life. It made him a girl magnet—that and the fact that he looks like he does. Me? I always felt he was hiding something. Kind of like being a cop, I guess. I haven’t seen him around in a long time. How’s he doing?”
“Let’s keep the conversation on you, Ernesto. What do you want me to present to the D.A.?”
“How about if … I, like, give you a statement? And we’ll play around with it until we’re both satisfied.”
“How about if you give me what you want me to present to the D.A.?”
“You can’t help me?”
“No. That’s called putting words into your mouth.”
“All right. I’ll figure it out on my own. What do I do?”
Decker reached into his briefcase and took out a piece of paper and a pencil. “You can start by writing.”
8 (#ulink_38d95a05-92e3-5773-87de-2476d88f33ba)
His orders were to pick up Hannah after school at three-thirty on the dot. This was not subject to debate, this was something he had to do because Rina was still busy cleaning up the shul. She refused to leave the sanctuary until it had been restored to pristine condition. No matter that Decker was in the middle of a pressing investigation of the crime that had caused it all, he’d just have to stop and do this parental duty.
He understood his wife’s agitation. The thought of the synagogue in a state of obscene disarray was something she—the daughter of camp survivors—couldn’t handle. Cleaning was a way of not only negating what had taken place, but of doing something. Action as opposed to sitting around and being victimized. The techs had taken the better part of the afternoon to do their thing, so not only was the synagogue messy from vandals, but it was covered with print dust. The hate-filled leaflets and horrible pictures had been bagged and carted away for evidence. And though it might take a while to put all the pieces together, Decker was sure that it would work out. Now it was just a matter of retracing the kid’s steps, finding out whom he had associated with. This was a good case for Wanda Bontemps to sink her teeth into. As a newly arrived detective, she’d get a chance to show her mettle. And if she needed mentors, she couldn’t ask for better ones than Webster and Martinez.
Decker pulled the unmarked next to the schoolyard. Which is what it was: a schoolyard, because it certainly wasn’t a playground. Not much more than a six-car parking lot sided by two basketball hoops. Twenty minutes, twice a day, the little kids were let out to ride tricycles, hit a tetherball around a pole, and run around. He got out of the car and stared at the asphalt.
“Where are the swings and slides?” Decker had asked his wife.
“Where’s the money? You find money, you’ll find swings and slides.”
Waiting among the group of gabbing mothers, he once again felt like a wart on a beauty queen. One of them attempted a smile. Decker tried to smile back, but from the look on the woman’s face, he had probably retorted with a sneer. She gave him the back of her head and went back to talking with the other moms.
Rina wouldn’t have approved of his reserve, but she’d never tell him. She knew his heart was in the right place—as were his hands. He had revamped the bathroom of the shul practically single-handed. Although they had thanked him heartily, he had known what they’d been thinking. The goyim … they’re good with their hands—as if he couldn’t be smart and coordinated at the same time.
Everything in their small Orthodox Jewish community was operated on spit and prayer. The primary school had originally been a thirty-year-old medical building. A step away from being demolished, then someone had stepped in at the last moment with a down payment. The architect—the brother of a member of the shul—had managed to join all the suites under a common ceiling. The classrooms weren’t much bigger than closets, but it was home. At least one of the docs had had the courtesy to leave a skeleton behind for the science lab—their most up-to-date prop. There had been a to-do about keeping the bones. Although the body was plastic, the head had once belonged to a genuine human being. In the end, the more modern outvoted the less modern, and Mr. Skeleton stayed.
Hannah came running out of the gate. “Daddddeeeeee!”
“Hannah Rosieeeeee!” Decker answered back, picking the seven-year-old up in his arms. “How was school?”
“Great! How many bad guys did you catch today?”
“A zillion billion.”
“Yes!” Hannah’s feet kicked the air. She squirmed her way down until she was standing on her own power. “Where’s Eema?”
“She’s busy.”
“Is she at the shul?”
Decker looked at her. “Uh, yeah, she is.” He bent down and looked his daughter in the eye. “What do you know about the shul?”
“The teachers told us that a bad man made it messy.” Her brow was knitted in sorrow and fear. “Someone who doesn’t like the Jewish people. Is he going to hurt us, Daddy? Like that bad man who shot the kids at the center?”
“No, honey. No one is going to get hurt. It’s all under control.”
“Did you catch the bad man, Daddy?”
“Sort of.”
“I’m scared. Why is Eema there?”
“To clean up the mess, that’s all.”
“But no one got shot?”
“No, honey, no one got shot.” What a world! “Let’s go, Hannah. Cartoons are waiting.”
Hannah was quiet on the ride home. Decker tried conversation, but the little girl didn’t respond. Four blocks before home, she started talking, although it had nothing to do with the shul. It was a diatribe about how Moshe always took her pencils … just grabbed them from her hand without even asking!
“That’s very rude,” Decker concurred.
“He never even once asked,” she said in outrage. “And … he never said thank you.”
“Very rude.” Decker parked the car in the driveway, helping his daughter out of the car. Then he took out Hannah’s backpack, which must have weighed twenty pounds. “How do you carry this?”
“On my back.”
“No. I mean it’s so heavy!”
“Yes, it is,” Hannah agreed. “Sometimes I use the wheels. Can I have Mike and Ike for snack?”
“No candy before dinner. How about milk and cookies?”
“I don’t like cookies. How about milk and Mike and Ike?”
Decker was too tired to argue. “Sure.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Hannah crooned, hugging his waist with thin little arms. “You’re the best!”
Translation: Between you and Eema, you’re the sucker. He parked her in front of the TV and used the quiet time to call his wife. “Just wanted to let you know that I got her.”
“Thank you, Peter. Is everything okay?”
“As long as you don’t mind her snacking on Mike and Ike.”
“And if I did?”
“I’d say, next time you pick her up.”
Rina laughed over the phone. “I do appreciate you picking her up. I can’t stand the shul in this state.”
“Are you almost done?”
“Not even close. I don’t know who made the bigger mess—the vandals or the techs. Judith Marmelson and Reneé Boxstein are here. Reneé’s husband, Paul, is bringing over cans of paint. If you want to leave Hannah with her friend, Ariella Hackerman, you can join the party.”
“This time I’m going to have to pass. I’m waiting for Yonkie to get home. I’d like him to baby-sit while I go back to work. I cut short what I was doing to pick Hannah up. But that’s okay. Actually, it was good to get out.”
“How’s the investigation going?”
“Promising. I can’t tell you any more.”
“Promising is good. Promising is encouraging.”
“It is indeed.”
“A suspect—”
“I can’t tell you any more.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Yeah, but you knew that when you married me.”
Yonkie was home on time. Decker waited until he settled into his room before intruding on his life. A moment later he heard ear-blasting punk rock coming from Yonkie’s stereo. Decker had to bang on the wood to be heard over the din. The music volume took a nosedive, and then his stepson opened the door, looking at him with grave eyes. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Decker tried out a smile. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” He stepped aside. “What’s up?”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“No, not at all. Sorry about today. I spoke without thinking.”
“Did you get a lot of flak from your friends?”
“It’s okay. I can handle myself.”
Same words as Ernesto. It was the adolescent creed.
Yonkie licked his lips. “What I don’t want is help, okay?”
Neatly stated. Decker nodded.
Yonkie was restless, clearly anxious for him to leave. “Anything else?”
“I left work early to pick up Hannah,” Decker said. “I’ve left some things unfinished. Can you watch her for a couple of hours until Eema gets home?”
“No problem.”
Being agreeable, but there was anger behind it. “Are you all right, Jacob?”
“Fine. Don’t worry about it.” A pause. “How’s Eema?”
His voice took on concern. The kid loved his mother. That made two of them. “She’s scrubbing out the synagogue. It was pretty bad.”
“Does she need help?”
“You’re helping her by watching Hannah. You sure it’s okay?”
“Positive. If she gets bored, I’ll take her out somewhere.”
“Thanks.” Decker patted the boy’s shoulder, but there was no response. Like Jacob was made of stone. Or maybe he was just plain stoned. Jacob knew he was being sized up. He didn’t flinch from Decker’s scrutiny. “Uh … are you going out now?”
“Yeah, give me a few minutes.”
“Take your time. Call me when you need me.”
He closed the door in Decker’s face. Jake’s life was a giant tumor of repressed anger. Decker tried not to take it personally, but the tension left him queasy. He went over to Hannah, who was steadily working her way through the box of candy.
“How about a grilled cheese sandwich?”
The girl’s eyes were glued on the TV—Scooby Doo. Man, that had longevity. The talking Great Dane had been around when Cindy was a little girl.
“Hannah, did you hear me?”
“Grilled cheese is okay.”
She had heard him. Decker made up a grilled cheese sandwich, courtesy of an electronic sandwich maker that not only grilled but also molded the bread into an attractive shell shape. The aesthetics were lost on Hannah. She asked him to wrap it in a napkin so grease wouldn’t get all over her fingers. Meticulous at times, downright messy at other times. Kids never failed to mystify him.
He said, “Hannah, I’m going back to work now. Yonkie’s here if you need anything.”
“Where’s Eema?” she asked again.
As if repeating the question would make her mother appear.
“She’s at the shul.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going now.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.” He bent down and gave her a kiss. “Bye.”
The little girl chewed off a piece of dripping cheese. “Bye.”
The child was in TV narcolepsy. He patted her head, then heard Jacob summoning him. Actually, Jacob had called out, “Dad,” and that was good. When Jacob was angry, he called him Peter.
“Are you still here?” Jacob yelled from his room.
“I’m still here. What’s wrong?”
“Can you c’mere for a sec?”
Decker patted Hannah’s head again, then entered the inner sanctum of Jacob’s private space. Jacob always made his bed and kept his floor cleared of junk, but his desktop was covered with books, papers, candy wrappers, doodads, and other odd-shaped items that Decker couldn’t identify. Sammy’s bed and desk had been left in pristine condition, completely cleared of anything extraneous. Jacob refused to let his mess carry over to his absent brother’s side of the room. It was as if Jacob kept it clean in hopes that Sammy would materialize.
“I think you’d better hear this.” Jacob turned on his answering machine.
Hi, Jake. This is Ernesto Golding. Long time, huh? I don’t know if your stepdad told you what was flying. Probably not. At least, he shouldn’t be talking about me, but you never know. Anyway, don’t go postal, but you’ll probably hear it from someone. So I figured you might as well hear it from me … that I B-and-E’d your temple … messed up some stuff, spray-painted some swastikas, and threw around some Nazi shit on the floor. I was just fooling around, getting stoned one day, and one dare led to another and things kinda got outta hand. I dunno … it was nothing personal against Jews or anything. It was just something to do. I feel bad about it, but like I said, it was nothing personal. And I don’t know how much you and your stepdad talk, but you can tell him that if you talk about it. I’m sorta rambling, I know. Anyway, I haven’t seen you around in a while. I suspect I won’t see you around anymore. I’m going to hang up now.
There was a click, then the droning buzz of the phone line.
Jacob looked at his stepfather with curious eyes. “Did you arrest Ernesto Golding for vandalizing the shul?”
“What he tells you is his business. But as far as I’m concerned, he’s a juvenile, and I don’t talk about juveniles.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Jacob began to pace. “What a prick! What an absolute prick!”
“Why do you think he called you?” Decker asked.
“I don’t know. I barely knew him.”
“Do you have any opinions about him?”
Jacob gave out a breathy laugh. “I have four grandparents who are camp survivors—two of them with numbers. This guy vandalizes the shul and leaves Nazi crap and hate graffiti all over the place. But I’m not supposed to take it personally?” He bit his lip. “Yeah, I have opinions about him. I think he’s a butt wipe.”
Decker restrained a smile.
“He’s a rich kid,” Jacob said. “But he makes a big point of not flaunting it. He’s so concerned about not flaunting it that he flaunts it. Money meant nothing to him because he was always flush.”
“Is he a smart guy?”
“No dummy. He took the SAT twice. Did over 1400 the second time.”
“Better than I could have done,” Decker said. “Of course, that’s not in your league—”
“Stop it!” Jacob snapped.
“Good Lord, take it easy, will you!” Decker barked back. “I’m trying to be nice.”
Jacob looked away. “I’m sorry.” He touched his forehead. “I think I’ve inherited your tendencies toward headaches. Pretty good trick, considering we’re not genetically related.”
Decker wanted to smile but couldn’t get it out. “I’m going now. If you need anything, call me, not Eema. She’s got her hands full.”
“Yeah, sure.” Jacob kneaded his hands. “Look, if you want to ask me stuff, it’s okay. I don’t know much about Golding. I knew him from the parties. I haven’t seen him or any of them in six months. I hope you know that.”
“Yonkie, I’m not looking over your shoulder.”
The teen considered the words, but gave no indication that he agreed with them.
“You miss Sammy?” Decker asked.
“Yeah.” He licked his lips. “Yeah, I do. We E-mail each other almost every day, so in a way I talk to him as much as ever. But then things come up … things you don’t want to write about. It’s not the same.” He caught Decker’s eye. “Golding had a really nice girlfriend … Lisa Halloway. They were real tight, and then he broke up with her. She was upset about it. Totally baffled. At least, that’s what she told me. I felt bad for her. I almost asked her out. Not because I felt bad for her, but because I liked her. She was smart enough and really good-looking.”
“So why didn’t you ask her out?”
“What’s the point?”
“I’m sure she would have gone out with you, Jacob,” Decker said. “Besides the brains, you got your mother’s baby blues.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I know she would have gone out with me. But it wouldn’t have lasted, so why make Eema upset? Eventually, I would have been too Jewish for her, and she would have been too goyish for me.”
He shrugged with resignation.
“You know, it’s not the rabbis and all the mantras they feed us at school that keeps me Orthodox. It’s idiots like Ernesto Golding. It makes me realize how alienated I am from the vast majority of this country. I can’t be a typical American teenager, starting with the fact that I’ve never eaten a cheeseburger. So maybe the rabbis did their job on some level.”
“Do you like being Jewish?”
Jacob turned hostile. “What kind of question is that? Do you like being Jewish?”
“Most of the time, yes. Can you stop biting my head off?”
“Sorry.” Jacob tapped his toe. “I’m okay with being Jewish. Better with it than I was six months ago. Now that the pressure’s off, and I can choose a secular college without feeling guilty, I feel a lot better about it.”
“That’s good.” Decker leaned down and kissed Jacob’s head. Not that he had to lean down much. The kid was inching his way to six feet. “I’ve got a mound of paperwork that’s weighing down my desk.”
“Go jam,” Jacob said. “Don’t worry about anything. Hannah will be fine.”
“And you?”
“I’m fine.” A pause. “A bunch of us are thinking of going to Magic Mountain Saturday night. I’m driving, but the guys are chipping in for the gas. I have enough for admission, but that’ll bust me. Do you have any odd jobs I can do for a couple of bucks?”
“I suppose baby-sitting counts for something.” Decker handed him a twenty. “That should tide you over for a while.”
“This is very generous.” A big smile … a genuine smile. “Thanks a lot. I’d better go study. I’m pulling high B’s in Gemora and would like to keep it that way.”
“Absolutely.” Decker left the boy in peace. Money. It certainly wasn’t love, but sometimes it acted as a damn good imposter.
9 (#ulink_ec545ab3-ad74-5b43-8850-288583c20913)
Microwaving the pizza had left it tasteless with soggy crust to boot, but it was hot and filling and that was the best that Decker had hoped for at this point in time and space. He made it back to the station house by six-thirty with a belly full of grease and a head spinning with ideas. He knew that Ernesto Golding had not worked alone, but other culprits continued to be elusive entities. Decker would have liked to question Ernesto’s friends extensively—find out if they had information—but he knew that their parents wouldn’t allow contact. Without proof of involvement, Decker couldn’t muscle his way into their living rooms, and no other evidence was forthcoming because Ernesto insisted he was the sole perpetrator. Furthermore, since Ernesto had cooperated with the D.A., Melrose had high hopes of getting the charges knocked down to a malicious mischief misdemeanor—probation combined with community service, and a sealed record.
Now that Ernesto had entered into the legal system, Decker’s part in the play had been relegated to the role of supporting cast. He didn’t have a lot of working time. If he didn’t come up with something new very soon, the entire case would slip from his grasp—officially closed, naming Ernesto Golding as the one and only vandal.
Entering the detectives’ squad room, Decker was heartened to find Martinez and Webster at their desks. Wanda Bontemps was also finishing up her paperwork. She was hunched over her desk, her fingers playing with a cap of tightly knit curls. She wore black pants and a blue turtleneck. A black blazer was draped across the back of her chair. He flagged her down, along with Martinez and Webster, and the quartet convened in Decker’s office.
Webster said, “Was Golding arraigned yet?”
“An hour ago,” Decker answered. “No contest. He’s back home—own recognizance. Court date will be in about six weeks.”
“Was he expelled from school?” Wanda asked.
“That I don’t know,” Decker said. “I have this gut feeling that there’ve been some quiet negotiations behind the scene. You know how it is with institutions and money.”
“The way of the world,” Webster said. “Nothing you can’t buy with money. Even money.”
Decker said, “I don’t know what the headmaster is planning to do. In a perfect world, Golding should be expelled.”
“In a perfect world, he should be in jail,” Wanda said.
“This is very true. But given the fact that Melrose pushed through a rush job, it’s unlikely.” Decker felt glum, as if he somehow had failed Rina. “What’d you find out about the Preservers of Ethnic Whatever.”
“It’s run by a guy named Darrell Holt, who is a mixture of lots of races,” Martinez said. “So I can’t figure out how he reconciles his own genetic variety with his ethnic purity crap. Anyway, he’s wrangled endorsements for his cause from some token minorities—one Filipino, one Hispanic, one African-American, one Asian, one Jew, and for sake of completion, one Anglo.”
“What kind of endorsements?” Decker asked.
“You can see for yourself, sir.” Webster handed him the flyers. “It’s all the same crud. Y’all can’t pin them down just by reading the articles. They play the separate but equal over and over and over.”
Decker thumbed through the pages, scanning the paragraphs. “Here’s one that recommends an English-only policy.”
“Yeah, that’s the one by the Marine.”
“Hank Tarpin.” Decker scanned the printed material. “Superficially, there’s lots here that my wife would agree with. She would kill her sons if they married outside the religion.”
“She isn’t the only one,” Wanda said. “I’d like my daughter to marry a good African-American man. Life is hard enough. At least in your own community, you can go around without getting stares and snickers. I talk from experience. About three months ago she had a Hispanic boyfriend.” She looked at Martinez. “People gave them looks.”
“What happened?” Martinez said.
“They broke up, but not because of the race … although I’m sure that didn’t help. He was a cop and she’s a cop and that wasn’t good.”
“One of my kids married an Anglo,” Martinez said. “The other married a nice kid whose family was originally from Cuba. I’m from Mexico, and that’s another ball of wax. I can’t say I feel more comfortable with one son-in-law over the other. But that’s not the case with my parents, who don’t speak English all that well. There’s a language barrier. Which is why, personally, I’m big on an English-only policy in school. If you don’t speak and write the language of the country, you’re second class. No way my kids and grandkids are going to be second-class citizens.”
“I agree with you, Bert,” Webster said, “but I reckon that you and the Marine are coming at it from different angles.”
“That’s true, but it’s irrelevant.” Decker put down the papers. “But the only pertinent question now is, do we have anything to link Holt to the vandalized synagogue?”
“Nope,” Martinez said. “But we talked to Holt before you arrested Golding. Maybe if we went back and mentioned Golding—”
“And then maybe Golding’s lawyer would be all over our asses for giving out the name of a minor,” Decker interrupted. “Pulling the Ernesto card is out. If the Preservers of Ethnic ‘Racists’ is involved, we’ve got to get them without asking about Golding.”
“How about harboring a fugitive?” Bontemps said. “Tell the loo what you told me about Ricky Moke.”
“Who’s Ricky Moke?” Decker asked.
Webster explained. “Supposedly Moke has been implicated in blowing up university animal laboratories. Supposedly Holt knows Moke. Supposedly Moke has dropped by their office. Supposedly Moke is an ardent racist.”
“That’s an awful lot of supposedly,” Decker said. “Does this bad guy have a sheet?”
“Nothing I could find,” Martinez said. “But I’ve only checked locally.”
“If he’s implicated with bombs, the FBI would have information on him. Make a couple of calls tomorrow.” Decker sat back. “What about Darrell Holt? Does he have a sheet?”
Webster shook his head.
“Any information on him?” Decker asked.
“The Preservers have a Web site,” Webster said. “But that’s all fluff.”
“Find out what you can about him.” Decker scanned through the leaflets. “Are these the only papers you found? I’m wondering if Golding ever wrote anything for them.”
“I’ll check it out tomorrow.”
Decker thought about what Golding had told him, about his German grandfather and his dubious past. “While you’re looking up people in the computer, find out what you can about Jill and Carter Golding. I want to know everything I can about Ernesto, and it doesn’t hurt to start with the parents. Since they’re well known, it should be easy to find information about them. Also do a search with Golding and Holt and/or Golding and Ricky Moke as a common subject and see if the computer throws out any association.”
Webster said, “The Preservers also have a girl working there. She looks about twelve.”
“Name?”
“Erin Kershan.”
“Look her up.”
Wanda said, “Should we put a watch on them, Lieutenant?”
Decker considered the idea. “Are they local?”
“Yes, they are,” Martinez told him. “Matter of fact, they live in the same building although different apartments. I’ll do it.”
“I’ll do it, Bert,” Webster volunteered. “I got the two A.M. feeding anyway.” He looked at Decker. “Could I leave at about one?”
“Sounds fine, Tom. You can put in for overtime.”
“I can use the money, sir. Thank you.”
Decker started writing down a schedule. “While you’re doing stakeout, I’ll drop by the Goldings and run Holt, Moke, and the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity by Ernesto. The boy isn’t going to admit to anything, but a good nuance is worth a thousand words.”
The Goldings weren’t home, leaving Decker to wonder if they were hiding out somewhere. Just as likely, they were out to dinner. It was only a little past eight. Decker called Jacob and was apprehensive when no one picked up the phone. He tried Jacob’s car phone. The boy answered after two rings. “Yo.”
“Are you two all right?”
“Oh, hi, Dad. We went out for ice cream.”
In the background, he heard Hannah scream, “Hi, Daddy!”
“Hi, Hannah Rosie.” To Jacob, Decker said, “Is she in the backseat?”
“Backseat with her seat belt on,” Jacob replied. “We’re on our way home.”
“I was thinking about stopping by the shul to see Eema.”
“That’s fine. Don’t worry about us. I can put Hannah to bed.”
“Could you do me another favor?”
“What?”
“Before you put her to bed, can you two come down and bring me some junk clothes and my sneakers from home in case I want to help paint later tonight.”
“No problem.”
“Or maybe I should just go home, so Hannah won’t be subjected to—”
But the line had already gone dead. He thought about calling Jacob back. He didn’t want Hannah reading all that hate-filled graffiti or seeing those dreadful pictures. Then again, Rina had been there for a while: the shul was probably somewhat sanitized by now.
He arrived at the shul by seven and parked on the street because the tiny lot was full. A few broken windows had been boarded up, but light shone through the translucent curtains covering the intact glass doors. When he went in, he entered a construction site. Tarps and drop cloths had been laid down everywhere. More than a dozen people were working, brushes and rollers in hand. The walls had been primed, and open paint cans were everywhere. Rina was wearing overalls and a big red bandana over her head. Her face was dotted with Navaho white. She gave him an air kiss.
“How’s it going?” Decker asked.
“Baruch Hashem!” She was smiling and it was genuine. “Let me introduce you to some of our volunteers that you don’t know.” She walked over to two African-American women. One was tall and skinny, the other was short and fat. Mutt and Jeff. “This is Letitia and this is Bernadette. They’re friends of Wanda Bontemps from her church. As soon as she called them, they came right down to help.” She patted Decker’s shoulder with a paint-splattered hand. “This is my husband, Peter.”
“Your husband.” It was the one named Bernadette. She had a smooth, round face and a stern look. She rocked from side to side. She was as tall as she was wide. “The police lieutenant.”
It sounded as if she was holding his title against him; in light of the past allegations of his department, that could very well be the case. He held out his hand to her and she took it.
Decker said, “Nice of you to help out.”
“It was nice of Wanda to call them down,” Rina said.
“Our church has an outreach program to help,” Bernadette said. “No one should be able to get away with defaming a house of God.”
“I agree,” Decker said.
“We need to start something like that in our community.” Rina turned to her new friends. “It’s not that we’re so provincial, although that’s part of it. It’s just that we’ve been so busy trying to make this congregation work. We barely have enough time and money to get our own services in order. But that’s going to change. We have to get more involved.”
“This was an eye-opener to me,” Letitia said. Her face was long and she had a wide, horsey smile. “I always thought the Jews had the big synagogues.”
“Some do,” Rina said. “We sure don’t. We’re lucky to pay the rent.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s my own prejudice talking,” Letitia said. “I’d better stop yakking and get back to painting.” She smiled again. “Go with my strengths.”
“How about some more coffee?” Rina asked. “I need more coffee.”
Decker was happy to see Rina so charged up and filled with action. It helped mitigate the pain of why she was there in the first place. He said, “The way you’re flitting around, do you think you really need more caffeine?”
“I don’t flit, I move in a purposeful manner,” Rina explained.
Bernadette said, “She just appears to be flitting because she’s so graceful.”
“Uh-huh,” Decker said. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
Rina yelled out, “Moishe, we could use some fresh coffee.”
Moishe Miller—a big bear of a man—was standing in front of several folding tables piled high with shredded paper and abused books. At the moment, the bearded dentist was painstakingly piecing together torn bits from prayer books. “Reg or decaf?”
The women looked about the room, then at each other. “Full strength,” Rina ordered. To Decker, she said, “Are you going to help out? We took down all the bookshelves. We need someone to paint them and put them back up.”
“Yes, I’m going to help out. Jacob’s bringing over some junk clothes. I have a little more work to do, and then I’m all yours.”
“Good to have someone who knows what he’s doing. House painting is a lot harder than it looks. It’s not just slopping paint over the walls.”
“So you’ve discovered.”
“It actually takes some practice.”
“Does this mean you appreciate me more?”
“I’ve always admired your manual skills. You just don’t work fast enough.”
“But I do a good job. And the cost is cheap. You get what you pay for.”
Rina nodded, then smiled at the women. But the expression was a taut one.
Bernadette caught the tension. “Well, nice meeting you … Lieutenant.”
“Peter is fine,” Decker said.
“Peter then.” Again, Bernadette shook his hand, then nodded to Letitia. The two of them went back to their artwork. Rina used the moment to take Peter aside. She said, “Yonkie called me—”
“I can’t talk about it,” Decker said. “The party is a minor.”
“The party is a kid named Ernesto Golding,” Rina whispered. “You didn’t tell me, Yonkie did.”
“Do you know this kid?” Decker asked Rina.
“Never heard of him until Yonkie told me. There must be someone else involved. This isn’t the work of just one person.”
Decker shrugged.
“C’mon. Yes or no? Is there someone else?”
“No comment.”
“Now you’re sounding like a politician.”
“If you’re trying to get me angry, I’ve had worse insults.”
Rina grew impatient. “Peter, this is your shul, too.”
“I’m painfully aware of that, Rina.” Then he said, “Please tell me that you haven’t mentioned Golding’s name to anyone else.”
“Do I look like an idiot?”
Now she was glaring at him. He said, “Don’t we have enough on our minds without fighting?”
“This isn’t a fight,” Rina announced.
“It isn’t?”
“No. It isn’t. This is … both of us glaring at each other because we’re both under a lot of stress.”
“I’m glaring at you?” Decker asked.
“Yes, you’re glaring at me.”
“You’re glaring at me!”
“I know,” Rina said. “That’s why I said we were glaring at each other!”
Decker paused, then started laughing. It broke the strain, allowing Rina to laugh with him. She reached out and took his hand and squeezed it. “I’d hug you except I’d get paint all over your suit.”
“Hug me anyway.” Decker took her into his arms.
They hugged—a long and romantic one. And she did get paint on his suit. He didn’t care. That’s why God invented dry cleaning.
10 (#ulink_996a926b-a105-5a2e-bff1-103fcc506323)
It was past eight and the Goldings still hadn’t made it home. Decker would try them in the morning. Still, he wasn’t ready to call it a working day. Six months ago, Ernesto Golding had a girlfriend named Lisa Halloway. Golding had mentioned her, and so had Yonkie. His stepson had stated that she had been devastated by the breakup. Decker wondered if she had picked up any telltale signs of Ernesto’s antisocial behavior before the actual vandalism.
The problem was getting past the parents. But that turned out to be the easy part: the parents weren’t home.
At least she didn’t slam the door in his face.
Under the illumination of a porch lamp, he noticed the winking of metal—multiple studs in her ears and a small stone in the side of her nose. Who knew what was in her belly button? Decker realized he shouldn’t judge by externals—if Yonkie had liked her, she must be a girl of some substance—but he was a middle-aged guy with old-guy prejudices. Trying to be objective, if he looked beyond the holes, he saw a pretty, dark-eyed girl with a clear complexion, an oval face, and dimples in the cheeks. Lots of long curls framed her face. She had her shoulders hunched over as if she was cold, and her arms were folded across her chest. She was unhappy and not afraid to express it.
“I don’t know anything about the vandalism.” Her voice was raspy and low. “But even if I did know anything about the vandalism, I wouldn’t rat on Ernesto.”
“All I want to do is talk for a few minutes,” Decker said.
“Why should I let you in? You could be a rapist!”
Decker smoothed his ginger mustache, aware of Lisa as an angry, young girl wearing a clingy, white tank top and jeans and no underclothes. He could see her nipples even in the poor light. Being alone with her—in private—was not a good idea. He said, “So we’ll talk out here.”
“For all the neighbors to see?”
“Yeah.” Decker smiled. “That’s the point. You’ll feel more comfortable that way.”
“You can come in,” Lisa sneered. “I don’t seriously believe you’re a rapist.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine out here.” Decker kept his face flat. “Can I talk to you on a conceptual level for a moment, Lisa? Let’s say we are given competing attributes—loyalty and justice. Both are admirable traits, agreed?”
“I don’t see the point of all this!” She rubbed her arms. “Also, I’m cold.”
“I’ll wait while you get a sweater.”
“Never mind!”
She was thoroughly sullen, but Decker continued anyway. “If the party in question is accused of doing something criminal, but there is no definitive guilt or innocence, maybe the party deserves the benefit of the doubt, ergo loyalty. But if you know for sure that he did it—because he himself has admitted it—doesn’t his criminal act abnegate his right to expect loyalty, and isn’t loyalty moot because he already admitted the act?”
She swished her curls. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why be loyal when you know he did it?”
“Lieutenant Lazarus, it’s all moot. I don’t know anything about the vandalism. Can I go now?”
Lieutenant Lazarus—using Yonkie’s surname. “It’s Lieutenant Decker,” he corrected. “And it’s a free country. You can leave anytime you want.”
But she didn’t leave.
Decker said, “You went with Ernesto for a while, didn’t you?”
“You know I did. Otherwise, why would you talk to me? What’s the point?”
“Any of his friends twang your antenna?”
“You mean did he hang out with Brown Shirts?” She rolled her eyes. “And if he did, do you think he would have told me about it? I’m Jewish.” She gave a snort. “Not the right kind of Jewish for you.”
Decker’s eyes bored into hers. “What did you say?”
The intensity in his voice threw her off-balance. She blushed, then pressed her lips together and turned away, the implicit message being she blew it with her mouth. The other implicit message was that it probably hadn’t been the first time.
“Who have you been talking to, Lisa?” Decker pressed.
He knew damn well whom she’d been talking to. Now Decker had the advantage. She knew she had gotten Jacob in trouble. She’d have to call him and explain. But first she’d have to deal with Decker. If she remained snotty, she would add to Jacob’s woes.
Now she was scared, didn’t make eye contact. “Can I go now?”
Decker was relentless. “Have you been talking to my son?”
“Stepson—”
“I stand corrected. Where do you know him from?”
“Just around—”
“Where?”
“I met him at a party. What’s the big deal? Jesus! Now I know why—” Again she stopped herself.
“Go on!”
Lisa rubbed her hands together. “Look! I met Jake at a party. Ernesto was there. Maybe Jake mentioned Ernesto or me to you in passing.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“Well, then, okay. Maybe he didn’t. I’m just saying that parents don’t need an excuse to rag on their children. Even my parents … who are pretty cool … they still snoop. All parents snoop. Jake told me you snooped. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. But let me tell you something about your son—”
“Stepson.”
“He feels brainwashed by your stifling way of life. He struggles with it. But in the end you must have succeeded because he hasn’t answered my phone calls for the last four months. Congratulations.”
So she had made a play for Jake, and it had failed. So not only was it his fault that Jake was conflicted, but it was also his fault that she didn’t succeed in getting him. “You know what, Lisa? I’m going to do you a big favor. I’m going to forget what you just said and how you just insulted two thousand years of my stepson’s heritage. Let’s go back to talking about Ernesto—”
“It’s my heritage, too, you know,” she defended herself.
“Then if it is, you should be even more offended by what your ex-boyfriend did. I’m going to ask you straight out. Did Ernesto have any friends that made you nervous?”
She paused for a long time. So many emotions walked past on her face—defiance, shame, insecurity, embarrassment, anger, hate—the whole gamut. Finally, she settled on resignation. “I hope I’m not sounding spiteful. I don’t want to appear like the scorned woman.”
“Go on.”
She sighed. “There’s a kid in our class—Doug Ranger. He has an older sister—Ruby. She’s around twenty-two or -three … graduated from Berkeley with a degree in computer science. She’s smart … sexy … not to me, but to the boys. She’s full of ideas … more like full of shit!” Wet eyes. “I’ve seen her car at Ernesto’s house a couple of times.”
“Maybe it’s Doug’s car and he’s visiting Ernesto.”
“It’s not him, it’s her.”
“I guess parents aren’t the only people who snoop?”
She wilted, her voice soft and plaintive. “Please, Lieutenant.”
“So you’ve seen Ruby Ranger go into Ernesto’s house? Yes or no?”
“Yes.” Totally defeated now. “Several times.”
“What’s she like?”
A long sigh. “Politicized.”
“What kind of ideas does she have?”
“Libertarian stuff. Government should stop being everyone’s baby-sitter. And it certainly doesn’t have any right to be a censor when it’s so corrupt itself. She’s really big on a free Internet. That’s her raison d’être at the moment—to maintain an uncensored Internet. You’re twelve years old and wanna talk about porn in the chat room with convicted sex offenders, that’s your perogative. Fine with her. You wanna talk about incest or NAMBLA, fine. You wanna talk about scoring drugs, fine. You wanna talk about neo-Nazis and Hitler as heroes or buy Nazi stuff over the Internet, that’s fine, too. She said that … those exact words.”
Decker nodded.
“She also said—right to my face while people were listening in—she also said that I would have been perfect concentration-camp fodder because I have typical Jewish looks.”
Decker winced. “That’s awful. Not that you look Jewish, but the Nazi fodder part. That’s absolutely disgusting.”
“It creeped me out.”
“I can certainly understand that.” Immediately, Decker was thinking about how this woman might be stoking Ernesto’s sadistic sexual fantasies. Her prodding would be especially potent if Ernesto felt that he was from Nazi heritage. “What’d you say to her?”
“Nothing. I was too shocked to respond. And, of course, that’s exactly what she wanted. To get attention by being outrageous.” Her eyes were focused somewhere on her bare toes. “Jake wasn’t there. I told him about it afterward. He told me his grandparents were in concentration camps.”
Decker nodded.
“But they’re not your parents?”
“My parents are American,” Decker said.
“So are mine. And my father isn’t even Jewish. I was very offended by her statement. Then there’s this side of me … I was embarrassed by looking so Jewish, because Jewish girls don’t have a reputation for being hotties. That’s why I got the nose pierce. You probably think that’s awful, right?”
He did think it was awful. Awful and an awful shame. But he tried to keep his face neutral. “Feelings aren’t awful.”
She wasn’t buying. “Not true. Self-destructive feelings are very awful.”
Decker softened his tone. “Do you know where Ruby Ranger lives?”
Lisa nodded. “With her parents. Are you going to go talk to her?”
“Definitely,” Decker said. “But it didn’t come from you, all right?”
“She’ll think it came from Jake. He hated her. Every time she walked in the room, he’d leave. She once confronted him … something about him living an outdated life. That was a mistake! Wow, he got real scar—”
She suddenly shut down.
Jake got real scary, she had wanted to say. Decker would bring it up with him, a task he dreaded. The father part of him just didn’t have the energy to deal with another crisis. But the cop part kept pushing him on. He folded his notebook. “Thank you. You’ve been helpful.”
“Maybe I’ve been helpful to you,” she said. “But I certainly have not been helpful to Jake or to Ruby.”
He was minutes away from the shul. But his head was still spinning from what Lisa Halloway had just told him. He decided to make a quick pit stop at home. Be a concerned father and check up on his children. Besides, the longer car ride to his house would give him a few more minutes of thinking time.
How to approach Ruby Ranger. At twenty-two, she was not a minor, but he imagined that her parents still exercised monetary control over her. If he could get them on his side, maybe that would give him an in with Ruby. Still, if the young woman were so strongly opinionated with such outrageous ideas, it indicated that she wasn’t dominated by her parents. The age, early to mid twenties, was unpredictable.
It was getting late. The best thing was to wait until tomorrow. Maybe he’d have some other clever idea as to how to approach her. Maybe if she enjoyed baiting people, baiting a cop would be a big kick for her. He’d play dumb. If she hated Jacob, it would be even more of a kick to mess up his cop father.
Which brought him back to his stepson. After fifteen years of having a no-fuss, no-hassle kid, he was getting paid back in spades. Jacob was moody, sullen, and sarcastic. But scary? The kid never failed to surprise him.
He opened his front door, then went into the kitchen. Jacob looked up from the kitchen table. He was in his pajama bottoms, eating a sandwich, and reading Beowulf, yellow highlight marker in his hand. “Hi. What are you doing home? I thought you were going to the shul to help out?”
“I decided to come home first … see if you need anything.”
“I’m fine. Hannah’s asleep.”
“Any problems?”
“Nah, she’s a great kid.”
“Yes, she is.”
“You look tired,” Jacob said. “Like you just had a very bad conversation with a hysterical seventeen-year-old girl.”
Decker sat down at the table. “I’m loath to get you involved. But I need help. As a cop, the more information the better.” He stared at Jacob’s food. “What are you eating?”
“Tuna. There’s more in the fridge. I’ll make you dinner.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Sit.” Jacob got up. “Kibud Av. Honoring your dad gives you brownie points upstairs. I could use extra.” He fixed Decker a tuna on rye, complete with lettuce and tomato. Decker ritually washed his hands, then said the blessing over the breaking of bread. With two bites, half the sandwich was gone.
“You are hungry.”
“I’m always hungry.” Decker patted his stomach. Still firm but a bit wider. “Can we talk about Lisa?”
“If you want.”
“Actually, I’m more interested in a woman named Ruby Ranger. Lisa told me you knew her, also that you disliked her.”
“That is a gross understatement. Ruby Ranger is psycho!”
“Lisa said that Ruby tried to bait you once. You took offense and got pretty aggressive.”
“What really happened was I told her if she ever got in my face again, I’d blast her face to smithereens.”
Decker didn’t answer, too stunned to talk.
Jacob said, “I not only threatened to kill her, I told her how I’d do it. Then I told her how I’d cover it up. Then I told her I knew all about homicide investigations and how to trip them up because I was your son, and I’d seen you conduct enough of them to know the pitfalls.” He looked at his lap. “Actually, I think she believed me.”
Decker bit his lip, trying to figure out how to respond. He couldn’t get any words out.
“She never talked to me again,” Jacob said. “Course, I never saw her again. I stopped going to the parties. So I guess I’ll never know what she really thought.”
“Did people hear you threaten her?”
“Yeah, we attracted quite a crowd. For a while, I was worried that someone was going to report me to the authorities—the real authorities, not you. Which would have been the correct thing to do. But no one did. All of them … the convictions of a turnip.”
Silence.
Jacob said, “Being arrested would have been consistent with my self-image. I was in the nadir period of my life. I was smoking weed and taking pills and screwing around and screwing up. I was out of control. Thank God, you got to me first.” He looked up. “That’s a compliment.”
“Thank you.” Decker stared at him, as if looking at a stranger. “You didn’t tell me you were taking pills.”
He waved Decker off.
“What else didn’t you tell me?”
Jacob threw his head back. “You’re a good guy, Dad. You try to be understanding. But even good guys have their limits.” He faced his stepfather. “I’m scaring the hell out of you, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“I hate everything and everyone,” Jacob said. “I’m furious all the time. But I’m the problem, not the world. I’m trying to channel it all into constructive endeavors. Probably sounds like a crock of crud to you, but it’s true.”
Decker was quiet.
Jacob looked away. “I really am trying. For Eema, especially, because she deserves better. I haven’t touched anything chemical beyond an aspirin in six months. I’m doing well in school. I’m still working the suicide hot line once a week. I feed the homeless once a month. I am trying! But it’s hard!”
Decker put his hand on his son’s shoulder. He leaned over and kissed his forehead. “What can I do for you, Jacob?”
He shook his head. “I guess you can just keep doing what you’re doing. Like not freaking when I tell you these things.”
“It’s hard,” Decker said. “Inside, I’m freaking pretty badly.”
The teen pushed his plate away and closed the book. “You’ve seen a lot of psychos in your day, right?”
“Right.”
“Do I fit the profile?”
Decker didn’t dare contemplate the thought. “No.”
Jacob smiled with watery eyes. “You’re just being nice.”
“You have a conscience,” Decker said. “Psychos don’t. But that doesn’t mean that you couldn’t do damage if you blew.”
“I know that.”
“Were you just spouting off at Ruby Ranger or did you really mean it?”
“At the time, I think I really meant it. She’s a bad person. She defends people like Hitler and Stalin and Pol Pot. When I threatened her, she played it real cool. In truth, I think she liked it. I know she liked it. She got excited—aroused. Her nipples got hard.”
“That could have been fear.”
“It was a sexual thing, Dad. Believe me, I know. These people … they are so rich, so privileged. Nothing is novel to them, so they’re always looking for kicks. When drugs don’t do it anymore, they move on to other things. Ruby Ranger thinks mass murderers and serial killers are misunderstood geniuses. Do I think she’s behind the vandalism after what Lisa told me—that she and Ernesto are playing the mating game? Absolutely! I wouldn’t be surprised if Ruby did it just to get to me, that she was waiting for me to come after her with a gun. She’s probably all wet and horny about it—”
“Jacob, please!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He covered his face. “I’m such a pain in the butt.”
“You’re not a pain … yeah, you are a pain. You’re very worrisome. I’m stymied. I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid, I promise you.”
“Are you being open with Dr. Gruen, Jake?”
“Bit by bit. Like I am with you. I tell him partial truths until I get the nerve to tell him the whole truth. He can tell what I’m doing, but lets me go at my own pace. He’s much better than the first one. I didn’t like her at all.”
“Did you tell him about your threatening remarks to Ruby Ranger?”
“Yeah. We’ve been working on that.”
“Okay.” Decker chose his words carefully. “Would you mind if I called him? I could use some guidance on what to do for you.”
“You’re doing fine, Dad. I probably talk to you as much as I talk to him.”
No, I am not doing fine! Mildly, Decker said, “So you’d prefer that I don’t call him?”
“Let me talk to him first, okay?”
“Fair enough. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“About Ruby Ranger or about me?”
“At the moment, I’m more interested in you than in Ruby Ranger.”
“What specifically? Drugs? Yeah, I took pills, too. Mostly downers when pot wasn’t enough. I liked being zonked out. It took the edge off the anger.”
“What else, Yonkie?”
“That’s it.”
Silence.
“No, really. That’s it.” He showed Decker his forearms. “See? I’m clean. I’m very angry, but I’m not chemically altered. You’re seeing the unadulterated Yonkel.”
Decker tried out a smile. He thought he was partially successful. “What about sex?”
“What about it?”
“Are you sexually active? I’d like to be sure that you’re protecting yourself.”
“Very much so.” Jacob smiled. “I’m not doing anything.”
Decker’s laugh was real. “Okay.”
“I made this deal with myself, that I’d wait with girls until I go away next year to Johns Hopkins. I have to work to keep the grades up, and girls are a distraction. Mostly, I’ll be older, the girls will be older. It ain’t easy, but I can wait.”
“That’s very smart.” Decker stalled. Somehow he got the words out. “Actually, when I asked you if you’d like to tell me something, I was thinking about criminal activity, Jacob.”
Jacob turned red and looked away.
“Am I way off base?” Decker asked.
Jacob continued to stare off. “I shoplifted.”
“B-and-Es?”
“No.” He looked at Decker. “No.”
Decker was about to say, “Okay, I believe you,” but he couldn’t find his voice.
Jacob said, “I shoplifted. Mostly booze, but I also stole about a dozen CDs over about a three-month period.” A pause. “Sixteen CDs. Don’t ask me how I did it with all those metal detectors. There are ways. I’m doing kapparah for it.”
“What kind of atonement?” Decker asked, using the English word.
“I never opened the CDs. They were still in their wrappers.” A beat. “Two months ago Dr. Gruen called the store manager. He explained the situation without mentioning names. Then he returned the CDs for me, no questions asked. As far as the stolen booze goes, I screwed up my nerve and did that myself. I used to hit this mom-and-pop liquor store. The owner—Mr. Kim—he’s being decent about the whole thing. We reached an agreement—a price. I’m working it off—manual labor stuff. Stocking shelves, sweeping, cleaning … watching kids for theft. Now, that is ironic, Alanis Morissette. I do it on Shabbos because it’s the only day I have off. Eema thinks I’m with friends, but I’m not. You can check it out if you want.”
“Where is this place?”
“About four miles from the house. I walk there after lunch. Yossie picks me up after dark. I used to see some of the old crowd there. Now they stay clear of me and of Mr. Kim. I may not have scared Ruby Ranger, but I think I scared lots of them.”
Decker rubbed his head.
“I’ve given you a headache.”
“I’m just glad you told me all this after the fact.”
Jacob said, “I’m doing better, Dad. It’s hard, but I’ll be all right.”
“Yonkie …” Decker cleared his throat. “Am I wrong in assuming that the bastard who molested you did more than you’ve admitted?”
Again the teen turned red. “I told you everything that I remembered. But there may be stuff that … that I blocked out. I was only seven, so … you know.”
Decker felt sick to his stomach. What did that motherfucker do? Calmly, he said, “Are you talking about it with Dr. Gruen?”
“Bit by bit. When it comes back to me.” Jacob flashed him a quick smile. “You want to talk about Ruby Ranger?”
Decker was happy to change the subject. Did that indicate a weakness on his part as a parent not to probe deeper? Or was he rationalizing it by telling himself that it was best left to the professional? Decker was only human. There was only so much he could absorb at one time. “What can you tell me about her?”
“Objectively, she’s smart—a computer person. I bet she’s an amateur hacker. She’s sexy enough to get plenty of guys if you’re into that severe Goth look. I could see her talking Ernesto into vandalizing the shul. She’d get off on that. But she’d never get her own hands dirty. That wouldn’t be fun for her. Her thing is manipulation, getting you to act out her pathology.” He grinned. “I sound pretty shrinky, don’t I?”
“You’ve learned the lingo.”
“When in Rome …” He looked at Decker. “If you talk to her, tell her to go to hell for me.”
“She’ll be interviewed but not by me.”
“Ah!” Jacob smiled. “Conflict of interest.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry to be such a burden to you. Don’t worry. I’m out of your hair in a few months. Surely, you can hang with that.”
“Jacob, you’re not in my hair.”
“Sure, Dad.” He gave him a sour smile. “Actually, I’m looking forward to Johns Hopkins and getting out on my own. And I’m not going to shoot anyone. Although if I did pop Ruby Ranger, I’d be doing the world a service.”
“That’s not funny, Jacob.”
“I didn’t mean it to be.”
11 (#ulink_03a518d1-6e6b-5aa6-a518-292b59205c3b)
Installing and painting bookshelves gave Decker much needed downtime, using his body instead of his mind. By two in the morning, the chemical cleaning fumes had become overwhelming, so the shul gang broke for the night. Rina was out as soon as she hit the pillow, but Decker remained fitful, dreaming in dribs and drabs about rebellious boys, his own stepson included. He awoke with a start at five-thirty—it was still dark—and drowned his lethargy with three cups of espresso. At six, he took his prayer shawl and his phylacteries and rushed over to the synagogue to join the men in morning services—an anomaly because usually their small house of worship couldn’t round up a quorum. But the events of yesterday motivated the community to try a little harder.
Right before the services started, half of Yonkie’s school—including Yonkie—came in to join them. Some smart kid even had the grace to bring in Danishes and juice as a reward for participation. It was downright homespun and everyone seemed friendlier, more social and a lot more grateful—praying with sincerity … making it count. By eight—after demolishing the snacks—the men started leaving to begin their working day. Rina, along with several other women, came in just as the men were filing out. They were holding pails, scrub brushes, scouring pads, and lots of Scotch tape to piece together torn bits of the holy books. Decker helped them unload the cleaning material.
“I’ve never seen the place so spotless,” he remarked to his wife.
“Almost like it never happened,” Rina answered. “What’s with that kid? Why on earth would he do such a terrible thing? I know you can’t answer me. I’m just wondering out loud.”
“Darling, I’m just as confused as you.”
Rina regarded her husband. “Poor Peter. You look tired.”
“I’m fine.” Decker smiled to prove the point. “How come you look so good? It’s not fair.”
“It’s called foundation to hide the dark circles.”
“Ah.”
“Also, you’re not wearing your glasses.”
“I don’t need glasses!” Decker insisted. “Only with medicine bottles. Let’s not rush things.”
Rina grinned. “Did I tell you I love you this morning?”
“No, you didn’t.”
She did. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Then she handed him a paper bag. “I packed you lunch. Please remember to eat it.”
“That’s never been my problem … not eating.”
She pinched his ribs. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Below the belt, kid.”
“Stop talking that way.” Rina smiled. “We’re in a shul.”
Decker laughed and hugged her. She felt tense and tight. He said, “Don’t overdo it with all the cleaning, Rina. You’re punishing muscles that you’re not used to using.”
She broke away and rubbed her shoulder. “I’m aware of that.”
“I’m going to remember that ‘below the belt’ comment,” Decker said. “Especially tonight.”
“I sure hope so.”
Decker laughed again, then gave her a final wave and returned to his car. Before he started the engine, he tried the Goldings’ home phone number. When no one picked up, he left another message. He had almost made it to the precinct’s parking lot when impulse overtook reason. He did a safe but illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, backtracking until he hit the Goldings’ neighborhood—a ritzy area containing blocks of spacious homes on acre lots. The development had its own tennis courts, swimming pools, saunas, Jacuzzis, workout gymnasiums, and recreation rooms as well as its own private patrol. As Decker groped around for the specific address, a white-and-blue rent-a-cop slowed his cruiser to check him out. Decker flashed his badge. The private cop nodded, then parked in the middle of the street and got out. He showed Decker the route to the Golding abode.
Ernesto lived in a house that was an amorphous blob, resembling a mound of melting chocolate ice cream. It was constructed out of adobe and probably would have looked great in Santa Fe, but since it sat in a lane of traditional Tudor, colonial, and Mediterranean houses, the place looked unfinished. More than unfinished, it looked like a project that someone forgot to start. The front landscaping was an assemblage of rocks and stones, sitting in beds of sand, and drought-resistant plants, mostly varieties of cacti, but there were also ice plants for ground cover and other flowering mint-colored foliage. A couple of stunted pines framed an old, carved door—the front entrance.
Decker knocked but didn’t expect anything. To his surprise, Carter Golding answered with Jill peeking over his shoulder. Even more surprising, they acted as if they wanted to see him.
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Faye Kellerman
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The thirteenth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanA horrifying crime…Rina Lazarus and her husband, Detective Peter Decker, are appalled when their synagogue is desecrated with swastikas and horrific photos from Nazi concentration camps. Who would strike at the heart of the community in this way?A tormented teenager…An arrest is soon made – 17-year-old Ernesto Golding. Ernesto is a privileged, wealthy kid obsessed with discovering the truth about his Polish grandfather, who moved to Argentina after the collapse of the Nazi regime.A case with devastating consequences…Despite Ernesto’s confession, Decker is unconvinced. And when Ernesto is found brutally murdered at an exclusive camp that caters to troubled kids, the investigation takes a sinister twist. Could this be Decker’s most dangerous case yet?