Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 04
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
Part One
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
Part Two
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Three
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Faye Kellerman
Copyright
About the Publisher
Faye Kellerman
Day of Atonement
A Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus Novel
To my brothers—Allan Marder and Stan
Marder—who teased me, but taught me
Contents
Prologue
He wrote down the name Hank Stewart. Stared at it…
Part One: Tephila—Prayer
1
Brooklyn.
2
He always hated this time of year.
3
The streets of Boro Park vibrated with an air of…
4
This was the alibi: He’d suddenly remembered an important detail…
5
The time has come.
6
Somehow Rina caught Frieda Levine before she hit the ground.
7
The next day, Rosh Hashanah services lasted from eight in…
8
It was taking too long, everyone making desperate excuses for…
9
The children had segregated themselves—the boys in one room, the…
10
Number-one item on the agenda: Get a good street map.
11
Boro Park was under the auspices of the 66th Precinct,…
12
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
13
“Ezra, my pearls are gone,” Breina Levine announced.
14
Shimon asked how did the interviewing go. Decker said it…
15
Another sundown, this one signifying the end of the Jewish…
16
Decker was ready by nine in the morning and waiting…
17
Decker took off his yarmulke, then walked into the Empire…
Part Two: Tzedakah—Charity
18
Hank thought:
19
From the airplane window, disks of white cloud looked like…
20
In the past year, Mike Hollander had gone up another…
21
Rina could never figure out why men became unglued behind…
22
“Why am I obsessing on the fish?” Decker said to…
23
The jarring ring of the telephone jolted Decker awake. Hand…
24
There were four public booths near the 10-East, none situated…
25
“Hersh Schaltz is my first cousin.” The deep voice paused…
26
The phone rang three times before Rina became aware of…
27
It had been a long and silent bus ride—a blessing…
28
After the phone call, Nick-O seemed better.
Part Three: Tshuvah—Repentance
29
Initially, it was Peter’s physical convalescence that worried Rina. But…
30
Frieda Levine raised her fist, about to knock, then abruptly…
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Faye Kellerman
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
He wrote down the name Hank Stewart. Stared at it for a while and decided it was a good start.
A start.
But not there yet.
He wrote Dr. Hank Stewart. Then: Hank Stewart, M.D.
But hell, doctors were nothing special. Matter of fact, they were assholes, all puffed up and full of themselves.
So he wrote Hank Stewart, ESQ.
Crossed that off the list. Lawyers were bigger assholes than doctors.
How about Hank Stewart, Nuclear Physicist.
Or Hank Stewart, Nobel Prize Winner.
Give ’em a smile as they took his picture.
Hell with that. That kinda fame was too short-lived. A picture in a newspaper for about a day. Big effing deal.
Hank Stewart, CIA.
Stewart—Superspy.
Good ring to it.
Ah, that was stupid. Kid stuff.
Still, kid stuff was better than peddling fish.
I’ll take one pound of snapper, please.
Yeah, lady. Right up your ass.
The old people always buying fish ’cause they didn’t got no teeth to chew meat. They came up to the counter, moving their mouths over their dentures, whistling the word “snapper,” their hands and head shakin’, looking like they wasn’t glued together very tight.
That was the worst part. Working behind the counter.
Now the gutting part was okay. Especially once you got the feel for it, didn’t let the suckers slip out of your hands.
Fish were slimy little bastards, all the gook would get over your clothes and you never could get the smell out. Thing to do was just work in smelly clothes for a while, then chuck ’em in the garbage.
Or stuff ’em in the mailbox of that jerk who was giving you a real hard time.
Now if he was a real asshole, you’d stuff some fishheads in with the smelly clothes.
Good old fish. Flopping in the pail, looking up at you with glazed-over eyes sayin’ “Put me out of my misery, man.”
At first he used to do it just like the old man did. Cut the gills. But then he found a better way. He’d step on their heads.
Stomp!
All the brain squishing out.
That part was okay, too. But the best part was the swim bladder. Bounce it with the tip of the knife. Careful, careful. It was delicate.
Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.
Then if you were quick enough, you’d jam the tip all of a sudden and it’d pop.
But that was kid stuff, too. Old stuff. He’d moved on to better stuff than popping swim bladders. And things were going real good until he got caught.
Hell with that shit. No sense moaning about the past. Better to make something of the future.
After all, he was young.
He wrote Hank Stewart, Real Estate Developer.
Like that guy who owned all those casinos in Atlantic City. Man, he could have his pick of chicks ’cause he had bread.
Hank Stewart, millionaire.
Hank Stewart, billionaire.
Hank Stewart, trillionaire.
Ah, that was stupid, too. Money wasn’t everything. It didn’t show what you got in your pants.
Hank Stewart, stud.
Ah-hah!
Hank Stewart, rock star. Hair down to his ass, wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans, sweat streaming down
his hard, lean body. Girls coming after him, screaming their little heads off, waiting for him to give it to them.
Hank Stewart, King of Rock and Roll.
He paused a moment, then wrote: Hank Stewart, King.
King Stewart.
Emperor Stewart.
Lord Stewart.
God Stewart.
Or just plain God would do.
PART ONE
Tephila—Prayer
1
Brooklyn.
Not the honeymoon Decker had imagined.
Twelve grueling months before he’d rack up another two weeks’ vacation time and here he was, alone in a tiny guest bedroom, his long legs cramped from having slept on too small a bed, his back sore from lying on a wafer-thin thing that somebody had mislabeled as a mattress. He’d bunked up in foxholes that had been bigger than this place. Most of the floor space was taken up by the pullout sofa bed. The rest of the furnishings were worn pieces old enough to be antiques, but not good enough to qualify. A scarred wooden nightstand was at his right, the digital clock upon it reading out ten-forty-two. The suitcases had been piled atop an old yellowed pine bureau adorned with teddy-bear appliqués. The sofa pillows had been stuffed into the room’s only free corner. On the east wall, two wee windows framed a gray sky.
The honeymoon suite.
Très charmant.
Two days ago, he’d danced blisters on his feet, whooping his voice raw, carrying his stepsons around on his shoulders. It had been a wild affair—the drinking and dancing lasting until midnight. Now his body was paying overtime for his exuberance.
Of course, the undersized sofa didn’t help.
He chewed on the ends of his mustache, then pulled the sheet over his head.
They say Jews don’t drink much, but they’ve never seen ultra-Orthodox rabbis at a wedding. The men downed schnapps like water. Decker had thought his father had a large capacity for booze, but Dad was a piker compared to Rav Schulman.
Dad and Mom. Sitting in the corner, wondering what the hell was flying. Cindy trying to coax Grandma to dance. Rina did get Mom to dance once. Even Mom couldn’t turn down the bride. But that one time had been the only time.
Well, at least they came. A big surprise and a step in the right direction. They liked Rina, he sensed that immediately. Rina could charm anyone and she was truly a nice person. But his parents couldn’t come out and tell him they liked her. Mom did admit that if he had to marry another Jew, Rina seemed like a decent woman. Very high praise. Then she added that Rina seemed sincere in her beliefs even though they were dead wrong.
Randy had liked Rina, too. Baby Bro liked all beautiful women, but he wasn’t what you’d call a picky sort. Decker wished he could have spent some more time with Randy—shoot the bull about the job—but he and Rina just had to rush off. Had to make it to Brooklyn before the holiday of Rosh Hashanah started.
What was he doing, honeymooning in Boro Park of all places? He and Rina should have been in Hawaii, making love in the moonlight on the beach. Hell, he would have settled for staying back home on the ranch—just him and her. Send Sam and Jake off to visit Grandma and Grandpa in Brooklyn for the holidays.
But no, no, no. Rina had to visit her late husband’s parents. His luck: to inherit not one but two sets of in-laws.
Decker stretched, his feet falling over the edge of the mattress.
At least her ex-in-laws were nice people.
So happy you joined us for the holidays, they had said. Rosh Hashanah will be a wonderful New Year’s with Rina and the boys and you as guests in our home. Thank you so much for allowing us the pleasure of being with you.
But Decker hated looking into their eyes. He could tell what they were thinking.
Why couldn’t you be our son, Yitzchak?
He ran his hands through damp ginger hair.
It had to be tough on them. Their only son gone, he the stepfather of their boy’s children.
He wished he was back home. Too many ghosts here.
The clock glowed ten-forty-five. He hadn’t heard Rina wake up, but he knew she wouldn’t dare abandon him. She was probably in the kitchen helping her ex-mother-in-law prepare for the big holiday meal.
His clothes weren’t visible. They’d been thrown off in the heat of passion last night, both of them stifling laughter, hoping the flimsy bed could take all the weight.
Afterward, Decker wondered if Rina had made love with her late husband in this very bed. But he had kept his thoughts to himself.
Finding the energy to rise, he immediately tripped on his shoes, stubbed his toe, and cursed silently. He stripped off his pajamas, went over to the bureau and found that Rina had unpacked, his clothes neatly stowed in the first and second drawers. She’d put his Beretta under a pile of undershirts, the clips all the way in the back under his pants. God bless an efficient woman.
He attempted to open a door on the west wall. It came out about halfway before it hit the bed frame. He squeezed himself inside the cell and found a munchkin-size bathroom—sink, shower, and toilet. The water closet was done in old white tile and reeked of disinfectant, but someone had laid out clean towels. He took a quick lukewarm shower (others had gotten to the hot-water tank before him), his elbows hitting the walls as he soaped up. He had to duck a good foot to get his head under the shower tap.
He dried himself off and dressed, his skin prickly with goosebumps. There was no room to stand and dress with the bed unfolded. He straightened the sheets and pushed the mattress inward until it slid down into the sofa frame, then put the pillows on the couch.
A little more space, but he’d have to do his waltzing elsewhere.
He put on gray gabardine trousers, a white dress shirt, and a pair of black oxfords. People around here just didn’t wear sweats. Strapping his belt around his waist, he felt lighter of weight without his shoulder harness and gun. And a little more vulnerable, too. He found a black yarmulke, bobby-pinned it onto his hair and quickly said Shaachrit—the morning prayers. Then he went downstairs to face what was in store for him.
He swore he’d be in a good mood. He swore he’d be friendly. But he felt grumpy, his leg muscles still bunched. His throat was tight, a sour taste had coated his mouth.
Relax.
No one was in the living room. It, too, was small, walls and moldings painted ivory and hung with dime-store landscape prints. The carpet was green shag, worn nearly flat. The couches were off-white velvet, the arms covered in plastic as were the lampshades. The room might have been described as old and musty had it not sparkled with crystal. On the coffee table, on the end tables, in a breakfront, in the connecting dining room. Decanters, vases, bowls, and goblets. Some of the glasswork had been intricately cut, catching the overcast light from outside and breaking it into thousands of colors. Other pieces were clear or etched—tinted deep iridescent shades.
All the crystal was smudge-and-dust-free. With the kids out of the house, this had to be mama lion’s pride.
The dining-room table had been extended until the top practically abutted the living-room couch. Enough seating for forty people. The entire downstairs was filled with cooking smells—the aroma of roasted meats, spicy puddings, and fresh-baked bread and pastries. Decker realized his mouth was watering.
High-pitched magpie sounds emanated from the kitchen. With all their chatter, the women hadn’t heard him come down. He stood at the kitchen doorframe waiting for someone to notice him. Rina’s ex-mother-in-law, Sora Lazarus, saw him first. She was a small, compact woman with large brown eyes and thick lips. Her hair was pinned under a big kerchief and she had spots of flour on her face. She wore a white chef’s apron and smiled at him, bursting into ooing sounds he interpreted as a welcome.
“Did you sleep well?” Sora Lazarus asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Rina emerged from the back, wiping her hands with her apron. She smiled at him and he immediately melted. She was exquisite even in a loose housedress. Sapphire eyes, inky-black hair, creamy
complexion, full, red lips. Not to mention those curves. And now, she was officially Mrs. Decker. Two long, long years. But she was worth the wait.
She led him into the belly of the kitchen. The place was hot and misty. Most of Rina’s hair was covered by a kerchief, but a few steam-limp strands had escaped and framed her lovely face. She slipped her arm into his and hugged his bicep.
“Akiva, I’d like you to meet my sisters-in-law, Esther and Shaynie.”
Decker found it amusing that she had called him by his Hebrew name. Only in Boro Park. Back home, he was plain old Peter. He nodded hello to the women, but knew better than to try to shake their hands. Men and women in this culture didn’t touch unless married, and even then public displays of affection were frowned upon. But Rina seemed to disregard this little bit of tradition and Decker was glad she did. He smiled at the sisters—women he’d spoken to many times on the phone. He said, “Nice to finally see the faces that go with the voices.”
They both smiled back and immediately averted their gazes.
He put Shaynie at about his age—forty-one or -two. She was petite, with a long face, amber eyes, and warm smile. She wore no makeup, but her cheeks were rosy from the heat. She was married to Mendel, an accountant.
Esther was also small, but heavier than her sister. Her face was fuller, her arms thicker. She had the same amber eyes as her sister and also wore no makeup. But her face wasn’t rosy, it was blood red. Her eyes rested on her feet.
And Decker knew why. Three months ago, her husband, Pessy, had been arrested in a massage-parlor raid in Manhattan. Through the police grapevine, Decker had found the proper connections and managed to spring the guy, expunging all the charges from the computer. He had mixed feelings about it. The guy was a first-class scumbag—had come on to Rina while she lived in New York. Clearing this little mishap meant he owed favors to some brothers in the NYPD. And he didn’t like being in the red.
But the Lazarus family had been grateful, though no one had ever explicitly told him so. It was just implied that they were grateful because everyone was suddenly more respectful to him whenever he called Rina.
Another little piece of dirt neatly swept under the carpet.
Sora Lazarus said, “The men already went to the mikvah. You want me to take you there?”