Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 04 Read online

  “No?”

  “Couldn’t squeeze a drop of piss out of them as far as who the perps were. But they assured us that they’d take care of the boys who did it. This kid…” Weiczorek hit the photograph with the back of his hand. “I think he was one of them.”

  Decker nodded, not surprised at all. “You get into a lot of conflicts—”

  Weiczorek interrupted him with a palm-up sign. “Yeah, I’m still here. No, that’s not him. Thanks.” He hung up. “Unless your boy’s got nappy hair and a dark suntan, we ain’t talking about the same kid.”

  Damn, Decker thought.

  Weiczorek said, “You was saying before I interrupted you?”

  Decker thought a moment. “I just wondered if there was a lot of tension between the locals and the law.”

  “Not much,” Weiczorek said. “They’re pretty easy once you know what to expect. You don’t muscle these people around. They get mad—not violent but stubborn as a constipated mule. Give you an example. About three years ago one of the officers who hadn’t worked long in this district gave a jaywalking ticket to one of the rabbis. Well, it was on a Saturday and the rabbi wouldn’t sign the ticket cause it was against their law to write on Saturday.”

  Decker nodded.

  “The young buck…” Weiczorek smiled. “He thought the old man was bullshitting him and was determined to show him who was boss. He hauled the old man into a cruiser. Next thing he knows he’s got about a hundred rabbis and associated black-suiters laying down in the street. The officer and his car ain’t going nowhere.” Weiczorek laughed. “A week later the guy transferred out of here. Know where they sent him?”

  “Where?” Decker asked.

  “Williamsburg.” Weiczorek burst into laughter. “He thought these guys were bad, those blackies in Williamsburg don’t take no shit. Mean, rotten tempers. They got this cattle call—chaptzum. It means grab him. Someone calls out chaptzum and every person on the block comes pouring out and pounces on the poor schmuck who made the mistake of mugging the wrong person.”

  Weiczorek laughed again.

  “About a week ago, the Nine-Oh found three Puerto Ricans beat up pretty bad and stuffed into an empty trash bin. Nobody died and the PRs ain’t talking, so we really don’t know what happened. At first, we thought it was some sort of turf thing with the gangs—who cares about them beatin’ each other up, right?”

  Decker nodded.

  Weiczorek went on, “Except one of the cops duly noted that the PRs had been shitcanned in the Jewish section of Williamsburg right next to one of their all-boys high schools. Course no one will say nuttin’—you question the rabbis and all of a sudden they only speak Yiddish. Been living in this country for all of their lives, and they only speak Yiddish.”

  “Weird,” Decker said.

  “Glad to hear you say that,” Weiczorek said. “I think it’s weird, but what do I know? You hear them in their schools, teaching the first-graders ‘Das es ein A. Das es ein B.’” He shook his head. “Wanna know my opinion, I think those Puerto Rican scumbags were up to no good and the Jew boys chaptzummed ’em.”

  Weiczorek ruminated on his theory for a moment. “I say more power to them. They want a safe neighborhood, they’re not afraid to fight for it.”

  “They take care of their own,” Decker said.

  “Exactly,” Weiczorek said. “Gotta take care of your own. That’s the trouble with America today. Everybody’s only looking out for themselves.” He scratched his head again. “Sorry we couldn’t give you good news. I’ve got the family’s number; I’ll personally keep my eyes open. Maybe something’ll turn up. Usually, the kid comes home after a few days. Course, that doesn’t make the waiting any easier.”

  Decker felt sick. The prospect of facing the family was wearing him down like sand in a motor. And he knew that there was going to be a big scene at the suggestion of putting some new blood on the case.

  Stubborn as a constipated mule.

  Not the type of people to let go easily.

  “Let me ask you this,” Decker said. “Think he might have holed up in Prospect Park?”

  “Not likely,” Weiczorek said. “Being a native, he’d know better. Besides, it’s cold outside.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll take a look anyway.”

  “Up to you,” Weiczorek said. “Just keep the door locked and the engine running.”

  Decker said, “’Preciate your help.” He pulled out an identification card and gave it to the desk sergeant. “You ever need a favor from our boys in blue, give me a call.”

  Weiczorek studied the card, nodded. “Detective Sergeant First Grade—you must be a hot dog.”

  Decker said, “No, not a hot dog. I’m like your pit bull posted on the board. I go for the nuts.”

  Weiczorek laughed. “I’ll pass the word along, tell the cruisers to pay special attention to this one. New York, Los Angeles, it don’t matter. We cops take care of our own.”

  12

  Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  He’d had enough of waiting.

  Sitting in school waiting for the bell to ring, sitting at home on Saturday waiting for the sun to go down, sitting at the dinner table waiting to be excused. Waiting around for the old man to clean and clear the fish cases.

  The old man. It took him a long time to do that, each fish counted and put into the freezer or cooler. Then he had to drain all the ice. Old man used to buy him a soda to drink while he waited. But the soda didn’t last long enough and he was forced to wait, wait, wait.

  Once, while the old man was packing fish, he went out back to the trash barrels—the ones with the entrails. It was cold outside; he could still remember shivering, the wind whipping through his flannel shirt, pricking him on the neck. The back lot was wet and damp, reeking with stink. But something drew him to that damn barrel.

  He popped open the lid, the sickening sweet smell filling up his head. It gave him a rush. He dipped his finger inside, swirled it around. The guts were still pliable but were coated with thin slivers of ice. Shaking, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the air causing goosebumps on his naked arms. With one sudden motion, he plunged his arms into the barrel and squeezed his fists, feeling the frosted blood and guts ooze through his fingers. It felt so neat…so, you know…whatever. He kept doing it and doing it, knowing he had to stop. For one thing, his fingers were nearly frozen, the smell was making him dizzy. But he continued until the innards were nothing more than a bloody slush.

  Then the old man caught him at the barrel, asked him what he was doing.

  He was paralyzed with fear, couldn’t answer him. How could he explain how good it felt without making himself look like a freak?

  But the old man seemed to understand. All he said was wash up, we’re going home.

  Now the dickhead woulda never acted so cool. The dickhead woulda said something nasty and made him feel low.

  Well, fuck him ’cause he’s gone with the wind and that was fine with him.

  He lay on his pillow thinking about the wad of bills in his wallet, the cash stolen from the old lady’s private reserve along with a bunch of her jewelry, most of it looking like junk.

  But the pearl necklace looked pretty good. It might get him a few bucks if he found a decent fence.

  If the fucking sun would ever come up.

  Three-oh-six.

  More waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Him, stuck in this dump that stunk of piss and pesticide, this crap hole that was nothing more than four paper walls and a floor so sticky it made him nervous to go barefoot.

  Who knew what kind of shit was tossed on it?

  The only ones who didn’t seem to mind were the cock-a-roaches. He played his usual game, saw how many he could squish, then stopped counting after twenty-two.

  Who really wanted to squish cock-a-roaches anyway? No body to them, nothing that you could really feel. Like the fish heads, now them you could feel underfoot. The only fun thing about the cock-a-roaches was squishing them in the cor
ners, seeing the white junk pop out of their bodies.

  He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the outside noises seeping through the closed window. The middle of the night, and the streets below were full of honks, beeps, shouts, and drunks throwing up.

  Fuck it. Tomorrow, he’d be flying to Paradise—where the sun shines bright and the babes are bitchin’ all year long.

  But in the meantime, it was waiting, waiting, waiting.

  He remembered someone saying that all good things come to those who wait.

  He thought about that for a moment.

  Then he decided whoever said that was a fucking idiot.

  13

  “Ezra, my pearls are gone,” Breina Levine announced.

  Groggy and nauseated, functioning on only three hours of sleep, Ezra Levine rubbed his eyes. “You’re worried about your pearls at a time like this?”

  Breina pushed around the trinkets in her jewelry box. “My pearls, my gold necklace, my gold hoops—”

  “We were robbed last night?” Ezra said.

  “I don’t know,” Breina said. “I’ll check the silver.”

  Ezra sat on the edge of his bed. His eyes were puffy and raw, his skin ultrasensitive, prickling when hit by the slightest draft. His temples ached from clenched jaws.

  Hashem was testing him. That could be the only reason for such bad fate. Hashem was testing him, just like Job.

  Where was Noam now? Ezra wondered. At this very moment, where was his son? He prayed that the boy was unharmed. Salty rills ran down his cheeks, feeling like liquid fire. He didn’t think he had any more tears left, but here they were again.

  Breina came back in the bedroom. “The sterling’s still in the breakfront.”

  Ezra brushed his cheeks, whispered, “In all the confusion, you probably left the pearls at Eema’s house.”

  “No,” Breina said. “I didn’t wear them yesterday—”

  “Breina, I don’t care about your necklace right now.”

  “Do you think I do?” Breina shouted. “Do you think I care about it?”

  “So why are you going on and on about it—”

  “I’m not going on and on—”

  “Just drop it!” Ezra said.

  “Okay!” Breina said. “Okay! It’s dropped! Happy?”

  Ezra buried his face in his hands, lifted his head a moment later. “Let’s not fight.”

  Breina’s lower lip trembled. She leaned against the wall and exploded into deep sobs. Ezra sighed, rose from the bed, and walked over to his wife. He put his hand on her shoulder; she turned and fell against his chest. He held her for a minute, patting her back as she cried against his undershirt, letting her wring out her grief. When she seemed to have quieted, he pulled away, saying he had to get ready for shul. Breina nodded, said she might as well dress also.

  She thought about her second son, always a difficult child. A premature baby, he was colicky and a poor sleeper. As he grew, he became willful and restless.

  There were times she felt immense sadness for him, his loneliness was so palpable. She’d reach out and hug him, wrap him in the cocoon of a mother’s arms. Noam would respond, embrace her back with such ferocity she could hear her bones crunch. But then he’d pull away, retreat into his shell or lash out and act like a wild animal.

  She would try to talk to him, get him to tell her what was on his mind. Again he’d act silly, ask her childish questions.

  How do we know Hashem is all around if we can’t see Him?

  Questions like these she expected out of the mouth of a four-year-old, not from a teenager. He seemed to be making fun of her. But she took him seriously and told him to ask his rebbe. Of course, he never did.

  So unlike Aaron—the model child.

  How could two brothers be so different?

  Then she thought of Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau.

  She went inside the walk-in closet, closed the door, took off her robe, and slipped on her dress. Quickly, she zipped it up and fitted her wig atop her head. When she reopened the closet door, Ezra was sitting on the bed, putting on his socks.

  “Ez?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think Noam took the pearls?”

  Ezra looked up. “Why would Noam take your pearls?” A look of horror crossed over his face. “What? You think he’s a faygala?”

  “No, no,” Breina said. “I was thinking that maybe Noam took them for money—” She stopped herself. “My emergency money!”

  She moved toward the door, but Ezra held her back. It was still yom tov; he would not allow her to touch the money and violate the law for something as trivial as this. If Noam took the money, so be it. If he didn’t, the money would still be there when yom tov was over. Breina agreed not to count the bills but wanted to see whether they were there or not. At least, if the money was gone, she’d know that Noam instead of a burglar had taken her pearls. No burglar could have found her secret cache without turning the house upside down. To know that they weren’t robbed last night would be a small, comforting thought. Ezra hesitated, then told her she could look at the money, but she shouldn’t touch it at all. Breina stated she had no intention of touching it and dashed out of the room. A moment later, she returned.

  “It’s gone.” She sank down into the bed. “Noam took it. He must have taken my jewelry, too. I can’t believe that even he would do such a thing.”

  Ezra said, “Not that it matters, but how much did you have?”

  “Two hundred and thirty-five dollars,” Breina said. “I’ve been putting away pennies for ten years to save up that much. How could he do that to me?”

  Silence was her answer.

  “I’m going to check on the girls,” Breina whispered. “Do you want some tea, Ez?”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  Ezra felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder. He patted it gently. A moment later, he heard soft receding footsteps, then the bedroom door close.

  Alone, Ezra thought of the four sons mentioned in the Passover story. The wise one, the simple one, the one who doesn’t even know how to ask a question. And the rasha, the wicked son.

  No, that was terrible. How dare he think such a thing. Noam was not a rasha, just a confused boy, needing a little more guidance than the others. More attention.

  At least that was what the rabbis at the school had told him. They had called Breina and him into conference one day, sat them down on two folding chairs, stared at them with grave eyes. The oldest—Rav Leider—was the only one who spoke. The others nodded in agreement with what he had said.

  He’s a troubled boy. He can learn but doesn’t seem to want to. Furthermore, he’s distracting the other boys from learning. It is clear to us that he needs more attention.

  Ezra could still feel Rav Leider’s eyes boring into him.

  More fatherly attention. You must learn with him.

  Ezra had tried. He and Noam had agreed to try Sanhedrin—a very difficult tractate of Talmud. He had his doubts but Noam had been insistent, claiming he had an interest in learning how capital crimes were punished by the rabbinical high court. But after the third session, Noam had begun to act up. Started asking questions that had no answers.

  If Hashem created everything, who created Hashem?

  Hashem didn’t have a creator, Ezra had explained. Hashem always was, always will be.

  That doesn’t make any sense.

  That’s the way it is, Noam.

  But it still doesn’t make any sense.

  What was the sense of arguing? So he stopped debating Noam. Another mistake. Noam started asking stupider questions. Like how much did Moses Malone make a year? He’d made learning such a miserable experience that, in desperation, Ezra had lost his temper. Yet Noam hadn’t seemed the least bit upset. In fact, he’d seemed happy.

  They had stopped learning together, a big mistake. He must ask Hashem to forgive him for his failure as a father.

  Without thinking, he found his lips moving in silent prayer—tehillim—the ps
alms of David. It was so natural, the Hebrew words just spouting from his subconscious. He had said tehillim for Breina’s mother two days before she succumbed to cancer. He had said tehillim the day his father underwent a double bypass, when his best friend was hit by a car, when his niece was born with a hole in her lung.

  So many times he had said tehillim, he knew all the psalms by heart.

  Decker listened as Ezra told him about the stolen money and jewelry, noticing that Ezra chose his words carefully. He emphasized that the money wasn’t important to him—as a matter of fact, he was grateful his son had something in his pockets. But the theft might mean something to Decker as a policeman, and since he’d been kind enough to help out with this dreadful business, he should know everything.

  When Ezra finished the story, he thanked Decker, then immediately followed it with grateful prayer to Hashem for sending a Jewish policeman. Decker being here was Divine Intervention—basheert—fated.

  To Decker’s ears, Ezra’s thinking was childlike. But he’d seen people act irrationally under stress. All logic breaks down….

  Ezra asked what the next step was.

  “Well…” Decker stifled a yawn. “The whole community knows that Noam is missing. That’s good, Ezra. You have hundreds of eyes working for you. Maybe someone will remember something.”

  “Eem yirtzah Hashem,” Ezra said.

  If God wills it…

  “I want to have a personal talk with some of Noam’s friends,” Decker said. “We’ll wait until after shul—”

  “We can go now,” Ezra said.

  Decker shook his head. “Some may already be in shul, some may still be sleeping, some may be getting dressed. If we catch them after services, they should all be indoors, eating lunch.”

  “A good point,” Ezra conceded. “We’ll go to shul first, then I’ll take you to their houses afterward.”