Faye Kellerman - Decker 04 - Day of Atonement Page 3

  'You're not fine! Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?'

  'It was hot in there,' Decker said. 'That's all.' He willed his legs to stop but they wouldn't.

  'Stop, will you!' Rina cried out.

  Her voice - so desperate. He slowed his pace and said, 'I just wanted to take a walk.'

  'You just came back from a walk.'

  'I wanted to take another one,' Decker said. 'What the hell is wrong with that!'

  His voice sounded foreign - full of rage. Full of fear.

  'I need to be alone.'

  'Peter, please...' She grabbed his arm. 'I love you. Tell me what's wrong!'

  Decker stopped abruptly, picked her hand off his arm, and kissed her fingers. 'I've got to be by myself now. I'm sorry, Rina, but please leave me alone.' He dropped her hand and ran off.

  Six hours to kill with fifteen dollars and twenty-two cents spending cash. Decker had left the credit cards in the bedroom, so checking into a motel for the night was out of the question. Not that he'd do it, but he wished he had the option. He found a cab at Fourteenth and Fifty-eighth, slid onto the black bench seat and ran his hands over his face.

  The cabbie was Indian or Pakistani - chocolate-brown skin with straight black hair and a name with a lot of double o's and mi's in it. After a minute of waiting, the driver said, 'What can I do for you, sir?'

  The 'sir' came out like serrrrr. A rolling tongue gathers no moss. Decker felt mean and punch-drunk, realized he was probably scaring the poor guy.

  'What's there to see around here?' he growled. 'See?'

  'Yeah, see,' Decker said. 'Any interesting sights around here?'

  'Around here?' the cabbie said. 'Here is very, very Jewish area.'

  Very, very came out veddy, veddy. The cabbie went on, 'Not much to see except Jews, but you can see a lot of them.' Decker said, 'There a public library around here?' He needed someplace to think, someplace to figure out how to disappear for two days.

  'There is Brooklyn Central Library,' the driver said. 'It is located in a very pretty park. Shall I take you there, sir?'

  Decker told him to take him there. The cabbie was bent on giving a guided tour.

  'I go by Flatbush Avenue. A very, very long time ago, I thought it was the longest street in Brooklyn but it is not. Bedford is.'

  The avenue at best was unremarkable, at worst it exemplified everything wrong with inner cities - old crumbling buildings, trash-strewn vacant lots, and gang-graffitied tenement housing. But the cabbie seemed oblivious to this, kept on talking about how Manhattan was for the rich, but Brooklyn was where the real people lived. Decker wasn't sure whether he was jacking up the fare by taking a longer route or was just one of those rare, friendly guys.

  'Brooklyn Museum is in Prospect Park, sir. The same architect that designed Central Park in Manhattan designed Prospect Park. A very, very pretty park. You can go boating, but not now. It is tooooo cold.'

  Whatever the driver's reasons were for the tour, Decker wished he would shut up. He had to calm down and the sucker was making him veddy, veddy antsy. He had to calm down. Of all the people to meet.

  Maybe it wasn't her. Just maybe it wasn't. There could be dozens of Frieda Levines. (Levine? He'd remembered it as Levy or Levin.)

  Frieda Levine - a common Jewish name, it could be equivalent to Mary Smith. But even as he tried to convince himself otherwise, he knew it was no use. The picture. That old, old picture. It was definitely her. Decker had sharp eyes, had matched too many disguised faces to too many mug shots not to see it. Just age the damn face. The cabbie stopped the lecture for a moment. 'Where are you from?' he asked. 'Los Angeles,' Decker said.

  'Oh, L.A.,' the driver said. 'Very, very good. If you want I can show you Ebbets field where your Dodgers used to play.'

  'Just take me to the library.'

  'Not much to see,' the cabbie went on, 'a housing project now. But some people are very, very sentimental.' 'I'm not.'

  'Are you interested in architecture, sir?' the driver said. 'Or perhaps real estate? Two days ago I took a rich man to see the brownstones on Eastern Parkway. He was very, very impressed.'

  Decker tightened his fists and said, 'Just the library.' 'While you're here, you should see the Grand Army Plaza. It has a very, very big arch.'

  'I've seen loads of arches at McDonald's.'

  'Oh, no,' the cabbie answered. 'This one is not like that. It is much bigger. And older too.'

  'I'm not interested in seeing any arch—'

  'It is a very nice arch.'

  Decker enunciated each word. 'Just take me to the library.'

  'We drive right past the arch to the library—'

  'All right, show me the friggin' arch!'

  'Well, if you do not want to see the arch—'

  'I want to see the arch,' Decker said. 'In fact, I want to see the arch so badly that if I don't see the arch, someone vnUpay.'

  Decker looked in the rearview mirror. The cabbie's mouth had frozen into an O. He steered the taxi by the arch, then took Decker to the library. Throughout the remaining portion of the trip he didn't say another word.

  This was the alibi: he'd suddenly remembered an important detail to a very important case and he had to use a pay phone because it would have been a breach of ethics to let anyone else overhear him and he had to get in touch with Marge at the station house because someone's life depended on it, well, not only someone's life but the whole California judicial system-Then Decker thought: even the most complicated phone call in the world wouldn't explain an absence of six hours. God's judgment day around the corner and his mind was full of half-baked lies.

  The night held a bitter chill, dampness oozing through his clothes and into his bones. His toes and fingers were as cold and stiff as marble. Used to the temperate zone all his life, he had blood the consistency of rubbing alcohol.

  He came to the street, then the house. Lights shining through the windows, smoke undulating from the chimney. And the smells. He dreaded the people but the structure looked so damned inviting. Approaching the door, he turned up his collar, tried to mask his face as best he could. Just in case she happened to be there.

  As he stepped on to the porch, he pulled his scarf over his head.

  So they'd think him psychotic. Who the hell cared? Rina swung open the door before he knocked. Her face held an expression of complete bafflement. •Anyone home?' Decker whispered. 'Everyone's gone to shut,' Rina said. Crossing the threshold, Decker took the scarf off his head and pulled down his collar. He headed up the stairs, heard Rina following him. He swung open the door to the tiny bedroom and immediately stubbed his toe on the fold-out bed. Swearing, he sank down into the mattress and ran his hands across his face. The room was illuminated by a single sixty-watt table lamp that rested on the floor. The nightstand clock read six-fifty-two.

  Rina sat next to him.

  'Peter, you're scaring the daylights out of me. What on earth is wrong? Did this massive dose of religion give you an anxiety attack or something?' 'Something.'

  'Please, Peter,' Rina begged. 'I deserve better than this—'

  'What did you tell them?' Decker broke in. •What?'

  'What excuse did you make up for me when I stormed out of the house?'

  'Something about your daughter... something you forgot to do for her.'

  'Cindy's a good excuse,' Decker said. 'Much better than the one I'd concocted.'

  Rina suddenly burst into tears. 'We shouldn't have come out here. I should have told them no.' •Rina—' •It's all my fault,' she sobbed.

  Decker put his arm around her and drew her near. 'No, it's not.'

  •Yes, it—'

  'It has nothing to do with religion,' Decker said. 'It's...' He stood, couldn't even pace in a room this small. He said, 'How are we going to sleep if we can't turn the light off?'

  'It's on a timer,' Rina said.

  Decker sat back down, stretched out on the bed, and buried his face in the blanket.

  'You're not going to tell m
e, are you?' Rina said.

  He picked up his head, then sat up straight. 'You're right. You deserve better.' He said, 'This afternoon. You were talking to a woman in the kitchen...'

  'Yes?'

  'She's Frieda Levine, your mother-in-law's best

  friend?'

  'Yes. So what?'

  He sucked in his breath. 'She's my mother.'

  It took Rina a moment to assimilate what he was saying. She could only respond with a breathy what! Then she added a whispered oh my God.

  'You said it,' Decker said.

  'You're sure—'

  •Positive,' Decker said. 'Faces are my business.'

  Rina was struggling to find something to say, but all words had eluded her. All she could think of was that Peter didn't look a thing like Frieda Levine. And she knew that was the wrong thing to say, so she remained

  silent.

  Decker couldn't sit any longer. He stood up and ran down the stairway, fully intending to run out the door. But he surprised himself and instead just paced the

  living-room carpet, further trampling the green-shag piling. The room was hot and bright, the crystal pieces giving off shards of color that splashed rainbows on the wall. As if that wasn't enough, an illuminated three-tiered chandelier made a glitter dome out of the dining room. He felt as if he'd stepped inside a heat-resistant ice palace. He longed to sweep his arm across the tables, smash what was whole and watch it crumble to dust. His sense of self, shattered. All of it a facade. He spied Rina sitting on a couch, she looking as sick as he felt, and he turned to her. 'What the hell am I going to do?' 'I...' Rina sighed. 'I don't know.' Decker said, 'Rina, I look just like my father - the image of the man down to the coloring. The woman is going to take one look at me, start doing a little mental arithmetic, and faint.' He kept pacing. 'Dear God, why did I ever come here? I knew she lived in New York. I knew she was an Orthodox Jew but I never ever considered the possibility of meeting up with her. Never! God, there are tens of thousands of Orthodox Jews in this city.'

  'There are,' Rina said. 'But we tend to live in concentrated areas. Peter, why didn't you tell me your mother was from Boro Park?'

  'My mother is from Gainsville, Florida—' 'You know what I mean.'

  Decker forced himself to slow down. 'Rina, I didn't know that this Frieda person lived in Boro Park. The adoption papers said she was fifteen, Jewish, born in New York and that was it. As I investigated a little farther, I discovered she was still living in New York and was married with five kids. I didn't even know where

  she lived except that it was somewhere within the five boroughs because I tracked her using city records.

  'Once I found out she was married with five kids, I stopped pursuing her. Instead, I put my name on this list of adoptees willing to meet their biological parents. I figured if she wanted to contact me, I'd be willing. I wasn't about to intrude on her life. Well, she never called me - and that was her decision, so fine. Fine. Just fine. I'll abide by that. It's obvious the woman wasn't interested and it's friggin' fine with me to keep it that way.'

  Such hurt in his voice. Rina said, 'I'm sorry, Peter.'

  'I'm not,' Decker said. 'I'm not the least... bit... sorry. I've done a damn fine job of living without her and she's done a damn fine job of living without me.'

  Rina didn't answer. Decker stopped pacing.

  'I know I'm not making any sense.'

  'You're very agitated—'

  'How would you feel?'

  'Agitated... and hurt.'

  'I'm not hurt, OK!' Decker yelled. 'Hurt is when you f-nd out your wife is stepping out on you. No, that's not hurt. That's /wry! But later after the fury wears off, it turns to hurt. That is hurtl Real hurt Got it?'

  Rina didn't answer.

  'OK, so I'm ranting—'

  'You're understandably upset.'

  'I'm not upset... well, I am upset—'

  'Peter, didn't you recognize her name when I first told it to you?'

  'Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew her married name was Levine or Levy or something like that. But /always thought of her as Frieda Boretsky—'

  'That's her maiden name all right.'

  'You know her maiden name?'

  'Remember I told you her elderly parents always have holidays dinner with my in-laws. Their names are Rabbi and Rebbitzen Boretsky—'

  'Ain't that a hoot,' Decker broke in. 'I get to meet my grandparents.'

  'Peter, this must be awful for you—'

  'Not as awful as it's going to be for Gramps and Grandma Boretsky. Much as they've tried, I'm sure they haven't forgotten old Benny Aranoff either.'

  'Benny Aranoff was your biological father?'

  •Yep.'

  The room fell quiet. Exhausted, Decker plopped on to the sofa. 'Rina, I can't face them. Any of them. Just say I'm sick - which is the truth - and can't come down for dinner. Then, after the holidays are over, I want to go home.'

  Rina closed her eyes and nodded.

  'I'm sorry,' Decker said.

  'Don't apologize,' Rina said. 'I understand completely.'

  'I'll tell them I was called back to the station house on an emergency case.'

  'You don't have to say anything, Peter. I'll handle it for you. Least I can do for dragging you into this mess.'

  Honey, the mess was created a long time ago, Decker thought. When a fifteen-year-old girl didn't say no to her boyfriend - with either the sex or the marriage. Decker was never too sure which came first. Only that they must have had some love for each other because they ran off and eloped. Then, the good Rabbi and Rebbitzen Boretsky found their daughter and annulled

  the marriage. To rid themselves of any remaining evidence of the attachment, they sent Frieda off to Florida to have a baby...

  Decker said, 'It won't be so bad. I'll go back to work and take time off at a later date. Maybe we'll go to Hawaii - I know, we'll even take the boys. Hire a sitter. Make them happy. Hotels have sitters—'

  'Peter, you're rambling again.' Rinastood. 'The family should be coming home any moment. Go upstairs, put on your pajamas, crawlinto bed, and look sick.'She regarded his face. 'You don't even have to pretend, Peter. Go read and try to relax. I'll bring you up dinner. Can you eat?'

  'Not at the moment,' Decker said. 'But by all rights, I should be starved.'

  Rina walked over to the living-room window and pulled the drapes back. Families were filling the streets - men and women dressed in their finest clothes. Jewelry glittered from fingers, ears and necks. 'Services must have ended at some of the shuls. People are starting to head home. Go.'

  Decker went upstairs. He stopped midway and shouted down, 'Maybe this is all for the better.'

  Rina agreed that it probably was. Decker knew she was placating him, but even so, her response made him feel a little better.

  A medley of voices said to Rina, I'm so sorry.

  Did you take his temperature? Can he eat? It must be jet lag. His work is so stressful. He should eat a little.

  Those planes are so crowded, everyone coughing into one air filtration system.

  Did you give him Tylenol?

  These flus come on so all of a sudden.

  Just a little soup.

  Rina parried the questions like an expert fencer.

  A minute later, Decker heard knocking on the door. Duo knocking. His stepsons, no doubt. But he asked who was it just to make sure. When they answered with their names, he told them to come in.

  They patted his cheek, held his hand, smoothed out the covers for him, asked if they could get him anything.

  He felt so damn guilty faking it. To make himself play the part with Strassbergian integrity, he thought about meeting Frieda Levine, meeting her parents, and his stomach legitimately churned.

  Sammy asked him if he'd gotten sick because he'd been obnoxious on the plane ride over. Decker assured him that was not the case. But the boy remained unconvinced. Sam was the elder of the two, hyper-mature and, like his mother, willing to tote the
world's problems on his back if he had a big enough knapsack. Decker kissed the boy's sweaty cheek; to make him feel better, he told him to bring him up some tea. To make Jake feel equally useful, he told him to bring up some lemon and sugar.

  Jakey smiled: it was Rina's smile. The kid was Rina's clone. Sam had lighter hair, but was darker complex-ioned, looking like his dad. That must be hard on the Lazaruses, too.