Stone Kiss (12 page)

“That is the truth,” Novack said. “Just look at how the news portrays Israel.”

“Exactly. So let’s all of us do a mitzvah and try to figure out what happened to Ephraim. Because maybe that will tell us
what happened to Shaynda.”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t know what happened to either of them!” His voice was thick with depression. “I’ve told you everything
I could think of.”

“I dunno,” Novack said. “Maybe you haven’t told us everything because maybe you feel like you’re breaking a confidence or
something.”

“Not with a young girl missing. And besides, there are no more confidences because Ephraim is dead.”

“So you can answer me if I ask you what was Ephraim’s addiction?”

“His addiction?”

“Was it pot, booze, coke—”

“It was cocaine. Ephraim was a cocaine abuser.”

“And…”

“That’s it. Just cocaine.”

“Crack or blow?”

“Blow.”

“You’re sure that was his only chemical bad habit?” Novack said.

“Addiction, Detective.” “Addiction, then. He ever mention experimenting with other drugs?”

“No. Only coke. But he had it bad. He was, at one point, going through several hundred dollars a day.”

Novack whistled. “Enough to get him into some pretty heavy debt.”

“He was in debt,” Schnitman said. “But, as I understand it, he was in the process of paying everyone off. He claimed to be
making great progress.”

“Maybe it was great progress for him,” Novack said. “Maybe it wasn’t so great for the people he owed money to.”

“Possibly. I don’t know.”

“Could that have been what he meant by personal problems?” Decker asked. “He was in deep debt, maybe?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Sure he wasn’t taking anything else?” Novack asked. “Like ecstasy, for instance?”

Suddenly, Decker knew what Novack was doing. The pill found in the hotel room: The analytic results must have come in. Imprinted
or not, it must have been ecstasy.

“Only cocaine and only through his nose,” Schnitman insisted. “How do I know this? Ephraim wouldn’t take anything into his
stomach that didn’t have a
hechsher
on it.”

A
hechsher
was kosher certification. Abruptly, Decker laughed. “I didn’t know that there was rabbinically supervised cocaine.”

“No, of course there isn’t.” Schnitman was offended. “I know it sounds crazy, but some of the most religious abusers won’t
take drugs orally. Instead, they shoot poison into the blood or sniff toxins up their noses. Just so the object doesn’t pass
through their lips. I know it’s a ridiculous point of law, but the Bible says
lo toechlu;
that you can’t
eat
nonkosher food.”

“It also says you can’t touch it,” Decker said.

“Well, that’s why they have straws to blow the stuff up your nose!” Schnitman was angry. “You can make fun of us, Lieutenant,
or you can try to understand us. Yes, we have inconsistencies. I’m sure you have them as well.”

“Indeed, I do, Mr. Schnitman. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“Yeah, you’ve been real helpful,” Novack said. “Here. Try a sausage. Real spicy, so watch out.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Schnitman pushed away his plate. “I should be getting back. I have to
bentsh
.”

“That makes two of us,” Decker said.

After they were done saying the Grace after Meals, Novack handed Schnitman his card. “And if you hear anything—”

“I’ll call you, yes.” Schnitman took out his wallet, placed the card inside, then took out a ten-dollar bill.

Decker held him back. “I’ll take care of it.”

Schnitman said, “One of the things we learn to do when we face our problems head on is to pay our own way. So I’ll take care
of it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Decker said. “We asked you out. It’s our treat.”

Novack took the check. “This is a Homicide investigation. You’re a witness. As far as I’m concerned, let the City of New York
pay for my heartburn.”

Decker buttoned his coat and rubbed his gloved hands together. He had forgotten a scarf, and his face felt the bite of the
wind as he walked down Broadway. “The pill was ecstasy.”

“Yes, it was.”

“So if Schnitman is to be believed, it couldn’t have come from Ephraim.”

“Do you honestly believe that a blowhead would stop himself because the high wasn’t blessed by the rabbis?”

“As strange as it may seem, Micky, I can see that.”

“Well, you’re a step closer to it than I am, Pete.”

They walked a few moments in silence. Then Decker said, “Where would a kid like Shayndie hide in this town?”

“You kidding?” Novack said. “I wouldn’t even begin to guess. Look around. A million cracks in the naked city for kids to fall
through.” He walked a few more steps. “I’ll ask Vice. And Juvie. Don’t expect too much.”

“It would probably be too soon for her to hit the streets,” Decker said.

“Nah, a pimp wouldn’t turn her out just yet.” Novack shrugged. “If she don’t show up back at home or if she don’t show up
under a rock, maybe she’ll show up on the streets. All we can do is wait. Time to call it an evening. Where are you going?”

“Back to Brooklyn. How about yourself?”

“Queens, but I got someone waiting for me back at the two-eight.” They stopped walking. “We don’t get half a chance with the
young ones, Pete. The locations are always changing. By the time we figure out where the kids might be hiding, the bad boys
got ’em stashed away.”

“If you have a snitch, maybe we can talk to him.”

“Nobody’s gonna admit to having a fifteen-year-old. The jail time for that kind of shit is very bad. The young ones need someone
with real clout who can hide them from the cops
and
protect them from the johns. Not a lot of pimps want to be bothered with the hassle with so many eighteen-year-olds willing
to do the job. Plus, you add that the kid may be running from a murder… who wants that kinda heat?”

Decker nodded.

“It must be the same in L.A.”

“Yeah, although I’m not a Vice cop. Never have been. Did Juvenile for six years. Lots of sad cases.”

“Then you probably know more about it than me. Where’d you find the kids?”

“The patrol officers were the ones who usually found them. Lots of times the kids were starving and diseased. Sometimes they
came into the police station on their own, asking for protection or asking us to act as an agent between their parents and
them. You know, help them get rid of the abusive boyfriend or stepfather.”

“Yeah, it’s the same all over.”

“I know some spots in L.A. And if I don’t know the spots directly, I have people I can talk to. Here, in Manhattan, I’m in
the dark.”

It was close to eleven with the mercury dropping by the moment. Still, the sidewalks held hives of people marching at a clipped
pace, the mist of warm breath producing as much cloud cover as the skies. About half the shops were still open, and those
that were closed stood locked but not caged in by metal bars and grates—a change from the last time Decker was here. In the
street, headlights and taillights were haloed circles of red and white.

Novack said, “I don’t know much about the pimp scene here. But I do know someone who does. If you really think that maybe
Shayndie went that route, lemme call him up.”

“I don’t know what route she took,” Decker said. “I’m grasping at straws because I’m running out of time.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Monday… or maybe even Tuesday.” Rina was going to make fun of him. He could hear her in his head.
Should I change the tickets now, Peter
? “But only if we’re getting somewhere.”

“
We’re
getting somewhere?”

Decker smiled. “Only if I think I might be able to help you, Detective Novack.”

“Ah, much better.” Novack smiled. “All right. Since you’re under a time crunch, I’ll see if we can meet with him tomorrow
morning.”

“That would be great. Because otherwise…” Decker threw up his hands. “It could be she left the city… that she’s in Quinton.
Cops over there said they’d look again, but the chief of the Quinton Police didn’t sound too hopeful. Actually, he wasn’t
at all
helpful
.”

“Who’d you talk to?”

“Virgil Merrin.”

Novack shrugged. “Don’t know him. We’re our own country out here.”

“I’m beginning to realize that. Do you think we can meet with your guy early tomorrow morning?”

“Early? Like how early?”

“Eight, nine.”

“Now, that I don’t know. He’s Irish. Saturday night is pub night.”

“Tell him if he meets me at eight, I’ll buy him a case of his favorite beer.”

Novack nodded. “Lieutenant Decker, that just may be the right incentive.”

E
phraim Lieber had met his end
just blocks away from the 28th hub precinct, in a blighted tenement to the west of Harlem. It was a neighborhood of elevated
train tracks and chain-link fences that surrounded weed-choked lots, a vicinity with enough space to hold auto-repair shops,
car washes, and a slew of one-story fast-food joints that could have easily been transplanted into Decker’s native L.A. turf.
Exterior fire escapes hugged grime-coated brick buildings like scaffolding. Still, as Decker drove through the streets, he
saw the possibilities. Old, wonderful—albeit graffitied—brownstones with great bone structure. And there was Riverside Park,
a stretch of trees, foliage, and gardens that snuggled against the Hudson, an oasis replete with benches and jogging pathways.
It began around 72nd and continued uptown until about 120th, ending several blocks away from the two-eight. The park, developed
in the 1940s and 1950s atop railroad tracks, served as a botanical reminder of what had probably flourished before Manhattan
became the isle of asphalt and skyscrapers.

The precinct was two stories of raw concrete that must have been raked with combs while the cement was drying. Entrance inside
was through steel double doors that looked not only solid but also bullet-proof. Decker took three steps down, and stood in
front of a bright blue horseshoe-shaped desk manned by a black woman in uniform. To Decker’s right was a glass case filled
with the precinct’s sports trophies;
to his left were a couple of offices and a row of bolted lime green plastic chairs, the sole occupant being a sleeping homeless
person of indeterminate gender curled up as tightly as a potato bug.

As Decker approached the desk, Novack was bounding down a set of steps.

“Hey. Right on time. Up here.”

Decker followed Novack upstairs.

“How you doin’?” Micky asked.

“Fine.”

“Good. I got him to come, but it wasn’t easy.”

“I owe you.”

“Yeah. Right.” Novack led him past a cubby used as the squad-room secretary’s office. “Welcome to the two-eight. It ain’t
an architectural showpiece, but we do have a nice view of the gas station.”

Except for one other man, the place was empty—one of the advantages of working Sunday morning. The area given over to the
gold shields was cramped, a maze of waist-high cubicles stuffed with standard-issue metal desks, functional chairs, and basic
computers. The walls were whitewashed cinder block, the water-streaked ceiling held dim fluorescent lighting, and the flooring
was composed of white crushed-rock tile scuffed dirt gray. There were a few stabs of humanity, courtesy of several desktops
holding wilting potted plants or an occasional child’s homemade ceramic mug or paperweight, some scattered personal pictures.
The majority of the domain, of course, was given over to business.

Papers abounded.

Loose-leaf sheaves were piled high on any flat surface that would hold them, or posted chockablock on bulletin boards. They
spilled out of file cabinets and from plastic bins that also contained thick wads of forms and reports. Street maps were taped
to the wall, dotted with crimes that had been coded by different-colored pins. There were two interview rooms and between
their peacock blue doors was a bulletin board overlaid with police sketches of felons at large.

One particular printed poster caught Decker’s eye. It showed the American flag, the caption reading:
THESE COLORS DON
’
T RUN
. Below the poster was another bulletin board filled with snapshots of bleeding, ash-covered officers from September 11.

Novack caught him staring. “You know, being in the Job, you think you’ve seen it all.”

Decker let out a wry laugh. “Guess what?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Novack pointed to the room’s other occupant. “That’s Brian Cork from Vice standing over my desk. Hey,
Bri, say hello to Lieutenant Decker.”

Cork looked up. “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’.”

They gathered at Novack’s desk. Cork appeared to be in his forties, around five-ten, with big shoulders and a growing beer
gut. Around the chest and arms, he was a mound of muscle. If the precinct had a football team, these guys would have been
perfect ends. Cork had a round, ruddy face, with thin, almost bloodless lips and pug features. He also had a broken nose perched
on his face like a pattypan squash. He was scanning through the postmortem pictures of Ephraim.