Stone Kiss (3 page)

“That’s because we have an appointment in forty-five minutes,” Jonathan replied. “You said get a great criminal defense lawyer,
and that’s what I did. He also happens to be a
frum
Yid. Early morning was the only time he could work us in. He’s noted for discounting his time for Jews in trouble. But, as
I talked to him, I could tell that he was intrigued by the case. I think he’s curious to meet you.”

Decker grabbed a big black valise off the conveyor belt. Thank goodness for frames with wheels. “One more bag. Why is he curious
to meet me?”

“Because you’re a cop… on the other side, so to speak.”

“That’s our other bag, Peter,” Rina said.

Decker grabbed the second suitcase. They loaded up Jonathan’s dented silver 1993 Chrysler minivan, Rina insisting that Peter
sit in the front. Within a few minutes, they were on their way.

The air was cold and biting—typical March weather, Jonathan told him. Dark rain clouds hung above, heavy and gray like soiled
laundry. Whatever foliage there was had yet to bloom and the naked branches swayed like cobwebs in a brisk wind. The highway
was moving—one less thing to be concerned about—but because of the speed, the van took the potholes with spine-numbing jolts.
To Decker’s eyes, the surrounding area looked worn and depressed—a mixture of old factory buildings, some commercial retail
shops, and unadorned redbrick apartment houses. Graffiti littered the concrete walls of the roadway.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Queens,” Rina said. “Is this Astoria?”

“Not yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Decker said. “It all looks the same to me. Tell me more about the Orthodox lawyer.”

“He made time for us, Akiva. Time that he could ill afford considering he’s representing Anna Broughder.”

Anna Broughder. The woman dubbed by the papers as Lizzie Borden II. She had been arrested for killing both of her parents
by hacking them to death with a cleaver. She had claimed it had been done by a group of crazed druggies. Somehow she had escaped
through the bathroom window, sustaining only a few minor scratches to the forearms and one rather large gash to her palm.
A 200-million-dollar inheritance was at stake.

“Leon Hershfield,” Decker stated.

“That’s the one. The case has had coverage in L.A.?”

“Front-page articles.” Decker tried to shake fatigue from his sleep-deprived brain. “I didn’t know Hershfield was religious.”

“He doesn’t wear a
kippah
in court, but he’s self-identified as modern Orthodox.” Jonathan tapped the wheel. “He’s defended all the biggies. He’s well
connected.”

Decker glanced at Rina. “Connected, as in Joseph Donatti.”

“Among others,” Jonathan countered.

“But Donatti was his biggest triumph.” The mobster had been indicted on three counts of murder along with lesser charges of
fraud and racketeering. After the third hung jury, the state declined to try the case again. Evidence kept getting lost. The
Donatti name always piqued Decker’s interest, although his curiosity wasn’t at all limited to the old man. “When was the trial?
About six years ago?”

“About.” Jonathan gripped the wheel. “Hershfield got him off.”

“That he did.”

“You said to hire the best, Akiva.”

“Yes, I did.” Decker raised his eyebrows.

No one spoke.

“Has Hershfield given you any advice?” Decker asked.

“He wants to talk to us before we talk to the cops. By us, I think he means my brother-in-law.”

“Is your brother-in-law going to meet us there?”

“Chaim’s not in any state to talk to anyone. I told him I’d talk to Hershfield first.”

“Chaim must be beside himself.” Rina reached over and smoothed Hannah’s curls. She had fallen back asleep, her eyes moving
behind onion-skin lids, her head upward, her mouth agape. She was snoring softly.

“The whole family’s crazed,” Jonathan answered.

“How is the mother holding up?”

“Minda? She’s… we had to tranquilize her. Normally, I would never suggest medication at a time like this, but she was out
of her mind with hysteria.” Jonathan hedged. “She and Shayndie had been at odds for a couple of years. ”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Rina said. “All parents and kids fight.”

“Their arguments were… vitriolic,” Jonathan said. “I’m sure Minda feels as if this is all her fault. Of course, it isn’t.”

Unless she had something to do with the disappearance,
Decker thought. “So Chaim and his father own some electronic stores.”

“Yes.”

“Equal partners?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my business.”

“Just asking questions. Do they do all right financially?”

“The stores have been around for over thirty years. I know that the last year has been tough—the strain of living in New York
topped off by the economic slowdown. But I haven’t heard about any major financial problems. Of course, they wouldn’t tell
me if there were problems.”

“Ever hear of any improprieties in the business?”

“No.” He bit his lip. “I really feel for my father-in-law. He lost his son. Everyone is so focused on Shaynda—and rightly
so—it’s almost as if they’ve forgotten about Ephraim. Not only does my father-inlaw have to deal with the pain of his son,
but he’s also worried about his granddaughter.”

“When’s the funeral for Ephraim?” Rina asked. “We’re hoping that they’ll release the body today so that we can do the
levaya
on Sunday. But I have a feeling it’s going to take longer.
Shabbos
is going to be hell, everyone in a suspended state of animation. Unless they find Shayndie today…” Jonathan glanced at Decker.
“That’s a possibility, right?”

“Of course,” Decker answered. It was still too early to predict the outcome. “They haven’t any idea of where she might be?”

“We’ve tried everyone—all her friends, all the public-school kids,
teachers, rabbi, homeless shelters near the area where the crime happened. The Quinton Police have done a door-to-door search.”
He blew out air. “When I talk about it like this, it just seems so… so bad.”

“It hasn’t been that long, Jon. She may turn up on her own.”

“I certainly pray that’s the case.”

“Anything that I can do?” Rina offered.

“No, Rina, thanks so much.” He tapped the steering wheel again. Decker realized it was his brother’s nervous habit. They drove
without speaking until the crenellated Manhattan skyline popped into distant view.

Rina was staring out the window.

Jonathan said, “You haven’t been here since September eleventh?”

“No.”

“I know,” Jonathan said. “Even now I find it strange. Every once in a while, I’ll look up, expecting to see the towers.”

Rina shook her head. “It’ll be so good to see my boys.”

“My mother told me you’re staying with the Lazaruses for
Shabbat
,” Jonathan said. “They’re deliriously happy about seeing everyone. It’s wonderful that you’ve remained in contact with them.”

“They’re my sons’ grandparents,” Decker said.

“You’d be surprised at the pettiness I see, Akiva. Pastoral counseling is sometimes a misnomer for refereeing.”

“I can believe that,” Decker said. “The Lazaruses are nice people. I’m sure they get a lump in their throat every time they
see me with Rina.”

“Actually, they adore you,” Jonathan said. “I think they’ve co-opted you as one of their own. At least that’s what my mother
tells me.” He tapped the wheel and cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t be so possessive. My mother is your mother, too.”

They exited the highway somewhere in the middle part of town. The main avenues were still clear, so traveling was doable.
But Decker knew that within an hour, the streets would be clogged with mean-looking vehicular metal that would make him wish
he were battling rush-hour traffic in L.A. At least back home, the city was car friendly. New York streets had been built
for buggies, not for delivery trucks
and their drivers who felt it was their God-given right to double-park even if it meant jamming up the roadways. And the street
addresses never corresponded to anything. It was impossible to find a location unless you knew it was there to begin with.
To Decker, an excursion through Manhattan was akin to one big scavenger hunt.

He sat back and looked out the window, thinking about Jon’s words: “My mother is your mother, too.”

“You know, it’s funny, Jon. I think of you as my half brother. And the others—your brothers and sisters—I feel related to
them as well. But your mother… who is as much my mother as yours… I haven’t made the connection yet. I probably never will.”

Jonathan nodded. “I can understand that. There is this small issue called my father.”

“Maybe that’s it. I’m sure I make her very uncomfortable—”

“Not really. She knows her secret is safe with all of us.”

“Psychologically then.” Decker laughed. “I like your mother. I really do. But my own mother is still alive. It’s unfair to
expect a man to have more than one mother at any given time.”

“Not to mention a couple of mothers-in-law,” Rina added. “My mother
and
Mrs. Lazarus.”

Decker frowned. “Yeah, that too. Two mothers, two mothers-inlaw, two daughters, and a wife. I’m surrounded by all these estrogen-filled
beings. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”

“I would,” Rina answered. “Except right now I’m cranky because of PMS.”

Her face was deadpan. Decker couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. But he didn’t question her. Never rouse a sleeping lion.

T
he sign said $16.83 an hour
to park the car: Decker wasn’t sure if he’d read it right, but then Rina said something about space in the city being at
a premium. Space or no space, the rates were usurious. Since a typical leisurely paced business meeting could last two to
three hours, Decker now knew why New Yorkers talked so fast.

Hershfield had the requisite Fifth Avenue address, and Jonathan miraculously found parking on a side street because it was
still early. As soon as Rina unbelted Hannah, the girl woke up as cranky as a coot. Decker held her as they walked, the monolithic
buildings blocking out what little light the sky had to offer. Rubbish cans and Dumpsters lined the sidewalk. With any luck,
there wouldn’t be a garbage truck blocking the van when they had to leave. Hannah whined as they walked into the granite lobby
of the skyscraper and checked in with the security desk, manned by six gray-jacketed sentries. She complained she had to go
to the bathroom.

“No public rest rooms,” the guard announced.

“What do you mean there’s no public rest room?” Decker countered. “This is a sixty-story building.”

“Security precaution. It’s key only. Mr. Hershfield’s office is on the forty-third floor. You can take the express elevator
up.”

Rina grabbed Peter’s arm and brought him over to a bank of elevators. “Don’t start.”

“Guy’s an idiot. Do we look like terrorists—”

“Shhh. He’ll hear you.”

“That’s the idea.”

“I have to go to the bathroom—”

“In a minute, pumpkin,” Decker growled.

Moments later, as they were whisked up to the forty-third floor, Hannah moaned that her ears hurt. By the time they reached
the first secretary, Hannah was saying that her bladder was about to burst.

“Can we use the bathroom?” Rina asked.

“Three floors down,” the secretary answered. “Take the internal elevator and go to the right. Ask for Britta.”

“But there’s one right over there,” Decker pointed out.

“Employees only. Fortieth floor, sir. That’s where Mr. Hershfield’s offices are anyway.”

“I finally found a place more bureaucratic than the LAPD.”

“Come on, Peter.” Rina tugged at his jacket. “Getting her angry won’t help.”

“Listen to your wife.” Then she turned her back to them.

They waited at the elevators as Hannah whimpered in Decker’s arms.

“Cry louder, pumpkin,” Decker told her.

“Peter—”

“Scream a little. Wailing’s okay, too.”

Another elevator ride. By now, Hannah was complaining of nausea. She reached out to her mother. Rina took her and marched
over to the first person she saw. A fifty-plus woman with short clipped brunette hair and hoop earrings. She had round brown
eyes and wore bright red lipstick. Over her black sweater was chunky jewelry. Half-size reading glasses sat on the bridge
of her nose.

“I’m looking for Britta,” Rina announced.

“That’s me.”

“They’re looking for Mr. Hershfield.” Rina cocked her finger in the men’s direction. “
I’m
looking for the bathroom. She’s got to go, and apparently this floor has the only public bathroom in the entire building!”

“Lenore didn’t let you use the forty-third-floor one?”

“No, she did not!”

“What a peach!” Britta stood and extracted a ring of keys. “I’ll take you, sweetheart. Poor thing.” She looked at the men.
“Is one of you Rabbi Levine?”

“I am,” Jonathan said.

“Third door on the right. Mr. Hershfield’s expecting you. Just knock. I’ll get you coffee in a moment.” To Rina, Britta said,
“Come, dahling. I know what it’s like to be captive to a small bladder. After I had my last child, I ruined outfits every
time I sneezed.”

Decker watched the women disappear behind the sacred door known as the women’s rest room. Then he and Jonathan found the office.
A gold doorplate told them that Hershfield was a legal corporation. Jonathan knocked. A stentorian voice bade them enter.

His office was the size of a secretary’s reception room. Then Decker realized it was the secretary’s reception room. The desk
held a name-plate that said
MS
.
MOORE
. The person behind the desk definitely wasn’t a female. He was Ichabod Crane, alive and well and practicing law in the city
of New York. His cheeks were so sharp that they almost poked out of the thin skin. His forehead was high and bare, with thinning
dark hair combed straight back. His lips were two slash marks, his eyes were sunken in his brow. Still the orbs held a spark
of mischief. He was superbly dressed—black wool crepe jacket, white shirt with French cuffs, and patterned tie of horses and
gladiators— probably a two-hundred-dollar Leonard tie.