Stone Kiss (51 page)

Decker regarded Donatti. He was sweating hard, breathing quickly. Throughout the process, he’d been grimacing in pain. If
Decker moved now, if he was quick enough…

Donatti read his thoughts and fished out the Beretta from his jacket. He had the Smith & Wesson fixed on his head, the Beretta
on his chest. “C’mon. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

The opportunity had come and gone.

Donatti kept the .32 on Decker’s head. “You ever been shot?”

“Several times.”

“Where?”

“Left shoulder…arm.”

“Hurts like hell.” The Beretta still in his right hand, Donatti pulled up his black sweater, exposing his bandage.

“Who did that?” Decker asked. “Merrin? Chaim? One of Merrin’s boys?”

Donatti sidestepped the question. “It wasn’t the first time I’ve been plugged, but I still don’t like it.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Hold still.” Donatti pointed the .32 at Decker’s chest. “And I mean
real
still.”

The gun spat fire, grazing Decker’s rib cage. He jumped as pain burst through his body.

“Now we’re twins,” Donatti announced.

“Fuck you!” Decker snarled as he grabbed his side. Blood reddened his fingers. Enraged, he bolted forward, but Donatti had
taken several steps back, brandishing the weapons toward Decker’s head.

“Ah, ah, ah…”

Decker stopped and hissed out, “Go ahead and shoot me, you god-damn son of a bitch! I’m not dancing for your amusement!”

“I’m not making you dance, Lieutenant. I’m turning you into a real live hero.” The next shot grazed his hip. Decker doubled
over in pain.

“I think that’s enough.” Donatti switched hands, keeping the semi-automatic on Decker’s face. Swiftly, he bent down, wrapped
Merrin’s dead fingers around his pistol, and depleted it of ammunition. When he got up, he wiped his pants with latex-gloved
hands, the Beretta pointed somewhere within the vicinity of Decker’s groin.

“You should lie down. Losing blood can make you light-headed.”

“Fuck you!” Decker stood up straight for spite. The air reeked of sweat, waste, and blood. His head was on fire. Sparkles
danced before his eyes, but he concentrated on his breathing and refused to succumb to the nausea in his stomach and the dizziness
in his brain. He’d go out like a man, in full consciousness, face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

Donatti was analyzing the scene. “Well, it looks to me like Lieber and Merrin shot each other, Lieutenant. Not to mention
these two dodos, Merrin’s two top runners for ecstasy in the local high schools.”

“Philip Caldwell and Ryan Anderson.”

“You’ve done your homework. Yes, Caldwell and Anderson. And yes, you’re right. They knew Shayndie from hanging at the raves.”

“They took her out of hiding to call my brother,” Decker panted out. “They figured that… that my brother would tell me about
it. And that would throw me off for a while. They murdered her…but figured I wouldn’t even look for the body for a couple
of days because of the phone call. It was a good idea except they dumped her in a public place where she was easily found.”

Donatti rolled his eyes. “Idiots.”

“The boys knew where you had her stashed.” Decker’s eyes traveled to Donatti’s ice-blue orbs. “That means
you
had to have known them. Did they work for you?”

“Just the opposite. Caldwell had been one of those pains in the ass who had passed through my portals when I used to take
in straight boys. Cocksucker abused my hospitality. Such rudeness has its consequences.” He shook his head. “He killed Ephraim
Lieber in my style, thinking all he had to do to be me was pop the trigger. Well, they say that imitation is the highest form
of flattery.”

The room was silent except for heavy breathing.

Decker spoke softly. “Now what?”

“Well, you can spin it any way you want, but I’d tell it like this: a distraught father / brother avenging the deaths of his
daughter and brother from evil drug runners and a corrupt police chief. Let the pissant die a hero. Or you can tell the cops
the truth, that Lieber was scum—a sniveling, weak, groveling piece of shit who got blow jobs from hookers and who set up his
own brother and his own daughter. Then he tried to cover his tracks, bringing out some hick L.A. cop to pump NYPD for information.
When the cop got to be a pain in the ass, he attempted to clean him. But the hick cop happened to be just a little smarter
than Lieber thought.”

“I can spin it any way I want.…” Decker felt sweat pouring off his brow, the left side of his body throbbing in pain. “You’re
letting me walk, Chris?”

“Is that a mistake?”

“Probably.”

“I don’t think so, Decker. If you come after me, you’ll fuck yourself up. Ultimately, it’s your word against mine.”

Decker managed to smile, even though the entire left side of his torso pulsated with burning agony. “I have a little more
credibility than you do.”

“Think so? Well, I’ve got the lawyers, and they’re gonna tell a jury this: We were a partnership pure and simple—both of us
hand in hand, doing it together, and both of us getting shot in the process.”

He pointed to his own ribs.

“If I go down, old man, you go down. Because all Hershfield has to do is ask you one simple question, Lieutenant. Who came
to whom for help?”

The words cut through Decker more powerfully than his wounds.

“And the fact that you’re
alive
to tell the story gives
me
credibility,” Donatti continued. “Because everyone
knows
if I had wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

No one spoke.

“
And
… I’m much cuter than you.” Donatti gave a charming smile. “Hershfield’s specialty is voir dire. All he has to do is stack
the jury with women and a few blue-collar men and you haven’t a chance in hell for conviction. The most you’ll be able to
hope for is a hung jury. Meanwhile, you’ve not only fucked up your life, you fucked up your brother’s family because all the
shit will come out. As far as I’m concerned, another trial will only enhance my reputation.”

For a moment, Donatti debated telling Decker that the same mother-fuckers who took out Shayndie had also tried to pop his
wife. That if he hadn’t been there, the lieutenant would be a widower today. But he decided against it. It would give Decker
a rationale for letting him go. That’s not what he wanted. He wanted to make Decker suffer, humiliated by his own actions
and his resulting failure… because Decker had humiliated him in Terry’s eyes eight years ago.

He started to back away, keeping the gun on Decker’s head. “I’m going to turn around. All the nearby guns have been emptied.
You could make a run for the ones behind you, but you’d better be quick and you’d better shoot to kill, because if you miss…
you’re dead. And then I go after your family—one by one by one. If you happen to get lucky with a direct hit, remember your
promise to me. You take care of Terry and my son. I really love that little girl.”

Police sirens could be heard in the background.

Jonathan had finally gotten to a phone booth.

“I think that’s my exit song,” Donatti told him.

Thinking about the weapons, Decker watched him back away. How his body seared with pain! He was compromised. He couldn’t walk
without limping, let alone run. Any attempt to seize a gun would give Donatti more than enough time to kill him.

But if he did nothing, then he allowed the murdering scum to walk away. Not just any murderer, a man who had slain his own
brother’s relative in cold blood and done it as easily as blowing his nose.

Pick off my family—one by one by one
.

And even if Decker had the gun in his hand, could he do it? Shoot to kill in cold blood? Just put a bullet through Donatti’s
brain? The world would be better off. Even Terry and the kid would be better off—
especially
Terry and the kid. Could he make that calculated decision to pop him without direct threat?

How did the psycho do it?

Of course, that was the answer: Donatti was a psycho.

At least, the bastard hadn’t given him that decision to make. Decker knew he wasn’t about to play heroics—not with the stench
of his own fresh blood wafting over him, with this abattoir around him. He owed his family common sense. He owed his family
his opting to live.

Decker yelled out, “You’re not playing fair, Chris. You know I can’t chance it.”

Donatti grinned. “The hands are the hands of Esau, but the voice is the voice of Jacob!”

What was he
talking
about? “I ain’t sticking a fork in it, Chris!” Decker continued. “We’re not done yet!”

Donatti gave him a thumbs-up. “Suck my cock, Lieutenant!”

He turned and broke into a jog.

And then he was gone.

I
t was recorded as Donatti
predicted—Rabbi Chaim Lieber against a half-dozen drug-dealing, ecstasy-popping animals aided by a corrupt police chief and
two of his lackeys. The slain Lieber had become a local saint, and Minda, his martyred wife. It made Decker sick. Days passed,
and he was besieged by endless questions from the police, from the media, from lawyers, friends, and relatives. Nights passed
during which he was terrorized by horrid dreams of blood and bodies. For the entire world to see, he held up well during the
ordeal. But the secrets of his heart told a different story. He was plagued by his weakness, ashamed by his failure to confess
the truth in all its blindfolded glory.

In the end, after several weeks had gone by, after all the inquiries and answers were typed up and filed away, after the newspapers
had reduced the front-page news to a one-column article on
page 26
, Decker and his conscience were left alone to brood, an
exclusive club of two that could not be penetrated by anyone else. Not even by Rina.

Especially not Rina.

Though she begged and pleaded with him to talk, he kept his incubi private. When things settled down, he’d see someone. In
the meantime, it was all too fresh to deal with, too raw and painful. They would come, the words, but they needed time to
form into cohesive deliberations, into articulated introspection.

Who would have guessed that his brother would be the one to give
Decker his needed solace? Not Jonathan, who knew only
part
of the truth, but had sworn to take that wedge of it to his grave. Not Jonathan, who tried all the religious medicaments
on himself as well as Decker, only to fail miserably. Not Jonathan, who cried, coaxed, and urged, but came up empty-handed.
It was clear to Decker that Jonathan couldn’t handle him, because his brother could barely address his own demons. Admitting
psychological and spiritual defeat—an especially agonizing acknowledgment for a rabbi— Jonathan sought refuge in professional
counsel.

No, it wasn’t his brother Jonathan who bestowed upon Decker the ability to pick up his head and face another day. It was Randy.
Sixteen days after Decker had witnessed slaughter and destruction, he had packed up his bags for Florida: to find peace in
his childhood home, to mend his wounds both physical and emotional. The first weekend of his arrival, Randy came down to visit.
At six-two, 270 pounds of muscle and fat, his brother had a kick-ass attitude ideal for an undercover cop. His formidable
face was slathered by a matted black beard hanging over his chin. His dark piercing eyes demanded to be told the truth.

It started out as small talk: It always worked that way, gradually segueing into Decker’s buried guilt. Randy listened without
interruption. Then he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“What’re you sweating it for, Peter? You know as well as I do, even if you had killed the scumbag, another one would have
come along to take his place.”

Decker wiped his forehead. He was soaked with perspiration, even though he was wearing a lightweight, short-sleeved cotton
shirt and jeans. It was in the low seventies with blue skies and clear air. “I don’t know, Randy….”

“Course you do. No shortage of pissbuckets, Peter. Don’t give it a second thought.”

“I should have done something. At the very least, I should have told the cops the truth.”

“And made everyone miserable—the old man Lieber, the widowed wife, the remaining children, your entire half brother’s family,
you, Rina, your family, even me…” He shook his head. “Truth is a flexible
concept, bro. Didn’t you tell me that Jewish-wise, truth means peace?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you did. You told me it was okay to lie to keep peace in the family.”

“Oh, that.
Shalom bayit
. It means fibbing, Randy, not letting murderers go free.”

“Donatti will get his, just like his old man did. In the meantime, you’re living to see another day. As they say in the Family,
‘fuhgeddaboutit.’” Randy leaned back in his wicker chaise lounger. The brothers were resting on the outside porch, drinking
lemonade. Damn near idyllic. “You’re a friggin’ hero, Peter. You risked your life to save Chaim.”

“It didn’t work—”

“So what if it worked or not? It still happened. And you got shot in the process. That makes you a hero. Furthermore, you
made
me
a hero. You know how long we’ve been after Weiss, Harabi, and Ibn Dod? You
flushed
them out for us. You broke up a major ecstasy-import ring. They’re being transported down here for arraignment next week.”

“Like you said, there’ll just be more to take their places.”

“Yeah, sure, but it’s important for us to
succeed
once in a while. To say to the public, we care about you. We care about your kids and your neighborhoods. And we do care.”
He lightly punched Decker’s shoulder. “
You
made us look good here in Miami, bro. You made Novack in New York look good—all the nice things you said in the press about
NYPD detectives. Everyone loves you. If you were the political type, you could parlay what you did into chief of police in
one of the major cities.”

Decker didn’t answer.

Randy brought in the heavy ammunition. “Peter, you made
me
look especially good. I’m going to get a promotion because of you— D-three. You know how long I’ve waited for this?”