The Ritual Bath (18 page)

“Haman’s a bad guy, huh?” Decker asked.

“Yeah,” Sammy said. “He was one of Hitler’s ancestors.”

“Really?” Decker asked Rina.

“Some say. If they weren’t brethren by blood, they were spiritually. They’re all Amalek.”

Decker’s eyes darkened. “What’s that?”

“Originally, a tribe at the time of Israel’s liberation from Egypt. They were purposefully mean and spiteful to the Jews as they left. Now the term is used for any person or group bent on the total destruction of the Jews. I consider Yassir Arafat—
y’mach shmo
—Amalek, for example.”

Decker said nothing.

“Anything wrong, Peter?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, then peered into the box and brought out another book.

“This is
Bava Metzia
,” Sammy said taking the text from Decker. “I’m going to learn it this next year.”

“Somebody in your wife’s family was a scholar,” Rina said. “This is Talmud; it’s what is studied in the yeshiva.”

“I’ve got a whole set of these books upstairs
in another trunk, and they all have this strange layout of the text. You’ve got a big block of Hebrew here. Then all these columns of Hebrew surrounding the block. What is this?”

“The big block, which is written in Aramaic, is the legal question that’s being discussed. This particular book starts out with the laws of lost and found.”

“This isn’t a Bible?”

“No. It’s a treatise on Jewish criminal and civil law.”

“So what are these columns all about?”

“
Rashi, tosafot—
” She stopped herself. “Commentaries—different interpretations of the legal question.”

“Do you follow these laws?”

“Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “That’s what being a Torah Jew is all about.”

“How’d this all come about?”

“The primary laws were given to Moses by Hashem on Mount Sinai—some were written, some were passed along orally. Later on, the oral laws were written down and interpreted by the Amoraim—a group of prominent rabbis. The final laws were decided by rabbinic vote between the third and sixth centuries.”

Decker was silent. She knew what he was thinking.

“There are allowances for today’s problems. Like electricity. The question of whether we could use electricity on the Sabbath didn’t pop up in the Talmud.”

“And who decided whether you could or couldn’t?”

“The scholars of the day.”

“Can you?” he asked.

“No. It’s considered kindling a fire, which is prohibited on the Sabbath. That isn’t to say we sit in the dark Friday night. We leave the lights on before the sun goes down, or some of us put the lights on a time clock. We just can’t flick the switch on or off.”

“I can see where this gets very complicated,” Decker said.

“That’s why there are yeshivot. It takes a lifetime to learn all of it.”

“I’m bored,” Jake said. “Can I watch TV?”

“Why don’t you go outside and play with Ginger?” Peter suggested. “She looks bored, too.”

Jacob looked at Rina.

“Fine with me.”

Jacob ran outside with the dog.

Decker looked at Sammy, who was immersed in a book. “You want to go outside with your brother?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“He likes to read,” Rina said. “Sammy, why don’t you sit in the big chair? It’s more comfortable, and there’s better light.”

The boy didn’t answer.

“He doesn’t hear me when he’s concentrating,” she explained. “Shmueli, honey.” She gently tugged on his shirt sleeve. The boy stood up, and she led him over to a chair on the far side of the living room, then walked back to Decker, who was in the dining area clearing the table.

“Sammy’s a real little rabbi,” he said, dumping the plates in the garbage.

“Like his father,” she said, pitching in.

“Or his mother. You seem to know what you’re talking about.”

“No, he’s like his father—extremely intense. Jakey is much more like me. Believe it or not, I’m really an easygoing person.”

“I can believe it. You’ve handled yourself very well under all the stress.”

Decker pulled out a chair.

“Why don’t you sit down? I can clean this up. You’re a guest.”

She sighed heavily, sat down at the table, and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “I don’t know. I’m so nervous all the time, always on edge.”

“Don’t you think you deserve a night out on the town?” he said quietly, not wanting the boy to hear.

She turned away from him.

“Those
sepharim
are beautiful. I can’t imagine your in-laws not wanting any of them. They’re works of art.”

“They were about as Jewish as I was. We celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah. We ate ham on Easter. We even joined a Unitarian church when Cynthia was school-age. My ex-wife was adamant about letting her choose her own religion, even though I had no objections to Cindy being raised Jewish. You can’t get much more assimilated than that.”

“True.”

“By the way, you nicely sidestepped my question.”

She glanced at Sammy.

“Peter,” she whispered, “as much as I enjoy your company, I can’t go out with you.”

“I’m not talking about a date. Something platonic. Marge Dunn is giving a recital with her boyfriend, and I’m invited. I wouldn’t mind a little company.”

“What does Marge play?”

“Flute.”

“Is she good?”

“She’s terrible. But we all love her and tell her she’s terrific. Anyway, all her boyfriends have been musicians, and her latest is a violinist. The two of them are planning to butcher Haydn. I need someone to go with.”

She said nothing.

“It’ll be really a harmless get-together. I just don’t want to be stuck there alone.”

“Won’t there be other detectives that you know?”

“They’ll all have dates. If I show up alone, I’ll be conspicuous. Then, someone’ll start trying to set me up, and I’m not interested in being set up. You’d be doing me a big favor.”

“I’m sure you know
other
women,” she said waspishly, then regretted saying it.

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

She blushed.

“Oh, nothing really. I’m sure you have no shortage of women, that’s all.”

“They’re beating down my doorstep,” he
laughed, touched by the tinge of jealousy in her voice. “Can’t you hear?”

“Now I know what all the loud thumping noises were.”

She grew serious.

“If feelings were everything, I would have gone out with you a long time ago. I like you. This is very hard for me, Peter. Please try to understand. My religion is my life.”

“Let me ask you something. If I were Jewish, but the same person, would you go out with me?”

“Certainly, if you were religious.”

“Plain Jewish—like my daughter—isn’t good enough?”

She hesitated a moment, then said: “It’s not a matter of good or bad, Peter. Your daughter is a
fine
person regardless of her religion. It’s an individual choice. I don’t feel any more comfortable with assimilated Jews like your in-laws than with non-Jews. How could they have given away beautiful treasures like these books? It takes a lot more to be a Torah Jew than just an accident of birth.”

Well, that ends that, Decker thought.

He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a six-pack of Dos Equis.

“Okay. I give up.”

“Please don’t be angry.”

“Nah, I’m not angry.” He opened up a green bottle and took a gulp. “I don’t understand your reasoning, but at least it’s nothing personal.”

“Believe me, it’s not.”

“I honestly thought you could be worn down, but you’re tough.”

He took a few more swigs, finished off the bottle, and tossed it in the garbage.

“It’s damn frustrating, though.”

Decker stared across the room, then returned his eyes to Rina.

“Anyone else ever chase you like this?”

His tone of voice had become abruptly neutral, and his eyes were hard. She didn’t know what to think.

“Not really,” she said softly. “I met Yitzchak at seventeen and married him six months later. I was out of circulation very young.”

“How about recently? Anyone ever ask you out and you refused?”

“A couple of the
bochrim
I dated—like Shlomo. When they asked me out a second time, I said no. Except for Shlomo, they’ve all left the yeshiva.”

“Who else?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

She stared at him, then asked:

“What are you getting at?”

“Nothing really,” he said mildly. “Just grasping at straws.”

But he had taken on a cop’s demeanor. She found herself relieved that the conversation had turned more business-like.

“No one outside of the yeshiva men ever asked you out?” he asked.

“Well, after Yitzchak died I went back to UCLA to finish my B.A. A couple of grad stu
dents and a professor asked me for a date. They didn’t seem broken up by my refusal.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A year, year and a half ago.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“The professor’s name was Dooley. Frank or Fred. I don’t even think he’s in LA anymore.”

“And the students?”

“Blanks.”

“Anyone else?”

She paused.

“Matt Hawthorne asked me out ages ago. But Matt’s harmless.”

“Matt’s the teacher who’s been guarding the place on Friday night?”

“Yes, he and Steve Gilbert. In a pinch they’ve even walked me home at night, so if either had wanted to do something, he’d have had ample opportunity.”

“Not really. Not if he didn’t want you to know his identity.”

“You
are
grasping at straws.”

“What’d Matt say when you said no?”

“He made a joke out of it. Said he was only teasing, that he’d wanted to take me to a nudie show and watch me blush. But if you knew Matt, you’d know that’s the way he is. A little crude at times, but he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“How long have you known him?”

“About five years. Both he and Steve had been working at the yeshiva when Yitzchak and I arrived.”

“How about Gilbert?”

“What do you mean?”

“He never asked you out?”

She paused for a long time.

“Actually we went out for a drink once. But,” she quickly clarified, “it wasn’t a date. He’s been engaged to the same girl on and off for five years, and this was one of his in-between periods. It was also a year after Yitzchak died, and I was so lonely. But we concentrated on him. He was feeling very low, and I gave him a shoulder to cry on.”

“Never asked you out again?”

“No. As I said, it wasn’t a date. He knows as well as Matt that I only date Jewish men. Besides, Steve loves his fiancée. I’ve met her, and she’s a very nice girl. Both of them have trouble making decisions; they keep setting dates and breaking them. He’s due to get married in about six weeks, and it looks like this time it’s going to go through.”

“What’s he like?”

“Quiet, but not unusually so for a physics type. I was a math-physics major in college, and I knew lots of guys like him.”

“What about your students, Rina? Any of them seem a little off?”

“They’re
boys
, Peter!”

“They’re the same age as Cory Schmidt.”

“
Lehavdil
. In answer to your question, no. The kids I teach are terrific.”

“And you know every single one?”

“There are a hundred boys in the yeshiva’s high school. I know close to every single one. They’re fine, normal boys.”

He threw his arms upward, stretched, then opened another bottle of beer.

“You’re probably right.”

But she sensed he wouldn’t leave it at that.

“We’d better be getting back, Peter. I can’t wait until you take the books over to the Rosh Yeshiva. He could tell you a lot more about them than I could, as far as value. Rav Aaron is often asked by galleries to appraise works of Judaica. His study is like a museum.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“He’d show it to you. He’s very proud of his collection.”

“Rina, I want to ask you an off-the-wall question.”

“Okay.”

“In Moshe’s closet was a beautiful white robe that was protected by a cleaners’ bag, completely out of character with the rest of his wardrobe. Does it have any religious significance?”

“Yes. It’s a
kittel
. A man wears it when he marries, when he prays on the High Holy Days, and when he’s buried.” She paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity. My box contained a similar garment. I took it out and had it wrapped in plastic to prevent it from yellowing.”

Rina became pensive.

“God knows why Moshe kept his,” she said. “It must be a painful remembrance for a man whose marriage went sour.”

Decker smiled sadly.

“True enough,” he said.

Decker walked down
a flight of steps and into the basement chemistry lab. He was surprised at how modern it was. The room was spacious, bright, and well ventilated. There were thirty hooded stations, each equipped with standard lab paraphernalia—bunsen burners, beakers, titrating cylinders and hoses, stirring rods, and an assortment of measuring devices. At the back wall sat Gilbert at a long bench table that held ten personal computers. He was busy typing on a keyboard and didn’t turn around until Decker was halfway across the room. Then he stood up and offered the detective a chair.

“Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Decker glanced at the computers—six IBM PCs, four Apple MacIntoshes. “Looks like some money has been spent here.”

“The parents are getting more particular. They want their sons graduating with something more marketable than theology.”

“Does that cause any problems with the rabbis?”

“A few, like Rabbi Marcus, seem to find the twentieth century objectionable. However, Rabbi Schulman is a very practical man. He knows on which side his proverbial bread is buttered.”

Gilbert took off his glasses, pulled a tissue out of his shirt pocket, and began to wipe his glasses. He continued:

“The computers were donated by a couple of rich families. The lab was built at cost three years ago. The construction company’s president had a boy who was going here. Schulman is a great fund-raiser.”

“Do you like teaching here?”

“It’s a job. I need the extra income.”

“Rina says the boys here are really bright.”

“Very bright, very spoiled.”

“Are they a challenge to teach?”

He put his glasses back on.

“At times. Most of the challenge is appeasing the parents when their precious babies aren’t performing up to snuff.” Gilbert stared at Decker. “What’s on your mind, Detective?”

“Just a few questions.” Decker took out a note pad.

“I didn’t rape anyone.”

Decker said nothing. An odd reaction. It was unusual for anyone to start off with a flat denial of guilt.

“Anything else?” Gilbert asked in a bored tone of voice.

“You were in Nam,” Decker stated.

“Yes.”

“What unit?”

“I’m sure you know.”

“You tell me.”

“I was a clerk in Saigon,” Gilbert said. “I was never in heavy action.”

“Records say you were a sniper.”

“For a week.”

“What happened?”

“I was transferred. Maybe they were impressed with my typing.”

“Weren’t you frustrated? All that skill—”

“I came home with my balls intact. That’s more than I can say for a lot of others. Were you over there?”

“Yes,” Decker answered.

“Doing?”

“I was a medic.”

“Oooh.” Gilbert gave a half smile. “Very messy.”

“How long have you known Mrs. Lazarus?”

“I’ve known Rina about five years.”

“Did you know her husband?”

“I’d met him. I didn’t know him.”

“Did he and Rina seem well matched?”

“I think she could have done better, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Ever think of asking her out after her husband passed away?”

“She’s inaccessible to me. I’m not Jewish.” The half smile reappeared on his lips. “She’s inaccessible to you too, Detective.”

Decker ignored him and continued.

“Where were you the night of Florence Marley’s murder?”

“With my fiancée’s parents. Phone number
675-6638. I’m there every Wednesday night. Check it out.”

“What’s their name?”

“MacLaughlin.”

“Where were you the night of the Adler rape?”

“What day of the week was the rape?”

“Thursday.”

“Teaching the computer club.”

“What time is the club over?”

“Around ten.”

“The rape was around ten.”

“So?”

“That puts you in the area at the time of the rape.”

“You know, Detective, Rina’s sons are in the computer club. It was my idea to bring them in; I thought they’d have a good time fooling around with the machines. Rina would pick them up at the club after her mikvah job, and I’d walk them all home. But they haven’t come around lately, and when I asked Rina why, she was evasive. You have her distrusting everyone in pants except you and maybe Zvi Adler and Rabbi Schulman. I don’t like being held up to scrutiny because I know her and have a dick.”

“Why are you wearing long sleeves? It’s hot as hell outside.”

“Dress code.”

“I’ve seen many students with their sleeves rolled up.”

“I’m not a student. I’m a teacher.”

“Do you mind if I see your arms?”

Gilbert paused.

“Yes.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t like you.”

“I’d like to see your forearms, Mr. Gilbert.”

He hesitated, then rolled up his sleeves. They were both free of scratches.

“Satisfied?” Gilbert said, rebuttoning the cuffs.

Decker stuck the note pad in his pocket and stood up.

“Thank you for your time.”

“He was Joe Cool,” Decker told Marge. “Unflappable.”

“No scratches?” Marge asked.

“No. But he hesitated before showing me. Maybe he wasn’t so sure if there were or weren’t.”

“When do you talk to the other one?”

“Six-thirty. After work, at his apartment.”

“Then what?”

Decker shrugged.

“Do you suspect Gilbert?”

“I suspect everyone I’ve talked to. Unfortunately, I don’t have any evidence.”

“Except Cory Schmidt,” Marge corrected.

“Yeah, Cory is tied to the murder. I don’t know about the rape.” Decker sipped coffee, then put the cup on his desk. “What about Professor Fred Dooley?”

“He’s been on sabbatical in Greece for the last six months.”

The phone rang.

“Decker.”

“It’s Mike.”

“How’re you doing with Rayana?”

“Diddlysquat,” said Hollander. “But I got some good news for you.”

“What?”

“I found Cory Schmidt.”

“Where?”

“At a head shop in Sun Valley. I nosed around and found out one of his friends used to work there. Sure enough, the little shit was in the back room toking on some homegrown weed dipped in dust. Sucker’s as high as a kite. I’ve got him cuffed. Right now I’m waiting for transport.”

“Good going, Mike. Bring him in.”

The kid was full of spit and fire and had to be physically restrained by an officer. Decker closed the door to the interview room and stood across from him with his hands folded across his chest. Schmidt was wearing a Black Sabbath midriff T-shirt and a pair of black leather pants. His hair was dirty and hung limply to his shoulders.

“I wanna lawyer, pig,” he spat.

“You’ll get one,” Decker said. “It’ll be by the book, Cory. It’s too big to lose on a technicality. But let me tell you this, son. You’re fucked.”

“I ain’t your son.”

“We’ve got evidence. We’ve got lots and lots of evidence.”

“Bullshit!”

“Do you want to confess?”

“Fuck you.”

“Sure, now?”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Get him out of here.”

Moshe Feldman’s shrink, Dr. Marder, had phoned while he was with Cory. Decker returned the call and thanked him for being so prompt.

“No problem, Detective. I’ve just dropped the report in the mail. If you have any questions about it, feel free to call me. I can’t disclose any of our other previous therapy sessions because, of course, those were confidential. This evaluation is different because it was court ordered.”

“Can you summarize the report for me now?”

“Sure. It is my professional opinion that Moshe Feldman witnessed something traumatic and brutal that night. Whether he actually saw a murder, a rape, or a beating, I don’t know. I don’t think he knows. Whatever he saw or heard involved more than one person. Moshe remembers seeing four people. That’s about it.”

“Do you trust this guy, Doctor?”

“I don’t think he was fantasizing.”

“What is he? A psycho?”

“No. He’s not psychotic or psychopathic in any classic sense. No hallucinations, no voices telling him to kill or rape, so far as I know. He has a conscience—an overly developed one at
that. The guy is crippled by guilt. If I had to put a label on him, I’d say he was schizoid with an affective disorder. He’s oriented—he knows who he is and where he is—but his emotions are inappropriate or flat.”

“Do you think he could be dangerous?”

“I can’t predict that. Any psychiatric professional who says he can predict future behavior based on past performance is full of horseshit. Do I think he would kill or rape? No. Would I stake my professional reputation on it? No.”

“So he could be violent?”

“At this time, I’ve no indication that he’s violent. But I’m not saying he could never be violent.”

“And you think he saw something brutal being carried out by at least four people.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor.”

“I hope I’ve been helpful. I like Moshe. I have a great deal of respect for Rabbi Schulman. I used to learn under him. The man is brilliant. I’d like to see the yeshiva free and clear of this mess.”

“So would I,” said Decker.

“Okay,” Marge said, handing Decker the report. “Some of the shoe prints matched Schmidt’s. But a lot didn’t. The report says seven different prints were lifted.”

“One of them was Feldman’s.”

Marge thought.

“Yeah, one of them was Feldman’s, one of them was Marley’s. I figure it like this: Schmidt and friends makes five; Feldman makes six; Marley makes seven.”

“You think there were five of them who attacked Florence?”

“Yeah.”

Decker skimmed the pages of the document, then said, “I just spoke to Feldman’s shrink. He says Feldman remembers seeing only four people. But his accuracy is up for grabs.”

“How many guys were involved with Rina that day at the supermarket parking lot?” Marge asked.

“Four. Cory and three of his cohorts.”

“So if it was the same guys who attacked Marley, Feldman should have seen five people—Cory and his friends and Marley.”

“Unless Marley was down by the time he witnessed the scene,” Decker said. “In either case, it still doesn’t add up to five people who attacked Marley.”

“So maybe Cory brought along an extra?”

“Could be.” Decker plopped the papers onto his desk. “It would be nice if we could round up all the shoes of every suspect we have in this case and check them for matching prints.”

“And maybe collect a couple of pairs of loafers while you’re at it.”

Decker looked down at his weather-beaten oxfords.

“No joke. Where’s Cory now?”

“In a holding pen. He’s due to be arraigned
this afternoon. Hollander is going down to court. Prosecutor’s going for top bail and thinks he’ll have no trouble getting it. Schmidt’s his own worst enemy.”

“Who’s been assigned to the case?”

“George Birdwell.”

“He’s good.” Decker leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Anything new with Rayana?”

Marge shook her head.

“Mike says same old shit. Hasn’t discovered anyone new. Rayana goes to work, comes home, and surfaces only to walk her dog. It wears a doggy sweater all the time—even in this heat. God forbid Poochy should catch cold.”

“Shit.”

Early evening. The air was still scorching, thick, and smoggy. Decker pulled the Plymouth into a red zone and put an LAPD sticker on the dashboard.

Matthew Hawthorne lived in an apartment district in Sun Valley. The area was full of multiple dwellings boasting exotic names like
South Pacific
and
Blue Hawaii
. None of them lived up to their tropical labels. The exteriors were gray stucco, and the landscaping had withered in the heat. The majority of them had pools, but the water, instead of iridescent blue, was algae green. Hawthorne lived at number 12, on the second floor of
Bali Hai
. Decker knocked, and the door flew open.

“I’ve got my alibi all pat.” The teacher laughed nervously.

What a weirdo, Decker thought. He stepped inside. The flat was a single. A brown tweed sofa stood against one wall, a composition board coffee table in front of it. Two brown vinyl side chairs faced the sofa. Decker could see the kitchen off to his right and a door that probably led to the john. The wall behind the chairs was covered with bookshelves.

Decker sat down on the couch and pulled out his pad.

“How long have you known Mrs. Lazarus?” he asked, skipping the small talk.

Hawthorne’s left eye twitched.

“About five years. I was already teaching when she and her husband came to the yeshiva.”

“What’d you think of her husband?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Mr. Hawthorne?”

“Well, he seemed like a typical yeshiva man.” He stopped talking and appeared to be thinking. “I never thought she belonged there altogether.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I realize she’s very religious, but she also has a good sense of humor, and she isn’t afraid of men, you know? I mean some of the women are really androphobes. I try to talk to them, and they’re so nervous, they make me nervous. Rina used to be very relaxed. Now, of course, she’s a wreck. But I can’t blame her for that. I mean if I were in
her position, I’d be very tense also.”

“Did you like her husband?”

“I don’t think I ever said more than hello to him. Either he was quiet, or he didn’t like me. I don’t think he was wild about Steve and me working with his wife. But he never said anything rude to me.”

“Did you ever think of asking Mrs. Lazarus out after he died?”

Again, Hawthorne paused.

“No. She only dates Jews—religious Jews—if she dates at all. Her oldest boy, Sammy, sometimes talks to me. He says she doesn’t go out.”

“Sammy volunteered that information to you?”

Again the tic.

“I asked him about her once. I was interested in her welfare.”

“But you never asked Mrs. Lazarus out?”

“No.”

“She seems to recall that you did.”

“Really?”

“Really.”