The Ritual Bath (19 page)

“Not that I remember. Hey, maybe I joked about it, but I didn’t think she took me seriously.”

“Did you ask her out jokingly?”

“Sure. All the time. I still do. I told you, I never thought she took it seriously.”

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

“The Adler rape?” Twitch. “I thought you were going to ask about the Marley woman.”

“Where were you both nights?”

“The night of Mrs. Marley’s murder I was out with a friend named Jack Oates. I can give you his phone number, and he’ll verify it. We saw a movie at the Capitol in Glendale—a documentary on street life in Cleveland called
Street Smarts
. Very good flick.”

“What time was the movie over?”

“Around ten.”

Decker didn’t push it. He’d get the exact time from the movie theater.

“How about the night of the Adler rape?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It was on a Thursday night.”

“I don’t know. I was probably home reading. I read a lot.”

“You watch a lot of TV?”

“Not a lot. Maybe the news.”

“You don’t regularly watch any Thursday night TV?”

He thought.

“No. Nothing regular comes to mind. Maybe I did see something that Thursday, though. I’ll recheck the schedule.”

If you have to do that it won’t mean anything
, Decker thought.

“What time do you get off work?” Decker asked.

“Usually around six, sometimes six-thirty.”

“Ever have any extracurricular activities with the boys?”

“Not in a formal sense, like the computer club. The boys aren’t as interested in literature as they are in science and religion. Sometimes
I shoot the shit with the kids about sports. But I’m usually gone by seven. I don’t like to hang around more than I have to. ’Course, for Rina, I’m happy to help out by patrolling.”

“You like her?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

Decker didn’t answer. Instead he looked at Hawthorne’s forearms. They, too, were clear.

“I think that about does it.”

“Well, that was painless. I expected a lot worse.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know…Maybe tarring and feathering.”

Decker didn’t smile.

“I’ll need the phone number of your friend Mr. Oates.”

“Certainly.” He wrote it on a piece of paper. “Take care of Rina. I care about that little gal.”

He sounded earnest, as if he meant it.

Marge Dunn showed
up as a green blip dancing on the grid of the Plymouth’s computer screen. The dot moved slowly to the left, stopped, then reversed back to the right. Decker stared at the monitor while sipping black coffee from a large styrofoam cup, and readjusted his legs. His muscles were beginning to cramp. Three hours and nothing.

Hollander had his nose buried in a
New York Times Book of Crossword Puzzles
. Occasionally his eyes would glance at the screen, but why bother watching if Decker was there? It was hot as blazes in the car, and he couldn’t understand how Pete could drink that swill. Hollander slurped the last of his Coke and tossed the paper cup onto the backseat.

“Anything?” he asked Decker.

“Same old shit.”

“Maybe we should check in with her?” Hollander suggested.

“No,” Decker replied. “I don’t want to catch her at the wrong time. If she’s with a suspect, he’ll get scared away as soon as he hears us
buzz in. If it’s anything, she’ll check in with us.”

“What’s a five letter word for a raccoon?” Hollander asked.

“C-o-a-t-i.”

“Yeah, it fits. Thanks.”

Decker’s expression soured. He hated crosswords because they reminded him of loneliness. He’d gone through a slew of them after his divorce. A few minutes later Hollander asked:

“How long are we going to keep this up?”

“Let’s wait until we hear from Marge.”

“How reliable do you think this Rayana is?”

“Well,” Decker said, eyes still fixed on the screen, “from what she described, Macko sounds like our man. Now, whether she had second thoughts and warned him off is another story.”

“She was pretty pissed at him.”

“Goddam fucking people,” Decker muttered. “Stupid bitch. She looks the other way while he’s out raping and beating up other women, but he kicks her precious poodle, and all of a sudden she decides he’s a menace to society.”

“No way to get her as an accomplice?”

“Nah, she really didn’t do anything.”

“She withheld evidence,” said Hollander.

“We gave her complete immunity to get her to talk,” Decker reminded him. “All part of the game. But at least she talked. Man, did she talk. You couldn’t shut her up once she got going.”

“She was worried we’d pin something on her. She wanted to clear the air.”

“I think so. I think that was the main reason for her coming forward. She thought we were close to finding Macko and didn’t want to drown in his shit. The dog was just the catalyst.”

The radio buzzed, and Marge’s voice came through the speaker.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Getting plenty of fresh air?” Hollander asked.

“My arches are killing me,” she said.

“Hang in there, sweetheart.”

He passed the microphone to Decker.

“Hey, Margie.”

“You know where I’m located?”

“Right in the back alley of Sid’s Pizza and Beer Stop. This new gadget is wonderful.”

“I’ll never eat pepperoni again. The smell has permeated my clothes.”

“How’s the lighting, Margie?”

“Backlighting from the street lamp, plus a bulb over the rear door of the restaurant. I’m beginning to wonder about Rayana’s credibility.”

“She never said definitely. You want to call it quits?”

“No. I’ve still got about an hour’s worth left in me.”

Hollander groaned, and Marge heard it.

“What the fuck is he bitching about? I’m the one who’s walking my ass off.”

“He does it to keep in practice,” Decker answered.

“I’m signing off. I see someone.”

The dot was still. Decker and Hollander watched the monitor for a few tense moments, but soon the spot was marching along like the bouncing ball used in the old TV sing-alongs.

“What did you think of Margie’s latest?” Hollander asked, putting aside the crossword book.

“Ernst? He seemed nice enough.”

“Faggy, don’t you think?”

“She likes ’em soft,” Decker said.

“Macho Woman meets Superwimp, eh?”

“He’s a good musician. That’s a step up from her last.”

“Yeah,” Hollander agreed, “but how can he stand playing with her?”

“Guess love is deaf as well as blind.”

“I can’t picture the two of them in bed.”

Decker shrugged.

“Bet she’s always on top,” snickered the fat detective.

“Hope not always. She’d crush him.”

“Think he’s Jewish?” Hollander asked.

Decker’s eyes darted from the screen to Hollander, then back to the screen.

“If he is Marge never mentioned it.”

“I think he’s a Jew. He looks Jewish. And with a last name like Katzenbach?”

“That could be German. Like the attorney general.”

“He looks Jewish to me, Pete.”

“You can’t tell from looks,” Decker said sharply.

“Take it easy. I’m not putting down your little honey.”

Decker felt his ire rising.

“Why don’t you go back to your puzzle?”

“Shit,” Hollander said, tamping his pipe. “Stop gettin’ so touchy. I can’t even mention Jewto—the yeshiva—without you blowing up.”

Decker pulled out a cigarette.

“Give me a light,” he said.

Hollander pulled out a match book.

“You gotta admit, Deck, Jews, in general, look like Jews.”

“Does Rina look Jewish?” Decker asked.

“She’s dark.”

“She’s got a nose smaller than a button.”

“Yeah,” Hollander admitted, “and you’ve got a Jewish nose. But still, I can tell that she’s Jewish and you’re not.”

“Fine, Michael. You’re an anthropologist.”

“’Course, maybe if you dressed her up in some normal clothes…” Hollander mused. “A low-cut blouse and a pair of jeans…”

There was a pause.

“Tight jeans,” Decker added.

“Real tight jeans.”

Both men laughed.

Marge buzzed through.

“As void as a black hole,” she said.

“How poetic,” said Hollander.

Decker picked up the portable radio.

“Are you getting tired?”

“The walking isn’t so bad. It’s these goddam pumps I have to wear.”

“Macko’s got a love affair with pumps,” Decker said. “Look, if you want to call it a night…”

“Another fifteen minutes.”

“Think you could adequately muscle an attacker?”

“To be honest, I have a few blisters. I couldn’t give him much chase.”

“We’re coming to get you.”

“Wait five minutes, Pete.”

“Will do.”

Decker clicked off the radio.

“Why don’t we just go in and arrest the son of a bitch?” Hollander said, shifting his bulk in the seat.

“Because we don’t exactly know where he is, Mike. He split from his former residence a week ago and hasn’t been heard from since. Rayana just
thinks
he’s around this area. He’s been known to drink at Sid’s.”

“For whatever that’s worth. What a flake!” Hollander lit his pipe and exhaled a cloud of acrid-smelling smoke. “What about a door-to-door?”

“And warn him we’re onto his whereabouts? Might as well put a full-page ad in the
Times
.”

Hollander checked his watch and grunted.

“It’s not even midnight,” Decker said. “Mary’ll still be up by the time you come home.”

“I dunno. She’s going to bed earlier and earlier these days.”

Marge’s voice came through the radio.

“Someone is following me, guys.”

Hollander started up the motor.

“Stay with it, baby,” Decker said. “We’re on our way!”

The attack came suddenly.

They could hear the fighting over the radio.

“Hold him!” Hollander yelled into the mike.

They got there just in time to see Marge lose her grip on the bastard. Hollander zoomed the Plymouth into the alley and caught sight of him running into the back entrance of Jose’s Hacienda Mexican Restaurant. The car squealed to a stop, and Decker flew out after him.

Seeing the fleeing figure run out the front door, Decker tore through the restaurant shouting his location into his radio. The assailant dashed across the street, turned right, then ducked into an alley between a toy store and a Chinese take-out place. Decker followed, pivoted, and stopped. The alley dead-ended.

Barely winded but drenched with sweat, he scanned the layout. The walkway was deserted and stank of garbage but was well lit. Barrels, empty cartons, and dumpsters lined the narrow strip of uneven asphalt scarred with potholes. He heard hissing from the Chinese restaurant’s kitchen fan, the distant rumble of a car’s ignition kicking in, mosquitoes buzzing. Asshole could be anywhere or nowhere. Sight was deceptive, sound everything.

The alley was still, but not lifeless. Decker could
sense
the bastard’s presence. Unhitching his revolver, he slowly began to walk forward, footsteps echoing against the pavement, eyes searching for the giveaway.

He peered into the first dumpster and a swarm of flies swirled across his face. Decker shooed them off and poked at the trash with the butt of his gun. Nothing but stench.

On to the next set of trash cans. The hissing grew louder.

Nothing.

The next bin contained plastic bags full of rotten food. A few of them had ripped open, spilling out congealed chow mein vegetables and gray strips of foul-smelling meat. The maggots were having a feast. Aside from them, the bin was inert.

The hissing became rhythmic: a goddam percussion section. Decker finally identified it: not the fan, but labored breathing emanating from a clump of barrels and crates in back of the toy store. Empty boxes of G. I. Joe army toys. The same war scene was splashed across all the cartons: helicopters zooming over exploding bombs, machine guns bursting with fire, men in camouflage parachuting from jets.

Decker stepped toward the combat, toward the breathing.

Suddenly the boxes shot up, came flying at him; the army men had charged. A figure leaped up, popping out like a jack-in-the-box, wide-eyed, terrified. Too big for a toy…

“Police! Freeze!” Decker shouted, pointing his .38.

The figure took off, but Decker knew he had him. His long legs sprinted in huge strides, and he quickly overtook his quarry and wrestled him to the ground. The man kicked, bit, and managed to claw a deep gouge in Decker’s forearm. The detective swore, flipped him on his stomach, twisted his arms, and tightly clamped on the cuffs behind his back.

“Hey, man, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”

“You have the right to remain silent—”

“I wasn’t doin’ nothin. I didn’t do nothin’.”

Decker groaned. Goddam same old shit. Same old excuses.
Not me. I didn’t do nothin’. You’ve got the wrong man. She wanted it. She let me do it
. He finished reciting Miranda and radioed the car. As soon as the Plymouth pulled up, Decker brought him to his feet and studied the face. It was lean and young, the sallow skin pocked with acne pits and sprinkled with light stubble. The eyes were a muddy green, small and quivering convulsively. The mouth was two tight rims of pale flesh that drew back to expose brown protruding teeth.

Anthony Macko.

God bless the poodle
.

“I tell you I wasn’t doin’ a fuckin’ thing,” Macko protested, spraying Decker with sour spittle.

“How’d you get your clothes all torn up, buddy?” Decker asked, pushing him toward the unmarked.

“Hey, I like torn clothes!”

“You like jumping a police officer?”

“I didn’t know who you was.”

“I said who I was.”

“I didn’t hear you good. I just saw some dude come chargin’ at me. I thought you was a mugger.”

Hollander and Marge stepped out. She looked at Macko.

“Yeah, it’s him,” she said.

“Hey, I never saw this broad in my life!”

“Sure. Your eyesight is very poor.” Decker pushed Macko’s body against the hood of the car, kicked his heels apart, and began to shake him down. Finding nothing, he shoved the punk into the backseat, then slid in next to him.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, man!” Macko protested.

“What
are
we talking about, Macko?” Marge asked, flanking his other side.

“Hey, I’m not sayin’ a fuckin’ thing until I got a lawyer. I know my rights.”

“Your rights won’t save you now, Macko,” Hollander said as he started the car. “You screwed up.”

“Hey, man, I never saw this broad in my fuckin’ life.”

“Yeah, just like you never saw Brenda Crowthers,” Marge said. “You remember her, the little blond nurse who worked at Mission Presbyterian Hospital?”

“Man, I didn’t do nothin’ to her.”

“She tells it different, Macko,” Marge said.

“She spent three weeks in the hospital, and I bet you’re the one who put her there.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till I seen a lawyer.”

“We got your girlfriend, Macko,” Marge pushed.

“Lyin’ little cunt! I ain’t done nothin’!”

“What really happened with the nurse?” Decker prodded.

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“You saw her one day after work, didn’t you, Macko?” Marge said. “She was all alone, and her car didn’t start. You offered to help, and she thought that was nice of you. But you got distracted. You forced her into the backseat of her car, locked the door—”

“You got the wrong guy!”

“Hey, Macko, you attacked me,” Marge said, angrily. “I don’t think I got the wrong guy.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

“Bitch turn you on?” Decker whispered.

Macko was silent.

“She had big knockers, didn’t she?”

“I’m tellin’ you, you got the wrong guy.”

“And those fuckin’ sexy little pumps, right?” Decker nodded eagerly. “Ooo, I love those little backless, fuck-me shoes.”

Macko started to sweat. His eyelashes fluttered.

“In black, man,” Decker continued. “Has to be black, right?”

“She let me do it, man,” Macko said. “I’m telling you, she begged me to do it to her. She
liked it rough, man. I didn’t want to get rough, but she wanted it that way.”

“Who else wanted it that way?” Decker asked.

The thin lips clamped shut.

“Ain’t saying nothin’ till I see my lawyer.”

“You’ll get a lawyer,” Marge said, taking off one patent leather black pump and passing it to Decker across Macko’s field of vision.