Chapter Twenty-three
Matt’s mother covered her eyes with her hands and made the blessing over the candles.
“Amen.” Georgia, Matt, and Matt’s father said together.
“There.” Evelyn Singer dropped her hands. Small-boned and delicate, she would have looked younger than her seventy-seven years had it not been for her white hair coiled into a bun.
“Let me help, Evelyn.” Georgia followed her into the kitchen. “I’ll open the wine.” Since Matt hadn’t been able to break away until the last minute, Georgia ran into Sunset for a bottle of kosher wine before coming down.
“Don’t bother, Georgia. I’ve got it.”
Matt had brought Georgia to his parents’ home in Skokie at least half a dozen times, mostly on Friday nights, but his mother still treated her like a guest. It wasn’t because Georgia didn’t know the rituals. She learned the Hebrew blessings quickly and enjoyed reciting them. Matt knew what it was. So did Evelyn. Georgia was a
goy
.
He heard the cork pop. Then, “Leo, Matt, it’s time to wash.”
He’d taught Georgia how to perform the ritual that few Jews bothered with any more, and he watched as she poured water from a pitcher over one hand, then the other, and murmured the blessing.
Back in the dining room, they sat in silence until Matt’s father recited
kiddush
, sipped the wine, and made the blessing over the bread. He broke off three pieces, sprinkled salt on them, and passed them down the table.
It was a chilly night, and Matt looked forward to matzo ball soup and brisket. He hoped the comfort food would anchor him; he hadn’t had much appetite lately.
His mother ladled the soup. A refugee from Germany, she’d come to America at sixteen, the only member of her family to make it out. His father’s family had emigrated a generation earlier; as a result, Matt had grown up as familiar with Treblinka, Bergen-Belsen, and Auschwitz as gentile kids were with Disneyland. His parents didn’t dwell on it, but the Holocaust was always there, shadowing his life in a way that only other Holocaust children could understand.
“Leo, I saw something I didn’t understand a couple weeks ago,” Georgia said between sips of soup.
“What was that, sweetheart?” His father, small but still wiry at eighty, was more gracious than his mother. His eyes twinkled when he looked at Georgia, a fact not lost on any of them. Matt knew the feeling was mutual.
“When Matt and I went to synagogue, some of the men put their
tallises
over their head, stood in front of the synagogue, and sort of moaned or hummed. What was that all about?”
“Ahh,” Leo said. “The
Duhan
. It’s a special addition to services on major holidays.”
“Not to be disrespectful, but it kind of looked like a Halloween stunt, with the men dressed up like ghosts.”
Leo chuckled. “You’re not far off. The men you saw are the descendants of the high priests of the early temple. They’re called
kohanes
. They performed all the sacrifices, services, and rituals. Aaron was one. We honor their memory during major holidays, by asking their descendants to usher God’s presence into the synagogue. Like they did years ago. “
Georgia leaned an elbow on the table. “So how do you get to be a
kohane?
”
“You’re born that way. People with the name Cohen, or Kahn, or some variation of it probably have a
kohane
in their family tree.”
“Oh.” Georgia sipped her wine.
Like a rookie fresh out of training camp, Georgia wanted to be in the game right away. But no one could absorb centuries of traditions and rules in a few months. His mother rose and headed into the kitchen.
Matt grinned at Georgia. “Remember the Vulcan sign from Star Trek?” He formed a “V” with his hand, spreading two fingers on each side with a space in the middle.
Georgia’s eyes narrowed, as if she thought he was putting one over on her. “Yeah?”
“They say that Leonard Nimoy got the idea for it from the Duhan service. The
Kohanes
are supposed to hold up their hands that way underneath their tallit.”
Her eyes widened.
“You know, your mother’s great uncle was a kohane,” Leo said.
His mother came out of the kitchen with the platter of meat. “You mean Uncle Moritz?”
Leo nodded.
“He went straight to Palestine from Germany. One of the early settlers.” His mother turned to Matt. “You remember, dear. They always send us New Year’s cards. His grand-son, Avi, your second cousin, came to visit a few years ago.”
Matt remembered a scrawny kid in glasses who was more interested in the dope he could score than family ties.
His mother sat down and passed the meat. “I hear Avi’s married now. Living in Tel Aviv. He’s got some kind of high tech job.”
No one replied.
“So, what’s with you two?” Leo asked after a silence.
Matt looked up.
“Look, Leo.” His mother laughed. “He looks like a deer caught in the headlights.”
Georgia pressed her lips together.
“I meant your work, Matt,” Leo said.
Matt started to talk about the two cases in general terms. He knew his mother would change the subject. She couldn’t listen to stories about crime and death for long.
He was right.
“Did you hear what happened to Jerry Sachs?” She launched into a detailed account of some kid he’d gone to Yeshivah with and had long since forgotten.
That was how she did it, Matt realized. Kept Georgia out. Always polite and courteous, Evelyn nonetheless had constructed a wall, and talking about people Matt knew as a child was how she kept Georgia on the other side. It seemed paper thin, but in reality it was thick and impregnable. You can listen, but you can’t really be a part of our life, our history, our pain. You’re just our son’s
shiksa
.
***
Matt dropped Georgia off at the apartment after dinner. She reached across the seat of the car and stroked his hair. Feeling him resist, she pulled back. “What’s wrong?”
“I guess I’m just antsy.”
“I’ve been saving my weekend special for you. Guaranteed relaxation.” She started to knead his thigh with her fingers.
He covered her hand with his own. “When I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Romano’s.”
“But it’s Friday night. Can’t it wait?”
“I want to talk to her neighbor again.”
“You’ve done that.”
“Whoever killed Romano might have done it on a Friday night, or at least started to, and, well—with the same shows on TV, the same routine, maybe the old woman will remember something new.”
He’d been working without a break for days now; the stress was beginning to show. He was hardly eating, he wasn’t sleeping well, he’d even stopped working out. The other night she woke up at three in the morning and found him hunched over his laptop on the kitchen table. When she urged him to come to bed, he shook his head. Now she squeezed his hand. “You want company?”
He looked at her with blank eyes, his mind already focusing on some unseen task. “No. I’ll be back soon.”
***
He stopped at the station to retrieve Romano’s key before driving over. It was a warm night, and fog had moved in from the lake. A streetlight cut jagged shafts of light through the mist. As he climbed out of the car, strands of fog dissipated as he walked through them.
Georgia was right about one thing. Stone too. Since the press conference the media was swarming all over the sex lives of Romano and Simon, and the resulting stories, innuendos, and conjecture were so intrusive that both families had gone into seclusion.
Unsurprisingly, Doyle wanted the Task Force to follow up, and they were now collecting a small library of information that made the smut magazines and tabloids look tame. They hadn’t identified the leaker yet, and Doyle was on the warpath about that too. Matt rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension. He was missing something. But what?
***
Mrs. Morys was delighted to see Matt and invited him in. She did remember watching “Dateline” or “20-20” that night. A baby had been kidnapped by the father’s brother and left in a car for hours on a summer day, she said. “People just don’t know how to behave anymore.”
Matt asked about the laughter she thought had come from Romano’s apartment. She touched a hand to her ear. For her to hear anything at all it had to be quite loud; it might have been the TV. Matt asked a few more questions, then said his good-byes.
“Come back anytime,” she said. This was probably the most exciting thing to happen to her in years.
Before leaving, he went to Romano’s apartment. The crime scene tape was gone, but the seal from the police department was still up. He took out a penknife and started to scrape it off—they’d released the apartment a week ago. Half way through, he stopped and dug the key out of his pocket. He would go in. Just once more.
Inside, the place was musty and airless, but a scent was layered on top. Something vaguely medicinal. Antiseptic. He flipped the light in the living room, saw the same clutter, felt the same closed-in feeling. Nothing looked disturbed. So what was the smell? He sniffed his way across the room. Disinfectant, he thought. He checked the bathroom. The smell was stronger here. Clean towels hung on the rack. Yellow. The fixtures gleamed.
He backed out and continued down the hall. Something wasn’t right. As he passed Romano’s bedroom, he heard a rustle. Soft, quiet. But distinct. He froze. It was coming from the closet. His heart started to race. He waited. Nothing. Sliding his Beretta from its holster, he flattened himself against the wall.
Another noise. A quiet thud. Anchoring his feet, he stepped forward and aimed his Beretta at the closet. It flashed through his mind that he should call for back up. Too late. A floorboard squeaked. Blood pounded in his ears. Taking one hand off his weapon, he felt around the wall, found the light switch, and snapped it on. Bright light poured over the patchwork quilt, TV, and shelves of videotapes.
“Police,” he shouted. “Out of the closet! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Nothing happened.
“Now. Nice and slow.”
Still nothing. Keeping the Beretta in front of him, he inched over to the closet and flung open the door.
A dark figure cowered on the floor, arms over her head.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Who the hell are you?” Matt demanded as he cuffed her to a chair.
The woman had cropped grey hair and a stricken expression. She was wearing dark sweats. She didn’t answer.
“Anyone else here with you?”
She shook her head. She wouldn’t look at him.
Matt made sure the cuffs were locked before searching the rest of the apartment. Empty. Back in Romano’s bedroom he peered in the closet. A few papers were scattered on the floor between shoes, boots, and boxes. Matt picked them up. They looked like letters. Addressed to Julie Romano. He started reading.
“I know we’ve only met, but...” “I never knew I could feel like this…” “I don’t understand why you won’t...”
He looked at the signature, then at the woman in the chair. Brenda Hartman stared at the floor.
“Where did these come from?” He hadn’t seen any letters when he first searched the apartment. She kept her mouth shut. “I’m talking to you,” he said harshly.
She shook her head again.
“You will tell me. Either now, at the police station, or at Cook County Jail. Up to you.”
She jerked her head toward the shelves of videotapes.
“Inside the cassettes?” The evidence techs checked them, they’d said. Nothing in there but videotapes.
“Only one,” she finally spoke. “
Casablanca
.”
Matt stepped over to the videotapes. He found
Casablanca
on the shelf, picked it up, and looked inside. Empty.
“How did you know that?”
She shrugged.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to find out.”
***
When back up arrived, they took her to the station. Matt booked her for burglary, but instead of dumping her in a cell, he led her to an interview room. He’d let her stew for a while. Let the reality of where she was sink in. But not too long. If she asked for a lawyer, they’d never get anything. He left the cuffs on and called Brewster. Matt tried to keep the excitement out of his voice, but Pete picked up on it. He’d be there in ten minutes.
While Matt waited, he paced the hall. Hartman meets Romano. Falls in love. Somehow the love affair goes bad. Hartman loses it. Rage. Jealousy. Murder. He started formulating questions. How did she poison Romano? When did she start? Who helped her get the body into the dumpster?
He called Georgia and filled her in, then decided to get some air. He opened the back door of the police station and went out. The wind had picked up. Tiny beads of moisture glistened in the light and stung his face. But Matt felt buoyant. If they could somehow find a link between Hartman and Simon, they could wrap up both cases.
He was back at his desk scratching out notes when Brewster showed up with a box of donuts under his arm. “You get a confession?”
Matt shook his head. “I waited for you.”
“Thanks.” Brewster’s eyes gleamed.
Matt grabbed a chocolate donut and wolfed it down. He reached for another and got most of the way through it before he noticed Brewster staring at him.
“I’m glad it’s not just me.”
Matt looked at Brewster, at the donut, and pitched it into the trash. He picked up the box and walked to the one-way mirror that gave onto the interview room. Brenda Hartman was hunched over the table, head in her hands.
Brewster followed him. “How long has she been here?”
“Almost an hour.”
“Maybe we should we give her more time.”
Matt shook his head. “How ‘bout you let me start? I’ll go easy. If it doesn’t work, you start in.”
“You got it.”
Brenda raised her head when they pushed through the door. Her eyes were dry, but in the harsh fluorescent light, Matt saw purple rings underneath. Her short hair was messy, her sweats rumpled. She looked like she’d been through hell and wasn’t much interested in what came next. He set the donuts on the table, and pushed them toward Hartman.
“Have one.”
She looked at him suspiciously, gave him a quick shake of her head.
He shrugged. “So Brenda, why were you at Julie Romano’s apartment?”
“I went back to get my letters.”
A direct answer. Promising.
“The ones I read?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid if anyone found them, they’d think I killed her.”
Matt pulled out a chair and sat. “Why would we think that?”
“Come on. You read them.”
“Spell it out for me.”
Irritation unfolded on her face. Good. Anger could help extract the truth. “We were lovers. Then we broke up. Does that make it clear?”
Matt frowned. “Not really.”
“Jesus. You’re the Detective. Don’t play dumb.”
“How did you meet her?”
Hartman’s features softened. “We were in Target. She was buying a case of videotapes.”
“When was this?”
“The end of September. Around then.”
“What were you doing in Target?”
She tried to move her arms, but the cuffs limited her mobility. “I was—I was getting supplies.”
“Supplies?”
“I left home. But I didn’t take anything with me. I needed underwear, a toothbrush, things like that.”
Donna Cleveland had been right. “So you picked her up in Target?”
Another flash of irritation. “It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
“We had coffee at that little cafe.”
“And?”
“Something clicked. Something I’d never felt before. It—I knew—it was special.” Her expression smoothed out.
“What about Julie?”
“Oh, she felt it too. It was— it was—” She hesitated. “We fell in love.”
“You knew you were in love after one cup of coffee?”
She looked at Matt. “Yes.”
Matt and Brewster exchanged glances. “Okay. What happened then?”
“I— well— I moved in.”
“For how long?”
“About a month, give or take a week.” That explained the laughter Mrs. Morys heard through the walls. And the secret Joanne thought her sister was keeping. “It was the happiest month of my life.”
Brewster cleared his throat.
Matt remembered something. “Did you ever go into Walgreen’s with Julie Romano during that time?”
She frowned.
“The drug store.”
Comprehension flooded her face. “That was the day she saw one of her students, wasn’t it?”
“You tell me.”
Her lips tightened. “I remember.” Her eyes narrowed. “It was the beginning of the end.”
“Why?”
Hartman looked at the floor.
“I asked you a question,” Matt said.
She took in a breath.
“What happened?”
She turned pained eyes on Matt. “I know she loved me,” she said emphatically. “I know it. But she freaked out when that girl saw us.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. But a few days after that, she said it was over.”
“I don’t get it. What was her reason?”
Brenda bit her lip. Her face was full of misery. “I think she got scared. She didn’t really trust it. Or me. It was okay when I was just some woman she met in Target. But when someone from her other life, her real life, saw us, she couldn’t handle it. A one-night stand, a week here or there is one thing. But a long term relationship? I think she was afraid. I tried to tell her we could take it slow. But she decided we shouldn’t see each other any more. She told me to move out.”
“When was that?”
“I think it was around the second week of October.”
They found Romano Monday, the nineteenth of October. Well into the third week.
“Where did you go?”
“To a hotel. Downtown”
“Where you started to write letters...”
“I wanted to change her mind.”
“You must have been devastated.”
She nodded.
“And angry.”
She looked up.
“It’s understandable. I mean, here was the woman you were searching for your whole life, and she didn’t want you.”
She seemed to choose her words. “Upset, yes. Angry no.”
Matt leaned his elbows on the table. “Brenda, I do understand. I’ve been there. The person you love rejects you. It’s all you can do to hold it together. I remember how I felt. I wanted to force her to see that I was the one. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to—”
She cut him off. “I didn’t kill her.”
“What did you do?” Matt asked.
“I wrote letters.”
“You wrote letters,” he repeated.
“I delivered them in person. I wanted to see her. But she wouldn’t see me. She made me leave them in her mailbox.”
“And that made you crazy, didn’t it?”
She glared at Matt.
He stood, retrieved a file at the end of the table. “Let’s see.” He pulled one out. “Dear Julie…” he read. “I don’t understand why you won’t let me back into your life. We fit together like two spoons. I still can feel your body on mine, taste your sweetness on my lips. We were meant to be together. I am nothing without you. Please let me back into your heart …” He sat down again. “If I revealed myself like that to someone and she threw me away like a piece of trash, I don’t know what I’d do, do you Pete?”
“I’d be plenty pissed off.”
“You don’t understand,” Hartman cut in. “I waited all my life just to meet her. I wasn’t going to let her go. I knew she loved me. She was just scared. But then, you probably can’t understand that kind of love.” She looked at Matt. “It was strange, you know. It was my first time with another woman. I should have been the one hanging back.”
Brewster scowled. Matt saw disbelief in his eyes.
“I should have been the one with doubts,” she said again. “But I knew from the beginning we were supposed to be together. She was—she was my soul mate.”
“Soul mate,” Brewster said.
Matt shifted.
“Yes.” Her eyes filled. “Which is why I knew if you found those letters, I’d be in trouble.”
They had come full circle. “Why?”
“Because I’d decided that if I couldn’t change Julie’s mind, I would go home.”
“Home?”
“Indiana. I met someone else—” Matt wondered if she meant Donna Cleveland “— but it wasn’t the same.”
She stared at her hands in the cuffs.
“I don’t get it. Why did you think you’d be in trouble if you went home?”
“My husband isn’t a tolerant man. If he found out about any of this, he’d kick me out and keep me from seeing the kids. I couldn’t let him do that. I needed those letters.”
“You discover you’re gay, you meet the love of your life, but you’re going to go home and pick up your nice, respectable life?”
She pressed her lips together. Then she nodded. “I never said I was brave.”
Matt admired her for saying that. But he couldn’t let it show. “How did you get in? To Romano’s apartment.”
“The fire escape is right by her window. The window wasn’t locked.”
“How did you know the letters were in that particular cassette?
Casablanca?
”
“We watched it together. Several times.” Her voice quavered. “It was our film.”
It fit. Woman leaves her true love and goes back to her duty, with a “here’s looking at you kid”. He rose and motioned to Brewster. Maybe he could shake something loose.
Brewster stood and took a step towards Hartman. Pulling out a chair, he sat on it backwards. “You know something, lady?” He looked her up and down. “This might be a great soap opera, but I don’t buy a fucking word you’ve said.”
Brenda blinked.
“Let’s talk more about the way you felt when Julie broke up with you.” He glowered. “You were hurt and rejected. Alone in a strange town. Scared shitless.”
She blinked again.
“So you wrote her letters. Tried to make her change her mind. And when she wouldn’t take you back, you were furious.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
Brewster’s lip curled. “How could it not be? This was the love of your life, your
soul mate
.” She flinched. “You mean you just rolled over and let her get away? Come on, lady. A person with the guts to walk out on her family sure ain’t the type to let someone walk all over them.” Brewster’s voice was heavy with scorn. “You decided to teach her a lesson, didn’t you? You were ‘gonna make her pay.”
“No. You’re twisting things.” Anger shot through her, forcing her spine against the back of the chair.
“You were so blind with jealousy and rage that you decided if you couldn’t have her, no one could.”
“No. You’re wrong.”
“Hold on, Pete,” Matt interrupted. “Cut her a break.” He looked at Hartman. “Look Brenda, we know you didn’t mean to hurt her. You probably just wanted to scare her. But it got out of hand, didn’t it? She got sicker and sicker, and you couldn’t stop it.”
Her voice trembled. “You’re making things up.”
He tried to keep his voice calm. “Why don’t you get it off your chest? You’ll feel a lot better. Maybe even begin to forgive yourself.”
“I didn’t kill Julie. I went back to get the letters after I heard about her murder. That’s it.”
“Tell us exactly where you were the weekend of October tenth and eleventh. Starting on Friday, at six in the evening.”
“I— I spent the weekend with another woman.”
“Name?”
“Donna Cleveland.”
“She a lesbo too?” Brewster sneered.
Hartman swallowed. Tears welled in her eyes.
“What about after the reading in the bookstore?” Matt went on. “Where did you go?”
“Back to the hotel.”
“What hotel?”
“The Broadview. On Orleans.”
“Are you there now?”
She fell silent.
“Well?”
“I ran out of money. I had to check out.”
“So no one can confirm your whereabouts over the past week?”
She slumped in her chair. “I want to go home.” Her voice was small and scared. They were close. Matt nodded imperceptibly at Brewster.
Brewster took over. “Indiana, right?”
She started, as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Yes. Muncie.”
He nodded. “So all of this was just an adventure—a vacation?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’ll tell you.” Brewster stood up, his six two frame towering over the woman. “You leave Indiana on a lark. ‘gonna find yourself. A new life. But then, guess what? You find out you’re a dyke. You like women. So you do one. Get her to put you up for a few weeks. But then when she dumps you, you decide you’ve had enough playtime. Time to go home and play the good wife again. But you can’t risk having anyone know what you’ve been up to. Hubby won’t buy it. So you sneak back into your friend’s, slip some poison into her food, and kill her. That’s how it happened, isn’t it?”