Stone Kiss (6 page)

Kiddush Hashem
: it more or less meant to set a good example for God.

“Ready?’ Jonathan asked.

“Sure.”

The rabbi opened the door to the van and got out. Decker followed him up the stone walkway to an unassuming two-story brick
house similar to those in Boro Park. Jonathan didn’t bother to knock. He opened the door and stepped inside.

“Chaim?” Jonathan turned to Decker. “Come in. They’re expecting us. Chaim?”

“Yonasan?” The voice was coming from upstairs.

“Yeah, it’s me. I have Akiva.”

“I’ll be right down.”

The living room was deceptively spacious. Or maybe it was just the lack of furniture. There was a small grouping around a
fireplace— an upholstered couch facing a couple of chairs. But the rest had been formed into a dining room—a square table
covered with a white cloth and surrounded by twelve chairs. The floor was tiled with limestone squares, no rug to soften the
hard surface. There was a piano in the corner, sheet music on the stand. Decker wondered if Shaynda played.

The walls were painted off-white, freshly done, and bare except for several framed pictures of wizened, bearded rabbis. One
was Menachem Mendel Schneerson—the Lubavitcher rebbe. Another was the Chofetz Chaim—a great Jewish scholar of the nineteenth
century. Decker didn’t recognize any of the other remaining portraits. Maybe the Liebers had other art and hadn’t gotten around
to hanging it up. Somehow Decker doubted that.

A gray-bearded man scrambled down the staircase. Around fiveten and lean, he appeared to be in his forties. He wore the usual
Chasidic uniform—black suit, white shirt. No hat on his head; instead, he wore a big black velvet yarmulke. The hair that
showed was very thin. Underneath the
kippah
, he was probably bald. He shook hands with Decker: the palms were calloused. Clearly, a man who did more than learn all day.

“Chaim Lieber.” He dropped Decker’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what to say.”

“Please.”

His eyes watered. “Please sit, Lieutenant.”

“Akiva’s fine. Or Peter.” Decker sat down. “I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

“Actually, we met at happier times.”

“At my wedding,” Jonathan said.

“Oh yes, of course.”

“
Auf simchas
,” Lieber muttered. His hazel eyes were red rimmed. Then he rubbed his forehead. “We’ve looked for her everywhere. So there’s
no need for you to…”

“I’m sure you have. Still, sometimes in a panic we overlook—”

“What I really need is for someone to talk to the police,” Lieber blurted out. “Maybe they know something that can help us
find
her… find Shay—” His voice choked. “Find Shayndie. If you could find out what the police know, that would help.”

“I agree.”

Lieber leaned forward. “Do you think they’ll talk to you?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Lieber—”

“Chaim, please! It’s important that they talk to you. You know what questions to ask. We don’t.” He rubbed his forehead. “I
want…” He broke into tears. “I want my daughter back!”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry! Instead, do something!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry—”

“Please,” Decker said. “It’s fine. Can I ask you a few questions, Chaim?”

“Anything at all.”

“I know your daughter was doing some… experimenting—”

“That’s a dead end!” Lieber stated. “We checked with those kids. The police checked with those kids. Nothing!”

“Do you have some names?”

“I don’t remember… goyish names. Ryan, Brian, Ian, Evan… You’ll have to talk to the Quinton Police. But that’s a dead end.
You need to talk to the Manhattan Police. That’s where she disappeared.”

“I have calls in to them.”

“Did they call you back?”

“Not yet.”

“New York Police is understaffed now. You’ll have to keep at them.”

“I figured I’d just go down and show up in person. I’m a lieutenant. Sometimes that’ll help. Sometimes not. Depends how cooperative
they feel. I’d like to look at Shayndie’s room.”

“Certain—oh no. You can’t. My father’s sleeping there. He was up all night.”

Decker was quiet.

“He’s an old man,” Lieber said. “Frail.”

“It’s just the sooner I look, the more likely it is that I’ll find—”

“Why don’t you come back?” Lieber suggested. “After you talk to the police. You can tell us what they say. And by then, I’m
sure my father will be up. And my wife, too. You’d like to talk to her, I assume.”

“Of course.”

“She’s out cold. Yonasan told me to give her pills, right?”

Jonathan nodded, but was clearly uncomfortable with the advice he had given.

Decker said, “Can I just ask you about the other times Shaynda ran away?”

Lieber turned his head. “Not
times
. A time. One time. She sneaked out and went to a party. The other kids started doing terrible things. She got scared and
called us to pick her up. At least she had the sense to do that.”

“What happened?”

“I picked her up, what do you think?”

“Did you punish her?”

“Of course she was punished! She was lucky that the boys didn’t try anything with her. Stupid child!” He winced. “I was mad
at her. Now I wish…”

Decker nodded.

“A rebellious child can take a lot from you.”

“I know, sir. One of my boys has a mind of his own.”

“It’s different with boys! They can protect themselves! Girls can’t. And girls get stupid when it comes to boys.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“One time!” Lieber insisted. “She promised that she’d do better after that. It really scared her.”

“What in specific?”

“I don’t know! I wasn’t there. I assume it was drugs and sex! All of those kids are wild animals. The parents have no control.
They’re no better than the kids—divorce, affairs, drugs, and alcohol—no wonder the children are beasts.”

Jonathan looked away, his jaw bulging under his cheek.

“She was doing better,” Lieber said. “My brother… by no means a
tzaddik
… but he was… he had… She would talk to him. It was helping her. It was helping
him
. I thought he was doing
better
.”

“Maybe he
was
doing better, Chaim,” Jonathan offered.

“Yes, Yonasan, that’s why they found him naked in a hotel room!” Jonathan blew out air.

Chaim punched his right hand inside his left. “Please, Akiva. Go down and talk to the police. If we find out what happened
to Ephraim, then maybe we can find out what happened to Shayndie. Please. It’s Friday. You don’t have much time because of
Shabbos
. Go now!”

“I’d still like to see her room,” Decker said.

“Yes, yes. This afternoon. Come back and we’ll talk then.”

“I could use a picture.”

“The police have one. Go talk to the police.” Chaim stood up and extended his hand. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Decker rose from the chair and shook the limp fingers. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Yes, you have. You’re here and that’s something.” He held up a finger. “Like Moshe Rabainu and Avraham Avenu, you came when
you heard the call.”

T
he number left on Decker’s
cell phone belonged to Detective Mick Novack of the two-eight—the 28th Precinct. The conversation consisted of a five-minute
recap, Decker explaining who he was and why he was here.

Novack said, “I just got all the paperwork I needed for searchin’ the vic’s apartment. Super’s gonna meet me there with the
key, along with someone from the six-three. Betcha they’ll send Stan Gindi. The apartment’s in Flatbush. Wanna meet me there?”

“Sounds good. Where’s Flatbush?”

Dead space over the phone. Then Novack said, “It’s in Brooklyn. You heard of Brooklyn?”

“We have Brooklyn Bagel Company in Los Angeles.”

“Great. I’m working with a greener. Where are you calling from?”

“Quinton.”

“Quinton? What the hell you doing in Quinton?”

“I’ve just come from a visit with the vic’s family—his brother.”

“That’s right. So you’re upstate. You’ll still probably get there faster than me. I’m all the way uptown—Amsterdam and one
sixty-two. Traffic’s a killer. Freaky Friday.” He gave Decker the address. “I don’t suppose you know how to get there… to
Flatbush.”

“Nope. But my brother’s driving. He knows the place. He’s the vic’s brother-in-law.”

“The rabbi. Yeah, we talked to him yesterday. Seems like a nice guy.
Except I heard he just hired a mouthpiece—Hershfield of all people.”

“That was on my advice. I told my brother to hire the best defense attorney around.”

“Your advice? What? You don’t trust us out here? C’mon. All of America loves New York’s finest.”

“Indeed they do. It’s nothing like that. I don’t know what’s going on. The family needs to be protected.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“The side of truth, justice, and the American way.”

“Another one from L.A.who thinks he’s Superman. I’ll give you the address. Got pencil and paper?”

“Yep.”

“A
real
pencil and paper?”

Decker paused. There was hostility in the man’s voice, but that was to be expected. They weren’t exactly adversaries, but
right now, they weren’t colleagues, either. “Last time I checked they weren’t figments of my imagination.”

“It’s not a stupid question even though it seems like a stupid question. All you jokers from L.A. got these PalmPilots. One
day, you’re gonna be caught in a thunderstorm and all your data’s gonna be fried to a crisp.”

The first detective whom Decker met was five-ten, stick-skinny, and bald with round brown eyes and a big red mustache. He
wore a gray suit with a white shirt and a black tie. That was Gindi. Novack was a bit taller—around six feet and completely
square. He had a broken boxer’s nose, wide, thick cheeks, and thick lips. His shoe polish–black hair was combed straight back
revealing a dune’s worth of forehead, a deep brow, and hooded midnight blue eyes. His suit was dark blue, his shirt was white,
and his tie was a dizzy pattern of thin red and blue stripes.

“I’m the resident Jewish detective for uptown,” Novack explained. “Anytime one of the Chasids or Israelis or Jews gets whacked
in Manhattanville or its environs, it’s either me, or Marc Greenbaum, or Alan Josephs. They like a Jew for the Jews, just
like they like a black to deal with the blacks, or a Puerto Rican with Puerto Ricans.
Sometimes they might assign a Cuban to the Doms uptown. We have several Koreans with Koreans, and a couple of Taiwanese. We
got a separate guy for Haitians. Over in Brooklyn, if it’s a Jew, it’s Steve Gold, or Ken Geraldnick, or Stan here. Am I right
about this?”

“You are right,” Gindi concurred. “Not that I think that’s bad.”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

Gindi said, “We got quite a few Jewish cops in Brooklyn. I think more in Brooklyn than in the city. Course we got a high concentration
of Jews in Brooklyn. Not so many where you are, Mick.”

“No, not so many, although all the West Side Jews keep on pushing the limits farther north. Then you go
all the way
north, you got the ones in Wash Heights. That’s why I was there this morning.”

“What happened this morning?” Gindi asked.

“Some discount jewelry store in my area was hit. The owner was a Chasid—took some lead in the ass of all places. Guy lives
in Wash Heights. He won’t be making it to minyan tonight, but it coulda been lots worse.”

They were standing in front of a six-story flat-faced brick building that had been overlaid with soot. The sky’s cloud cover
had thinned, but the air was still cold and acrid. The side street that Ephraim had called home was narrow and filled with
potholes. The sidewalks were cracked with a red, gritty slush leaking from the crevices. Next to the building was a small
dirt lot containing lots of garbage and several bare-branched saplings.

“What kind of area is this?” Decker asked. “Working class?”

“This particular area, yeah. Very Jewish, very religious. Not where
his
people live.” Novack cocked a finger in Gindi’s direction. “This guy here is Syrian. Flatbush has lots of Syrian Jews. They
all got these strange names—Zolta, Dweck, Pardo, Bada, Adjini.”

“Flatbush has all sorts of Jews.”

“Yeah, but the Syrians… they know how to live, right?”

“You said it, Micky!”

Novack looked at his watch. “Jeez. Twelve-thirty. Where’s the super?”

“I have a key,” Jonathan announced.

“You’ve got a key?” Novack repeated.

“Yes, I have a key.”

“You mind opening up?” Gindi asked.

“Is that okay?” he asked Decker.

Decker said, “He has all the paperwork, Jon. You’re just speeding things along.”

“Then I’ll open up.”

Jonathan brought them to the building’s elevator, which barely contained the body mass let alone the weight. It moved in jerks
and jumps, as slow as a slug. Ephraim lived down a dimly lit hallway, wafting with the faint odor of garbage and urine. His
unit was number four, and the doorjamb had the requisite mezuzah. As the detectives pulled out their gloves, so did Decker,
his still in the protective wrapping with the official LAPD seal.