Authors: Faye Kellerman
Decker stroked the shoe. “Who else wanted it rough, Macko?”
The rapist eyed the shiny leather and began to breathe audibly. He squirmed against the cuffs and his pants bulged.
“They all did.”
“That little hostess from Benito’s?” Marge asked.
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Decker caressed Macko’s cheek with the shoe.
“How ’bout the brunette from the library?” Decker asked.
“Don’t know no brunette from no library.”
“Funny, Rayana knew all about her,” said Marge.
“I tol’ you. Rayana’s a lyin’ cunt!”
“C’mon, Macko. You remember who we’re talking about. She had on those spiked heels, and her shoes were two-toned with pointy toes. Oh, you liked those shoes, didn’t you?”
A sick smile tightened the drawstring mouth.
“She was a bitch. They’re all bitches. I’m
telling you, they asked me to do it. They
begged
me.”
“And the one from the bar at Canary’s?” Marge kept at it. “She got a good look at you.”
“Hey, she
loved
it rough. Thought it was kinky, and she loved kink. I’m telling you, she loved the kink. Hell, she invited me in her car, man. I’m telling you, she asked me in.”
“How ’bout the girl from Jewtown?” Decker asked. “She beg for it also?”
“Jewtown?” For the first time, Macko looked honestly puzzled. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”
“The one with the nice black pumps?” Decker tried.
“Kikes!” Macko spit. “I wouldn’t fuck those pieces of shit if they was the last bitches on earth.”
Decker’s eyes blurred for a split second. When they refocused, he realized his hand was on the butt of his .38.
Slowly, he let it drop onto his lap.
The Rosh Yeshiva
greeted Decker with a warm smile and told him to place the two large boxes on his desk. It was an oversized slab of rich rosewood, the top protected by glass and completely clear of clutter—something that Decker found amazing. Gently, he lowered the cartons onto the area so as not to scratch the glass, then stretched. With Macko locked up, he could afford the luxury of the night off.
He looked around. The study exuded dignity and warmth. It was softly lit, carpeted in a rich brown wool pile, and furnished with a burnt brown leather sofa and two suede wing chairs. The rear and right walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with volumes of religious texts. Thrown in for contrast was one case devoted to secular philosophy and American jurisprudence. The front wall was a picture window that revealed a canyon view. The desk was placed advantageously, affording the rabbi a panorama of nature as he worked.
But it was the left wall—glassed-in cabinets
filled with artifacts of silver and gold—that turned the room into a showpiece.
Lovingly, Schulman began to lecture about his treasures.
One shelf of menorahs: Several were German, seventeenth and eighteenth century, heavy and bold in their silver work; another was a delicate weave of silver filigree from Italy; still others were fashioned of bronze and Jerusalem stone from Bezalel the art institute in Israel. One entire case was devoted to spice boxes—miniature silver replicas of towers from which hung parcel gilt bells and flags—from the best silversmiths of Europe. Each was stamped and dated. Along the top ledge of another case were special silver and carved wooden boxes used to hold something called an
etrog
—a citron in English—which Decker learned was a bumpy, aromatic fruit similar in taste to a lemon. The
etrog
, the rabbi explained, was used on the holiday of Sukkos.
There were two shelves of pointers, each in the shape of a hand with an extended forefinger. The Rosh Yeshivah put one into Decker’s hand.
“What’s this for?” the detective asked.
“In the synagogue, a reader—a
ba’al kriah
—incants out loud a weekly portion of the Torah,” the rabbi explained. “Fingers aren’t allowed to touch the holy scriptures. The
ba’al kriah
uses a pointer to keep his place.”
Candlesticks, wine goblets, finials called
keterim
—crowns for the Torah scroll. The elaborate metalwork, the intricate carving, the
splendor and sheer number of treasures. Decker was overwhelmed at the richness of a culture that had survived for over two thousand years.
“This is only a fraction of my collection,” the Rosh Yeshiva said. “But it contains the choicest pieces.”
“Truly incredible, Rabbi.”
“Someday, when we both have more time, I will show you my Hebrew manuscripts. I can’t keep them out in the open because over-exposure to the elements will cause irreparable damage to the parchment.”
“I’d like to see them when time permits,” said Decker.
“Yes. Come and let us see what you’ve brought. The hour is late, and an old man’s eyes are getting tired.”
The rabbi glided over to his desk, opened the first carton, and pulled out a prayer book.
“I don’t think I have anything really valuable. Not like these pieces.”
“Nonsense, Detective. Quite the contrary. One
siddur
is priceless because it contains the name of
Hashem
.”
He pulled out another book and leafed through it.
“These are in good to very good condition. If you were to put them up for auction, I would say they’d be worth fifty to two hundred dollars apiece. But they are worth much more to me personally. The thought of them sitting in an irreligious environment is very disconcerting. I will pay you fair market value
if you’re thinking of selling them.”
“I wasn’t. But I’ll tell you what. You may have them as long as I can visit them from time to time.”
The Rosh Yeshiva smiled.
“Agreed.”
“Do they have any historical significance?”
“Only to a Jew from the area. Most are from Germany.” The rabbi unloaded the volumes onto his desk. “Rina Miriam told me these belonged to your ex-wife’s grandfather. He must have been a German Jew.”
“Look at this one here, Rabbi. The book is Hebrew, but the inscription is in another language, and it doesn’t look like German.”
The old man’s eyes lit up.
“This is Polish.” The Rosh Yeshiva shook his head. “I can’t understand her family’s complete disregard for their heritage.”
“Some people are less sentimental than others,” the detective said, picking up the megillah. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
The rabbi took the scroll and studied it.
“It’s of Polish origin also. This is worth a substantial amount of money: upward of three thousand dollars. The text is exceptionally clear and well preserved.”
“How about if you display it in your collection? I’m not hard up for cash right now.”
“You’re a good man, Detective.”
Decker shrugged and gave him a half smile.
The rabbi opened the next box and rummaged through newspaper.
“Rina told me those were Jewish law books,” said Decker.
“Yes, my good friend, that is exactly what they are,” the rabbi said, unwrapping a leather-bound text. “Jewish law books—a complete set. We can always use a set of
shass
. Thank you.”
The old man turned away from the books and faced the detective.
“It’s astounding what finds are tucked away in dusty old attics and basements. I will take good care of your valuables, Detective Decker.”
“I know you will.”
“Tell me something, Detective. When did the grandfather die?”
“Right before we filed for divorce. Must have been about five years ago.”
“Interesting. And where was he living at the time of his death?”
Decker smelled more than just simple curiosity on the rabbi’s part.
“Los Angeles. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like you to explain something to me, Detective. How is it that these books are wrapped in a
New York Times
that is dated just two years ago?”
What a cagey old man, Decker thought. He said nothing.
“I have extreme difficulty believing that your in-laws are complete and utter philistines. Would you care to amend your story regarding how these came into your possession?
Or at least, make the fabrication consistent with the dates?”
Decker gazed out of the window.
“Why don’t you sit down?” the rabbi offered.
The detective remained motionless.
“Where did you acquire these?” the old man asked softly.
“From my father,” the detective said, still staring outward. “Not my real father, my biological father.”
He locked eyes with the old man.
“I’m adopted.”
“Your biological father was Jewish,” the rabbi said.
“And so was my biological mother. And that makes me Jewish. But you see, I don’t consider myself Jewish. I consider myself the product of my real parents—the ones who raised me. And I was raised Baptist, although I’m not really anything now. As Rina said to me the other day, it takes a lot more than just an accident of birth to make someone a Torah Jew.”
“She said that?”
“Yep.”
“Good for her. Then she knows about your origins?”
“No. I thought about telling her but decided against it. It would be too big a distraction at this point. We both have work to do. I need her to concentrate on a rapist, not on me. Besides, I could never spit in my parents’ faces and suddenly declare myself a Jew, like my
‘real’ parents. It would upset them tremendously.”
“So how did you come to have these books?”
“I was curious about my background. There were no open records when I started searching twenty years ago, but since I was a cop in the state where I was adopted, I was able to pull a few strings. To make a long and boring story short, I found out my mother was a religious girl from New York who was shipped down to Miami after getting herself into a little fix when she was fifteen. She’s in her fifties now with five kids and a load of grandchildren. I’m not about to barge in on her and disrupt her life.
“The records also contained my father’s name. He was a different story. Older. Never married, lived alone on the Lower East Side of New York in one of those projects. One day I got up enough nerve, flew to New York, and looked him up. We talked. He was a nice man, a retired diamond cutter, a big man like me, with big hands. I looked like him. It was a strange experience to resemble someone. Very strange. He kept trying to console me, as if I were mad at him for some reason, telling me over and over that he and my mother weren’t meant to be. He kept saying it wasn’t
basheert
, repeating that word. I gave him my address and told him to keep in touch. I wrote. He never did. Finally I gave up.
“A couple of years ago, I received these books and a couple of other personal items of
his—a prayer shawl, phylacteries, a
kittel
. No note. I called up the NYPD and asked them to check the obits. Sure enough, his name was there. It said he died of a stroke. What a bunch of baloney. The package was dated a week before he died. I know he killed himself. The M.E. was incompetent and didn’t pick up on it.”
“Or maybe, Detective, he knew he was about to die.” Decker smiled.
“That’s a little romantic, Rabbi.”
“You need to think a lot more like a Jew.
Hashem
can do anything, Detective.”
“Maybe.”
Decker sat down on a leather chair and lit a cigarette.
“I’ve never told a soul. I trust you’ll keep this confidential.”
The old man sighed heavily.
“Detective, your ex-wife didn’t know you were Jewish?”
“I’m not really Jewish.”
“I mean that you are Jewish biologically. I don’t want to quibble with semantics.”
“No.”
“Were you married in a Jewish ceremony?”
“We had a combo wedding. A reform rabbi and a Unitarian minister. It was pretty unusual.”
“Do you remember anything about the Jewish part of the ceremony?”
“I’ve tried to repress the whole thing.” Decker smiled and thought. “I gave her a ring and said something about Moses. Oh, and I
stepped on a glass. They gave my wife a wedding certificate that I signed. I don’t know what happened to it. Why are you asking me this?”
“I’m trying to figure out if you’re still legally married to your ex-wife. If there was a
kinyan
, a valid transaction.”
“We’ve been divorced for five years.”
“Civilly. But maybe not according to Jewish law. By any chance, has your ex-wife remarried?”
“Yes. About two years ago. She went all the way and married a real Jew this time.”
The rabbi looked pained.
“
Vay is mere
. And do they have children?”
Decker looked at him.
“As a matter of fact, she just lost a premature baby. She was six months pregnant when she went into labor, but the baby didn’t survive. She’s okay physically, but my daughter tells me she’s not doing too well emotionally.”
“Now
that
was
basheert
,” the rabbi said to himself. “Detective Decker, to be on the safe side, I’m going to prepare you a
get
—a Jewish divorce. A civil divorce is insignificant for religious purposes. Otherwise, your ex-wife’s future children may be considered
mamzerim
—bastards—and be irrevocably stigmatized.”
Decker’s eyes grew cold.
“I’m stigmatized?”
“
You
are not a
mamzer
. Your parents were not married at the time of your birth, but you are still a full-fledged Jew. A
mamzer
is the product of an adulterous union between a
married Jewish woman and a Jewish man, or of incest. According to Jewish law, it’s possible that you’re not legally divorced from your wife.”
“She doesn’t know I’m Jewish.”
“But you knew you were Jewish at the time of your marriage?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Do you have any objection to her finding out?”
“Not really.”
“Then let me divorce you properly.”
Decker smiled slightly.
“Let me ask you this, Rabbi. Had my ex-wife’s baby lived, would it have been considered a bastard?”
“Debatable but possible. Every marriage is looked at individually because the consequences are so severe. Once decided, it is one of the few things in Jewish law that is completely irreversible. Why condemn your former wife’s children to such a fate when the whole thing can be easily resolved? Let’s divorce you according to halacha.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Sign a document that I will prepare. And deliver it personally to your ex-wife.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll need to know your ex-wife’s Hebrew name, that of her father, and your father’s. I’m assuming you don’t have a Hebrew name.”
“Not that I know of.”
“All right. Your English name will be suf
ficient. I’ll also need the date of your marriage.”
“I can give that to you right now. The rest I’m going to have to find out.”
“Write it all down for me tomorrow. Then I will come with you to your ex-wife’s house and divorce you properly.”
Decker smiled at him, still bemused.
“Okay.”
The rabbi placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It was fate that led you here. It was
basheert
. Something pulled you to us.”
A rape and a homicide, Decker thought. But he didn’t answer.
“You were searching for something, Detective.”
“So far as I know, Rabbi, I still am.”