Authors: Faye Kellerman
The printer clicked
rhythmically while spewing out a white stream of computer paper. When the machine finished its obbligato, Decker detached the printout from the remaining roll of blank paper and took the pile over to his desk.
He sat down, gulped lukewarm coffee, and stared at the columns in front of him, noticing that the print had become very light. It was the third ribbon he’d gone through in the last twenty-four hours. He squinted in an attempt to bring the words into sharper focus, but his eyes were too damn tired. Pushing aside stacks of papers, he rubbed them hard and stretched. His back and neck were stiff, his shoulders ached, and his head throbbed. Opening the desk drawer, he pulled out the aspirin bottle only to find it empty, and tossed it disgustedly in the trash.
Placing his hands behind his neck, he leaned back into the chair, propped his feet on the desk, and gazed upward, hoping that the ceiling would provide a burst of sudden insight.
When nothing came, he figured it best to clear his mind and start over, get a fresh perspective. He rested a few more moments, enjoying the blank view, then sat back upright.
He studied the printout again. Hundreds of thousands of bytes of data had revealed nothing. He’d started with his original suspects and the M.O. of the crime. When nothing immediate panned out, he’d punched in the names of known local anti-Semites, then sex offenders now on parole, followed by yeshiva boys whom Rina had taught and men she’d gone to college with, throwing in people like a chef tossing in ingredients to revive a failed recipe. In the end he was no closer to the culprit. It boiled down to the same people. He picked up a pencil and scribbled the first name.
Shlomo Stein
.
A son of a bitch. He fit his former image far better than his latter. The man had made no attempt to hide his contempt for the detective, and the police in general. Furthermore, he’d been preachy and condescending—nothing worse than a reformed felon. But his answers had been straightforward and on the level. Even more important was the fact that, on the night of the Adler rape, he’d been attending a Talmudic discourse with thirty other men.
Decker crossed his name off.
Shraga Mendelsohn
.
Quieter than Stein, but still spooky. Spoke in a mumble. Inappropriate smiles and never made eye contact. If a case against Stein could
have been made, Mendelsohn would have been great for the accomplice. But on his own, there was nothing. Besides, his alibi the night of the rape had been the same as Stein’s. They were both at the lecture.
Scratch Mendelsohn.
Moshe Feldman
.
Decker wrote a big question mark after his name.
Matt Hawthorne
.
His alibi the night of the Marley murder had checked out. His friend had verified his presence at the movies. Furthermore, the candy counter girl remembered Hawthorne because he had made a weak attempt to flirt with her. The picture had ended at nine thirty-eight. It was possible time-wise that Hawthorne could have driven straight to the yeshiva, noticed Marley was dead, and attempted a break-in, but the scenario didn’t make much sense. First, he’d have had to move very quickly and precisely to make the timing fit, and second, how would Hawthorne have known that Marley had been killed?
Hawthorne didn’t have an alibi for his whereabouts the night of the rape, claiming he was home alone, reading a book. But Decker figured the filled bookcase in his apartment was more than just a prop. Hawthorne was an English teacher and probably did read a lot. The bottom line was that he failed to arouse genuine suspicion. His agitation had seemed to result more from nerves than guilt.
Decker gave him a small question mark.
Steve Gilbert
.
He was the most interesting. Not made a bit nervous by the presence of the police. Detached, almost amused by the whole thing. Not the spacey, schizoid physics major Decker had imagined. And he’d done a two-year hitch in the army, including ten months in Nam as a clerk. Unfortunately, the guy’s personal records were sealed. Decker wondered why he hadn’t been assigned to frontline combat. Maybe the army knew there was something kinky about him. Maybe he was trigger-happy. The asshole who shot at him had sure known how to use a piece.
Gilbert was on campus every Thursday with the Computer Club until ten
P.M.
The night of the rape had been a Thursday. The night that Decker was shot at had been a Thursday. Both incidents had happened around ten: Rina had placed the first call to the police at 10:08, and she had called him the second time at 10:15. That would have given Gilbert ample time to dismiss the club and perpetrate an attack.
But the night of the murder didn’t fit. The time was off—Rina had called him at 10:45. More important, the Marley killing had taken place on a Wednesday, and on every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday night for the last five years, Gilbert had eaten dinner with his fiancée’s family thirty miles away, usually leaving around eleven. His presence had been confirmed by the prospective in-laws.
Decker walked over to the coffeepot, poured
himself a refill and sat back down. He picked up a half-eaten corned beef sandwich, the remnant of his dinner, and stared at the curly, pink strips of meat. The sandwich had laid heavily in his gut the first time, and after a couple of hours of sitting on his desk, what was left hadn’t aged well. He tossed it in the garbage, sipped his coffee, and thought.
Dinner with your to-be in-laws three times a week for the last five years? No man who had anything in his crotch would put up with such shit. Dinner with the folks had been a constant sore spot between him and Jan. Once a month had been more than enough for him; Jan had preferred it closer to once a week. But even she would never have expected
three times a week
. Maybe Gilbert would get more assertive after the marriage—if the nuptials ever took place. That was strange, too. Who the hell stays engaged for five years unless there are
lots
of big problems? Maybe he was a wimp with women and was holding in a lot of rage toward them. Maybe he’d redirected his anger.
But how could he explain Gilbert as the mikvah rapist when, on the night of the Marley murder and mikvah break-in, he was having dinner thirty miles away?
Decker took another swig of coffee.
Unless…Unless, he happened to
not
be at his in-laws that night. If the dinners had been so codified, so routine, so frequent, the in-laws might have ignored occasional absences.
But Gilbert couldn’t have known in advance
that Florence was going to be killed. So what was he doing on campus?
Picking up a pencil, Decker tapped it against the desktop.
Maybe Computer Club couldn’t meet that Thursday. Could be, the week of the murder, they had decided to meet on Wednesday.
A stab in the dark.
He picked up the phone and dialed Rina’s number. Her boys might remember if the club had had a change of schedule that week.
No one answered. Immediately, his sensors were up.
Where the hell would she be?
Maybe he dialed the wrong number. He tried again.
Nothing.
“Shit,” he said, slamming down the receiver. He’d told her to call him if she had to go out at night. She’d promised she would.
He decided to phone Sarah Libba Adler. Probably she’d know something. He dialed information and was told the number wasn’t listed. Decker gave the operator his name and badge number and after a few minutes obtained the listing. She answered on the fourth ring. Children’s laughter and horseplay could be heard in the background.
“This is Detective Decker, Mrs. Adler. I don’t mean to alarm you, but do you know where Mrs. Lazarus is?”
A long pause.
“She’s out.”
“Where?”
Another long pause.
“Mrs. Adler?” he asked.
“At the mikvah.”
“The
mikvah
?”
“Something came up.”
“I thought it was shut down.”
“Not exactly. I tried to talk her out of it, but she can be very determined sometimes.”
“That’s certainly true,” he mumbled. “Where are her boys?”
“I have them. She’s due to pick them up at ten. If she’s not back by then, she had instructed me to call you.”
Swell!
“Anyone with her?” he asked, hoping it was Zvi.
“Matt Hawthorne.”
Damn, he thought to himself.
“Detective, what’s wrong?” Sarah asked, suddenly panicked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Look, Mrs. Adler, I’m going to drive down there now just to ease my own peace of mind.”
“I think that’s a very good idea.”
“You just take care of the boys.”
“All right.”
“Bye,” he said. “Oh, call your husband and tell him to stop by there—”
The line had disconnected.
He called her back, but the line was busy.
He called the operator and placed an emergency interruption.
She reported that no one was on the line. The phone was out of order.
Accidentally, Sarah must not have put the receiver fully back on the hook.
He slammed down the phone and dialed the mikvah number.
The line was dead.
They’d never bothered restoring the service after the line was cut.
He tried the Rosh Yeshiva’s office number and came up empty. He tried the rabbi’s home number. No one was there. Then he called the yeshiva’s answering service. The only numbers they had were office listings. No one answered any of them.
“Shit!” he bellowed. Grabbing his coat, he tapped Marge on the shoulder and stormed out of the building.
Marge picked up her purse and caught up with him in the parking lot. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, gunned the ignition, and once she was inside, peeled rubber out to the street before she could close her door.
“Would you mind cluing me in?” Marge asked, placing a blinking red light on the roof of the car.
“Rina’s at the mikvah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I forgot to ask. Hawthorne is supposed to be protecting her.” Decker slammed his fist against the dashboard. “Goddam! I can’t believe she did that!”
Marge was confused.
“Did she call in and say she was in trouble?”
Decker shook his head grimly.
“I’m trying to get to her before something happens.”
“Don’t you think this is a little impetuous, Pete? After all, we really don’t have a case against—”
“It was stupid for her to go there, Marge. She knew I hadn’t written him off as a suspect.” He pounded the wheel. “Fuck!”
“Take it easy, Pete,” Marge said, thinking he was due for some vacation time. “He’s walked her home safely before. There’s no reason to think that this time is going to be any different.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let me concentrate on my driving.”
He was angry at himself. He should have told Sarah right away to send Zvi down to the mikvah, to wait there until he arrived. He shouldn’t have left it as an afterthought. If only Sarah hadn’t hung up. If only she hadn’t left the phone off the hook. If only he could have gotten through to someone. He floored the accelerator until the car was pushing ninety-five, rattling like a diamondback. A bump on the freeway and they were hamburger. But Marge didn’t say a thing.
Rina mopped up the last bit of water off the floor and turned off the heat. The mikvah had needed a good cleaning, and she was glad she’d decided to come.
Ruthie Zipperstein had begged her. The family car had been in the shop for a week, and she was three days past her mikvah date.
Her husband, Yisroel, hadn’t been able to scrounge up an auto to take her to the other mikvah, and they were going nuts. So Ruthie had asked if she couldn’t surreptitiously help them out. Rina had agreed, provided that Yisroel would walk her home. But in the early afternoon he’d tripped and twisted his ankle. On doctor’s orders, he was forced to keep off the foot for twenty-four hours.
Rina was about to call the whole thing off until it hit her. She was being terrorized by a ghoul who not only threatened her physical safety, but held her spiritually imprisoned. She was sick of it all—sick of looking over her shoulder, of compulsively and repeatedly checking the locks on her doors and bolts on her windows, of the paranoia that was crippling her daily existence. The invisible shackles of fear had to be broken.
But she had common sense, so she worked out a feasible compromise. She’d have Peter walk them home.
He wasn’t in the first time she’d called, and she didn’t leave a message, figuring she’d just call back later. Then she began to think:
Remember how it was when Yitzchak died? How dependent you were on him? How he always had taken care of everything? How you felt you’d never be able to function without him? Do you want to feel that way again? If you do, just keep running to Peter every time there’s a crisis. He’ll take care of you, too. And once again, you’ll sink back into being a helpless Hannah—the way you were as a daughter, the way you were as a wife
.
Time to use your own resources.
She had called Steve Gilbert. He wasn’t home, so she had left a message on his answering machine and then called Matt. He had been nice enough to agree.
She was proud of the way she’d taken care of her own business. It was important that she break her dependence on Peter. Now she was here without his help, and that was a psychological and spiritual victory. No longer would she allow the rapist to hold her hostage. There was only one
Hashem—Hakodosh Boruch Hu
—and He alone was omnipotent. She would put her trust in Him, where it always should have been, and let Ruthie perform the mitzvah of mikvah. After all, wasn’t it perverse to deny a mitzvah when the very fate of one’s existence was solely in the hands of the Almighty?
She rinsed out the mop and smiled. The routine was coming back, returning order to her life. She checked her watch and flicked off the lights. Matt should be back from walking Ruthie home any minute.
She went into the reception area and dusted the table tops for the third time. Her cleaning was mindless, and she knew it. The place was as sterile as an operating room. Triumphantly, she put down the dust rag and sat down to wait for Matt.