Authors: Faye Kellerman
Michael Hollander was
fiftyish, bald, florid, and the proper weight for a man six inches taller. He, Marge, and Decker made up the juvey and sex detail for the division. They were referred to jokingly as The Three Musketeers—a title that Hollander had redubbed The Three Mouseketeers. He smoked a pipe, which was an inexcusable offense in such close quarters, but laughed off the complaints by demanding to know who’d be the squadroom’s scapegoat if he became civilized. Discussion closed.
He entered the detectives’ quarters, poured himself his ninth cup of coffee of the day, and placed a meaty hand on Decker’s shoulder.
Peter looked up from the phone, excused himself, and covered the mouthpiece with his palm.
“What?”
“A lady from Jewtown is outside.”
Decker finished his call quickly and checked his watch. They were right on time. Then he remembered that Hollander had said
a lady
not
ladies
. Damn it! The other one must have chickened out.
He got up from his desk, went out to the reception area, and saw Rina standing in the hallway behind the half door. She looked as good as he remembered, even better. Even though her hair was covered, tucked into a white knitted tam she’d taken a little time to put on some makeup and jewelry. He liked that.
“Come on in,” he said, opening the latch and leading her to his desk.
Headquarters were not as she’d imagined.
She expected the place to be busy and crowded, but not so small. Metal utility desks and chairs were squashed against one another, taking up most of the floor space. What furniture wasn’t metal was scarred, unfinished wood. A lone rust-bitten table in the corner housed a small computer. On the rear wall were wanted posters and floor-to-ceiling prefab shelves full of blue notebooks marked with various colored dots. To her left were two small rooms with the doors open and a map of the division taped carelessly on the wall. To her right were the coffee urn and its accompanying paraphernalia, more desks, and another map studded with multicolored pins. The place was minimally cooled by fans placed at strategic spots and blowing full force.
All the detectives were dressed in light-colored short-sleeved shirts, loosened ties, drab slacks, and scuffed shoes. Only their shoulder holsters suggested they were cops. Some of them were on the phone or doing
desk work, others were conferring with one another; all of them looked preoccupied.
“Like the decor?” one of them shouted, a fat man smoking a pipe.
“Lovely,” she said, smiling.
“Take a seat,” Decker said, pulling up a chair that obstructed the aisle. His desktop was covered by piles of papers, a manual typewriter, and a black phone sporting a panel of flashing lights. “What happened to Mrs. Adler?”
Rina lowered her voice. “She refused to come down.”
“I can barely hear you.”
“Can we use one of those rooms over there?”
“They’re as hot as blazes. Great for sweating out confessions.”
Rina said nothing and squirmed.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’ll take my lunch break early. That way we can get a little privacy.”
They got up to leave. The fat detective whistled.
“You have any food preferences?” Decker asked, starting the Plymouth.
“Detective Decker,” she hesitated, “I can’t eat in a restaurant because the food’s not kosher. I brought my own lunch.” She held up a paper bag.
Shit, he thought. Another Big Mac for lunch. “No problem. I’ll just run by McDonald’s and pick something up.”
“I prepared lunch for Mrs. Adler, so I have extra,” she said timidly.
Decker smiled. “Okay.”
“Is there someplace we can eat other than a car?” she asked uncomfortably.
“I think that can be arranged.”
He drove to a bedraggled park. The grass had been burned yellow and the sandbox was nothing more than a pile of gray pebbles, but to one side was a large shade tree with umbrella-like branches and some warped wooden benches. A couple of naked Latino tots ran through a sprinkler jet that was attempting—without visible success—to revive a bed of dead marigolds. The toddlers’ grandmother sat a few feet away, knitting as she watched them from the corner of one eye. Although there was plenty of empty seating in the shade, the old woman had elected to sit in the open sun with a bandana over her head, seemingly impervious to the heat. The temperature was well over a hundred, the air heavy with smog, but a slight breeze filtered through the lacy branches, providing some refuge.
Rina knew it wasn’t right for her to be alone with this man, but she felt compelled to help. She wanted justice to be done and the monster locked up—for society’s welfare and her own peace of mind.
They sat down and the old woman waved to Decker. He returned her greeting, and Rina opened the sack.
“I was in the mood for hamburgers,” she said.
“Great. I love hamburgers.”
“I made some cole slaw also.”
“Great. I love cole slaw.”
Rina laughed. “You’re very agreeable.”
“On certain occasions.”
“I’m glad this is one of them.” She unwrapped an oversized onion roll stuffed with a thick hunk of ground meat and gave it to him.
Decker regarded the sandwich. “This is a
hamburger
. It’s amazing how quickly you forget what a real one looks like after eating fast foods for years.” He took a chomp. The juices spilled out onto his mustache and chin.
“I brought extra napkins.” She handed him a wad.
“It looks like I’ll need ’em.”
Rina unwrapped several beige cubes. “This is potato kugel.”
“I like potatoes.”
“It’s best described as gelatinous hash browns—”
Decker laughed. “That sounds horrible.”
“It tastes better than it sounds.”
He bit into one of the squares and contemplated.
“You know what it tastes like?” Decker said. “It tastes like a latke. A big, thick latke.”
That took her by surprise.
“That’s exactly what it is.”
“Not too bad for a goy, huh?”
She laughed.
“You’ve picked up an expression or two, Detective.”
“Or three or four. My ex-wife was Jewish. But not like you,” he qualified. “She and her parents were very Americanized. But her paternal grandparents stayed…ethnic. It was her grandmother who used to make me latkes.”
“Were they good?”
“Dynamite.”
Rina opened a thermos of orange juice and poured them each a cup.
“Thanks for sharing your lunch. It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”
Rina lowered her head and said nothing. Decker noticed she hadn’t unwrapped her sandwich.
“You’re not eating?” he asked.
“Uh…In a minute.”
She pulled out a paper cup from the sack and walked over to the sprinkler. She filled the cup up with water, poured it over each hand, then came back to the bench.
“You’re very hygienic,” Decker said, smiling. “I like that in a woman.”
She smiled back but was silent. He wondered if he had offended her.
“That was a joke,” he said.
She nodded, mumbled to herself, and took a bite of her sandwich.
“I know,” she finally said after she swallowed. “I couldn’t answer you because I was in the middle of a blessing. You’re not allowed
to talk between hand washing and the breaking of bread.”
Decker stared at her blankly.
“Never mind,” she said quickly. “It isn’t important.”
He shrugged.
“You’re a good cook.”
“Thanks.” She put down her sandwich. “Detective—”
“Why don’t you call me Peter? People I like a lot less call me by my first name. Certainly you can.”
“All right. You can call me Rina.”
“Great. So we’ll be Peter the Detective and Rina the Mikvah Lady.”
“Sounds fine.”
She turned serious.
“I couldn’t talk Mrs. Adler into coming down here. But she wants to help out.”
“What’s the game plan?”
“I managed to get her alone. She told me what happened in very explicit detail.”
Decker stopped eating. “Unless it comes directly from her mouth it’s not admissible as testimony.”
“I understand that. If you catch someone that sounds like this animal, she may even be willing to testify. But she doesn’t want to have to expose herself prematurely.”
“She wouldn’t be exposing herself. She’d just be talking—”
“She just can’t bring herself to talk about it to a total stranger, male or female. Your partner was very nice, but she doesn’t trust her.
And if you’d call Mrs. Adler up and tell her that I just told you everything, she’d deny talking to me about it. We’re very private people, Detective.”
Decker thought for a moment. “So what do you have?”
She took a sip of juice. “This isn’t easy.”
“Take your time, Rina.” He pulled out a notepad.
Despite herself she liked the way he said her name.
“Okay.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Sarah…Mrs. Adler had left the mikvah and walked a couple of feet when the person, attacker, whatever you call him…”
“Assailant.”
“The assailant grabbed her from behind. She screamed and he punched her hard on the face. When she screamed again he stuffed something down her throat. A sock or a mitten, something furry. She remembers tasting the nap of the fabric. It nearly choked her.”
“Did she see the man at all?”
“She said he was wearing a ski mask.”
“Did she describe his clothing?”
“Just that it was dark.”
“Go on.”
“He ripped her dress and pulled at her hair. Sarah Libba was wearing a wig that night, as you well know, so it just came off, and for some reason, that made him furious. He hurled it away, and dragged her off and began to punch her again, all over her body.”
“Did he say anything to her?”
“Not directly. But he muttered over and over, ‘
What a bitch, what a bitch
.’”
“What did his voice sound like?”
“Gravelly.”
“Had she ever heard it before?”
“I didn’t ask her that. I assumed she would have said something if she had.”
“You can’t assume anything. Anyway, go on, you’re doing fine.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. He told her he had a gun.”
“Well, that’s a pretty important detail.”
“She wouldn’t let me take notes. This is all from memory.”
There was defensiveness in her voice. Decker realized he was coming across as critical and softened his tone.
“You’re doing great. A-plus. Did he threaten to shoot her?”
“No. She distinctly said he didn’t threaten to use it. He just said, ‘I have a gun,’ and she felt this cold thing against her temple.”
“Okay.”
“He finally stopped hitting her. He reached up her dress and pulled down her underwear…He…Excuse me.”
“Take your time. Here.” Decker poured her another cup of juice. “Take a gulp.”
“Thank you.” She took a sip. “This is very hard for me.”
“I understand.”
She sighed. “Let’s see. He attempted to…tried to do it to her from behind. First the reg
ular way, then sodomy, but he wasn’t aroused.”
“She saw his penis?”
“Uh, no, well, I don’t know. She couldn’t feel him penetrating her, I guess. She felt a little something anally, but nothing really physically painful.”
Her account was consistent with the exam. It had revealed no sperm or seminal fluid in the vaginal mucosa and a few drops of seminal fluid in the anal region. Enough to get a serum typing, but not a really good one. But he didn’t tell her that.
“Did she recall the man ejaculating?” Decker asked.
“She felt something warm and wet dribble down her leg.”
Damn! If the doctor had looked a little farther down the victim’s leg, she would have found a nice, big sperm sample. It was hell working with amateurs.
“Go on,” he urged, suppressing his irritation.
“After he was done, he told her that he knew who she was, and if she talked, he’d kill her. He started to slap her, but then I came out. She’s sure that scared him. Anyway, he took off as soon as he heard my voice.”
“So the mysterious fleeing figure probably was the bastard.”
She nodded and hugged herself.
“It gives me the chills just to think about it.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Not that I can remember.”
He stopped writing and put the note pad away.
“Detect—”
“Peter,” he reminded her.
“Peter, does any of it sound like the Foothill rapist?”
There were certain similarities—the attempted anal penetration and the failure to achieve a full erection, but other things didn’t fit. The ski mask for one. And Mrs. Adler had been wearing sandals, not high-heeled shoes. But he wasn’t about to commit himself one way or the other.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Please don’t be cryptic. Off the record.”
“Off the record, maybe, maybe not.”
She frowned.
“Listen,” he said, “at this point it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference, because we don’t know much about the Foothill rapist either. Which leaves me sitting in a pile of shit, if you’ll excuse my language.”
“You must be under a lot of pressure.”
“That’s an understatement,” he said, lighting up a cigarette. “But I usually perform well when the heat’s on.” He smiled tightly. “Though I’ve got to admit, the barometer’s been reading pretty high lately.”
“So you’re not close to finding him.”
“Close doesn’t mean a thing. Either you have him or you don’t. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
She watched him walk over to the old lady, who was no longer alone. To her right stood
a teenager—an emaciated Hispanic boy of about seventeen. A sickly pallor dulled a complexion that should have glowed bronze. He started backing away as the detective approached.
“Hey, I’m not doin’ nothin’, man!”
“Hey, Ramon, I didn’t say you were doing anything,” replied Decker, towering over the kid. “I just came over to be friendly.”
“Hey, ain’t I got a right to walk in a park?” The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I mean, hey, a park’s a public place!”
“You’ve got rights. Sure, you’ve got rights. Everybody’s got rights. I was just making sure that Mrs. Sanchez gets her rights, too.”