Kitabı oku: «Day of Atonement»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Part One: Tephila—Prayer

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part Two: Tzedakah—Charity

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part Three: Tshuvah—Repentance

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Also by Faye Kellerman

Predator

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

He wrote down the name Hank Stewart. Stared at it for a while and decided it was a good start.

A start.

But not there yet.

He wrote Dr. Hank Stewart. Then: Hank Stewart, M.D.

But hell, doctors were nothing special. Matter of fact, they were assholes, all puffed up and full of themselves.

So he wrote Hank Stewart, ESQ.

Crossed that off the list. Lawyers were bigger assholes than doctors.

How about Hank Stewart, Nuclear Physicist.

Or Hank Stewart, Nobel Prize Winner.

Give ’em a smile as they took his picture.

Hell with that. That kinda fame was too short-lived. A picture in a newspaper for about a day. Big effing deal.

Hank Stewart, CIA.

Stewart—Superspy.

Good ring to it.

Ah, that was stupid. Kid stuff.

Still, kid stuff was better than peddling fish.

I’ll take one pound of snapper, please.

Yeah, lady. Right up your ass.

The old people always buying fish ’cause they didn’t got no teeth to chew meat. They came up to the counter, moving their mouths over their dentures, whistling the word “snapper,” their hands and head shakin’, looking like they wasn’t glued together very tight.

That was the worst part. Working behind the counter.

Now the gutting part was okay. Especially once you got the feel for it, didn’t let the suckers slip out of your hands.

Fish were slimy little bastards, all the gook would get over your clothes and you never could get the smell out. Thing to do was just work in smelly clothes for a while, then chuck ’em in the garbage.

Or stuff ’em in the mailbox of that jerk who was giving you a real hard time.

Now if he was a real asshole, you’d stuff some fishheads in with the smelly clothes.

Good old fish. Flopping in the pail, looking up at you with glazed-over eyes sayin’ “Put me out of my misery, man.”

At first he used to do it just like the old man did. Cut the gills. But then he found a better way. He’d step on their heads.

Stomp!

All the brain squishing out.

That part was okay, too. But the best part was the swim bladder. Bounce it with the tip of the knife. Careful, careful. It was delicate.

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.

Then if you were quick enough, you’d jam the tip all of a sudden and it’d pop.

But that was kid stuff, too. Old stuff. He’d moved on to better stuff than popping swim bladders. And things were going real good until he got caught.

Hell with that shit. No sense moaning about the past. Better to make something of the future.

After all, he was young.

He wrote Hank Stewart, Real Estate Developer.

Like that guy who owned all those casinos in Atlantic City. Man, he could have his pick of chicks ’cause he had bread.

Hank Stewart, millionaire.

Hank Stewart, billionaire.

Hank Stewart, trillionaire.

Ah, that was stupid, too. Money wasn’t everything. It didn’t show what you got in your pants.

Hank Stewart, stud.

Ah-hah!

Hank Stewart, rock star. Hair down to his ass, wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans, sweat streaming down his hard, lean body. Girls coming after him, screaming their little heads off, waiting for him to give it to them.

Hank Stewart, King of Rock and Roll.

He paused a moment, then wrote: Hank Stewart, King.

King Stewart.

Emperor Stewart.

Lord Stewart.

God Stewart.

Or just plain God would do.

PART ONE

1

Brooklyn.

Not the honeymoon Decker had imagined.

Twelve grueling months before he’d rack up another two weeks’ vacation time and here he was, alone in a tiny guest bedroom, his long legs cramped from having slept on too small a bed, his back sore from lying on a wafer-thin thing that somebody had mislabeled as a mattress. He’d bunked up in foxholes that had been bigger than this place. Most of the floor space was taken up by the pullout sofa bed. The rest of the furnishings were worn pieces old enough to be antiques, but not good enough to qualify. A scarred wooden nightstand was at his right, the digital clock upon it reading out ten-forty-two. The suitcases had been piled atop an old yellowed pine bureau adorned with teddy-bear appliqués. The sofa pillows had been stuffed into the room’s only free corner. On the east wall, two wee windows framed a gray sky.

The honeymoon suite.

Très charmant.

Two days ago, he’d danced blisters on his feet, whooping his voice raw, carrying his stepsons around on his shoulders. It had been a wild affair—the drinking and dancing lasting until midnight. Now his body was paying overtime for his exuberance.

Of course, the undersized sofa didn’t help.

He chewed on the ends of his mustache, then pulled the sheet over his head.

They say Jews don’t drink much, but they’ve never seen ultra-Orthodox rabbis at a wedding. The men downed schnapps like water. Decker had thought his father had a large capacity for booze, but Dad was a piker compared to Rav Schulman.

Dad and Mom. Sitting in the corner, wondering what the hell was flying. Cindy trying to coax Grandma to dance. Rina did get Mom to dance once. Even Mom couldn’t turn down the bride. But that one time had been the only time.

Well, at least they came. A big surprise and a step in the right direction. They liked Rina, he sensed that immediately. Rina could charm anyone and she was truly a nice person. But his parents couldn’t come out and tell him they liked her. Mom did admit that if he had to marry another Jew, Rina seemed like a decent woman. Very high praise. Then she added that Rina seemed sincere in her beliefs even though they were dead wrong.

Randy had liked Rina, too. Baby Bro liked all beautiful women, but he wasn’t what you’d call a picky sort. Decker wished he could have spent some more time with Randy—shoot the bull about the job—but he and Rina just had to rush off. Had to make it to Brooklyn before the holiday of Rosh Hashanah started.

What was he doing, honeymooning in Boro Park of all places? He and Rina should have been in Hawaii, making love in the moonlight on the beach. Hell, he would have settled for staying back home on the ranch—just him and her. Send Sam and Jake off to visit Grandma and Grandpa in Brooklyn for the holidays.

But no, no, no. Rina had to visit her late husband’s parents. His luck: to inherit not one but two sets of in-laws.

Decker stretched, his feet falling over the edge of the mattress.

At least her ex-in-laws were nice people.

So happy you joined us for the holidays, they had said. Rosh Hashanah will be a wonderful New Year’s with Rina and the boys and you as guests in our home. Thank you so much for allowing us the pleasure of being with you.

But Decker hated looking into their eyes. He could tell what they were thinking.

Why couldn’t you be our son, Yitzchak?

He ran his hands through damp ginger hair.

It had to be tough on them. Their only son gone, he the stepfather of their boy’s children.

He wished he was back home. Too many ghosts here.

The clock glowed ten-forty-five. He hadn’t heard Rina wake up, but he knew she wouldn’t dare abandon him. She was probably in the kitchen helping her ex-mother-in-law prepare for the big holiday meal.

His clothes weren’t visible. They’d been thrown off in the heat of passion last night, both of them stifling laughter, hoping the flimsy bed could take all the weight.

Afterward, Decker wondered if Rina had made love with her late husband in this very bed. But he had kept his thoughts to himself.

Finding the energy to rise, he immediately tripped on his shoes, stubbed his toe, and cursed silently. He stripped off his pajamas, went over to the bureau and found that Rina had unpacked, his clothes neatly stowed in the first and second drawers. She’d put his Beretta under a pile of undershirts, the clips all the way in the back under his pants. God bless an efficient woman.

He attempted to open a door on the west wall. It came out about halfway before it hit the bed frame. He squeezed himself inside the cell and found a munchkin-size bathroom—sink, shower, and toilet. The water closet was done in old white tile and reeked of disinfectant, but someone had laid out clean towels. He took a quick lukewarm shower (others had gotten to the hot-water tank before him), his elbows hitting the walls as he soaped up. He had to duck a good foot to get his head under the shower tap.

He dried himself off and dressed, his skin prickly with goosebumps. There was no room to stand and dress with the bed unfolded. He straightened the sheets and pushed the mattress inward until it slid down into the sofa frame, then put the pillows on the couch.

A little more space, but he’d have to do his waltzing elsewhere.

He put on gray gabardine trousers, a white dress shirt, and a pair of black oxfords. People around here just didn’t wear sweats. Strapping his belt around his waist, he felt lighter of weight without his shoulder harness and gun. And a little more vulnerable, too. He found a black yarmulke, bobby-pinned it onto his hair and quickly said Shaachrit—the morning prayers. Then he went downstairs to face what was in store for him.

He swore he’d be in a good mood. He swore he’d be friendly. But he felt grumpy, his leg muscles still bunched. His throat was tight, a sour taste had coated his mouth.

Relax.

No one was in the living room. It, too, was small, walls and moldings painted ivory and hung with dime-store landscape prints. The carpet was green shag, worn nearly flat. The couches were off-white velvet, the arms covered in plastic as were the lampshades. The room might have been described as old and musty had it not sparkled with crystal. On the coffee table, on the end tables, in a breakfront, in the connecting dining room. Decanters, vases, bowls, and goblets. Some of the glasswork had been intricately cut, catching the overcast light from outside and breaking it into thousands of colors. Other pieces were clear or etched—tinted deep iridescent shades.

All the crystal was smudge-and-dust-free. With the kids out of the house, this had to be mama lion’s pride.

The dining-room table had been extended until the top practically abutted the living-room couch. Enough seating for forty people. The entire downstairs was filled with cooking smells—the aroma of roasted meats, spicy puddings, and fresh-baked bread and pastries. Decker realized his mouth was watering.

High-pitched magpie sounds emanated from the kitchen. With all their chatter, the women hadn’t heard him come down. He stood at the kitchen doorframe waiting for someone to notice him. Rina’s ex-mother-in-law, Sora Lazarus, saw him first. She was a small, compact woman with large brown eyes and thick lips. Her hair was pinned under a big kerchief and she had spots of flour on her face. She wore a white chef’s apron and smiled at him, bursting into ooing sounds he interpreted as a welcome.

“Did you sleep well?” Sora Lazarus asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Rina emerged from the back, wiping her hands with her apron. She smiled at him and he immediately melted. She was exquisite even in a loose housedress. Sapphire eyes, inky-black hair, creamy complexion, full, red lips. Not to mention those curves. And now, she was officially Mrs. Decker. Two long, long years. But she was worth the wait.

She led him into the belly of the kitchen. The place was hot and misty. Most of Rina’s hair was covered by a kerchief, but a few steam-limp strands had escaped and framed her lovely face. She slipped her arm into his and hugged his bicep.

“Akiva, I’d like you to meet my sisters-in-law, Esther and Shaynie.”

Decker found it amusing that she had called him by his Hebrew name. Only in Boro Park. Back home, he was plain old Peter. He nodded hello to the women, but knew better than to try to shake their hands. Men and women in this culture didn’t touch unless married, and even then public displays of affection were frowned upon. But Rina seemed to disregard this little bit of tradition and Decker was glad she did. He smiled at the sisters—women he’d spoken to many times on the phone. He said, “Nice to finally see the faces that go with the voices.”

They both smiled back and immediately averted their gazes.

He put Shaynie at about his age—forty-one or -two. She was petite, with a long face, amber eyes, and warm smile. She wore no makeup, but her cheeks were rosy from the heat. She was married to Mendel, an accountant.

Esther was also small, but heavier than her sister. Her face was fuller, her arms thicker. She had the same amber eyes as her sister and also wore no makeup. But her face wasn’t rosy, it was blood red. Her eyes rested on her feet.

And Decker knew why. Three months ago, her husband, Pessy, had been arrested in a massage-parlor raid in Manhattan. Through the police grapevine, Decker had found the proper connections and managed to spring the guy, expunging all the charges from the computer. He had mixed feelings about it. The guy was a first-class scumbag—had come on to Rina while she lived in New York. Clearing this little mishap meant he owed favors to some brothers in the NYPD. And he didn’t like being in the red.

But the Lazarus family had been grateful, though no one had ever explicitly told him so. It was just implied that they were grateful because everyone was suddenly more respectful to him whenever he called Rina.

Another little piece of dirt neatly swept under the carpet.

Sora Lazarus said, “The men already went to the mikvah. You want me to take you there?”

“Let’s let it go this time, Eema,” Rina said.

It was customary for men to go to the ritual bathhouse before the high holidays. But the idea of bathing in communal water made Decker squeamish. He gave her an appreciative smile.

Sora Lazarus said, “Then maybe you’d like some breakfast? A cup of coffee?”

“A cup of coffee sounds great,” Decker said.

“Then you sit at the table,” the little woman said. “I’ll get you some coffee and a little pastry—”

“Just coffee, please,” Decker said. “Black.”

“Black?” Sora Lazarus said. “No milk? No sugar?”

“Just black,” Decker said. “Please.”

“Rina,” Sora Lazarus said, “sit with your husband. I’ll bring you some coffee, too.”

“I’ll get it,” Rina said.

“Don’t be silly,” chided Sora Lazarus. “Sit.”

A moment later they were alone in the dining room, sipping coffee at a table fit for a mess hall.

“The Lazaruses are having a bit of company?” Decker asked.

“Thirty-six people. Not including the kids’ table.”

“A small intimate meal.”

“It’s tradition,” Rina said. “My mother-in-law always has the Levine family over on the first night of Rosh Hashanah; we go over to the Levine house for lunch the next day.”

“How many Levines are we talking about?”

“Rabbi and Mrs. Levine, their five children and who knows how many grandchildren. And Mrs. Levine’s parents. They must be in their eighties by now.”

“Is everyone going to talk in Yiddish?”

“The grandparents do, but the five kids are our age. The oldest must be a few years younger than you. Shimmy—nice guy, good-looking, too.”

“You notice these things.”

“I’m religious but not blind.”

“Well, you’d have to be nearsighted to marry me.”

“You’re fishing for compliments, I’ll give you one,” Rina said. “I think you’re gorgeous. Or as they say in Brooklyn, gohjus.”

Decker said, “Am I as gohjus as Shimmy?”

“Better,” Rina said. “Shimmy—like you—has a good sense of humor. I think you’ll like him.”

“I can feel a friendship brewing.”

“Oh, cut it out.” She punched him in the shoulder. “Mrs. Levine’s youngest son, Jonathan, is—believe it or not—a Conservative rabbi.”

“A rebel in the midst.”

“You make light, but his father’s heartbroken.”

Decker shook his head. “That kind of reactionary thinking is incredible to me.”

“That’s because you don’t understand what it represents to Jonathan’s father. Conservative Jews don’t believe that oral law is as important as written law. So oral law—which is holy to us—can be changed by man. That’s a major break, Peter. Even though Jonathan is pretty traditional in his own practices, his father feels that Jonathan has rejected him and everything he believes in.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I don’t agree with Jonathan, but I know he’s sincere. And although I understand Rav Levine’s feelings, I feel bad for Jonathan. His father makes this big show of not speaking to him—unless they’re arguing Jewish law. Mrs. Levine ignores his hostility and invites Jonathan to every holiday meal. It’s uncomfortable at first, the father addressing Jonathan in the third person. ‘Can someone ask Mister Levine to pass the flanken?’ Mr. Levine, mind you, never Rabbi Levine. It’s become sort of a joke by now, but I know it makes Jonathan feel lousy.”

“And here I thought this was going to be boring.”

Rina smiled. “Jonathan’s mother is more tolerant. You’ll like her, Peter. She and Mama Lazarus are best friends. She’s as feisty as they come. She was a legal secretary for the criminal court system in Queens for years, always worked, which was very unusual for Orthodox women her age. Being a cop, you two will probably have lots to talk about.”

“Yes, we can talk about assholes”—Decker smiled—“excuse me—miscreants.”

“You’re going to have to watch that.”

“No problem, honey,” Decker said. “I don’t intend to talk much.”

“I know this is very hard for you,” Rina said. “A lot of change in the last couple of years.”

“True ’nough, woman, true ’nough.”

Rina hesitated, then whispered, “Are you happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

Rina looked at his deadpan expression. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Decker took her hand. “From the bottom of my heart, I couldn’t be happier. I love being married to you.”

“Good,” Rina answered. But her expression was troubled. “Do you like being an observant Jew?”

Decker said, “I wouldn’t have converted if I didn’t like it.”

“You didn’t convert.”

“You’re talking semantics,” Decker said.

“You’re right,” Rina said.

Technically, he hadn’t converted. His biological mother had been Jewish, which made him Jewish according to Hebraic law. But having been adopted in infancy, he considered himself a product of his real parents—the ones who had raised him. And they had brought him up Baptist.

“You’re a doll, Peter,” Rina said. “A wonderful sport. I’ll make it up to you.”

Decker felt a tightening below his belt. “I’ll keep you to your word.”

She kissed the tip of his nose. “Want more coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Decker said. “Maybe I’ll take a walk. Want to join me?”

“Wish I could,” Rina said. “But there’s still a slew of work to do in the kitchen.”

“Have fun.”

“You, too. Bundle up. We’re having a weird cold spell. Enjoy, Peter.”

Yeah, Decker thought. He’d just have himself a ball.

2

He always hated this time of year.

The holidays.

It reminded him of fish.

Fish was real big this time of year, especially fish heads. Yum-yum, fish heads. And then there was ground-up fish—everyone wanting to make gefilte fish.

No carp, just white and pikefish.

Just whitefish.

Just carp.

Just carp and pikefish.

Can you put in some bread crumbs?

Can you put in an onion?

More onion.

Less onion.

No onion.

Fuuuuuuucccckkkk you.

Carp were disgusting fish, smelling like garbage. They were bottom feeders so they ate a lot of shit. You are what you eat.

Open up carp and hold your nose. Finding all sorts of gunk inside them. Grit and sand and dirt and lots and lots of worms, especially if they’d been fished out of polluted waters. Sometimes he’d find pop tabs or bottle caps. Sometimes green bottleglass.

If he really hated the old lady, he’d grind the glass up with the fish.

A crunch delight.

Fuuuuuuccccck you.

Piss on the holidays.

They also reminded him of the family.

Piss on the family.

The holidays. They were supposed to inspire fear, but for him, all the prayers and shit were just simply … shit.

Last year on Yom Kippur, he woke up and ate a cheese sandwich.

Old God didn’t strike him dead like they said He would.

Then he jacked off.

God didn’t strike him dead.

Then he went out and drank a few beers, cussed with the guys, whistled at the chicks. Just hung out.

God didn’t strike him dead.

Then he had a pepperoni pizza for lunch.

God didn’t strike him dead.

Then he rented a porno video and whacked off again. Two times. Man, he was a stud.

God didn’t strike him dead.

Why should God strike him dead?

He was God.

Or something close.

3

The streets of Boro Park vibrated with an air of urgency even though most of the local businesses were closed for the day. Black-clothed men marched along the avenues, middle-aged ladies toted sacks of groceries, picking up last-minute forgotten items. Young married women wrapped in winter coats were swept along with harried grace. Some wore woolen caps, but most wore wigs—the common look being locks of straight hair that fell to their shoulders, the ends curving inward, a modified pageboy. The pink-nosed women pushed loaded-down strollers along the walkways, their progeny bundled in layers of blankets to the point of near-invisibility. Decker didn’t know if it was the unseasonable cold or what, but everyone was hauling down the streets as if fighting to make a curfew.

He stuck his hands in his overcoat pockets and told himself to slow down. He had nowhere to go, nothing to do. He tightened a tan cashmere scarf around his neck. It had been a gift from Rina—a waste of money since L.A. weather rarely necessitated scarves. But he knew she’d spent a lot of time picking it out so he wore it whenever he could. On his head was a skullcap instead of a hat. In most circles, the yarmulke would mark him as Jew. Here a mere yarmulke marked him as a “goy.”

So be it. There was only so much changing he could do and he’d be damned if he became one of them.

He thought about Rina, about how much she had eased up. She’d become calmer when they were around other Orthodox people, had stopped making excuses for his mistakes of ritual ignorance. Instead, she’d shrug them off as if they were no big deal. Infinitely better than that nervous little laugh she used to let out every time he made a faux pas.

Lord, they were different. A year ago, they were having problems and Rina had to get away from him, had to escape. Out of all the places she could have run to, she chose Boro Park.

It amazed him.

It was a small community, easy to get a feel for. The numbered streets were residential—rows of small brick houses, each one with a modicum of individual trim, but collectively they were hard to tell apart. Landscaping was kept to a minimum—small patches of brown lawn, denuded trees, not one hint of color from flowers or shrubbery. Maybe that wasn’t a fair assessment. Eastern foliage was deciduous, stripped by cold weather. He’d been judging it by L.A. standards, where the grass was green all year long. Rina had told him these homes could go for a million or more. Even with an Angeleno’s jaundiced eye, he was astounded.

He took a deep breath, his nostrils tingling from cold and the smells leaking from steamy kitchen windows. Every now and then, shouts could be heard—a mother scolding her children, a spat between husband and wife, a slamming door. The town didn’t seem to place a premium on privacy. Couldn’t possibly survive if it did, the houses built on top of one another.

New York—crowded and crowding. Everyone hemmed in. Decker longed to elbow the city in the ribs.

Give me some room, Mama.

The avenues seemed to be the business districts, storefronts gazing down narrow strips of bitten asphalt. The shops sold products that served the special needs of the community.

IZZY’S HATS; HOLIDAY SPECIAL FOR REBLOCKING. The place was nothing more than an aisle with racks of black hats.

ROCHEL’S SHAYTELS—this time the racks were full of wigs, as if some scalper had hit the mother lode.

CANNERY ROW—a store devoted to kosher dry and canned goods—all of the products certified by the Union of Orthodox Rabbis. This building was two-storied, the second floor occupied by Mendel the Scribe.

That’s what the upstairs window sign said—MENDEL THE SCRIBE: KETUBAHS AND GETS.

Wedding certificates, divorce certificates. Mendel was a man for all seasons.

Next to CANNERY ROW was GAN EDEN—the Garden of Eden. This outlet sold only fruits and vegetables. Inside was one long gondola covered with a thick plastic tarp. A handmade sign stood atop the tarp like a flag on a ship, announcing a sale on fresh horseradish root.

Little storefronts, locked tight with metal accordion grating, the display windows frosted with age. No community standards when it came to the outdoor signs—some were neon, some were lit with old-fashioned blinking bulbs, some were hand-lettered jobs. Placards were hanging on the doors of the Jewish establishments; on them were written the Hebrew words: SHANA TOVA TIKATEVU.

Happy New Year. May you be written in the book of life.

Between the shops were shtiebels—tiny, no-frills synagogues, many without pulpit rabbis. All had signs wishing people a Happy New Year.

His mind flashed to the holiday caveat: Only three things can avert the evil decree. Ten days between the New Year and the Day of Atonement—the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. Ten days to right the spiritual and physical wrongs. Sins were expunged by immersing the soul in prayer, doing proper penitence, and giving charity. He thought: Ten days allowed for a lot of breathing space.

Down the road was GLUCK’S SEPHARIM: RELIGIOUS BOOKS AND ARTICLES. Decker peered through the steel gate, inside the window. The place looked dusty. Or maybe it just appeared dusty because it was chock-full of books; the shelves seemed to be double and triple stacked, piles of tomes that reached the ceiling. Did the proprietor even know what he had in stock?

Yeah, he probably did. If he was anything like Decker’s father, he knew the store inside out. Ask Lyle Decker where anything in his hardware store was, he’d tell you.

Two-prong plug converter? Third aisle, left side …’bout two thirds of the way down, third shelf, right next to the threeway light switches.

Randy telling him, One of these days we should take inventory, Dad. Really organize the place.

You do that and I won’t be able to find a dern thing.

The air had turned biting, a bank of gunmetal clouds trying to block out the heat and light of the sun. But the mighty orb was fighting back, a burning white disk simmering in a sea of gray. The temperature was hovering in the low thirties. Decker blew hot breath onto his ungloved hands, turned up the collar on his overcoat, and moved on.

GITTEL’S BAKERY—HALAV YISROEL.

JERUSALEM GLATT KOSHER MEAT MARKET—CHICKENS FOR KAPPAROS.

The ritual of Kapparos—symbolically transferring sins to a chicken. A cock was used for a man, a hen for a woman. The chicken was swung in the air three times, special words were recited, then the bird was slaughtered and given to the poor as an act of charity. Some used money in lieu of chickens. The ritual was just custom, not law. In Decker’s mind, it seemed like a very primitive custom. Yet these old rituals had become part and parcel of the religion.

Just a hundred years ago, thousands of Jews had poured into America, working ninety hours a week for a better life, for a chance to get out of the ghetto. But for some, so much freedom had seemed too frightening.

Solution: Why not bring the ghetto into America?

And Rina chose this voluntarily.

In all fairness, Decker knew that American affluence had brought on a host of trouble. Teenage children with adult problems—alcoholism, drug addiction, abortions, divorce. Confused adults running for cover.

Some of the assimilated Jews dealt with the pressure by going inward, seeking a God higher than a BMW. They joined the cults, est, environmental groups, or the society of animal activists and spray-painted fur coats in the name of Good. A handful went back to their roots and became traditional. The “Orthodox from birth” Jews seemed to go it one step farther, deliberately shutting out the modern world altogether.

Almost none of the ultra-Orthodox families owned TVs, few read Time or Newsweek because some of the pictures featured women in “prurient” attire. U.S. News and World Report was the big periodical around these parts. Movies were out, as was popular fiction. Too explicit, though Decker was sure there was a housewife or two with a Danielle Steel novel squirreled away.

He thought: It was good that he’d met Rina. His secular ways kept her from going over the edge. He’d also make damn sure that her boys could support themselves. Many of these children didn’t bother with college—although their parents had. Instead, they opted to learn at a yeshiva, their parents or wives or in-laws supporting them.

No way he’d let the boys live on the dole.

He paused, then thought: Kids had a way of doing whatever they wanted. Just mind your own business, Deck, and let Rina worry about the boys. Besides, it was a ways off.

Decker had walked ten blocks before he realized that the neighborhood had started to change, the Jewish stalls replaced by video rental and liquor stores. He wondered whether any of the religious kids ever forayed into this neck of the woods. Did an invisible wall keep these Jews as insulated from the goyim as the Roman walls had three hundred years ago?

The Levine family flashed through his mind—the youngest son a Conservative rabbi.

And now Decker was Orthodox.

Win a few, lose a few.

He turned around and headed back to the Lazarus house, choosing to take another route, passing a kosher deli, then a little café. The café sign was written in both Hebrew and English and read: TEL AVIV—A DAIRY RESTAURANT—WE SERVE ESPRESSO AND CAPPUCCINO.

A modern reference in an ocean of Old World. He was heartened by the sight.

Decker entered the house through the front door, heard more female voices buzz-buzzing in the kitchen. The men had yet to return from the mikvah and he wondered where the boys were, wished they were around so he’d have someone to talk to.

For a moment he debated sneaking upstairs, locking the door, and reading until it was time for synagogue. But he knew that would set Rina off. Not that she minded his being by himself; she just wanted to know where he was and what he was doing.

After years of being single, he found this the hardest adjustment—having to explain your whereabouts to another person, scheduling your day with someone else in mind. Of course, he wanted to know where she was, but that was more for safety reasons.

Or so he told himself.

He slipped off his overcoat, draped it over his arm, and stood a few feet from the kitchen doorframe.

More women had showed up, the place as crowded as an ant farm. Through the bodies, he spied Rina’s back. She was engrossed in conversation with an older woman. The lady looked around fifty-five, maybe sixty, with a long face with deep-set eyes and a wide mouth. Her skin was shiny and moist from the steam, and she kept brushing locks of brunette wig off her forehead. She was a tall woman, not slender, not fat, perfectly proportioned and dressed in business clothing as if she were attending a board meeting instead of a kaffeeklatsch.

There was something familiar about her, something very eerie. He fought down a weird sensation of having seen her before.

But that was ridiculous. He’d never met her before in his life.

Someone called out the name Frieda and the woman turned around.

And then it became painfully clear to him.

The stifling heat, the walls of the house, everything suddenly closed in upon him. Two invisible malevolent hands had reached out to strangle him.

Mrs. Lazarus noticing him. Her lips forming the word—Akiva.

Had to get out.

Out of the house.

Out of New York.

Decker bolted before she could get his name out, was halfway down the block before he heard someone racing behind him. He didn’t turn around, couldn’t. Something intangible kept his head from pivoting. With great effort, he managed to stop running, but his legs kept pumping him forward. Finally, someone caught up with him.

“Peter, stop!”

Rina’s voice. She was out of breath.

Decker kept walking.

“Stop, for God’s sake!” Rina said. “I … I have a cramp in my side.”

But he kept going.

Gasping, Rina said, “What on earth has happened to you? You’re white.”

“I’m fine,” Decker mumbled out. He sounded winded himself. Rina noticed his choppy breathing.

“You’re not fine! Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?”

“It was hot in there,” Decker said. “That’s all.” He willed his legs to stop but they wouldn’t.

“Stop, will you!” Rina cried out.

Her voice—so desperate. He slowed his pace and said, “I just wanted to take a walk.”

“You just came back from a walk.”

“I wanted to take another one,” Decker said. “What the hell is wrong with that!”

His voice sounded foreign—full of rage. Full of fear.

“I need to be alone.”

“Peter, please …” She grabbed his arm. “I love you. Tell me what’s wrong!”

Decker stopped abruptly, picked her hand off his arm, and kissed her fingers. “I’ve got to be by myself now. I’m sorry, Rina, but please leave me alone.” He dropped her hand and ran off.

Six hours to kill with fifteen dollars and twenty-two cents spending cash. Decker had left the credit cards in the bedroom, so checking into a motel for the night was out of the question. Not that he’d do it, but he wished he had the option. He found a cab at Fourteenth and Fifty-eighth, slid onto the black bench seat and ran his hands over his face.

The cabbie was Indian or Pakistani—chocolate-brown skin with straight black hair and a name with a lot of double o’s and ini’s in it. After a minute of waiting, the driver said, “What can I do for you, sir?”

The “sir” came out like serrrrr. A rolling tongue gathers no moss. Decker felt mean and punch-drunk, realized he was probably scaring the poor guy.

“What’s there to see around here?” he growled.

“See?”

“Yeah, see,” Decker said. “Any interesting sights around here?”

“Around here?” the cabbie said. “Here is very, very Jewish area.”

Very, very came out veddy, veddy.

The cabbie went on, “Not much to see except Jews, but you can see a lot of them.”

Decker said, “There a public library around here?”

He needed someplace to think, someplace to figure out how to disappear for two days.

“There is Brooklyn Central Library,” the driver said. “It is located in a very pretty park. Shall I take you there, sir?”

Decker told him to take him there. The cabbie was bent on giving a guided tour.

“I go by Flatbush Avenue. A very, very long time ago, I thought it was the longest street in Brooklyn but it is not. Bedford is.”

The avenue at best was unremarkable, at worst it exemplified everything wrong with inner cities—old crumbling buildings, trash-strewn vacant lots, and gang-graffitied tenement housing. But the cabbie seemed oblivious to this, kept on talking about how Manhattan was for the rich, but Brooklyn was where the real people lived. Decker wasn’t sure whether he was jacking up the fare by taking a longer route or was just one of those rare, friendly guys.

“Brooklyn Museum is in Prospect Park, sir. The same architect that designed Central Park in Manhattan designed Prospect Park. A very, very pretty park. You can go boating, but not now. It is tooooo cold.”

Whatever the driver’s reasons were for the tour, Decker wished he would shut up. He had to calm down and the sucker was making him veddy, veddy antsy.

He had to calm down.

Of all the people to meet.

Maybe it wasn’t her. Just maybe it wasn’t. There could be dozens of Frieda Levines. (Levine? He’d remembered it as Levy or Levin.)

Frieda Levine—a common Jewish name, it could be equivalent to Mary Smith. But even as he tried to convince himself otherwise, he knew it was no use.

The picture. That old, old picture.

It was definitely her. Decker had sharp eyes, had matched too many disguised faces to too many mug shots not to see it.

Just age the damn face.

The cabbie stopped the lecture for a moment.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Los Angeles,” Decker said.

“Oh, L.A.,” the driver said. “Very, very good. If you want I can show you Ebbets field where your Dodgers used to play.”

“Just take me to the library.”

“Not much to see,” the cabbie went on, “a housing project now. But some people are very, very sentimental.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you interested in architecture, sir?” the driver said. “Or perhaps real estate? Two days ago I took a rich man to see the brownstones on Eastern Parkway. He was very, very impressed.”

Decker tightened his fists and said, “Just the library.”

“While you’re here, you should see the Grand Army Plaza. It has a very, very big arch.”

“I’ve seen loads of arches at McDonald’s.” Decker scowled.

“Oh, no,” the cabbie answered. “This one is not like that. It is much bigger. And older too.”

“I’m not interested in seeing any arch—”

“It is a very nice arch.”

Decker enunciated each word. “Just take me to the library.”

“We drive right past the arch to the library—”

“All right, show me the friggin arch!”

“Well, if you do not want to see the arch—”

“I want to see the arch,” Decker said. “In fact, I want to see the arch so badly that if I don’t see the arch, someone will pay.”

Decker looked in the rearview mirror. The cabbie’s mouth had frozen into an O. He steered the taxi by the arch, then took Decker to the library. Throughout the remaining portion of the trip, he didn’t say another word.

4

This was the alibi: He’d suddenly remembered an important detail to a very important case and he had to use a pay phone because it would have been a breach of ethics to let anyone else overhear him and he had to get in touch with Marge at the station house because someone’s life depended on it, well, not only someone’s life but the whole California judicial system—

Then Decker thought: Even the most complicated phone call in the world wouldn’t explain an absence of six hours. God’s judgment day around the corner and his mind was full of half-baked lies.

The night held a bitter chill, dampness oozing through his clothes and into his bones. His toes and fingers were as cold and stiff as marble. Used to the temperate zone all his life, he had blood the consistency of rubbing alcohol.

He came to the street, then the house. Lights shining through the windows, smoke undulating from the chimney. And the smells. He dreaded the people but the structure looked so damned inviting. Approaching the door, he turned up his collar, tried to mask his face as best he could. Just in case she happened to be there.

As he stepped onto the porch, he pulled his scarf over his head.

So they’d think him psychotic. Who the hell cared?

Rina swung open the door before he knocked. Her face held an expression of complete bafflement.

“Anyone home?” Decker whispered.

“Everyone’s gone to shul,” Rina said.

Crossing the threshold, Decker took the scarf off his head and pulled down his collar. He headed up the stairs, heard Rina following him. He swung open the door to the tiny bedroom and immediately stubbed his toe on the fold-out bed. Swearing, he sank down into the mattress and ran his hands across his face. The room was illuminated by a single sixty-watt table lamp that rested on the floor. The nightstand clock read six-fifty-two.

Rina sat next to him.

“Peter, you’re scaring the daylights out of me. What on earth is wrong? Did this massive dose of religion give you an anxiety attack or something?”

“Something.”

“Please, Peter,” Rina begged. “I deserve better than this—”

“What did you tell them?” Decker broke in.

“What?”

“What excuse did you make up for me when I stormed out of the house?”

“Something about your daughter … something you forgot to do for her.”

“Cindy’s a good excuse,” Decker said. “Much better than the one I’d concocted.”

Rina suddenly burst into tears. “We shouldn’t have come out here. I should have told them no.”

“Rina—”

“It’s all my fault,” she sobbed.

Decker put his arm around her and drew her near. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it—”

“It has nothing to do with religion,” Decker said. “It’s …” He stood, couldn’t even pace in a room this small. He said, “How are we going to sleep if we can’t turn the light off?”

“It’s on a timer,” Rina said.

Decker sat back down, stretched out on the bed, and buried his face in the blanket.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Rina said.

He picked up his head, then sat up straight. “You’re right. You deserve better.” He said, “This afternoon. You were talking to a woman in the kitchen …”

“Yes?”

“She’s Frieda Levine, your mother-in-law’s best friend?”

“Yes. So what?”

He sucked in his breath. “She’s my mother.”

It took Rina a moment to assimilate what he was saying. She could only respond with a breathy what? Then she added a whispered oh my God.

“You said it,” Decker said.

“You’re sure—”

“Positive,” Decker said. “Faces are my business.”

Rina was struggling to find something to say, but all words had eluded her. All she could think of was that Peter didn’t look a thing like Frieda Levine. And she knew that was the wrong thing to say, so she remained silent.

Decker couldn’t sit any longer. He stood up and ran down the stairway, fully intending to run out the door. But he surprised himself and instead just paced the living-room carpet, further trampling the green-shag piling. The room was hot and bright, the crystal pieces giving off shards of color that splashed rainbows on the wall. As if that wasn’t enough, an illuminated three-tiered chandelier made a glitter dome out of the dining room. He felt as if he’d stepped inside a heat-resistant ice palace. He longed to sweep his arm across the tables, smash what was whole and watch it crumble to dust. His sense of self, shattered. All of it a facade. He spied Rina sitting on a couch, she looking as sick as he felt, and he turned to her.

“What the hell am I going to do?”

“I …” Rina sighed. “I don’t know.”

Decker said, “Rina, I look just like my father—the image of the man down to the coloring. The woman is going to take one look at me, start doing a little mental arithmetic, and faint.” He kept pacing. “Dear God, why did I ever come here? I knew she lived in New York. I knew she was an Orthodox Jew but I never ever considered the possibility of meeting up with her. Never! God, there are tens of thousands of Orthodox Jews in this city.”

“There are,” Rina said. “But we tend to live in concentrated areas. Peter, why didn’t you tell me your mother was from Boro Park?”

“My mother is from Gainesville, Florida—”

“You know what I mean.”

Decker forced himself to slow down. “Rina, I didn’t know that this Frieda person lived in Boro Park. The adoption papers said she was fifteen, Jewish, born in New York and that was it. As I investigated a little further, I discovered she was still living in New York and was married with five kids. I didn’t even know where she lived except that it was somewhere within the five boroughs because I tracked her using city records.

“Once I found out she was married with five kids, I stopped pursuing her. Instead, I put my name on this list of adoptees willing to meet their biological parents. I figured if she wanted to contact me, I’d be willing. I wasn’t about to intrude on her life. Well, she never called me—and that was her decision, so fine. Fine. Just fine. I’ll abide by that. It’s obvious the woman wasn’t interested and it’s friggin fine with me to keep it that way.”

Such hurt in his voice. Rina said, “I’m sorry, Peter.”

“I’m not,” Decker said. “I’m not the least … bit … sorry. I’ve done a damn fine job of living without her and she’s done a damn fine job of living without me.”

Rina didn’t answer. Decker stopped pacing.

“I know I’m not making any sense.”

“You’re very agitated—”

“How would you feel?”

“Agitated … and hurt.”

“I’m not hurt, okay!” Decker yelled. “Hurt is when you find out your wife is stepping out on you. No, that’s not hurt. That’s fury! But later after the fury wears off, it turns to hurt. That is hurt! Real hurt! Got it?”

Rina didn’t answer.

“Okay, so I’m ranting—”

“You’re understandably upset.”

“I’m not upset … well, I am upset—”

“Peter, didn’t you recognize her name when I first told it to you?”

“Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew her married name was Levine or Levy or something like that. But I always thought of her as Frieda Boretsky—”

“That’s her maiden name all right.”

“You know her maiden name?”

“Remember I told you her elderly parents always have holiday dinner with my in-laws? Their names are Rabbi and Rebbitzen Boretsky—”

“Ain’t that a hoot,” Decker broke in. “I get to meet my grandparents.”

“Peter, this must be awful for you—”

“Not as awful as it’s going to be for Gramps and Grandma Boretsky. Much as they’ve tried, I’m sure they haven’t forgotten old Benny Aranoff either.”

“Benny Aranoff was your biological father?”

“Yep.”

The room fell quiet. Exhausted, Decker plopped onto the sofa. “Rina, I can’t face them. Any of them. Just say I’m sick—which is the truth—and can’t come down for dinner. Then, after the holidays are over, I want to go home.”

Rina closed her eyes and nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Decker said.

“Don’t apologize,” Rina said. “I understand completely.”

“I’ll tell them I was called back to the station house on an emergency case.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Peter. I’ll handle it for you. Least I can do, for dragging you into this mess.”

Honey, the mess was created a long time ago, Decker thought. When a fifteen-year-old girl didn’t say no to her boyfriend—with either the sex or the marriage. Decker was never too sure which came first. Only that they must have had some love for each other because they ran off and eloped. Then, the good Rabbi and Rebbitzen Boretsky found their daughter and annulled the marriage. To rid themselves of any remaining evidence of the attachment, they sent Frieda off to Florida to have a baby …

Decker said, “It won’t be so bad. I’ll go back to work and take time off at a later date. Maybe we’ll go to Hawaii—I know, we’ll even take the boys. Hire a sitter. Make them happy. Hotels have sitters—”

“Peter, you’re rambling again.” Rina stood. “The family should be coming home any moment. Go upstairs, put on your pajamas, crawl into bed, and look sick.” She regarded his face. “You don’t even have to pretend, Peter. Go read and try to relax. I’ll bring you up dinner. Can you eat?”

“Not at the moment,” Decker said. “But by all rights, I should be starved.”

Rina walked over to the living-room window and pulled the drapes back. Families were filling the streets—men and women dressed in their finest clothes. Jewelry glittered from fingers, ears, and necks. “Services must have ended at some of the shuls. People are starting to head home. Go.”

Decker went upstairs. He stopped midway and shouted down, “Maybe this is all for the better.”

Rina agreed that it probably was. Decker knew she was placating him, but even so, her response made him feel a little better.

A medley of voices said to Rina,

I’m so sorry.

Did you take his temperature?

Can he eat?

It must be jet lag.

His work is so stressful.

He should eat a little.

Those planes are so crowded, everyone coughing into one air filtration system.

Did you give him Tylenol?

These flus come on so all of a sudden.

Just a little soup.

Rina parried the questions like an expert fencer.

A minute later, Decker heard knocking on the door. Duo knocking. His stepsons, no doubt. But he asked who it was just to make sure. When they answered with their names, he told them to come in.

They patted his cheek, held his hand, smoothed out the covers for him, asked if they could get him anything.

He felt so damn guilty faking it. To make himself play the part with Strassbergian integrity, he thought about meeting Frieda Levine, meeting her parents, and his stomach legitimately churned.