My heart started skipping. He must have picked up on it. He stroked my back. His voice was low and soothing. “Baby doll, I tried. But he told me to butt out. So I’m out. Tell you the truth, I haven’t been feeling well enough to do much of anything. If he wants to duke it out solo, he can be my effing guest. I’m not the man’s nanny.”
Gently, I put my arms around his waist, being careful to avoid his gunshot wound. I barely spoke above a whisper. “Don’t let him sink, Chris. Even if he doesn’t want it, help him.”
He was silent.
“Please?”
Again he didn’t answer me. But he didn’t push me away. Instead, he drew me closer… nuzzling the top of my head with his lips… stroking my back… his fingers up and down my spine… playing me like an instrument. His touch could be so incredible. I gave off a little shudder.
“Cold?”
“No, just… mmm, feels good.”
“I know what my baby doll likes.”
“Yes, you do.” And by now, I could read him pretty well also. Affection meant he was listening. Affection meant he’d be cooperative. Affection was a very good sign.
28
If there were any answers, they’d lie in Quinton. Decker knew the Jewish sector of the town was a lost cause-he’d be as welcome as ham and Swiss on rye-but he held faint hopes that maybe he could salvage something with Virgil Merrin, ascribing his rude behavior to his own embarrassment at being seen at Tattlers. Then maybe he’d play out some of the good-ol’-boy routine, knowing he could make it work if he could just get the sneer out of his voice. With Merrin as an ally, he could possibly get names of some Quinton teens Shayndie might have known.
But he’d have to tread lightly.
Because there was this possible worst-case, politics-and-money-corrupts, trust-no-one scenario: Merrin was involved in ecstasy distribution, using erotic dancers as couriers for the Israeli Mafia members. There was also the unholy missing trio of Weiss, Harabi, and Ibn Dod. They could be back in Israel, camped out in a Jewish community incognito, or they could even be dead.
And even if this product of Decker’s overactive imagination were somehow borne out, if the loose bits of facts that Randy had given him did weave into a fanciful but cohesive story, how, if at all, would it relate to the Lieber murders?
Which brought him back to the original dilemma.
He needed to penetrate Quinton’s Jewish side and that meant he needed someone trusted by the locals. More important, he needed someone he could trust. Decker required a mole with a firsthand knowledge of Jewish traditions, mores, and rituals-an insider who could point out the outsiders, but who would be loyal to him.
Since Rina was gone, there was only one person who could possibly pull that off.
How well did Decker know his half brother?
He supposed that he was about to find out.
It was a small but growing synagogue in the Morningside Heights district, within walking distance of Columbia University. The daily morning minyan, held at eight o’clock, often included college students, and because it was Conservative in denomination, the service included men and women in equal proportions doing equal duty. By the time Decker drove uptown and found a parking space, it was almost eleven, well past Sha’chris, and he figured maybe his brother could use a coffee break.
Jonathan’s secretary, a twenty-something African American named Arista, informed him that Rabbi Levine was in conference with several members of his congregation and wouldn’t be available until twelve-thirty. If it was a true emergency, she could intercom him, but short of that, he had asked not to be disturbed.
It wasn’t a true emergency.
In that case, he was welcome to wait in the library if he wanted or perhaps he should go grab an early lunch. She’d tell the rabbi that he had come by. He thanked her and told her he’d be back at half past twelve and could she please ask the rabbi to wait for him.
He went out of the shul and began walking down Broadway, a whiff of garlic hitting his face because the shul was next door to Tito’s Pizza Joint. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and stuck his hands in his pockets. He should have called before he came. Cursing under his breath, Decker found a ubiquitous Starbucks and bought himself a large cup of black coffee. There wasn’t anywhere to sit, so he leaned against a wall, looking like a dealer waiting to score. He thought about his options, mentally thumbing through his notepad, which, by now, was thick with his chicken scratches.
There were ways he could fill the time; people he could interview again. There were Luisa and Marta, the ladies he had met at the funeral. They worked inventory with Ephraim, maybe they had thought of something important since he had last seen them. And Luisa still had his gloves-a perfect excuse to call on her.
Except by now, she was at work at one of the Liebers’ stores, and Decker’s presence would be noticed. Maybe he’d try her tonight, in the privacy of her own residence.
There was Leon Hershfield. If anyone would know anything about hanky-panky within the religious Jewish community, it would be him. The attorney was aware of lots of things, but asking him questions wouldn’t help because of confidentiality. Usually, Decker could gauge reactions from his interviewees even as they pleaded the Fifth. A lot was conveyed through facial expressions and eye contact. But Hershfield was way too savvy to give anything away, even through nonverbal methods. Talking to him would not only be futile, but detrimental as well. It would give him Decker’s insights with nothing in return.
Scratch the lawyer.
Finally, there was Ari Schnitman, the recovering addict who knew Ephraim from Emek Refa’im. Since Luisa and Leon weren’t going to help, it was almost by default that the Chasid was elected. Schnitman dealt in wholesale diamonds on the East Side. Since Decker didn’t want to lose his parking space or battle traffic jams, he elected to catch a cab instead of driving on his own.
Twenty minutes later he was dropped off in the heart of the diamond district, at the 580 building on Fifth between Forty-seventh and Forty-eighth, the exchange floor located between a blue awning OshKosh B’Gosh clothing store and another blue awning retail jewelry store. It was a grand old building-about fifty stories at its high point-holding arched windows with panes segmented by bronze metal in a pattern reminiscent of a child’s drawing of a sunrise. American flags hung above gingerbread and plaster molding that included the heads of Roman soldiers complete with helmets. Across the street was Bank Leumi, one of the official banks of Israel.
Years ago, Decker had led a homicide investigation revolving around the murders of a Los Angeles gems dealer and his wife. The case found its conclusion in Israel, specifically on the trading floor of the Diamond Bursa in Ramat Gan, Tel Aviv, so Decker had some familiarity with the industry, giving him context for comparison. Art Deco in style, the 580 building had an anteroom that was smaller than Israel’s but larger than the diamond center in downtown L.A. The lobby was more of a hallway, a feast in gray granite, and it was teeming with watchful-eyed people carrying briefcases. Metal sconces lined the dark rock walls, giving the space dots of light, but it was still dim inside. Straight ahead were clocks showing various time zones around the world. Security was tight. To the left was the ever-present metal detector, followed by a turnstile, and then a team of four gray-jacketed guards who checked personal belongings as harried people passed into the bowels of the building. To the right was a touch-screen computer directory. According to the listings, the multistoried structure seemed primarily occupied by Jews, but there were names indicating other nationalities as well-Indian, Armenian, South American, and Russian.