He glanced at the van. “A little overkill.”
“They didn’t specify what I was going to need.” Leaving off asshole, but barely.
Kit in hand, she followed him upstairs. She transferred Reggie Heap’s bloody loafers to an evidence bag and sat at his kitchen table to fill out paperwork.
“Do you know Dr. Das?” he asked.
“Not personally.” She handed him the chain-of-custody form. “Sign, please.”
“Is she going to process these personally?”
“No clue.” Bite me.
He felt bad. He hadn’t meant to antagonize her. “Sorry if I’m being a pain. I’ve been traveling for twenty-four hours and my head’s a pipe bomb.”
She softened somewhat. “I’ll get this through as quickly as I can. Scout’s honor.”
“Were you a scout?”
She smiled and left, the evidence bag swinging at her side.
Jacob sat and composed an e-mail.
Hey Divya. Don’t know if you’re on vacation, wanted to give you a heads-up. Sent some shoes for DNA. There’s blood on them I think might be from one of my suspects. The tech who picked up is named Molly Naismith, maybe you can touch base with her, make sure it’s being handled properly.
He paused, gnawing his thumbnail.
I’m guessing you’re busy, which is why I haven’t heard back from you. If that’s the case, just ignore the rest of this. I wanted to clear the air in case I’ve made you uncomfortable in some way. You’re a pro and I like working with you, and I’d hate to feel I’ve done or said anything that could change that. I’m probably making too big a deal about it. Either way I’ll lay it to rest.
He hammered DELETE until the entire second paragraph was gone. Mulling over what to replace it with, he settled on casual and brief and vague.
Like I said, don’t know if you’re around, but if you are taking off, and you haven’t left yet, I’d love to
DELETE
it’d be nice to
DELETE
fun to get a chance to see you. Buy you dinner.
He reread it a couple of times, changed buy you dinner to grab a bite, and hit SEND.
The most recent online photo of Richard Pernath was a candid taken at a gala charity dinner. He’d aged well, the shelf of hair starting higher up on his forehead, elongating his face and counteracting a mild fleshing out of his features. The photographer had caught him among a group of tuxedoed men and gowned women chortling in various directions — except for Pernath, who had locked on the lens.
Jacob printed the photo and set it facedown on the desk. He needed it for reference, but he didn’t want the SOB ogling him.
Additional clicking revealed that Pernath had taken a page from his father on how to conceal wealth. There were no cars registered in his name, no properties deeded to him. His office at 1491 Ocean Ave. listed business hours of ten a.m. to five p.m.
Tomorrow was another day.
He sent Mallick an e-mail summary and went off to bed, hoping for a few restful hours.
It wasn’t to be. Caught between time zones, he got up at three-thirty and sat at his computer with the Prague letter spread on the desk, his chest prickling. He worked until the bruised sky began to heal, then went to his bedroom and yanked open his sweater drawer.
Chapter fifty-two
An airless basement room with mismatched bookshelves and a warping plywood Ark, the synagogue where Sam Lev prayed daily seemed anemic compared to the Alt-Neu’s stony grandeur. A quorum and a half of codgers — Sam not among them — snoozed in metal folding chairs, waiting for the dawn service to begin. No one paid Jacob any attention until a voice behind him boomed, “My eyes deceive me.”
Abe Teitelbaum had gotten his start as a deli counterman, heaving untrimmed briskets and thirty-pound crates of lox. Half a century later, he retained the physique of a circus strongman, chesty, thickset, low to the ground. Grinding the bones in Jacob’s proffered hand, he said, “Bienvenido, stranger, to the land of the alter cockers.”
“Great to see you.”
Abe peered closer. “You’re wearing lipstick now?” His chuck on the shoulder caused Jacob’s rib cage to vibrate like a tuning fork. “Tell the truth: some girl hit you.”
“They always do,” Jacob said. “Thanks again for the help.”
“What help? I helped?”
Jacob reminded him about the country club.
“Oh, that. That was my pleasure. Love to make em squirm. Only reason I keep my dues current.”
“Do you know a member named Eddie Stein?”
“Nope.”
“You should meet him,” Jacob said. “You’d get along.”
“I don’t need any more friends. Fact, I’d prefer fewer.” Abe thumbed at the white-haired men, lowered his voice. “That’s why I hang out here. They’re all gonna kick it soon. Very convenient.” He grinned. “Speaking of people I like, how’s your dad? I missed him yesterday.”
Jacob frowned. “He wasn’t here?”
“Not for davening and not later when we were supposed to learn together. Whatever, I’m not mad. Even a lamed-vavnik gets a sniffle every once in a while. A call would’ve been nice, though.”
Jacob speed-dialed Sam. “Abba. It’s me. Are you there? Can you pick up? Hello? Pick up the phone, Abba.”
Abe looked distressed. “Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jacob said, dialing Nigel instead.
“I should’ve followed up,” Abe said.
“Don’t worry about it, really.”
“You want, I can go over there.”
Jacob held up a finger. “Hey, Nigel, listen, sorry to call so early, but is everything all right with my dad? I’m at shul and—”
Abe poked him in the arm and pointed: Sam had walked in.
“Never mind,” Jacob said. “Disregard this message. Thanks.”
Abe placed his hand lightly on Sam’s bony shoulder. “The Messiah arrives. The kid and I were on the verge of bringing in the bloodhounds.”
Sam stared at Jacob. “You’re here?”
“That’s the way you greet your son?” Abe said.
“I got back last night,” Jacob said.
“Back?” Abe said.
“From Prague,” Jacob said.
“Prague?” Abe asked. “What’s going on? Why does nobody tell me nothing?”
Questions would have to wait: the retired-dentist-turned-gabbai banged the dais three times, the retired-lawyer-turned-cantor chanted the opening blessings, and Sam turned aside to put on his tefillin.
Blessed are You, Our God, King of the Universe, Who has given my heart the understanding to discern between day and night...
Jacob found his own seat and slung down his backpack. In it he’d packed a camera, junk food, sunglasses, flashlight; flex-cuffs and a Taser; his Glock, full mag plus one extra. To top it all off, the blue velvet bag, fished from his sweater drawer, containing his own tefillin.
How many years had it been? At least a dozen. He was afraid he’d forgotten how to put them on, but muscle memory guided him: he placed a black box containing the sacred writings on his upper arm, binding it there with black leather straps, mumbling the blessings as he went. He set a second black box at his hairline, centering it between his eyes, and finished by wrapping the arm-strap around his palm and fingers in the shape of one of the Divine names.
He glanced at his father and a chill came over him: Sam had settled into his seat, stock-still, in meditative silence, a life-sized version of the clay model. Then the cantor recited the kaddish, and Sam stood up, and the illusion dissolved.