Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 01 Page 2

  Together they left the station—a dilapidated stucco building, once white, now washed with grayish grime—and walked to the brightly lit parking lot. Flipping Marge the keys to a faded bronze ’79 Plymouth, Decker scrunched into the passenger side and pushed the bench seat back to the maximum. Like a fucking sardine, he thought as his shin grazed the undersurface of the dashboard. One day the Department would have unmarkeds that accommodated someone over six feet. When I’m ready to retire.

  He rolled down the window. Jesus, it was hot. Decker could already feel moist circles under his armpits and rivulets of sweat running down his neck and back. He hiked up his shirt sleeves and leaned a thick, freckled arm out the window.

  “Scorcher,” Marge said. “Must be hell with your metabolism.”

  “I always know when we’re about to get a heat wave,” Decker moaned. “The air-conditioning goes out in the car a week before.”

  “A rape in Jewtown,” Marge muttered. “I’ve always thought of the place as sacrosanct. Sort of like a convent. Who’d rape a nun?”

  “Who’d rape, period?” Decker said.

  “Good point.”

  Marge started the engine and eyed him. “You look exceptionally bad tonight, Peter.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  Marge peeled rubber. “I sure hope this isn’t the first in a string of Jew rapes.”

  Decker exhaled audibly, thinking the same thing. Some people had lots of animosity toward the Jews. Their place had been hit several times by vandals, but there hadn’t been any violence against the people themselves. Not until tonight.

  “Let’s take it one step at a time, Marge. Maybe there’ll be a logical explanation for the whole thing.”

  “I doubt it, Peter,” she said. “There never is.” She drove quickly and competently. “How’re your horses?”

  “I just got a pinto filly,” he said, smiling. “A real cutie.”

  “How many are you up to now?”

  “Lillian makes six.”

  “You must shovel lots of shit, Peter.”

  “True, but unlike the urban version, it’s biodegradable.” He lit a cigarette. “How’s old Clarence?”

  “Speaking of shit,” Marge grumbled.

  “Oh?”

  “He forgot to tell me about the wife, the two kids, and the dog.”

  “The louse.”

  “Stop laughing. That’s exactly what he was. As far as I’m concerned he’s dead and buried. You’re not up to date, Pete. My newest is Ernst. He’s a concert violinist for the Glendale Philharmonic. We’ve played some nice flute-violin duets. When I get good enough, I’ll invite you and the lucky date of your choice to a recital.”

  “I’d like that.” He smiled at the image of the big woman playing such a delicate instrument. A cello would have seemed more in character. Not that she had any talent. The guy must really be hot for Marge, he thought, to put up with her playing, which Decker had always likened to a horny parrot’s mating call. He couldn’t understand how she could continue with music if her ears heard the same thing that his did. The only logical conclusion was that she was deaf and had maintained the secret all these years by artful lip reading.

  Marge turned onto TWO HUNDRED TEN East, and the Plymouth grunted as it picked up speed.

  Decker dragged on his cigarette, looked out the window, and surveyed his turf. Los Angeles conjured up all sorts of images, he thought: the tinsel and glitter of the movie industry, the lapping waves and beach bunnies of Malibu, decadent dope parties and extravagant shopping sprees in Beverly Hills. What it didn’t conjure up was the terrain through which they were riding.

  The area encompassing Foothill Division was the city’s neglected child. It lacked the glamour of West L.A., the ethnicity of the east side, the funk of Venice beach, the suburban complacency of the Valley.

  What it did have was lots of crime.

  Bordering and surrounding other cities, each with a separate police department, Foothill’s domain could best be described as a mixture of small, depressed towns segregated from each other by mountains and scrub. Some of the pocket communities housed lower-class whites, biker gangs, and displaced cowboys, others were ghettos for blacks and migrant Hispanics, but most had a common denominator—poverty. People scratching by, people not getting by at all. Even Jewtown. These people weren’t the wealthy Jews portrayed by the media. It was possible that the yeshiva held a secret cache of diamonds, but you’d never know it by looking at its inhabitants. They dressed cheaply, buying most of their clothes at Target or Zody’s, and drove broken-down cars like the rest of the locals.

  The station was twenty freeway minutes away from the yeshiva—a quick ride along a serpentine strip of road cut into the San Gabriel mountains. In the dark, the hillside lurked over the asphalt, casting giant shadows. The air in the canyon was hot and stagnant, but as the Plymouth sped along, a cool jet stream churned through the open windows.

  “I’m glad you were available,” Decker said. “You do a hell of an interview.”

  “Sensitivity, Peter. That’s why I work so well with the kids in Juvey. Being a victim of life myself, I know how to talk to people who have been thoroughly fucked up. Like you, for instance.”

  Decker smiled and crushed the cigarette butt in the overflowing ashtray. “Is that an example of your sensitivity?”

  “At its finest.” Marge’s face grew stern. “I’m not looking forward to this. The Jews don’t relate well to outsiders.”

  “No, they don’t,” he agreed. “But rape survivors experience lots of common feelings. Maybe that’ll supersede the xenophobic inclinations.”

  “Yes sir, Professor,” said Marge, saluting. She pulled onto a winding turn-off ramp marked Deep Canyon Thoroughfare, Deep Canyon. The “thoroughfare” was a two-lane road blemished with dips and bumps. The unmarked car bounced along for a mile, until the street turned into a newly paved four-lane stretch.

  They cruised slowly for another mile, inspecting the street with cops’ wariness. Scores of local kids were hanging out in front of the 7-Eleven, sitting on the hoods of souped-up cars while smoking and drinking. Their raucous laughter and curses sounded intermittently above ghetto-blasters wailing in the hot night air. While the teenagers filled themselves with Slurpees and Coke, their elders tanked up on Jim Beam or Old Grand Dad at the Goodtimes Tavern. The place was doing a bang-up business judging from the number of cars parked in the lot.

  In front of the Adult Love bookstore, a group of bikers congregated, decked out in leather and metal. The ass-kickers leaned lazily against their gleaming choppers and stared at the unmarked as it drove by.

  As they headed north the activity began to thin. They passed a scrap metal dealership, a building supply wholesaler, a discount supermarket, and a caravan of churches. Poor people were always attracted to God, Decker mused. The area was a natural for a yeshiva—except for the anti-Semitism.

  The street narrowed and worked its way into the hillside, the landscape changing abruptly from urban to rural. Heavy thickets of brush and trees flanked the Plymouth, occasionally scraping its sides as it meandered through the mountains. Two miles farther was another turn-off, then the property line of Yeshivat Ohavei Torah.

  Marge pulled the car onto a dirt clearing and parked. Decker stepped outside, took a deep breath, and stretched. The dry air singed his throat.

  “Gate should be open,” Marge said. “The place is all walled in, but they always leave the gate open.”

  “They’ve been vandalized at least twice and you can’t get them to put a lock on the damn gate.” Decker shook the wire fence. “This is just a psychological barrier, anyway. Wouldn’t stop a serious intruder.”

  He pushed open the gate and walked inside. “Let’s get on with it.”

  The grounds of the yeshiva were well tended but sparsely planted. A huge, flat expanse of lawn was surrounded by low brush and several flat-roofed buildings. Across the lawn, directly in their field of vision, was the largest—a two-story c
ube of cement. To its right were a stucco annex off the main building, a nest of tiny tract homes, and a gravel lot speckled with cars, to its left, two smaller bungalow-like structures. Behind the houses and buildings were dense woodlands rising to barren, mountainous terrain.

  Decker gave the area a quick once-over. The rapist could have entered the grounds anywhere and exited into the backlands. They’d never be able to find him. Unless, of course, he was someone from the inside.

  The two detectives walked on a dimly lit path that ran the length of the lawn.

  “Where are we going, Peter?”

  Decker looked around and saw two figures approaching. They were dressed in black pants, white long-sleeved shirts, and black hats. They must be dying in the heat, he thought. As they drew closer, he saw that both of the men were young—barely out of their teens—and thin, with short beards and glasses. They walked in a peculiar manner, clasping their hands behind their backs instead of swinging them naturally at their sides.

  “Excuse me,” Decker said, taking out his shield.

  One of the men, the taller of the two, squinted and read the badge. “Yes, Detective? Is anything wrong?”

  “Can you please direct us to the bathhouse?” Decker asked.

  Both of the boys broke into laughter.

  “I think you’re in the wrong place,” the shorter one said, smiling.

  “Try Hollywood,” the taller one suggested.

  Decker was annoyed. “We received a report that an incident took place here, at the bathhouse.”

  “An incident?” said the short one in a grave voice. “You mean a criminal incident?”

  “Do you think they mean the mikvah?” the taller one asked his friend, then turned to Decker: “You mean the mikvah?”

  “Maybe you should direct us to this mikvah,” Marge said.

  “You can’t go there now,” the tall one said to Decker. “It’s only open to women at this time of night.”

  The short one prodded him. “The incident obviously has to do with the mikvah.” He looked at Decker and asked, “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Stop asking them questions and answer theirs,” his friend scolded, then said to Decker: “The mikvah is that little building in the corner.”

  “Thank you,” Marge answered, walking away.

  “I hope it’s nothing serious,” the big one added.

  Decker gave them a smile, but not a reassuring one.

  They walked a few steps, then Marge said, “Notice how they looked at me?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  They’d arrived before the black-and-whites.

  Marge knocked on the door and a young dark-haired woman opened it, allowing them to enter after a flash of badges. Immediately, the murmuring that had filled the room died. The detectives were greeted with icy, suspicious stares from four kerchief-headed women crammed into the reception area. In the corner, an elderly bearded man who looked like a rabbi was whispering into the ear of a younger man who was rapidly rocking back and forth.

  The young woman motioned them outside.

  “I’m Rina Lazarus, the one who called the police,” she said. “The women inside were here earlier tonight. We’ve called a meeting to find out if anyone heard or saw anything unusual on their way home. Unfortunately, no one did.”

  “What happened?” Decker asked.

  She hesitated and looked around. “A woman was raped.”

  “Where is she?” Marge asked.

  “With one of the women in a dressing room. She’s about to take a bath—”

  “She can’t do that until she’s been examined,” said Marge sharply.

  “I know,” Rina said. “The officer I spoke to over the phone mentioned that, but I don’t know if she’s going to be willing to have herself examined.”

  Marge eyed Decker, then said: “I’ll talk to her.” Turning to Rina, she asked: “What’s her name?”

  “Sarah Libba Adler.”

  “Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Mrs.”

  “Is she dressed?” asked Marge.

  “I’m not sure. Her husband brought her a change of clothes, but I don’t know if she put them on yet. You’ll have to knock on the door to the bathroom and ask.”

  “Where are the original clothes?” Decker asked.

  “In a paper sack to the left of the bathhouse door. They’re nothing more than shreds but I thought you might want them.”

  “We do,” Marge said. She slapped Peter on the back and disappeared inside.

  Rina wasn’t comfortable being alone with a man, even a detective, and suggested they go back inside. That was fine with Decker since the mikvah was air-conditioned. Then seeing two uniforms coming toward the building, Decker motioned them over. He excused himself for a moment, then brought the policemen back to Rina.

  “Ma’am, do you know where the rape took place?” Decker asked.

  “Over there.” She pointed to an area two hundred feet to the right of the entrance to the bathhouse.

  “Could you show us the exact spot so we don’t accidentally trample on evidence?” asked Decker.

  She led them to the depression in the brush.

  “I don’t know if he actually”—she paused to catch her breath—“if he actually raped her here, but this is where I found her.”

  “You found the victim?”

  She nodded.

  “Was she conscious at the time?”

  “Yes. Baruch Hashem.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Mrs. Adler was conscious.”

  “That’s fine,” Decker said. He faced the uniforms. “Cordon off this area and call the lab boys. Then poke around and see what you can come up with.”

  He turned back to Rina.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Can we go back inside the bathhouse?”

  “Certainly.”

  Rina led him back into the building and to a quiet corner. He was a big man, she thought, with strong features and, despite the fair skin and ginger hair, dark penetrating eyes. He looked intimidating yet competent, a man who’d know how to hunt an animal like a rapist. Although she knew size had nothing to do with apprehending a criminal, she was still glad he was big.

  “You told me your name, but I didn’t catch it,” said Decker.

  “Rina Lazarus,” she answered, then quickly added, “Mrs.”

  Decker smiled to himself.

  “Exactly what happened, Mrs. Lazarus?” he asked.

  “I was grading papers right there”—Rina pointed to the armchair—“and I heard a scream. I went outside and saw something take off into the woods. Then, I found her wig lying on the ground and knew something was wrong…” Her voice trailed off, and she shuddered.

  “You saw something fleeing into the brush?” he asked, slipping out a pocket pad.

  She nodded.

  “Where?”

  “From the spot I showed you…. Maybe a little farther down to the right.”

  “Did you see something or someone?”

  “I’m not sure. It happened so fast.” Rina sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You’re doing fine. Let’s try taking it from the beginning. You’re inside this mikvah…What’s a mikvah, by the way? Like a health club?”

  “It’s a ritual bathhouse. Women come here to dunk for spiritual purification.”

  “Like a baptism?”

  Rina nodded. It was close enough.

  “Okay, you were inside and you heard a scream outside. What did you do?”

  “I opened the door and looked outside. I heard panting.”

  “Panting?”

  She nodded. “Next thing I knew something fled into the bushes.” Her eyes lit up. “I think it was a person because it was upright.”

  “Could you describe any details at all?”

  “No. It was nearly pitch black, and his clothing was dark. I only saw him for a second.”

  �
��Tall, short, fat, thin, muscular?”

  “Average.”

  “Did the figure look shorter or taller than me?”

  “Offhand, I’d say shorter than you”—she looked up at him—“but you’re very tall, so I guess that isn’t saying a lot.”

  “But you think the figure was human.”

  She nodded.

  “Could you tell if it was male or female?”

  “No.”

  Decker began to scrawl some notes on the pad, then looked up: “Okay. After the figure disappeared, what did you do?”

  Rina’s eyes darted about. Several of the women were staring at her, Chana in particular. Rina looked back at Decker and lowered her voice. “I saw Mrs. Adler’s wig. Then I found her in the bushes. Her clothes had been ripped off and she’d been…” Her eyes welled up with tears.

  Decker liked this one. She had an intangible presence—a quiet elegance. And she didn’t cover her hair with a kerchief like the others, allowing him a view of her thick, black mane. There was something classic about her face—the oval shape, creamy skin, full, soft mouth, startling blue eyes. Doll her up and she’d blend nicely into high society.

  “It must have been quite a shock,” he said, offering her a tissue.

  She took it and wiped her cheeks. “To say the least. All of us are stunned. We’re so closely identified with one another, and now we feel so vulnerable. It could have been anyone of us, especially me. I happened to run a little late tonight. She was attacked at the time I usually go home.”

  “Do you live on the grounds?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you usually get home?”

  “I walk. It takes me five minutes.”

  “And no one has ever approached you?”

  “Nobody, Detective. Nobody. We’re isolated out here. I guess that makes us perfect victims for some lunatic, but it never occurred to us before. The mikvah door isn’t even locked.”

  “You’ve been hit by vandals—”

  “Mostly kids. Both we and the police know who they are. They’re a nuisance, something we wish we didn’t have to deal with, but we’ve never thought of them as…as rapists.”