Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (35 page)

Most of Ocean Front was one big gyp-joint now. Fly-by-nights selling cheap junk, weekends so jammed you couldn’t take two steps without bumping into some yutz.

For forty years Sam and Emil sold hardware and plumbing fixtures from their store on Lincoln Boulevard, things you could use. Both of them knowing how to install as well as sell, pipe a house from scratch. You got to be handy, living on your own, never depending on anyone else. Leaving Shanghai, he’d vowed never to depend on anyone else. Maybe that’s why he’d never married. Though the ladies loved him. He’d had his good times. Even now he once in a while got between the covers with soft-skinned grandmothers ashamed of what age had done to their bodies. Sam knew how to make them feel young and gorgeous.

He felt for the shul key in his pocket, found it, opened the back door. Not noticing the screen from the bathroom window lying on the ground, because it was partially blocked by his right front tire.

Moments after he got inside, he knew someone had broken in.

The silver-plated
pushke
was sitting atop the platform where the Torah was read, shiny against the blue velvet coverlet, right out in the open. The charity box hadn’t been used since Friday night, when it was passed around before services. Sam had put it away, personally, in a cabinet beneath the bookcases. Just a cheap combination lock, no reason to make a big deal—all it contained was a few dollars in coins.

But someone had tried anyway. And, look—food had been taken out of the same cabinet. Snack stuff for the handful of Saturday-morning regulars. Tam Tam crackers and a pink box from a bakery on Fairfax—sugarcoated
kichlen
shaped like bow ties. Sam had bought them last week. No preservatives, had to be stale; he’d forgotten to get rid of them.

Crumbs on blue velvet. A quarter and a dime had fallen out of the
pushke.
Hungry thief. What else had he taken?

The only things of value to a junkie were the silver finials and breastplates that graced the three Torahs in the ark. Sam started toward the carved walnut case, ready to draw back the blue velvet curtain, afraid of what he’d find.

Then he stopped himself, raised his heavy arms instinctively. Maybe the crook was still here. All he needed was some junkie jumping out at him.

No one did. Silence; no movement at all.

He stood there and looked around.

The shul was four rooms—small entry hall in front, gents’ and ladies’ lavs at the back; in between, the main sanctuary—rows of walnut pews, seating for 150.

A double-sided dead bolt protected the front door—you couldn’t get in or out without a key. Same for the back. So how . . .

He waited a few more minutes, convinced himself he was alone, but made sure by inspecting. Then out to the front room. Still locked; no damage to the door.

In back was where he found it, the window in the ladies’ lav. Closed, but the screen was off—there it was, down near his tire. Some white chips on the sill where dry paint had flaked off.

Closing the window after he’d left? Considerate thief?

He returned to the sanctuary, opened the ark, examined the Torahs. All the silver in place. The bottle-shaped
pushke
hadn’t been emptied either, and the lock didn’t show a scratch. Only Sam and Mr. Kravitz knew the combination, and they took turns emptying the weekly take and delivering it to the Hadassah thrift shop on Broadway. Once upon a time Congregation Beth Torah had proudly contributed fifty dollars a week to the poor; now it was down to ten, twelve. Embarrassing, so Sam augmented it with twenty of his own. What Kravitz did, he had no idea; the guy was a bit of a cheapskate.

He inspected the
pushke,
rattled it. Still full. Except for the quarter and the dime. Strange.

Several
kichlen
were gone and, from what Sam could see, quite a few crackers.

Hungry
gonif.
Probably some bum, too doped up to know what he was doing, one of those nuts who lurched up and down the walkway. Sometimes Sam gave them money, other times he wanted nothing to do with them.

A skinny nut, because the lav window was small. Junkies got skinny. And weren’t they always hungry for sweets? Okay, no big loss. He dropped the coins back in the
pushke,
brushed crumbs from the velvet, closed the cracker box and the bakery box and carried them over to the bookcase. Opening the lower cabinet where the food went, he saw something else the
gonif
hadn’t touched: booze.

Schnapps for the regulars. A nearly full bottle of Crown Royal, and a half-empty Smirnoff’s vodka.

A junkie with one vice only, no taste for booze?

Next to the bottles were some folded prayer shawls. A bunch of small silk ones, striped blue, but also the big black-striped woolen
tallis
worn by the prayer leader. That one belonged in the compartment under the platform—how had it gotten there?

Had he put it there? Had Kravitz? He strained to remember, damn his memory . . . last
shabbos . . .
yeah, yeah, Mrs. Rosen hadn’t felt good and Sam had left early to take her home, he’d left Kravitz in charge. The guy had no eye for details.

Removing the woolen shawl, he saw that Kravitz hadn’t folded it properly, either. A klutz. He’d clerked for the Water Department all his life, what could you expect from a desk jockey.

Refolding the shawl, caressing the thick wool, Sam carried it to the platform, bent down and opened the compartment door.

Inside was a boy.

A small, skinny kid, curled up into a corner, looking scared as hell.

Breathing hard. Sam could see his chest moving, and now he could hear it, fast, raspy, like he had asthma or something.

Such a look on the face.

Sam knew that look. His siblings; faces through train windows.

Laborers in the camp who didn’t make it.

Even tough Emil’s face the time he got pneumonia; thought this was it.

Sam’s own face when, in the dead of winter, he found a piece of broken glass in the snow, used it for a mirror, saw what he’d become.

This boy looked exactly like that.

“It’s okay,” he said.

The boy shivered. Hugging himself like he was cold, and even though this was June, Venice, California, a beautiful sunny day, Sam felt a Ukrainian freeze pass over his own body.

“It’s okay,” he repeated. “Come on out, I don’t bite.”

The boy didn’t budge.

“Come on, you can’t stay in there all day—still hungry? Crackers aren’t enough, let’s get you some real food.”

It took a long time to coax the boy out, standing far back so the kid could crawl free. When he was finally out, he looked like he wanted to run.

Sam held him by the arm—skin and bones. More memories.

The boy struggled, tried to kick. Sam, knowing what it felt like to be restrained, let go and the boy dashed toward the front of the shul.

Rattling the door, but locked in.

Returning to the sanctuary, he gave Sam a wide berth. Wild-eyed, looking from side to side, trying to figure out how to escape.

Sam was sitting in a front pew holding a box of doughnuts the boy had missed. Real
chazerei.
Entenmann’s chocolate-covered cake doughnuts, still unopened, hidden behind some old prayer books. Kravitz’s secret lode—who did he think he was kidding? Next to the doughnuts was also a sealed jar of gefilte-fish balls in jelly. Sam couldn’t imagine the boy going for it.

“Here,” he said, holding up the doughnuts. “Take it with you.”

The boy stood there and stared. Despite being dirty and ragged and skinny, with a scratched-up face, he was a nice-looking kid. Maybe eleven, twelve. What was he doing out here so young? There were plenty of runaways in Venice, but they were mostly teenagers, bigshot rebels, with needles and rings stuck into their bodies all over, crazy haircuts, tattoos, a bad attitude. This one just looked like a kid, undernourished and scared.

Definitely
goyische—
look at that upturned nose, that dirty-blond hair. Sometimes the goyim beat their kids, abused them, God knows what else. Maybe this one had run away. Jews, too, he supposed, though he’d never encountered that personally.

What did he know about kids, anyway?

Emil had one son, a lawyer, lived in Encino—drove a German car!—never talked to his parents or Sam.

“Here,” he said, shaking the doughnut box. “Take it.”

No response. The kid, distrustful, thinking Sam was up to something. Dirt stains all over his jeans and that T-shirt was full of holes. He was making fists, a tough little
pisher
.

Sam put the doughnuts on the floor, got up, said, “Fine, I’ll open the door for you, you don’t have to crawl out the window. But if you ask me, you should get some clean clothes, eat some real food with vitamins.”

Dipping into his trouser pocket, he took some bills out of his wallet. Two twenties—way too generous for someone he didn’t know, but what the hell.

He placed the money on the floor next to the doughnuts, walked to the back of the shul, and unlocked the rear door. Then he went into the gents’ lav, to give the kid a chance to make a graceful exit, and because his bladder was killing him.

CHAPTER

Petra stared at the doorway through which Stu
had just passed, then she went after him.

He reappeared in the doorway before she got there. Cocking his head.

C’mere.

Oh yeah, faithful little junior partner will jump up on cue.

They locked eyes. His face was stone; no apologies. Deciding to maintain her dignity, she followed him down the stairs and out of the building to the rear lot, where his Suburban was parked. The truck, usually spotless, had dirty windows. Crusted bird droppings freckled the white hood.

She said, “What the hell’s going on, Stu?”

He unlocked the passenger door, motioned for her to get in, came around and sat behind the wheel.

“We’re not going anywhere,” she said, remaining outside. “Some of us have work to do.”

He stared through the windshield. Sun from the east traced the contours of his profile in orange. A paperback-book model couldn’t have posed for greater effect. Everyone a goddamn actor.

Petra got in and slammed the door so hard the truck shook.

Stu said, “I owe you an explanation.”

“Okay.”

“Kathy has cancer.”

Petra’s throat seized and closed, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. “Oh, Stu—”

He held up a finger. “She’s going in for surgery tomorrow. She’s been having tests done; we weren’t sure. Now we are.”

“I’m so sorry, Stu.” Why didn’t you tell me? Obviously, not close enough. Eight months of chasing bad guys doth not a deep relationship make.

“One breast,” he said. “Her doctor found it on routine checkup. They think it’s just a single tumor.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing, thanks, we’re covered. Mother’s taking the kids and Father’s dealing with the hospital.”

His right arm rested on the center console. Petra put her hand on his sleeve. “Go home, Stu. Wil and I will handle everything.”

“No, that’s the thing, I was going to take a leave of absence, but Kathy insisted I shouldn’t. She wants me home tonight to take her to the hospital, told me I can stay until she falls asleep. And tomorrow, when she comes out of surgery, I’ll be there. But in between she insists I keep working. Even when she gets radiation . . . maybe they can do just a lumpectomy, they’re not sure.”

“You’re planning to stay on the job?” said Petra.

“Kathy wants it. You know Kathy.”

Petra knew very little about Kathy. Gracious, pretty, efficient, supermom, never without makeup. High school prom queen, with a teaching credential she’d never used. During the family outings, Petra had observed a superorganizer.

A bit reserved—let’s be honest, more than reserved. Despite superficial friendliness, the woman had always maintained distance, and Petra had thought of her as an ice queen.

Thirty-six years old. Six kids.

Petra thought of her own father, raising five children by himself. And all the while, Stu’d been fighting to maintain.

“She’s so strong,” Stu said. “I’ve never slept with anyone else.”

Saying it with wonderment. Petra patted his arm.

“Most guys get tired of being with the same woman. All I ever wanted was Kathy. I really love her, Petra.”

“I know you do.”

“You try to do the right thing, live a certain way—I know there are no deals with God, He’s got His own plan, but still . . .”

“She’ll be fine,” said Petra. “It’ll work out, you’ll see.”

“Look at Ramsey,” he went on. “Has a healthy wife, does that to her. The Eggermann woman. All the things we see.”

He put his head down on the steering wheel, broke into startling, phlegmy sobs.

Vivian Boehlinger, now this.

This was different. This was part of her.

Petra reached over and held him.

CHAPTER

As she approached the elevator, Mildred Board heard footsteps from above. Then a toilet flush, the bathwater running. The big house was built beautifully, but if you stood in certain places, sound traveled freely through the rafters.

Missus drawing the bath herself. There was something new.

Perhaps it would be a good day.

She returned to the kitchen, ate the shirred eggs and drank the coffee at the old yew-wood table, dumped the coffee, made a fresh pot and waited, allowing the missus a nice long time to soak. By 8:45 she was riding up with the second batch of breakfast.

No newspaper on the tray. But not because she’d screened it for nastiness. The delivery service had skipped the house this morning. Again. Such a slipshod world.

She’d take care of it after serving, get right on the phone with the newspaper subscription office, give them what for.

Sometimes she wished the missus would allow the subscription to lapse. There was no need to read the kinds of things they printed.

The lift let her out on the carpeted top landing. She walked past the space where the upstairs Steinway grand had stood, past the ghosts of the Regency chest with its intricate tortoiseshell front, the pair of monumental Kang Xi vases, blue as the sky, white as milk, sitting high on Carrara-marble pedestals. A patch of dust in an alcove made her stop and wipe with the hem of her apron.