Stone Kiss (37 page)

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.

I
f 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-moneycorrupts, 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.

The private offices and exchange floor were for the trade only, so Decker knew he’d have to check in with the front desk.
After a bit of a grilling, one of the gray guards consented to call up Schnitman. A minute later, Decker held a temporary
pass to the eleventh floor
only
, with the name Classic Gems and the suite number handwritten in the spot where the badge had asked for Place of Business.
He stepped into an elevator and was taken up to the eleventh floor by an operator with a gun.

Schnitman was waiting for him, a few doors away from the Classic Gems entrance, leaning against one of the walls that made
up a narrow hallway. Guards were posted on either side of the foyer, in front of the emergency stairwell exits. In traditional
Chasidic garb of a black coat, white shirt, and black hat, he looked older but even smaller. He was stroking his beard, eyes
small behind the windows of his glasses. His expression was grave, bordering on hostile. It seemed that Decker made friends
wherever he went.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Decker tried out. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a couple more—”

“I
do
mind!” he spat out. “I cooperated with the police. I told you all I know. Now you come and bother me at my place of business.
Do you
know
what would happen to me if my problems got back to my boss?”

Decker’s expression was flat. “Why would he assume that I was anyone other than a customer? Calm down and let’s go find a
place to talk.”

Schnitman checked his watch. “I have a lunch meeting in twenty minutes. I was about to leave.”

“No problem. We can talk while we walk.”

He exhaled loudly. “Wait here. Let me get my coat.”

It took less than a minute for Schnitman to return. They rode the elevator down in silence, Decker following the young Chasid
as he speed-walked out of the building, turning left, hands clasped behind his back, his coat and
payot
flapping in the wind. Schnitman continued to race-walk until he got to Forty-eighth; then he hooked a right.

Decker said, “If you don’t slow down, we can’t talk. Then you can’t get rid of me.”

Schnitman stopped at the green-lettered Fleet building, leaning against the glass, his eyes on his polished black shoes. In
front of him was a table overloaded with baubles and clothing festooned with the American flag. The vendor was sitting next
to the trinkets, his face hidden by dreadlocks and a copy of yesterday’s
Post
. The air rapped out horn honks and engine rumbles.

“Where are you meeting this client?” Decker asked.

“Clients. Fifty-third and Second. They’re from Japan, so my brilliant boss figured that I should take them to this Japanese
kosher restaurant. It’s a good place, but it’s kind of like bringing coals to Newcastle. I’m sure they would have preferred
a deli.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Decker said.

“What do you want, Lieutenant?”

“You said that Ephraim was edgy right before he was murdered. Any ideas?”

“No.”

“Tell me that again, Schnitman. This time, do it with eye contact.”

The Chasid looked away.

Decker took his arm and held him in place. “Look, Ari, I can understand your not wanting to say too much in front of the police,
that maybe it’ll bring attention to your secret organization—”

“It’s not a secret organization,” he answered testily. “We’d just like to assure as much anonymity as possible. Otherwise,
people don’t come and get the help they need. Believe me, it’s hard enough reaching out without cops butting into internal
affairs.”

“Which is why you should help me. Right now, it’s one-on-one, and maybe I can help you. Turn me away, city police are bound
to come back.”

He rubbed his hand over his face and beard. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Ephraim didn’t talk to me, but he did talk to someone
in the group—his sponsor. I didn’t tell you this initially, because I just found out about it last night—at our weekly meeting.
Don’t ask me for the name, I won’t give it to you. You can threaten me with exposure, embarrassment, jail time, the works,
but I will not, under any circumstances, break a confidentiality by giving you a name.”

“You’re not a lawyer, doctor, or pastor—”

“I have
smicha
, so technically I am a rabbi. If I have to use it, I will do that.”

Decker looked around. Scores of people in dark overcoats whistling down the streets, scarves streaming behind them, waving
in the breeze like banners. Harsh pewter clouds clotted on the sky’s surface like chrome plating peeling from dross metal.
The atmosphere was saturated with dirt and the smell of noontime frying oil. Traffic was fierce. A sudden gust of wind whipped
up under Decker’s coat. He tightened his scarf, suddenly realizing he was hungry. “What did he or she tell you?”

The Chasid stuck his gloved hands in his pockets. “That Ephraim was clearly troubled, wrestling with issues.”

“Go on.”

Schnitman said, “He couched the specifics in
Halachic
terms— what was the Jewish obligation of brother toward brother?”

“Interesting.” Decker nodded. “Are we talking metaphorical?”

“Exactly, Lieutenant. Usually, Jewish brotherhood isn’t blood brotherhood. It’s the larger family of
klal Yisra’el
—Jew to Jew. But this time, it was literal. Ephraim was having conflicts with his brother.”

“Business conflicts?”

“Yes, it was business.” Schnitman nodded. “Ephraim told his sponsor that he had talked several times to his brother about
what was bothering him. But the problem didn’t stop.”

“And?”