Stone Kiss (8 page)

“Hey, this is what I do with my people in La-La Land. We throw out ideas and see what sticks.”

“Here too, and you made a good point.” Novack rummaged through the papers. “Just more of the same. I’m gonna bag all this
and go through this at my desk, slowly and methodically. Maybe there’re other things that I’m missing.”

“Like what?” Gindi asked.

“Like a bankbook for starters. Guy musta had a checking account.”

Decker said, “It could be that if he was part of one of those twelve-step programs, he didn’t have a checkbook or credit cards.
He might have dealt only with cash.”

“Yeah, that’s a point,” Gindi stated. “Lots of addicts have had credit problems and have been caught bouncing or kiting checks.”

“Then that would make our life a little harder,” Novack said. “No paper trail.”

“Maybe he had some credit cards in the past,” Decker said.

Novack folded the ends of the box and began to tape the edges. “I still think we should think about theft within the family
business.
Maybe Ephraim was paying off old drug debts. Maybe he didn’t pay them off fast enough.”

“And the girl?” Gindi said.

Novack sighed. “She’s a big problem.”

“Poor parents,” Gindi said.

“Poor girl,” Decker said.

T
he crime took place
in a dingy cell of a room with a stunning view of a brick wall, although Decker assumed that the killer—or killers—had drawn
the faded shade. The chalk marks were still in place, the body positioned next to the bed. But because there wasn’t enough
space on the floor, Ephraim’s left arm and leg had settled up on the wall. The tech had extended the white figuration onto
the once-white painted surface now ambered to puke yellow. Inside the outline of the head was a deep brown stain—a single
amoeba-shaped sticky puddle of dried and tacky blood about six to seven inches in diameter. The rest of the wall was covered
with print powder, as were a lone nightstand, the phone, the clock, and almost all the cracked white tiled floor. There was
a bathroom with a stained-gray porcelain toilet streaked with dirt lines and an equally stained porcelain sink.

Resisting the urge to rub his temples—his hands were newly gloved—Decker felt an encroaching headache. He hadn’t had a decent
meal in sixteen hours and floating particles of fingerprint dust weren’t helping the situation. Plus, there was the odor of
waste: a strong stench of urine with a hint of feces. Novack hadn’t bothered with the Vicks; neither did Decker. He had seen
and smelled worse.

Novack took out his notepad and an envelope filled with postmortem photographs. “Single shot through the temple area—close
range judging by the entrance wound, but it was lacking the usual star-burst pattern.”

“Why’s that?” Decker asked.

Novack shrugged.

Decker flipped through the snapshots. “Exit wound?”

“No exit wound. So whatever it was, it’s still in the skull. Probably a hollow point—something that exploded inside the poor
bastard. We’ll know more after Forensics pulls it out. The casing was a thirty-two caliber.”

“A hollow point…” Decker looked up from the pictures and back at the kill site. “That would explain the lack of blood.” He
went over and examined the chalk mark. “We’ve got a solid mass of blood here. Which meant that the vic had to have fallen
with the wound side down. Any ideas how it played?”

“Yeah, I was wondering about that, too. First off, I considered that he was shot on the bed and fell off. But then there would
have been blood on the sheets where he rolled off. Problem is… no blood on the sheets. So next, we figure he was popped while
he was cowered in the corner, or standing up in the corner.”

“Splatter?”

“No, no splatter on the walls there. Not that we could find.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Them’s the facts.”

Decker said, “Unless he was lying left side down, and shot through the floor, there has to be some amount of splatter from
the entrance wound.”

“So we’re figuring maybe this wasn’t the kill spot.”

“So where was the kill spot?”

“Not in this room.”

Decker said, “But that would mean taking a body up the stairs… what? Ten flights?”

“There’s an elevator. They could have stuffed him in a duffel.”

“We rode up that elevator. It took about twenty minutes. Not to mention that it would have been one heck of a big duffel.”

“It’s been done before,” Novack said.

“Let’s suppose… for a moment… that the guy got here on his own two feet.”

“You mean he took the girl up here?”

Decker thought about that. “You find any evidence that the girl was up here?”

“Nothing. No sperm-stained sheets, no dress, no purse, nothing to suggest any kind of sexual activity whatsoever.”

“Okay, for the moment, let’s assume that the girl wasn’t up here.” Decker raised his eyebrows. “We’ll worry about her later.
Anyway, Ephraim was kidnapped and taken up here—maybe in a duffel, maybe by his own two feet… somehow he got up here.”

“That we know. What we don’t know is if he was dead or alive.”

“Assume that he was alive when they took him up here.”

Novack laughed. “You’re from L.A. Write the script, and I’ll play along.”

Decker smiled. “Suppose somebody brought Ephraim here on his own two feet.”

“Probably more than one person,” Novack said.

Decker nodded. “Yeah, probably to get him upstairs without his breaking away, there had to be two people—dragging him upstairs
with a gun pointed at his head. Maybe they duct-taped his mouth.”

“Not when we found him.”

“Ask the coroner to check for glue around his mouth.”

Novack nodded, but he didn’t write it down.

Decker went on. “They lead him to this room… pull the shades—”

“By the way, I had some people canvass the next building over for witnesses.”

“The one out the window?”

“Yeah, that one. Nothing.”

“Okay, okay.” Decker’s brain was reeling. “They pull the shades and pop him somewhere up here that’s not going to leave any
splatter.” He looked at Novack. “Was his hair wet?”

“Not when I got here,” Novack said. “But I will say this. His hair was short… almost shaved to the scalp. It woulda dried
in a few minutes. You can see that in the postmortem pics.”

Decker looked at the photos. Ephraim had had a very close-cropped haircut. “How about his clothes? You don’t have his clothes?”

“No, we found him buck naked. What are you thinking?”

“The toilet,” Decker said. “They dragged him into the bathroom, dunked him into the bowl, and popped him. The water washed
away most of the blood. It also probably muffled the sound.”

“Makes one hell of a splash.”

“Was the floor wet?”

Novack checked his notes. He shook his head. “No…I didn’t mention it. I think someone woulda noticed pink water on the floor.”

“Towels in the bathroom?”

Again Novack checked his notes. “No. It’s a crummy hotel.”

“It still might provide towels in the bathroom. Someone should ask.”

Novack was quiet. Then he said, “We should check underneath the toilet-bowl rim for splatter.”

“Yeah. If you don’t find anything, you might want to Luminall it. Also, tell Forensics to check the vic’s lungs. He may have
taken some water into his lungs before he died.”

Novack scratched his neck and cleared his throat. “That can be arranged.”

“Do you mind if I look around?”

“Not too long.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Knock yourself out.” But after five minutes, Novack seemed annoyed. “What are you looking for, Decker?”

“Just trying to figure out… how he got here.”

“The room was registered to John Smith,” Novack said. “Paid for in cash. The receipts had already been taken to the bank and
deposited, so we couldn’t pull prints off the bills even if we knew what we were looking for.”

Decker gave the place a final scan. “And you found nothing at the scene?”

“Only thing we found of any significance was a single pill.”

“A pill?”

“Yeah, like an aspirin pill. But it wasn’t aspirin. No imprint on it. Even generic drugs are imprinted.”

“Ecstasy?”

“Yeah, of course. But even those pills are usually imprinted with something—a ’toon or a heart. The guy had a drug problem;
the pill may have come from his pocket. We sent it to Forensics. It’s being tested. If it’s a known drug like ecstasy, results
shouldn’t take long.”

“My brother said he used coke,” Decker remarked. “Do they make cocaine in tablets these days?”

Novack shrugged. “I’m not an expert in these things. We don’t even got Vice in our hub, let alone Narc.”

Decker held up the photos. “Can I keep these over the weekend or are these your only copies?”

“Those
ar
e copies. Originals are in my file back at the two-eight.”

“So I can keep these?”

“What do you want them for?”

“I just want to… stare at them. See if something jumps out at me. I’ll give them back before I leave.”

Novack ran his tongue over his teeth. “I suppose you look honorable enough. Sure, take them.”

“Thanks, Novack.” Decker pocketed the photos.

Rather than take a chance with the moribund elevator, they elected to walk down the ten flights of steps. The stairwells were
dark, lit by a bare bulb on each floor, and rank with odors and bacteria. Decker was happy his hands were gloved. He wished
his lungs had equal protection. As they stepped outside onto the sidewalk, a heavy gust of wind nearly knocked them over.
Immediately, Decker’s ears were assaulted by the honking of horns and traffic. He took off his latex gloves. “You know, I
can catch a cab to my brother’s shul.”

“I can drop you off—”

“Nah, it’s out of the way.”

“It’s no problem for me to take you, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks, Detective, but I’ll be fine.” Decker paused. “So you’re going to check out those twelve-step chapters—”

“Yeah, Decker, I had intentions of doing that.”

Novack was irked. Decker said, “I’m a pain in the ass, and an older one at that. That means I’m not only obsessive, but I
keep asking the same questions because I’m forgetful. Be happy you’re not my wife.”

Novack smiled. “I’ll check out the chapters.”

“What about dealers? Where would a religious guy like Ephraim buy his blow?”

“Probably from the same pushers that sell to the regular crowd. Way too many dealers out there for me to narrow down.”

“Any known dealer that specifically caters to the Orthodox crowd?”

Novack thought a moment. “Okay, Decker, this is what I’m gonna do for you. I’m gonna ask Vice. I’ll translate the New York
part, and you can help me out with the family part and all their religious stuff.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” Decker said. “But I’ll tell you this much. I’m not
that kind
of religious. Furthermore, the Chasids up in Quinton are probably biased against me because I didn’t start out religious.”

“Aha!” Novack’s eyes narrowed. “What brought about the transformation?”

“My wife.”

A smile. “Was it worth it?”

“Absolutely.”

Novack laughed. “I thought of something. It’s gross.”

“I’m not sensitive,” Decker said.

“You gave up ham to get to the pork.”

“Yeah, that’s gross,” Decker said. “Can you call me on my cell
Motzei Shabbos
—Saturday evening.”

“You got it.” Novack shook his hand. “
Shabbat shalom
.”

“
Shabbat shalom
,” Decker answered.

Only in New York.

T
he ride back to Quinton
was a killer. Traffic out of the city was a parking lot of red taillights, wind blowing dirt and debris onto the cars and
roadways. Stoically, lifelessly, Jonathan sat at the helm, eyes fixed ahead—an inert driving machine. Decker hadn’t meant
to, but he found his eyes closing. When he opened them next, the van was pulling off the highway. His mouth tasted like sawdust,
his stomach long past hungry. He just felt empty.

Jonathan handed him a bottle of water. Decker drank voraciously.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve got some fruit in back. Apples, pears, oranges.”

Decker reached over and devoured an apple in four bites. He then went to work on a pear.

“I should have bought you a sandwich,” Jonathan remarked. “I’m sorry.”

“No, this is fine.” Decker finished the bottle. “I’ll be hungry for
Shabbat
. I’m sure the Lazaruses will have plenty of food to help me out.”

“That’s true.”

They zipped past Liberty Field.

Decker started peeling an orange. “Are you coming into Brooklyn?”

“For
Shabbos
? Yes. Mrs. Lazarus invited my parents. I told Raisie we needed to be there for you.”

“That’s all right, Jon. I’m used to it—”

“Actually, that’s a lie. It isn’t for you; it’s for me, Akiva. I need to see you in a different context, in a family context.
I have real misgivings about this whole thing… dragging you into it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I called in a moment
of weakness.”

“That’s what family’s for.”

“So far, it’s been very one-sided. You’ve never once called me for a favor.”

“That’s because I’m an oldest child. I dispense; I don’t take.”

“But we’re all adults.”

“It’s ingrained patterns, Jon, and I’m okay with it. My boys are coming in for the weekend. If they weren’t here, I might
not have come. But they are coming, and I’m here, and let’s all make the most of it.”

“You’re being charitable. That’s my job, not yours.”

Within minutes, they made the transition to the poorer side of the tracks. The van cut through the near-empty roadways. Decker’s
wristwatch read two-thirty. “When does
Shabbos
start?”

“Five-thirty.”

“And how long will it take us to get back to Brooklyn?”

“At least an hour, maybe longer. Why?”

“If we have time, I’d like to stop by the Quinton Police… ask a few questions.”

“That’ll be tight, although we’ve been making record time.” Jonathan turned onto the Liebers’ street, then pulled the van
curbside. “You’ve never met Minda. She’s difficult under the best of circumstances.”