Yom Kippur Murder (17 page)

I sat back and looked at what I had written. “It was a phone call now and then. They were bothering him. [Herskovitz] called them something in another language.”

Phone calls, bothering him. Did somebody think he had a book or that he knew where it was? Maybe Bettina and I would find him.

I didn’t sleep very well. Sometime around two in the morning the sound of the town alarm awakened me. Seconds later I heard sirens approach, and almost immediately my doorbell started ringing and someone pounded on the door.

The fire engines were turning in to Pine Brook Road as I got out of bed, calling, “I’m coming,” threw on my robe, and went downstairs. My bedroom faces the backyard, so I had not seen anything unusual, but as I came down the stairs, I could see light through the living room windows.
Something was burning on my front lawn
. I opened the front door to find my next-door neighbor, Don McGuire, standing there, hair tousled, a raincoat over his pajamas.

“Come on out,” he said. “There’s a fire.”

I got my raincoat and keys and went out with him. The flame was very bright, about halfway between the house and the street. I knew immediately it was no accident. Someone had set it.

“Midge got up to go to the baby and she saw it.”

“Thank you both.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Damn kids. Looks like Halloween’s a little early this year.”

I didn’t think it was Halloween.

The fire engines had arrived, and Oakwood’s raincoat-clad volunteers had hooked up a hose to the hydrant across the street. Neighbors were coming out of their front doors, clustering there or walking toward my house. Don and I joined
Midge in front of theirs and watched as the firemen hosed down the fire. It didn’t take long. After a few minutes there was nothing but a smoldering spot in the middle of the lawn and a smell of gasoline. I would have to reseed in the spring.

The fire chief came over and talked to me. He, too, was pretty sure it was a pre-Halloween prank.

“Will you find them?” I asked.

“Not unless we catch them in the act somewhere else. These kids are pretty slippery. I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Chief,” I said, “it may not have been a prank.” I started to tell him about my being followed the other day.

“This sounds like police business,” he said before I’d gone on very long. “Come over here.”

Two police cars were parked in front of the McGuires’, lights rotating on their roofs. I gave a statement to both of the officers. (In Oakwood only one policeman rides a car. They don’t expect the kind of danger New York cops regularly encounter.) They took me very seriously and promised they would drive by my house frequently until the Herskovitz murder was solved. I felt a lot more confident hearing their promise than I had hearing a similar one in Manhattan after my attack.

I thanked the McGuires again for their vigilance and went back to bed, to think more than to sleep. He had followed me after all, and he had sent a message. The only thing was, I didn’t know what the message was. Keep away from 603? Leave the Herskovitz murder alone? Stay out of the book business?

I didn’t know, but I was pretty sure I’d find out. Eventually.

I got my shopping done early on Saturday morning, stocking up for the coming week, which was starting to look pretty busy. Then I drove to Greenwillow, a group home for retarded adults where my cousin Gene lives. Whenever he sees me, he gives me the warmest smile of anyone I know and says, “Kix!” with great enthusiasm. Gene is responsible for my nickname, having come out with it at an early age when
my mother tried to get him to say Chris. I’ve always liked it. I’ve met a lot of Chrises in my life, but not one other Kix. It sets me apart.

I took Gene out for lunch, agreeing to McDonald’s because it’s his favorite. By the time we got back to Greenwillow, his enchantment with me had faded and he was ready to join a group activity. I drove the ten miles back to Oakwood, looking forward to the new year when Greenwillow would move into town, and spent some time cleaning up the yard and chatting with neighbors who were outside doing the same thing.

At three I lay down for a nap. My night had been badly broken up, and I get up pretty early in the morning without trying, the result of fifteen years of chapel at five-thirty, and that leaves me near collapse fairly early in the evening. It doesn’t bother me on weekdays, but it’s not too nice to conk out on a date who’s made a long trip just to see you.

I was showered, dressed, ready, and eager to see him fifteen minutes before six, but he was late. I had known him about three and a half months at that point, and we’d been going out for most of that time. I keep hearing about the trouble women have finding datable, marriageable men, and I, who wasn’t looking for one, walked into a precinct house in Brooklyn three weeks after being released from my vows and found Jack. The relationship produced a few crises of conscience for me. I had made certain promises to myself, among them that I would not become involved with a man until a decent period of time had elapsed after leaving St. Stephen’s, and I didn’t think a month was very decent. Partly I needed to know that I had left for the reasons I had stated to my General Superior and later in a letter to the Pope. (St. Stephen’s is a pontifical community, and permission from the Pope is necessary before you can be released from your vows.) And partly I wanted the people at St. Stephen’s to know that I hadn’t rushed into the arms of a man as soon as I had left my habit behind.

But none of these things could keep me from feeling the way I felt about Jack. I had gone out with Mark Brownstein
last Saturday partly to keep myself away from Jack for one weekend and partly because I had reservations about committing myself too soon and too completely to the first man I had ever dated in my life.

We were both thirty, but from something he had said, I had the impression that my birthday came earlier in the year than his, making me a tiny bit older. He had gotten a college degree by going to school nights for seven or eight years while on the job, and last month he had begun law school. I had the feeling it was tougher than he had expected, or at least different. I liked the idea of his becoming a lawyer. He would probably never do the kind of work Arnold Gold does, but they’re pretty different kinds of men.

I was surprised that he was late. He tended to the early side, at least when he came to see me. Waiting generated a small amount of worry and increased my already powerful sexual tension, which I had promised myself again and again I would not give in to in this calendar year.

At six-fifteen I saw his car pull into the driveway, and I went to open the door. We kissed and kissed again when he came in.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. He stood in the center of the living room and looked distracted.

“What’s wrong?”

“I got picked up for speeding on the Hutch.”

I kept myself from laughing. “He didn’t give you a ticket, did he?”

“I let him see my ID. I got away with a friendly warning.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“For what?”

“For speeding to get here.”

He gave me the nice smile, took my hand, and we sat on the sofa. “What burned on your lawn?”

He sees everything, even in the dark. “The police think it’s a Halloween prank.”

He looked skeptical, but he dropped it. “What a week,” he said.

He griped for about twenty minutes. Everything had gone
wrong, the car he and his partner drove, a lost report, a disagreement with the lieutenant. Worst of all, he had gotten stuck on a case on a night that he had law school, and he had come to class half an hour late, and the professor had attempted to ridicule him. Jack doesn’t take kindly to that kind of treatment.

“I told him why I was late, and I didn’t say it as if I was talking to my best friend. It probably cost me the course. He’s not gonna forget me.”

“He’ll be fair. He’s a lawyer.”

Jack looked at me as if I’d denounced the flag. “He’s a shit,” he said between his teeth. He stood up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I have to stop this.”

We went to a restaurant in White Plains, which isn’t far from Oakwood, and had a good dinner, but it wasn’t a good night. It started out all right. He loosened up a bit, and I was glad he’d gotten the law school stuff off his mind. But it wasn’t over.

After a taste of the main course, he said, “Why’d you have to go out with someone else last weekend?”

“I thought you understood.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re the first man in my life,” I said, although we’d been through it all before. “I can’t just see one man. It’s a question of my own personal development.”

“Shit. There are fourteen-year-olds who meet and go through life together—”

“I am not fourteen years old.” It came out rather harsh.

“OK. I’ll lay it on the table. You hurt my feelings.”

“I’m sorry.” I felt teary and awful. “What did you do last Saturday?”

“I did what I did,” he said, not looking at me.

“I’m not going out with him again,” I said. It was all very dumb. Mark was exactly the right kind of man to go out with. He was fun, and I wasn’t going to fall in love with him. He was personal development with a capital PD and maybe, somewhere down the line, a friend. But I couldn’t hurt Jack,
I couldn’t jeopardize this relationship, which meant so much to me and which I had obviously already threatened.

“Why? Because it’s not going anywhere?”

I almost got up and fled to the ladies’ room, but somewhere in my head I knew that coming back would be even worse than staying. I took a hard swallow instead. “Because he’s not you.” I looked him straight in the eye.

“You’d better eat,” he said. “And I’d better shut up.”

It sounded like a good idea, and I returned to my dinner. It was the kind of food you only eat in a restaurant unless you’re a very talented cook. Convent fare is not made by very talented cooks, only by hardworking ones trying to feed a lot of people within a tight budget.

He drew lines on the back of my hand with his index finger, and I smiled.

“You want to talk about your case?” he asked, all the fight gone from his voice.

“Just a little.”

“You know, you may find out that this guy Herskovitz was Jack the Ripper, but it doesn’t mean Ramirez didn’t kill him.”

“Arnold is really convinced—”

“Arnold Gold is a defense attorney. His client is always innocent, and the cops are always wrong.”

“It’s not that way this time.”

“Chris, he’d defend Hitler if he had the chance.”

“He wouldn’t,” I said, sounding stony.

“Then he’d find someone who would.”

I thought he was probably right. “That’s because he believes that everyone has the right to counsel.”

“In this case it’s because he wants to put a knife in the police department.”

“Jack, you’ve got Arnold all—”

“Arnold Gold thinks every cop in New York is dumb and on the take. Well, he’s wrong. I’m not dumb and I’m not on the take.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because I know you.”

The waiter was standing over us.

“Yeah, I’ll have coffee,” Jack said. “You?”

“Please.”

We drank our coffee uncomfortably and went out to the car. I felt the smartest thing was to keep quiet. If my Saturday night with Mark had prompted all this, anything I said would make it worse. If it was something else, I didn’t want to pry. When it suited him, he would tell me. In the meantime, I sat quietly and coped with my feelings. I didn’t know what we’d been fighting about, but nothing we’d talked about had been neutral.

We drove to Oakwood silently, but when he pulled into my driveway, my resolve left me.

“What is it, Jack? Something’s eating you. I’ve never seen you like this.” I said it quietly. I didn’t want another unreasonable confrontation.

He turned the motor off but left the key in the ignition. “It’s that fuckin’ law school,” he said so low, I could hardly hear him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t do this to you. It’s not your fault.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” He sat back. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. It’s more work. It’s different. I’m not getting it the way I should.”

“Give it time.”

“Maybe.” He fingered the keys. “In college, if I put my mind to something, I got it. I’m not afraid of work. This is just different. Maybe it’s not for me. Maybe it’s for people like Arnold Gold.”

“It is for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you set your heart on it.”

“You still think I have a heart?”

I nodded. “Yes.” It came out in a whisper.

He touched my hand. “I’m not coming in.”

I gathered my purse and gloves and reached for the door handle.

“Chris.” He pulled me toward him before I opened the
door, put his arms around me, and just held me. It was one of those stupid cars with the stick shift and stuff between the front seats. Getting close was almost impossible below the shoulders, but we did our best. I was so relieved that I was only one small part of what was bothering him that I felt absolutely happy. We kissed, and he brushed away what might have been tears on my face.

“We OK for next Saturday?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He started to say something about picking me up when I remembered Mitchell. “Nathan’s son and daughter-in-law are coming in next Friday night,” I said. “I’ll probably go down to the apartment to say hello. Why don’t you meet me there? I’ll stay over with Celia.”

“OK.”

“Will you call me when you get home?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a wreck tonight.”

“I’m fine now.”

“Please?”

He kissed me. “I’ll call you.”

He called so soon after he left that I was sure he must have gotten picked up for speeding again, but he assured me he hadn’t. He said he was wide-awake now, ready to tackle his law school assignment for Monday.

Bettina Strauss called Sunday morning. She sounded tense and excited. “I got that phone call,” she said.

“What did he say?”

“He asked if I had a book. I said, ‘I have lots of books.’ Then he gave me the names of a lot of people who had books like mine. I knew most of the names. They were members of the circle.”