The Forgotten. Faye Kellerman
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“Good for her.”
“Have you narrowed down your suspect list?” Rina asked.
“I’m making a couple of calls. I’ll let you know if I have any luck.” He waited a moment. “I love you, darlin’. I’m glad you have so much support over there.”
“I love you, too. And those mumzerim haven’t heard the last from me. This isn’t going to happen again!”
“I admire your commitment.”
“Nothing to admire. This isn’t a choice, this is an assignment. Have you checked out the pawnshops?”
“What?”
“For the silver kiddush cup. Someone may have tried to pawn it.”
“Actually no, I haven’t checked out the pawnshops.”
“You should do that right away. Before the pawnbroker gets wind of the fact that he has something hot.”
“Anything else, General?”
“Nothing for the moment. Someone’s calling me, Peter. I’ll give you back to Detective Bontemps.”
Wanda said, “She’s quite the organizer.”
“That’s certainly true. Thanks for helping out.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Decker said, “The taggers you were referring to, Wanda. Most of them went to private school.”
“Some of them did—Foreman Prep … Beckerman’s.”
“That could work in our favor. I’d have a hard time doing search and seizure with kids in public school. But in private school, they are subjected to different rules. Lots of the places have bylaws allowing the administration to open up random lockers to do contraband searches.”
“Why would a private school administrator agree to do that for us, sir?”
“Because it would look bad if they didn’t help us out. Like they were hiding something. Chances are I won’t find much … a secret stash or two.”
“What specific contraband would you be looking for, sir? Anti-Semitic material?”
“A silver wine cup.”
“Aha. That makes sense.”
“It’s worth a try,” Decker said.
But one not without controversy or consequences. Because in order to appear objective—and the police needed to appear objective—he’d have to search several of the private schools, including Jacob’s Jewish high school. He’d start with that one.
What’s the address?” Webster asked.
Martinez gave him the number while taking a big bite out of his turkey, tomato, and mustard sandwich, rye bread crumbs sprinkling his steel-wool mustache. He had been thinking about shaving it off now that it was more gray than black. But his wife told him that after all these years of something draping over his mouth, he probably had no upper lip left. “Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?”
“Probably because I was in the squadroom.” He looked at his partner’s sandwich. “You carryin’ an extra one, Bertie?”
“Oh, sure.” Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. “You didn’t eat lunch?”
“When did I have time?” He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. “Decker cornered me just as I was hangin’ up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.”
“Yeah, it’s personal.”
“It’s personal. It’s also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.”
“Nothing wrong with us bagging a bunch of punks.” Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. “You know anything about these jokers?”
“Just what’s on the printout. They’ve been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.”
Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by a 99 Cents store advertising things in denomination of—you guessed it—ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoe store, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. “I don’t see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”
“The address is a half-number,” Martinez said. “We should try around the side of the building.”
Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door’s visibility blocked by a gathered white curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer.
The intercom spat back in painful static. “We’re closed for lunch.”
“Police,” Martinez barked. “Open up!”
A pause, then a long buzz. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses.
“Police?” She stood and looked to her left—at an interior door left ajar. “What’s going on?”
Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames—Grant Wood’s American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer—affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different-colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby-blue sheet of paper containing an article. The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later.
“A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.” Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. “We were wondering what you knew about it.”
Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s all over the news,” Webster said.
“I don’t watch the news.”
“You’ve got a radio on. I b’lieve it’s tuned to a news station.”
“That’s not me, that’s Darrell. Why are you here?”
“Because we know what this place is all about,” Martinez said. “We’re just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in.”
A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffee-colored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races.
“May I ask who you all are?” he said.
“Police,” Webster said. “We’d like to ask y’all a few questions, if that’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay,” the man said. “Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them.