Day of Atonement (15 page)

Rina had struck out as well. Noam was a cipher to all of the housewives she’d talked to.

“We’re back to square one,” Rina said.

“Not just yet,” Decker said. “And for what’s next, I think I’ll need your help.”

“Whatever you want.”

Her voice was full of excitement and he hoped he hadn’t started her on something.

Decker said, “I want to talk to the teenage boys in this community. Maybe they—like Noam and Yossie—have met with Houdini Hersh. The easiest place to find them is at their schools. Now, the rabbis aren’t going to be cooperative with me. I just look and act too goyish. But you know Yiddish and you’re beautiful.”

“I don’t think my looks are an asset in this case.”

“That’s what you think. Men are men, and if these guys have eyes, they’ll be sneaking looks at you. If you act mod
est and sincere and move your hips a little, I think you could talk your way in for us.”

“How do I move my hips and act modest at the same time?”

“Nobody ever said detective work is easy.” Decker winked at her. “I have the names of three local high school yeshivas. You want to break for lunch or do you want to work straight through?”

“Who can eat at a time like this?”

Decker said, “Then let’s do it.”

The first academy on the list was the Ner Tamid Yeshiva of Crown Heights. Its address was on Eastern Parkway—a wide boulevard graced by immaculately kept townhouses, structures erected long ago when labor was cheap and architects could afford to pay attention to detail. Doric columns flanked stately entrances; the spans above the doorways were crowned with intricately cast keystones. Front bay windows were framed with fluted moldings. Old-fashioned streetlights sat at the foot of each stone walkway; well-planted patches of front lawn were fenced by wrought-iron railings. The district held the elegance of a bygone era.

The yeshiva was a four-story building, the first floor fronted by limestone blocks, the remaining three stories masoned in brick. Zigzagging across a center column of windows were the metal rungs of a fire-escape ladder. The entrance doors were large and darkened by smoked glass. Three Chasidic boys were conversing outside. They wore black suits, black slouch hats, buttoned-to-the-neck white shirts, and no ties.

Decker parked the car at the front curb and hopped out. But Rina began searching through her purse. She pulled out a tattered scarf, folded it in half along the bias, placed it on top of her wig and tied the ends under her chin.

He looked at her. “But your head’s covered. You’re wearing a wig.”

“I don’t think
this
wig is appropriate.”

Decker frowned. “Now your head matches your boots. Please may I have a pound of halibut, Molly Malone?”

“At least you said please.” She punched him in the arm. “Don’t worry. I’ve thought about this on the ride over. I have it all worked out.”

“Great.”

They went inside. The front hallway was lit by a gleaming bronze chandelier hanging from a plaster-cracked roof. That was as good as it got. The rest of the room was in the process of renovation—raw drywall, the baseboard around the floor full of nails from recently pulled-up wall-to-wall carpet. Off to the side, manning the reception area, was a fifty-year-old woman with a pencil behind her ear and bosoms that could feed India. She was wearing a brown suit and a Buster Brown wig. She sat at a card table, stacks of papers to one side, a phone and Rolodex on the other. Her eyes fell first on him, then on Rina.

“Can I help you?”

Rina smiled pathetically. She had a worried look on her face as she pulled out a picture of Noam. She spoke in a pitifully small voice, explaining that this boy was missing and she was a close friend of the family. That was as much as Decker could understand. As Rina laid it on thicker, she began to speak in Yiddish.

Decker stood there, trying to look like something more than an ornament. Stupid of him to think he could have pulled this off without an insider. But he conceded himself one pat on the back: An ordinary PI would have really flubbed it. He was hog-tied, forced to stay on this case, until it resolved or at least moved out of the religious Jewish community.

As Rina spoke, the woman responded with grave nods of her head. Rina finished her plea and the woman said something in Yiddish, stood up and walked away.

“Voos?”
Decker asked.
Voos
meant “what” and it was the only Yiddish word he knew.

“She’s calling in the big boys,” Rina said.

“What’d you tell her?”

“The truth,” Rina said. “Which is sad enough. When I stop and think about it, I start to feel sick all over. Poor Breina. She must be dying inside.”

“Well, you’re doing your bit to help out.”

“How are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…you know. Do you think about Mrs. Levine much?”

Decker gave her a sour look. “Not unless someone brings it up.”

“Sorry.”

He put his arm around her, remembered where they were, and quickly removed it. “Sorry I snapped at you. This whole family thing makes me very anxious. Someday I’ll figure it all out. But now’s not the right time.”

Rina gave his hand a quick squeeze. He liked that.

Buster Brown came back with two rabbis. One looked to be in his early fifties and had a black beard streaked with gray. The other was younger—around Decker’s age. His face was baby smooth; a wispy line of red fuzz floated above his upper lip. Buster introduced them to Rina as Rav Seder and Rav Miller, respectively. Rina pulled out the photograph and went into her Yiddish spiel.

After a moment, the younger Rav Miller eyed Decker and said, “You’re a policeman?”

“A detective,” Rina answered. “A detective sergeant.”

“You don’t work in a uniform?” Rav Seder asked.

“No, detectives don’t wear uniforms,” Decker answered.

“How do you manage with Shabbos?” Rav Miller asked.

“It’s probably like doctors,” Rav Seder said. “You have someone taking your calls on Shabbos?”

“Usually,” Decker said.

“What do you want with our boys—our
bochrim
?” Rav Seder said.

“Just to ask them a few questions,” Decker said.

“And you think it will help?” Rav Seder said.

“It might,” Decker said.

“If you can do it quick, by me, it’s all right,” Rav Seder said.

“Thank you,” Decker said.

Rina smiled.

“Rav Miller will show you to the study hall,” Rav Seder said. “The boys are learning there.”

“What
Masechet
?” Decker asked. A
Masechet
was a tractate of Talmud. He had to throw that in. Just to show them he knew the terminology. Rav Seder seemed more annoyed than impressed.

“What
Masechet
is
shiur beis
?” he asked Rav Miller.
“Bava Metziah, Bava Basra?”

Rav Miller shrugged ignorance.

Rav Seder waved them on.

The study hall was located in the basement—twelve hundred square feet packed with adolescent boys who hadn’t mastered the art of using deodorant. The walls had been paneled in bad rosewood veneer and supported twenty unmatched bookcases. The floor was covered with industrial gray carpeting. The holy ark stood against the east wall and was dressed by an elaborately embroidered orange velvet curtain. The boys sat at desks facing one another, shouting questions or answers to their learning partners, gesticulating wildly with their hands. A few teenagers studied alone, rocking back and forth as they analyzed the religious text. A middle-aged rabbi wearing a wide-brimmed Stetson sat in the corner, an oversized tome in front of him. He appeared to be explaining something to two teenage boys who had yet to develop any bulk. The noise level was deafening, the lighting was bright and harsh. Even though communal learning was not a foreign concept to Decker, he still found the tumult unnerving. Rina, who had taught in a yeshiva for years, seemed completely at home.

Rav Miller held up his hand, telling him to stay put. He
approached the rabbi wearing the Stetson, leaned over and said something in his ear. Two minutes later the Stetson rabbi banged on his lectern and the noise immediately died down to a few moribund whispers.

The Stetson rabbi said,
“Sheket…”
His voice was deep and raspy—a smoker’s voice. “A policeman is going to talk to you.” He looked up at Decker.

Not much by way of introduction. Decker explained that he was trying to find out the identity of a man who might be responsible for abducting a boy their age. He planned to speak with all of the boys individually. In the meantime, everyone was to go about their own business.

The boys looked at Decker, wide-eyed with excitement, and Decker wished he had something more awe-inspiring to present.

He decided to begin at the east end, with those closest to the holy ark. Rav Miller, seeing he was no longer needed, excused himself. Rina stood just outside the doorway, per Decker’s orders. His presence was enough of a distraction,
her
presence—fishmonger look notwithstanding—would completely addle the boys’ minds.

Twenty minutes later, Decker felt he had his first break—a kid who knew something. He read it on the boy’s face before he opened his mouth.

The kid was handsome, his smooth skin unravaged by hormones, with strong cheekbones and firm chin. He had dark eyes rimmed with a circle of bright green; his brows were thick and gave him an adult look. But in those eyes was fear.

Decker started out slowly, asked the kid his name. He was Eli Greenspan, and he lived a few blocks down on Eastern Parkway. Eli had a hard time making eye contact. Decker showed him the picture of Noam, and predictably, the boy denied knowing him.

Decker asked him about Hersh.

He denied knowing him, too.

Decker asked him to think a little longer—just to make sure.

Eli said he was positive, then bit his lip. But Decker knew he was lying. To confront him in the presence of his friends, in front of his teacher, was out of the question. But he’d get back to him later. The rest of the interviewing took around an hour, the other boys having nothing of interest to report. But Decker was optimistic.

He and Rina left the yeshiva and headed for the car. He opened the door for her, slipped into the driver’s seat, and started the motor. He waited until traffic had cleared both ways, then made an illegal U-turn and parked on the other side of the block. Rina asked him what was up.

“Ever been fishing?” Decker asked.

“No.”

“This is called ‘waiting for the bite.’”

“You’ve got something?”

“Maybe.”

Rina looked at him. “Do you really need to be this oblique?”

Decker laughed and explained his plan. Eli Greenspan lived only a few blocks away, catch him on his way home from school. He asked Rina if she had any idea when the place let out and she said maybe four or five—three to four hours from now. A few minutes passed.

Rina said, “Is this what you call a stakeout?”

Decker said uh-huh and fell quiet.

“Then where’s the thermos of coffee?” Rina asked.

Decker smiled but kept his eyes on the school’s entrance.

“Can we talk during these things?” Rina said. “Or do you do your staking out in silence.”

“We can talk,” he said.

But neither did.

Five minutes later a group of students came out of the building and milled about on the front steps. Then two boys broke away and started down the street.

Decker suddenly sat up. “That’s the kid.” He started the motor. “Where the hell are they going?”

Rina looked at her watch. Two-thirty. “They’re not sup
posed to be going anywhere. Kids that age don’t get off-campus privileges.”

“Then something’s cooking,” Decker said. “Keep your eyes on our boys.”

He pulled the Volare into traffic. Eli hadn’t lied about one thing. He and his companion had been walking only a few minutes before they turned into a walkway just a couple of blocks from the school. Decker made another illegal U-turn, parked in front, and leaped out of the car. He stuck his two forefingers inside his mouth and let out a whistle that could be heard a block away. The boys turned around. Decker jogged up the walkway.

The companion was heavier and shorter than Eli. His face was even-featured, but his cheeks and forehead were mosaics of tiny red bumps. He hadn’t been in the study hall when Decker had done the interviewing—maybe the boy was in a higher grade or lower grade. He looked at Decker and nervously asked what he wanted.

Decker said, “Why don’t you explain to your buddy who I am, Eli?”

The friend turned to Eli, who was staring at his feet.

No one spoke for a moment.

“What’s going on, Eli?” the friend said.

Eli remained mute.

Decker said, “What is it, son? You need your lawyer present before you speak?”

“I can’t talk to you here,” Eli mumbled.

“Then where?”

“Come back tomorrow—”

“No way,” Decker said.

“You don’t…” Eli shook his head. “I can’t think right now. I’m in a hurry.”

“I’ll be quick.” Decker pointed to the Volare. “You want to talk in the car?”

“Eli, who is this man?” the friend said. Boldly, he looked up at Decker and said, “He isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Chalk up one for the kid’s nerve, Decker thought. He was
scared, shaking, but did exactly what you’re supposed to do when someone you don’t know confronts you. You speak up.

“Shai, he’s a cop,” Eli said.

“You want to talk out here for the whole world to see,” Decker said, “that’s up to you.”

“I only have ten minutes left on my break,” Eli pleaded. “If I’m late again, I’ll get sent to the office.”

“How about after school?” Decker said.

“My sisters will be home,” Eli said. “Please. I’ll meet you early tomorrow morning—”

“Can’t wait that long,” Decker said. “Tell me what you know about Hersh.”

Shai involuntarily gasped. Decker turned to him.

“Name’s familiar to you, too?”

“Vey is mir,”
Shai said. “We can’t talk here. Too many people. Let’s go inside.”