Day of Atonement (17 page)

“Let’s go grab a couple of big sandwiches at a local deli,” Decker said. “You need some protein.”

“You know,” Rina said, “there’s a wonderful kosher dairy Italian place in Flatbush on Coney Island Avenue. Red-checkered tablecloths, sawdust on the floor. There are even wine bottles hanging from the doorway. And they make a mean eggplant parmesan.”

Decker shook his head. “Don’t want to waste the time. I need to cover as much ground as possible before it gets dark.”

“Of course,” Rina said. “I mean, we’re here to find Noam, not eat.”

Decker patted her hands and gave her a warm smile. She was disappointed but trying not to show it. The glamour of detective work was fading fast.

That was good.

Decker took off
his yarmulke, then walked into the Empire Liquor House. The same thin black man was at the register. He was reading a magazine and looked up when he heard the Doberman grumble.

“I was hopin’ for someone like you. I could use some more pocket change.”

“Then it’s your lucky day.” Decker flipped out a twenty, held it between his first and second fingers. “You don’t know any kid named Hersh, how about a kid named Tony?”

Thin smiled. “They’s all named Tony.”

“Do these Tonys have a last name?”

“I don’t pay attention,” Thin said.

Decker leaned over the counter until he was almost nose to nose with Thin. “Well, maybe you should pay attention, buddy, because some of these Tonys are dealing. Now it may seem like nothing to you to pass a little weed back and forth, but man, if these rabbis find out you’re polluting their kids—”

“Who said I was pollutin’—”

“Let alone having minors hang around your store—”

“What!”

“These
hymies
have tempers,” Decker said. “But hell, with a dump like this, a smashed window isn’t going to make much of a difference—”

“You tryin’ to muscle me, man?”

“God forbid,” Decker said. “I’m just trying to jog your memory.” He smiled. “Now where were we? Oh, yes, you were going to tell me all your Tonys’ last names.”

Thin just glared.

Decker threw up his hands. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He headed for the door, then turned around. “Does the word
chaptzum
mean anything to you?”

Thin screwed up his face. “I know what you’re sayin’.”

“Then why don’t you give yourself a break?”

“Hmmmmm.” Thin pondered a moment. “Maybe I can come up with a name or two.”

Decker walked back to the counter and waited.

“They’s a Tony Madiglioni,” Thin said. “He’s ’bout twenty-six or -seven—”

“Too old. I’m looking for a Tony who sells weed and brings along thirteen-year-old boys for gofers.”

Thin thought a moment. “Yeah, that’d be a Tony. ’Bout twenty, maybe twenty-one. Never said his last name—”

“Cut the shit—”

“I’m tellin’ it
straight
, Mr. Heat. But for your twenty…” Thin snapped the bill away from Decker. “I will tell you something of in-te-rest. This Tony—no last name—once crashed with a kid named Ernie Benedetto in Flatbush. Now I haven’t seen Ernie in a long time. Could be the kid got busted, could be the kid took a hike. But the two of them—they used to live together.”

Decker asked, “Did Tony and Ernie do more than room together?”

Thin shook his head. “Don’t think so. Tony, he sure knew a lot of teenage boys, I always suspected that kids was his thing. But I don’t
know
that he did something with them. Ernie liked girls—least he used to talk like he liked girls.” He looked at the twenty in his hand. “I think I’ve given you more than your money’s worth.”

Decker said, “We’ll see about that.” But he dropped an
other ten on the counter anyway. Informants in foreign cities were hard to come by.

“Ernest Benedetto,” the desk sergeant said. His name was Mahoney, a man in his forties with a florid complexion and pecan-colored hair that had been combed straight back. “No, Ernest Benedetto don’t ring no bell to me. But that don’t mean nuttin’. All it means is that there’s so many assholes, I can’t keep track of ’em all.”

It was four in the afternoon. Decker had wanted to drop Rina off, but she was determined to stick it out with him. Besides, she said, she was reading a good book. So she waited in the car while he talked shop with the boys at the Six-Seven. One thing about NYPD, they were accommodating to the brothers.

Decker said, “Can you punch Benedetto into the computer, find out if he has a yellow sheet?”

“No problem,” Mahoney said, typing in the name. “Let’s hear it for electronic wizardry.” He waited a moment, then said, “Oh my, oh my, Ernie’s been a busy boy.”

Decker studied the monitor. Benedetto had been busted for possession—six months’ jail sentence. Served his time as a trusty until one day he’d walked off the premises and forgotten to return. A warrant had been issued for his arrest.

Mahoney regarded Decker. “Is he involved in your kidnapping?”

“I don’t know,” Decker said. “Can you punch up his last known address?”

Mahoney said, “Man, with these computers, I could tell you the last time he took a dump.”

Mahoney fed the computer, gave Decker the information a few moments later.

Decker said, “Now can you cross-reference that address with any other names?”

“I can cross-reference it,” Mahoney said, “but the computer’s only gonna spit out names of record holders. To get
names of Joe Civilian, youse gonna have to use the backwards directories or call the phone company.”

Decker said, “Try it anyway.”

“Sure.”

There were no other names.

“Okay,” Decker said. “Can you try this? Can you see if you can get hold of Benedetto’s former addresses.”

“We can try,” Mahoney said. Three other sets of numbers appeared on the monitor. “Now you want me to cross-reference those with other names?”

“You bet,” Decker said. He held his breath.

Nothing.

Which meant either Tony/Hersh didn’t have a record or the list of addresses was incomplete.

“I’ll have someone bring you out the last five years’ worth of backwards directories,” Mahoney said. “You can look up the addresses; they’ll tell you name and phone numbers of the people they used to belong to.”

“That would be super,” Decker said. “In the meantime, can you punch in the name Hersh Schwartz, Shartz, or Shatz and see if anyone with those names has a record?”

“You got it,” Mahoney said.

Five minutes later, Decker saw a woman officer teetering under the weight of five large phone books. It wasn’t until he took the books away that he noticed she was gravid, ready to drop any moment. She smiled as he stared, saying that the exercise was good for the baby.

Decker parked himself at an empty table, out of the way of foot traffic.

He opened the first book.

Nothing.

Mahoney called out that their computer had no record of any Hersh Schwartz, Shartz, or Shatz.

A half hour later, Decker hit the mother lode with book number four. A Benedetto address was cross-referenced to a man named Tony Sacaretti. He walked over to Mahoney and asked him to feed the computer the name.

“Tony Sacaretti?” Mahoney said, punching in the letters. “Never heard of him.”

It came out
nehvahoidovem
.

Decker waited, jaw clenched. All he needed was for Hersh to fuck up just one time. For a scumbag like him, that wasn’t too much to ask for.

His faith in the depravity of human nature was rewarded.

Bingo!

Tony Sacaretti alias Hersh Schaltz. Arrested for misdemeanor possession three years ago, nineteen at the time. Sentenced to two years’ probation. Hersh was now a free man. The computer hadn’t mentioned the name the first time around because the address had been an old one—before Hersh had been entered into the computer.

Mahoney said, “That your man?”

“Bet your ass,” Decker said.

“Okay,” Mahoney said. “Now if you just hang on a sec.” He typed rapidly onto the keyboard, then waited. A few seconds later, there was another readout. “Movin’ right along, this is Schaltz’s last known address according to Probation.”

“There a phone number with the address?” Decker asked.

“Yep.” Mahoney pushed another button. In a matter of seconds, the information on the monitor was printed on paper. He tore off the sheet.

Decker regarded the printout. This address, this
lone
address. He hoped it was the place where Noam Levine was hiding out. But if Hersh Schaltz had nothing to do with Noam’s disappearance, Decker had
nothing
. He asked Mahoney if he could use the phone. Mahoney said it was right behind him, press the third button.

Decker called the number listed. It rang and rang and rang.

At least it wasn’t disconnected.

Then he called the phone company. Using Mahoney’s badge number, he asked for a name to match up with the number in question.

A deep-voiced woman told him the number was billed to a Hersh Schaltz.

“And the number is still operable?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time the bill was paid?”

The woman told him to hold on a moment. She came back and announced that the bill was, in fact, a month overdue. If he was intending to talk to Mr. Schaltz, she’d appreciate it if he informed Mr. Schaltz of that fact.

Decker thanked her and hung up.

“I am out of here,” he announced to Mahoney. “If you ever get out my way, you’ve got a free trip to Disneyland for you, the wife, and the kids.”

Mahoney smiled broadly. “No shit? Hey, that’s real nice of you.”

“M’pleasure,” Decker said, thinking: Tickets to Disneyland were twenty-one fifty per adult, not much cheaper for kids. At this rate, he’d spend a week’s worth of salary making good on his promises.

Hersh Schaltz lived in a ten-story tenement house off Flatbush Avenue. It was a square brick thing, tattooed with graffiti, its front walkway overrun with papers, broken glass, and beer cans.

Decker parked in front. He turned to Rina and said, “I don’t want you to come in with me, but I don’t want to leave you alone outside. Maybe I should take you home.”

“I don’t want you going inside by yourself,” Rina said. “I’ll be your backup.”

“With an unloaded gun?”

“Give me some bullets.”

“I don’t have any thirty-eight shells. All I have are clips.”

“Well, nobody’s going to know if the gun’s loaded or not,” Rina said. “It’s all in the appearances.”

Decker stared at her. She’d removed the old kerchief and looked about as threatening as a Playboy Bunny. “You don’t strike a mean pose, Rina.”

“Well, I’m not going to wait out here by myself. And
you’ll waste a lot of time if you go back and forth. Let me come with you.”

Against his better judgment, Decker agreed.

When they got to the front door, they found out it was a security building. Directly to the left was a long column of numbered buttons with no names to identify the people living inside. Decker peered through the glass doors. A dimly lit hallway, old linoleum on the floor, paper peeling from the walls. A bank of mailboxes was visible to the right.

“Your eyes are better than mine,” he said. “Look at the mailboxes and see if you can find me the building manager’s number.”

Rina squinted. “I can’t make out anything.”

“Damn,” Decker said.

Rina pressed a random button.

“What are you doing?” Decker asked.

A speaker-slurred voice said a muffled “Who’s there?” through the intercom.

“Waterworks,” Rina said. “Which unit is the super’s?”

“One-oh-four,” the voice answered back.

“Thank you,” Rina said. She looked at Decker and smiled.

“Clever,” Decker said.

“You can take it from here,” Rina said.

Decker smiled sarcastically and pressed 104. He identified himself, and a second later they were buzzed in.

The super met them in the hallway wearing a torn sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants a size too small. He was a rotund man with coarse black hair and matching mustache. He said his name—something Slavic and unpronounceable.

The super knew it and said, “You can call me Jerz.” He eyed Rina. “What can I do for the police?”

His voice was a foghorn, thickly accented.

“I’m looking for a tenant named Hersh Schaltz.”

“Hersh Schaltz?” Jerz thought a moment, then shook his head.

“How about Tony Sacaretti?”

Again, Jerz said no.

Decker showed Jerz the printout. “Who lives in unit six-eighteen?”

“Six-eighteen?” Jerz scratched his head. “That is the German…Heinrich Stremmer.”

“Heinrich Stremmer?” Rina said.

Jerz nodded. “Kid ’bout twenty-one, skinny body but big shoulder muscles. Dark hair. He don’t look German.”

“I think he’s the one,” Decker said. “Can you open his place for us?”

“Why don’t you knock on door?”

“I don’t think he’s in,” Decker said.

“I don’t know,” Jerz said. “Two people snooping around.”

Decker said, “You do us this small favor, and I’ll mail you back bus fare plus free passes to Disneyland for you and the family.”

Jerz’s eyes lit up. “You not joking?”

“I’m not joking.”

“For me, my wife, and my son?”

Thank God, he only had one kid.

“For all three of you,” Decker said.

Jerz shrugged. “I do it for you. But you don’t make no mess.”

“No mess,” Rina said.

“I believe you, young lady,” Jerz said. “Follow me.”

They climbed the stairs. Jerz was winded and wheezing when they reached the sixth-floor landing. Heinrich Stremmer lived in a flat in the middle of a dark, musty hallway redolent of urine. Muted sounds could be heard from the other units, greasy smells leaked under doorways. The passageway was cold and Rina let out a small shiver. Jerz first knocked on the door. When that didn’t produce a response, he pulled out a ring of keys.

Decker said, “Do you know if Mr. Stemmer—”

“Stremmer, Str—emmer.”

“Mr. Stremmer,” Decker corrected himself, “was behind on his rent?”

“I don’t know,” Jerz said. He sorted through his keys. “You have to ask owners.”

“Who owns the building?” Decker said.

“Corporation with letters,” Jerz said. “ICMB, IBMC, BCIM—ah, here’s key.”

Jerz inserted the key in the lock, the door opened.

Rina said, “Uh-oh.”

Mentally, Decker echoed the sentiment. But the first words out of his mouth were, “Don’t touch anything!” Jerz started to enter the flat, but Decker gently held him back.

“Wait,” he said.

Then he did what he always did when about to enter a crime scene. He used his eyes as cameras.

The place was as stripped as a motel room past checkout time. The living room held a scarred coffee table scored with deep gouges, and two mismatched end tables also pocked with knife wounds. Both were void of any newspapers or magazines. The sofa was lumpy, the carpet spotted with grease. The shades were yellowed, pulled down, swallowing the incoming light. Only a beam sneaked through where one shade had been neatly slashed down the center.