Day of Atonement (24 page)

The sin could have been assault or robbery. For such a religious boy, it could even have been anal intercourse with the man he supposedly picked up.
Supposedly
. Without hearing him directly, without talking to him, it was hard for Decker to assess the accuracy of the call.

He called West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station and asked about the nightly activity. A Detective Jack Cleveland reported no murders. There had been assaults but all the suspects involved had been apprehended. The rest of the roster was taken up by burglaries and robberies—none of the details seemed to match the information Noam Levine had given his aunt. It was useless to go down and start questioning the patrons of local gay bars. Nothing public was open at this hour. He’d come back to it if necessary.

Next he phoned Central Substation. Downtown L.A. At last, he received some promising information. An ADW had gone down about four hours ago in an alley near the Hall of Records. The detective just assigned to the case was named Felipe Benderhoff. He reported that the victim—a six-one, two-hundred-pound, middle-aged WM named Thomas Stoner—was in serious but stable condition at Good Sam. Rather than get the details over the phone, Decker asked Benderhoff if he’d mind waiting for him to come down. It’d be easier to talk to him directly. Benderhoff said if Decker had some solid leads, he’d be happy to wait.

Decker hung up and tiptoed into the bedroom. Rina had conked out, her body entwined with the bedcovers. He smiled and imagined her leg draped around him instead of the quilt. He kept that picture in his mind as he rode the freeway to downtown.

Central Substation, on the corner of Wall and Sixth, was a block-long brick, windowless building fronted by an ornate mosaic of LAPD’s finest at work. Catercorner to it was the Greyhound Bus Terminal, a haven for the homeless on a rainy night. The other two corners were occupied by parking lots. Upon first glance, they seemed empty. But Decker took a further look and before long all sorts of furtive, feral things started darting through the darkness. Central was deep inside the mean streets, the surrounding blocks taken up by mental cases cursing at the moon, by drunks and addicts huddled under doorposts, shivering in tatters. Then there were the dealers. There was a watch spot right on the roof of the stationhouse. Officers would watch the buy go down with a telescope and swoop in for the arrest. But it was like an eagle going after an anthill. Mess things up for a moment, but come back the next day, there’s another anthill.

He parked the unmarked in the back lot, entered the reception area and was escorted to the detectives’ squad room by a black plainclothes cop whose biceps were straining the sleeves of his shirt. The room was good-sized, much larger than Foothill, but it wasn’t furnished any better. The desks
were either metal or raw wood and none of the chairs matched. Decker did notice that they had computers at most desks and push-button speaker phones.

Crimes Against Persons—CAPS—was situated against the back wall next to the lockers. A dark-complexioned man—the only person in the squad room—was seated at one of the desks, poring over some forms. He looked up when Decker entered. He was in his mid-thirties and had a long face capped by thick black hair. His nose was flat, his cheeks stretched over pronounced cheekbones. His eyebrows were bushy and topped startling bright blue eyes. He told Decker he was Benderhoff and motioned him over.

“Take a load off, Sergeant.”

Decker swung the seat around and sat with his chest leaning against the back of the chair. On top of the detective’s desk was a placard that read
LIFE’S A BITCH, THEN YOU MARRY ONE
.

“I’m just finishing up the paperwork,” Benderhoff said. “Like I told you, victim was hit on Third and Temple, multiple stab wounds to the chest. He placed his own nine-one-one call at a pay phone. Held on long enough to do what he had to do. Cruiser was there forty-five seconds later. He was just about out.”

“Was he assaulted in the phone booth?”

“Nope,” Benderhoff said. “We followed the blood. It led to a back alley about a block away. The victim must have crawled to the booth.”

“They do emergency surgery on him?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a long one. Forty minutes or so, mostly muscle damage but he lost blood. He’s in recovery, in stable condition. He managed to tell the patrol officers his name and phone number before he went under the knife. His wife’s with him now. Needless to say, she’s upset.”

“He came out okay considering.”

“Some people are lucky,” Benderhoff said. “He can talk, but for the most part, he’s out of it. Best as I could make out, he works downtown. He was walking to his car when a cou
ple of guys jumped him. Now there was no cars around where all the blood was. But they could have dragged him out of the public lot into the back alley.”

“Awful lot of work for the perps,” Decker said. “Stoner’s a big guy.”

“Yeah, something’s not right,” Benderhoff said. “His wife said he was supposed to be having a dinner meeting. But there are no real restaurants around where his car was parked. Now, maybe he was dropped off. But it would have made more sense for him to take his car to where he was going. Wanna know what I think? Guy was having a little nookie, his girl dropped him off a couple blocks from the office so no one he’d know would see him. He got jumped on the way home. The uniforms told me he was reeking of booze.”

“He wasn’t with anyone when he was attacked?”

“Nope. That fits in nicely with my dropoff theory.”

Decker said, “Do you know if Stoner is gay?”

“Gay?” Benderhoff’s eyes widened. “No indication. Why? What do you got for me?”

Decker showed him the pictures of Noam and Hersh, and, at length, explained the purpose of his visit. Benderhoff stared at the pictures as he listened, nodding at certain points. After Decker had finished, Benderhoff thought a moment, ran his fingers through his hair.

“You know,” he said, “this is a little out of my field. But there are a couple of local places where…you know, if you’re Mr. Businessman-in-the-closet-with-everything-to-lose, you can go somewhere for a little fun. Very posh. Very discreet. Far as I know, there’s been no trouble with the law. All of the members are the law-and-order types. But you might want to try Vice on that. They’d know more than I would.”

“The clubs would all be closed at this hour, wouldn’t they?”

“I’m sure they would.”

Decker said, “I think the easiest thing is to show Stoner a
bunch of the pictures. We’ll age-match them and I’ll throw mine in with the stooges.”

“Might be difficult with Mrs. Stoner there.” Benderhoff let out a small laugh. “I could use my charm. Smile at her with my baby blues and she’d follow me anywhere.”

“When were you planning to talk to Stoner?”

“I don’t know,” Benderhoff said. “Around seven, maybe eight. Something like that.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s four-thirty now. Good Sam’s in the neighborhood. We can grab a couple hours’ sleep upstairs, gulp down some coffee, and give it a whirl.”

Decker said that sounded good.

Benderhoff paused, then said, “This kid a relative of yours?”

“No,” Decker answered without pausing. “I’m doing a favor for my wife. She’s friendly with the family.”

“Must be some wife.”

Decker pulled out a photo of Rina—a professional one she had taken right before they married. Decker had wanted something to put on his desk. And he wanted to see her with her hair flowing long and loose, knowing the tresses would be covered or braided after they married. At first, she hadn’t wanted to do it—the time, the money, all the to-do with makeup and clothes. But he asked so little of her that she agreed without much of a fuss. All the proofs had turned out magnificently. The photographer had remarked that she could be a professional model and had wanted to put her portrait in the window. But Rina had asked him not to, clearly embarrassed by all the attention.

Benderhoff stared at the wallet-sized picture for a long time. Then he said, “Know what? If she was my wife, I’d do a favor for her, too.”

Thomas Stoner’s head lay on the pillow, as inert as marble. Tubes were in his nostrils, needles were in his arm. His hospital gown was open at the neck and curly gray hairs sprouted from his chest. His head hair was silver and thin,
very damp with sweat. His eyes were sunken, his thick lips almost bloodless. Decker was on the right side of the bed, Benderhoff was on the left. They sat very close to the man, gave him a minute to adjust to their presence. At last, Stoner gave them the go-ahead by nodding.

Benderhoff took out half a dozen photographs, including pictures of Noam and Hersh. “I’m gonna show you some faces one by one, Mr. Stoner. Nod if you see someone familiar.”

The first two snapshots produced no response. The third was a picture of Noam. That was also met with a blank stare. When Benderhoff showed Stoner Hersh’s high school picture, the man’s eyes widened several diameters.

“That’s him,” Stoner said.

“You’re sure?” Benderhoff said.

“Positive,” Stoner whispered. “Mother
fucker
.” He coughed from the exertion, deep grunts that almost blew out his nasal tubes. Then he quieted, lay very still.

Benderhoff and Decker exchanged looks.

Decker said, “You said two men jumped you?”

“Yes,” Stoner said.

“You can nod if it’s easier,” Decker said. “Okay, two men jumped you.” He pointed to Hersh’s picture. “One of them was this man?”

Stoner nodded. “The other…masked.”

Decker paused for a moment, addressed the comment to Benderhoff. “Funny, one was masked, the other wasn’t. Doesn’t at all sound like a typical mugging.”

Stoner’s eyes widened again.

“Mr. Stoner,” Decker said. “These guys are going to mug someone else. You were very lucky. Their next victim might not fare as well. I need to know exactly what happened, so I can find out how these two operate. Do you know what I’m driving at?”

Stoner’s eyes closed.

Decker said, “We sent your wife out so we could all be honest.”

Benderhoff said, “There’s no need for anything you say to be repeated outside this room.”

Stoner didn’t respond verbally, but tears rolled from his closed eyes.

“Mr. Stoner?” Benderhoff said.

“Go…on,” Stoner said. “I know…you know. But my wife…married thirty-two years. She…can’t find…out.”

“I understand,” Benderhoff said.

“Go ahead,” Stoner said.

“I’ll make this as quick as possible,” Decker said. “The clubs you go to…they’re very exclusive. How did this man get in?”

“My guest,” Stoner whispered.

“You knew him from before?” Benderhoff said.

Stoner shook his head. “He…was waiting…outside.”

“You brought him in,” Decker said. “He must have been dressed nicely.”

Stoner nodded. “So…young…virile. Told me he’d…he’d lost his ID card. He…was furious because…not letting him in. I believed…Looked the part. Spoke in a foreign accent…the right manners. I invited him…as my guest. I was…a fool. Should…know better. A weird smile.”

“Weird smile?” Decker said. “How?”

“Off-kilter.” Stoner turned to Benderhoff. “If my wife…she finds out…” He started to cough—pitiful, hacking sounds that caused him a lot of pain.

Decker waited until he quieted, then said, “So you invited him into the club. Had a couple of drinks.”

Stoner nodded. “Afterward, he suggested…we go…to his suite…at the Belle Maison.”

“His
suite
?” Decker said.

“Told me he was a German count. Heinrich Stremmer.” Stoner looked up. “I thought it was…bullshit. A hustler…lots of them…at the club. But he spoke…fluent German.”

Decker’s first thought was it might have been Yiddish. To
the untrained ear, the languages sounded identical. Then again, Hersh could have known German, too.

Stoner said, “His suite…too public. Then he suggested my office. I had told him…worked around here. He said…if someone saw us, I…could say he was…a client.”

Decker said, “You were attacked along the way.”

Stoner nodded.

“He set you up,” Decker said.

Stoner said, “I…a fool. Drunk…”

“He knew where you worked,” Benderhoff said.

“Yes,” Stoner whispered. “He must have.”

“Which one stabbed you?” Benderhoff said. “Or did both of them do it?”

“Heinrich,” Stoner whispered. “He stabbed…me. I was…” Tears rolled down his face. “So
betrayed
.”

“What about the other one?” Benderhoff said.

“The other?” Stoner shook his head. “Didn’t stab me. He tried to shoot me…but there were…no bullets.”

Decker thought: Everything Miriam had said was making sense. “So you never saw the one that tried to shoot you.”

Stoner shook his head.

“Only this one,” Decker said, pointing to Hersh again. “This is Heinrich. The one who stabbed you.”

“Yes,” Stoner whispered.

Benderhoff said, “Did Heinrich say anything about himself? Where he lived?”

“He said,” Stoner whispered, “he said…he lived in Germany. He spoke German.”

“And he was staying at the Belle Maison?” Benderhoff asked.

Stoner nodded.

“We’ll check it out,” Benderhoff said.

“They took your wallet,” Decker said.

“Yes,” Stoner said.

“Your wife can provide us with all your credit-card numbers?” Benderhoff said.

“Yes.”

“Your attackers may try to use them,” Decker said. He stood. “They could be a valuable lead as to where they are.”

Stoner nodded and closed his eyes again. Benderhoff knew he’d had enough. He stood and said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stoner.”

Stoner said, “My secret…I have a wife…who I wouldn’t hurt…my children as well.”

Benderhoff told him they’d be discreet.

Stretched out in the passenger’s seat of the unmarked, Benderhoff slurped coffee from a Styrofoam cup and said, “So what if it goes to the DA? Your little boy’s gonna plea bargain for state’s witness against Heinrich, who did the stabbing. All the gay stuff is gonna come out.”

“You’re assuming there’s enough evidence against my little boy to prosecute,” Decker said. He was driving south on Figueroa, heading back toward Central Substation.