Day of Atonement (25 page)

“Yeah,” Benderhoff said. “Good point. State don’t got no witnesses, no physical evidence, state don’t got diddly-squat on your boy. Just the word of Count Heinrich and that’s worth shit. So maybe we can keep the old guy’s secret a secret, huh?”

“I hope so,” Decker said. He finished his coffee, bunched the Styrofoam into a ball and threw it in the backseat.

Benderhoff said, “Know something? The coffee’s pretty good.”

“It should be at two fifty a throw,” Decker said.

“No one ever said the Belle Maison was cheap,” Benderhoff said. “They really should have comped us.”

Decker said, “At least no one can accuse us of taking graft.”

Benderhoff laughed. “Well, Count Heinrich was never a paying guest there. You know this dude better than I do. Where do you think he is?”

Decker said, “I think my boy called his aunt using a booth
near the freeway interchanges. I’m going to check out locations. We could also try the local dives in this area.”

Benderhoff said, “I’ll check out the downtown sewer holes. I know all the guys anyway.”

“Sounds good,” Decker said.

“Although if I were them, I wouldn’t stick around too close to my dirty work,” Benderhoff said.

“Yep,” Decker said. “They’ve probably split. I’ve got about another four, maybe five days until I officially come back to work. I’ll keep looking. I find anything, I’ll call you first.”

“Likewise,” Benderhoff said. “Nice working with you.”

“Same,” Decker said. “Let me ask you something. How’d you get a name like Felipe Benderhoff?”

“A Peruvian mother and a German father,” Benderhoff said. “Their marriage was shit from day one. My old man was twenty years older than my mother. If truth be told, I think he was an ex-Nazi. Anyway, my mother was hot-blooded, always going hysterical. My father had ice water in his veins. But something good did come out of it. My coloring. My baby blues and my thick black hair. Drives the women wild.”

He paused, then said, “I’m colored like your wife.”

Decker said, “She’s fairer.”

“Yeah, but I mean the hair and the eyes.”

Decker said that was true.

“Maybe I’m her long-lost brother,” Benderhoff quipped.

“Not a chance,” Decker said.

There were four
public booths near the 10-East, none situated near fleabag hotels. But Decker did notice that one of the booths was fifty yards from an overpass. Beneath it was a sheltered spot used by the homeless. At eleven in the morning, most of the transients were up. Men with matted hair were stuffing their respective belongings into torn plastic bags. They were of indeterminate age—any one of them could have been from twenty to fifty. Next to the pack rats, a grizzled old man with a gray beard was sucking on a bottle of Thunderbird. He was lying on his side, running his finger across moist dirt stubbled with weeds. Across from him, two other men were talking to themselves while eating a breakfast of dog food scooped out of cans with their fingers. They looked at Decker with fearful eyes, cradled their meager possessions as if they were babies.

Decker lit a cigarette, not because he wanted a smoke but to kill the stench. He puffed out a few clouds, then pulled out a fin and the snapshots of Hersh and Noam. Everyone eagerly nodded, said yes they were here, then held out their hands. Worthless information.

Decker flicked the bill between his fingers.

“Where did they go?” he asked.

Again, he got answers, but nothing that he believed to be true.

Then the grizzled man with the Thunderbird spoke up. He pointed a finger at Decker and said, “They were here.”

His statement was followed by a drone of: “They were here! They were here!” Then out came the empty palms. Decker pushed the palsied hands aside. He bent down next to the old man until they were face-to-face. The coot reeked of alcohol, as if he’d been preserved in the stuff. On top of that, his teeth were so rotten, Decker could smell putrefaction on his breath. He took a very deep drag on his cigarette.

“What makes you so sure about it, old man?”

“’Cause one of ’em gave me sompin’,” the coot said.

“What’d he give you?” Decker asked.

The coot shook his head. “Uh, uh, uh. You gonna take it from me, if I show you it.”

Decker flashed the money in front of the old man’s face. “You show it to me, and if I like it, I’ll buy it from you.”

The old man scrunched his eyebrows. He ran his tongue against his hollow cheeks. Then he continued sucking on his wine.

Decker showed him the pictures. “Both of these guys were here last night?”

The coot broke suction with the bottle. “For a coupla hours. This one”—he banged his hand against Hersh’s picture—“he slept. But this one”—this time the hand went to Noam’s picture—“he got up and came back later…and he wasn’t ’apposed to do that. ’Cause the big one said…‘Don’t go away.’ But the little one…he wennaway anyhow.”

Decker said, “Know where the little one went?”

The old man shook his head. “Just…away. But he came back. And he saw me lookin’ at ’im. And he knew he wasn’t ’apposed to go away. So he says to me…‘You can have this, but only if you don’t say nothin’.’ So I don’t say nothin’.”

“What did he give you?” Decker asked.

“You wanna buy it?”

“Maybe,” Decker said. “I’ve got to see it first, old man.”

“Well…” The coot reached under his hip and pulled out a ski mask. “Itsa good one.” He examined it and offered it to Decker. “No holes.”

Decker stuffed the five inside the old man’s pocket and took the mask.

Rina started when she heard the car pull up into the driveway. She’d been reclining on the living-room sofa, reading, and without realizing it, had fallen asleep. The drapes were open, the afternoon sun shining through the picture window. Rina rubbed her eyes, glanced around the room. A warm, friendly place even though it was uniformly masculine: roughhewn beam ceiling, fir-planked floor topped by a Navajo rug, buckskin chairs framing the fireplace, driftwood coffee table in front of the sofa. All of the furniture made extra-large to accommodate her husband. She heard the front door open. Ginger started to bark.

“Peter?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

His voice sounded tired.

A plastic bag fell next to her leg.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Don’t open it,” Decker said.

Ginger kept barking.

“Could you acknowledge your dog, please?” Rina asked.

Decker bent down and scratched the setter behind her ears. Then he sat beside Rina and ran his hands over his face. “In that bag is physical evidence that puts Noam Levine at the site of a very nasty assault.”

“Oh, my God!”

“You said it.” Decker looked up and broke into a smile. “Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Give your old man a hug.”

Rina embraced him tightly, kissed his chest. He stretched out on the couch and laid his head in her lap. She brushed hair off his forehead and said, “What are you going to do with it?”

Decker said, “I wish I knew Shakespeare. He must have a line that would fit this kind of moral dilemma.” He sighed. “I’m not legally required to turn it in because I’m not working in any sort of official capacity. But I’m a cop, I saw what they did to the victim. No one should be allowed to walk away from that kind of thing.”

“What did Noam actually do? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“Well, I’m not sure he actually
did
anything,” Decker said. “But I think he was present when the assault took place. How much he participated…” He shrugged.

“You’re very tired, aren’t you?” Rina said. “And you smell of tobacco and alcohol. Where’d you find the evidence?”

“In a little shantytown beneath an overpass of the Ten-East. Apparently, Noam gave it to one of the transients.”

“They spent the night there?”

“Part of the night,” Decker said. “They’re gone now. They’re not in any of the downtown spots. Benderhoff checked them out.”

“Should I know who Benderhoff is?”

Decker smiled. “No, you’ve never met him. He’s from Central—a CAPS detective assigned to the case. Hersh and Noam aren’t in any of the homeless spots in the downtown area, either. I checked those out personally. I haven’t the foggiest idea where they went.”

“If you think they might be hiding with the homeless, what about Santa Monica? Lots of them roam the Palisades just above Pacific Coast Highway. They’re always there. Even in the wintertime. Venice, too.”

“Actually, the beach is warmer than the valleys in the winter. Something about the ocean currents…” Decker turned onto his side, snuggled deeper in her lap and closed his eyes. Ginger stood on her hind paws and licked Decker’s nose. “I planned on checking out the beach area. But first I need some sleep.”

“Are you hungry?” Rina asked, stroking his hair.

“Too tired to be hungry.” He petted Ginger’s head. “Man come to feed the horses?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Good.”

“I’m making a big dinner,” she said. “By the way, Cindy returned your phone call while you were gone. She asked me what we were doing back here so early. Rather than explain it all on the phone, I invited her to dinner.”

“Is she coming?”

“She said yes.”

Decker smiled. Whenever he thought about his daughter, he smiled. Then he thought about Frieda Levine and her family. Was it fair with his news to hold this knowledge from Cynthia? After all, she was a blood relative to these people. He had told her about his origins when she was eight, after she’d mentioned that nobody in Daddy’s family looked like each other. It was hard, but he thought she was mature enough to deal with the truth. She’d understood it all very well. She also knew better than to pry deeply into Daddy’s life and never again brought up the topic.

It wasn’t from lack of curiosity. Cindy had been a very inquisitive child, interested in everything. But she respected Daddy’s privacy, just as he respected hers. He loved her enthusiasm, loved to talk to her. He was delighted she was coming to dinner. Maybe he’d bring up the adoption tonight and see how she’d react.

No, he probably wouldn’t.

Too much to assess on so little sleep. He’d think about it later. Rina was talking to him.

“What are you going to do about the evidence?”

Decker opened his eyes. “The evidence?”

Rina held up the bag.

“Oh, that,” Decker said. “I’ve come to a decision—a semi-ethical compromise. When this thing is over—if it ever gets over—I’m going to evaluate Noam myself. If I think he’s salvageable, I’ll close my eyes to justice and throw the damn thing away. But if he’s not…I throw
him
to the wolves, and damn the family consequences.”

“I think that sounds very fair, Peter,” Rina said.

“You’re very supportive,” Decker said. “Good night.”

When he was deep asleep, Rina slithered out from under him. She debated for a moment whether she should write a note, then thought, the heck with it. He’d just have a fit and it wasn’t worth that.

She went inside the kitchen and found Peter’s spare key ring hanging on the wall. He must have twenty keys in his possession—probably a key to every men’s bathroom at the station house. It looked like a janitor’s ring. Among the lot were bound to be the keys to the Porsche.

She jingled the ring for a moment, then peered inside her purse. The gun was nestled at the bottom, tucked beneath loose tissues. She slung her bag over her shoulder and closed the door quietly behind her.

Hank brushed lint off English-worsted gray-flannel slacks, thinking: If the boys back home could see him now. Hundred and fifty bucks for the pants, seventy-seven for the shirt—Sea Island cotton. Then there was another fifty for the tie cause it was pure silk and imported from Wopland. Count Heinrich Stremmer would wear pure silk ties, natch.

Only trouble was that the duds ate up almost half the take. The rest was taken up by food—a real waste, you’d eat it, then shit it out—and cash shelled out for the roachtrap they had checked into. Then, there was Nick-O. As promised, Nick-O, or
Nicholas
, when Heinrich Stremmer was in his German mood, got his Aerosmith T-shirt and a new pair of black jeans. Hank thought Nick-O would be happy, but the kid just tossed the bag on the fleabag mattress and went back to sulking.

Hank had screamed,
I just spent a fuckin’ hour pickin’ that out for you and you toss it away like it was garbage?

Nick-O had a strange expression on his face. All he had said was:
So return it
.

Strange reaction. Hank wasn’t sure he liked it. Last night had changed Nick-O. He sulked, but he stopped whining. Which was good in a way ’cause the whining was really get
ting on Hank’s nerves. But it was bad, ’cause Nick-O didn’t seem as scared of him. Yeah, he still did what he was told to do, but it was the ’tude. A totally different ’tude. He wasn’t freaked when Hank brought in the fish, when Hank started sharpening the knives. When he brought in the trout, Nick-O told him—yeah,
told
him, not
asked
him—to take it in the bathroom.

You tellin’ me what to do?

I’m not telling you what to
do, Nick-O had answered.
I’m just telling you to take it into the bathroom. I’m tired of smelling the fish. What is it with you and fish anyway?

Hank would have backhanded the kid right there and then, but Nick-O was playing with the gun. And it was loaded this time. Hank didn’t think it was smart to backhand a kid when he was holding a loaded Beretta.

Why are you so hung up on fish?
Nick-O had pressed.

That little
fucker
. Questioning him again. And with no respect! Hank would have pounced on him, gun or no gun, but a little voice stopped him. And that same little voice had told him maybe it was good that Nick-O was a little tougher. Did he really want a wimp to protect him? Still, he had to keep Nick-O in line. But do it subtle like. Don’t explode. Forget about the pounding in the head, the hot fire behind the eyes.

Teach him with class.

Slowly, Hank had sauntered over to the kid, twirling the knife between his fingers as if it were a baton. Measured steps, each one brought just a tiny bit of fear back into Nick-O’s eyes.

Good, good.

With lightning-fast reflexes, he swatted the gun out of Nick-O’s hands, locked the boy’s head in his arms, and held the knife under his nose. Then Hank had said,

I like fish, ’cause I like to practice
gutting
things
.

Nick-O didn’t answer. Not even after Hank had released him.

Very good.

Hank had noticed immediately that Nick-O’s eyes
weren’t quite as cocky as they were a moment ago. But they weren’t as scared as he would have liked, either. Then Hank had broken into a smile, feeling the right side of his lip curl higher than the left side.

But if it bothers you, Nick-O
…

Slap on the shoulder.

Hey, if it bothers you, guy, I’ll take it in the bathroom. Running water. Easier to clean up anyway. After I’m done, we’ll get ourselves some duds
.

Yeah, the clothes were great, but they couldn’t possibly compare to
that
feeling. That first stab when you break skin and feel that wet stream roll over your fingers. And you dig a little deeper until you feel the guts of the fish. Then you uncoil it slowly, bit by bit, inch by inch. Stick your hands in the blood. Then you look up at the sucker’s face and see it flail and squirm. But goddamn it, it knows it’s trapped.

Squirm, squirm, squirm.

And the fish begins to fight for its life. Just like the dickhead would squirm for his life.

But the dickhead would know it was over. Over, man, it’s
over
.

Now, you slice. A little nick here, a little nick there. The dickhead’s beggin’ you.

No mercy. No
rachmanos
.

Did the dickhead have
rachmanos
on you when he made you wear those smelly old clothes and all the kids made fun of you?

A deeper slice.

Or did the dickhead have mercy on you, when he made you sit alone in your room and spend hours tryin’ to read shit you couldn’t understand?

A sudden big stab.

Or when he punished you by not talkin’ to you for days. Or when he laughed at your schoolwork. Or when he called you dumb. Or when he told you you were just like the old lady. Or when he left you alone with the old lady for weeks at a time ’cause he had to go away on business.