Sanctuary (17 page)

Lying in bed, Rina had the book in front of her, but had read the same page for the last fifteen minutes. Peter was still on the phone, saying a lot of uh-huhs, and taking a lot of notes. She was dying to look over his shoulder, but didn’t. Finally, he ended the conversation with a “thanks a heap, I’ll call you tomorrow,” then hung up the receiver. He plopped down on the bed. Rina put down her book and waited.

Peter stared at the ceiling, then at her. “How about a two-minute recap?”

“That should tide me over, thanks.”

“The official cause of death was drowning. So why was Gershon Klein shot in the head?”

“A coverup.”

“You’re good,” Decker said. “Dintz, the detective assigned to the case, is working on the assumption that the shooting was done afterward—to throw the police off track.”

“The ploy obviously didn’t work.”

“Autopsies don’t lie, and all homicide victims are autopsied. Death by drowning is a very easy thing to spot.”

“I’m confused,” Rina said. “Are you saying that Gershon was drowned on purpose? Then someone shot him to make it look like a normal murder?” She frowned. “Normal murder. Now there’s a contradiction in terms.”

“It looks that way.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “Seems to me, we’re working with amateurs instead of professional hit men.”

“What kind of amateurs?”

“Could be anyone—disgruntled friends…family…wife that’s pissed because her husband won’t make love to her anymore.”

“You mean Honey?” Rina shook her head. “I don’t believe it! I refuse to believe that. Beside, Honey’s what?…five four. Gershon was a lot bigger than that.”

Good point, Decker thought. Man, he was tired. His brain waves were close to flatlining. “I need some sleep.”

Rina leaned over and kissed him. “You’re going to keep working on the case, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Decker said. “I don’t care what her Rebbe says. Something’s rotten in the state of New York.”

“He seemed genuinely concerned about Honey’s safety, leery about the family’s whereabouts. He seemed to feel you could be endangering them.”

“And just
what
is he basing his thoughts on, Rina?”

She shrugged.

“You know what I think?”

“He’s holding back.”

“Bingo, you win the Thanksgiving turkey. Either he knows something bad or he’s protecting somebody.”

“Honey?”

“Maybe Honey. Maybe someone in the community. Maybe even himself.”

Rina stared at her husband incredulously. “Are you
actually
saying that the Rebbe had something to do with Gershon’s murder?”

“I’m saying I have a trained nose and, baby, I smell a rat.” He turned away from her. “Let’s go to bed.”

Rina waited a beat, then shut the lights off.

At his desk at seven the next morning, the first thing Decker did was call up West LA. His intentions were to leave a recorded message for Detective Sturgis, the one who had been assigned to Honey’s abandoned van. But to Decker’s surprise, Sturgis was in.

Decker filled him in. “Anything new I should know about?”

“Not on my end.” Sturgis paused. “What’s your make on the drowning?”

“Someone was working the guy over and didn’t want to leave marks. You know. Dunking his head in the toilet. Meanwhile, the wife was conveniently out of town. It could have been mob. But it sure could have been an arrangement made by the wife. But if she actually arranged the water torture, what was she trying to gain? To get any kind of renumeration like an insurance policy, her husband would have to kick.”

“He did kick.”

“A messy way to arrange a hit, don’t you think? Especially if you’re going to shoot him anyway. No, I’m thinking something got bungled. They were working him over but he wasn’t supposed to die.”

“Or could be someone
meant
to drown him. The head shot was done to confuse us. Which is precisely what it’s doing. Has anyone checked out the insurance policies?”

“Dintz from Manhattan said there’s none to speak of.
But Gershon Klein was a diamond dealer. I’m sure he has some fancy stones in inventory.”

Sturgis said, “You want to know my take? She ripped off her husband, hired thugs to pop him, cashed out her stones here, then went underground.”

“But, Sturgis, she didn’t go underground. She came out
here
, to LA with her family.”

“To throw everyone off track before she made her big escape.”

“She’s religious. She’d have a hard time hiding.”

“Unless she decided to become un-religious.”

Decker thought about that. Honey was a religious woman swathed in clothing and custom—a lady who covered her hair practically all of her adult life. To change her appearance all she’d have to do would be take off her wig, put on some tight jeans, and eat
tref
. No one would recognize her.

“You still there?” Sturgis asked.

“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. If Honey decided to become un-religious, she could hide very easily. But, no pun intended, old habits die hard. If Honey chose to remain Orthodox, a religious lady just doesn’t have too many hiding spots in
this
country. I think there is a very real possibility that the lady bolted to Israel.”

Sturgis paused. “Yeah, could be. You know anything about Israel?”

“I’ve heard there are lots of religious people in certain areas. Lots of places to hide. Honey and her family could easily fade into the miasma.”

“That being the case nobody’s going to find her.”

“
We’re
not going to find her, that’s true. But an insider probably could.”

“You’ve got someone in mind?”

“I have only one international informant on Israel, Sturgis. But she’s a doozy.”

Marge raised her eyebrows and drank lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Just like Chucky the Clown to keep us waiting.”

“Be charitable, Dunn. It isn’t even eight yet.”

Marge grumped, set the cup on a side table, and took in the office—nice but it wasn’t overdone. An institutional desk, a leather couch, a couple of glass and chrome side tables, and one picture window with a smoggy view of the SF Valley. The bookshelves were filled with folders and binders. A moment later, Chucky graced them with his presence. He was dressed in a conservative-cut blue suit, white shirt, and hand-painted tie—doves and swans in brilliant colors. Must be how bankers let their hair down, Marge thought. She stood and held out her hand. Holmes took hers first, then Decker’s.

“Thanks for making time for us,” Marge said, returning to her seat.

“As long as you’re brief.” Holmes sat in his black leather desk chair and rubbed his forehead. “I’ve got the IRS breathing down my neck, angry that this wasn’t reported yesterday. I told them you had the paperwork but that didn’t seem to mollify them. They’re out for me now. I can just
feel
it.” He looked up at Marge and Decker, eyes ablaze. “Just
who
do they think they are?”

The room was silent for a moment. Holmes cleared his throat. “Yes, well…the Yaloms were valued clients. I do want to help you—as long as you’re quick about it.”

Decker got comfortable in his seat. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sure you know that money is always considered a prime motive for murder. Tell me everything you know about the Yaloms. I want to know what they had…what someone could have been after.”

Holmes’s eyes went upward. “The bank holds the mortgage on his home. We also hold a note for a loan totaling three quarters of a million dollars. He was timely with his payments.”

Decker said, “Is the loan secured or unsecured?”

Holmes winced. “Unsecured.”

“So you must know something about Mr. Yalom’s assets,” Marge said.

“I felt…” Holmes squirmed. “I felt comfortable loaning him the money.”

“You arranged the loan personally?” Marge asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you know about Mr. Yalom’s investments.”

Holmes hesitated. “I know there’s no confidentiality with the dead, Detectives. Especially murder victims. But, like I told the department yesterday when the detective called, I still feel…unloyal talking about Mr. Yalom’s affairs, even to policemen.”

Like I told the department yesterday
? Decker pulled out his notebook and scanned through the pages. Who the hell did Holmes talk to? “Mr. Holmes, do you remember whom at the department you spoke to yesterday?”

Holmes made a quizzical face. “Detective Misheria or Mishtara, or Mistara. He had a broad Texas accent. He didn’t speak to you?”

Decker shook his head. “No, we…must have missed each other.”

“I didn’t talk to him for very long. I was very busy. But I did let the authorities into the box. Anyway, it wasn’t the appropriate time to start talking about Arik Yalom’s foreign investments.”

Again, Marge and Decker passed meaningful glances. “Well, maybe you can help us out now,” he said. “Who handled Mr. Yalom’s overseas operations?”

Holmes snorted. “I wouldn’t exactly call them operations.”

“More like risky business ventures,” Marge broke in.

Holmes pursed his lips. “Ah…you must have seen all the certificates in his safe-deposit box. Yes, he had invested in quite a few speculative ventures.”

“Your idea?” Marge asked.

“Of course not! We’re in the business of keeping money, not losing it. I was quite blunt with Arik. I told him—
straight out. But Arik had his own mind when it came to business.”

Marge said, “Did Mr. Yalom have success with any of his mining investments?”

Holmes chuckled. “Success is a state of mind.”

“Meaning?”

“He felt he was successful.”

“What about you?” Decker asked.

“Sergeant, I could have doubled that man’s portfolio with my eyes closed. The typical balance we’re currently recommending is twenty percent cash, ten percent debits, seventy percent equities. It’s not fancy, it’s not exotic. But it is prudent. Arik wanted big time.”

“Did he get big time?” Marge asked.

“Not to my knowledge. Not only were his cash reserves depleted from a high inventory in stones, but any profits he made from his legitimate business went toward venture capital in his Africa scheme. I’m not saying there isn’t money to be made from alluvial mining of Angola beds. There are stones to be found. But it’s iffy at best, and you know the political situation in Africa right now—volatile with a capital V. Mr. Yalom would have done much better with a simple conservative approach.”

Marge said, “Especially with the lock VerHauten has on the diamond industry.”

Holmes folded his hands across his stomach. “Exactly.”

Decker said, “Mr. Yalom seems to have gone head to head with VerHauten.”

Holmes said nothing.

Marge said, “Or don’t you know about his correspondence with them.”

“I know Arik had certain ideas about VerHauten. A lot of people do.”

“Do you want to elaborate?”

“What can I say?” Holmes clapped his hands. “He claimed he had inside support from the company. Either
he was lying or something went bad. Because the relationship turned hostile and he went after VerHauten. Like a gnat going against a lion. Sooner or later, a quick swat was bound to squish him.”

“Arik was squished?” Marge said.

Again, Holmes chuckled. “VerHauten simply has the resources, and they don’t appreciate being bad-mouthed. You can’t buck city hall.” He paused. “Perhaps I should paraphrase that. You can’t buck two hundred years of experience and four billion dollars in assets.”

Decker closed the driver’s door to the Plymouth, slipped the key in the ignition but didn’t start the car. “Someone should inform Shaul Gold that it’s against the law to impersonate a police officer.”

Marge said, “You think it was Gold?”

“I know it was Gold. He used his cowboy accent.”

“The case has been high-profile, Pete,” Marge said. “It could have been a lackey for VerHauten. Perhaps they had a vested interest in seeing Yalom and his wife…terminated.”

“They’re a multibillion-dollar company. Why would they bother with small potatoes like Yalom? No, VerHauten didn’t call. Gold did. He knows Arik’s been doing some funny business in Africa. He’s tracking down our leads. He’s traveling the same road we are. In this case, he questioned Holmes
before
we did. I don’t like that, Margie. He’s fouling up our element of surprise. The man needs a few guidelines.”

“Should we pay him a visit?”

Decker nodded and called up his number from the car radio. The phone rang and rang. Cutting the line, Decker tried him at the office. Again, no one picked up. He slammed down the mike. “Now what?”

Marge said, “I like your truism about money as a motive for murder. There was a lot of angry correspondence exchanged between Yalom and VerHauten. Let’s
pay the giant a visit. I’m sure they have a local office.”

“And do what?” Decker answered.

“Wing a line of questioning. Find out why the letters turned so hostile.”

“Marge, I’m sure Yalom was hostile so VerHauten answered him aggressively. I’m sure VerHauten couldn’t give a solitary hoot about Yalom.”

“They obviously cared enough to correspond with him over several years.”

Decker thought about that. He reached into his pocket and took out the stock ownership pilfered from the safe-deposit box—Southwest Mines. He showed it to Marge. “We could use this as an entrée maybe. Say we’re investigating the company. Wondered if they had any information on it.”

“Good idea.”

Decker paged through his notes. “A woman by the name of Kate Milligan signed this letter to Yalom—Damn. The letter was postmarked from Belgium.”

“VerHauten must have a local listing somewhere near the diamond center.”

Decker tried LA information. Nothing for VerHauten. He tried three other directories, the results equally frustrating. Then he tried New York City for a listing in Manhattan.

Zip.

He slammed down the phone. “What’s going
on
here! A multibillion-dollar company and I can’t find a fucking listing for them.”

“They probably have some weird subsidiary name.”

Decker rubbed his face. “Now what?”