Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (16 page)

“Why don't you say it?” he challenged. “Soft, weak, dumb.”

“All right,” she said calmly. “What of it? She'll guide him. She'll direct him. He'll know it and be grateful, and devoted. He has no money? So what? She has, and someday she will have a lot more. She wants a political career, and she'll get it through him. With her behind him, advising and directing him, my guess is that he'll make a successful state senator. After a couple of terms, he'll run for Congress, and he'll win, and they'll go to Washington. If you are interested in your daughter having a successful life, fulfilling herself, you'd be delighted with her choice.”

“Sure, but dammit—”

“You know what would happen if she brought home the kind of man you think she ought to choose? A bright young doctor, or lawyer, or businessman?
He
would have a successful career, and she'd be at home, planning and arranging dinners for his friends. She'd be a housewife and that's all. He'd be doing the interesting things, and she'd be conferring with interior decorators on the color of the drapes. Look, Laura is the son we didn't have. And we brought her up that way. When all her friends were going off to finishing school, you insisted she go to college. If she were a man, you'd be delighted to have her go into politics.”

“Yes, but—”

“Suppose she were a man. And he brought home a female Scofield. You'd be tickled about her putting what little money she had into a savings certificate, about her buying a pink car because it was cheap, because she kept looking to your son for proper cues before speaking.”

“How about children?” he demanded.

“She'll have them.”

“That's not what I mean. I'm thinking that children take after their parents. They might take after Laura, or they might take after him, or they might be a combination of the two. Are you looking forward to having grandchildren with minds and characters like Scofield's?”

She was nonplussed for a moment but recovered quickly. “Would you think of that if Laura were our son, Larry, and brought home a girl like Scofield? If you thought of children at all, you'd be thinking only if she were healthy enough to have them. Well, he certainly looks healthy enough, and for the rest, it's a matter of luck.”

Magnuson sighed. “Okay, Soph, you win as usual.” He smiled. “Let's hope it works out as well for them as it has for us.”

She bridled. “Are you suggesting that I try to boss you? You know very well you make all the decisions.”

“Yes, you only advise, but your advice is awfully persuasive. I suppose that's how Laura works it, too. Maybe all women do. Has she advised you when she's planning to get married?”

His wife shook her head. “She hasn't mentioned a specific date. I got the impression that it would be right after the election, though.”

“That's only a month away. I better get cracking.”

“Why, what do
you
have to do?”

“I've got to get it all set with the rabbi. Something tells me that might not be easy.”

26

Paul Kramer opened the door and looked questioningly at the two men. One flipped a leather folder displaying a badge and introduced himself. “Sergeant Dunstable, Barnard's Crossing Police.” He nodded to his companion. “Officer Norton. We come in?”

“Sure, I guess so. My folks aren't here if you want to see them.”

“Is that your car parked on Glen Lane? The black Chevy?”

“Yes, that's my car.”

“It was parked there last night?”

“Ye-es.”

“And the night before?”

“Uh-huh.” Then understanding came. “Oh, I know I'm not supposed to park overnight on the street from November on. But I figured Glen Lane didn't count because it's not really a street. Besides, it's sort of a little in”—he laughed nervously—“on what would be the sidewalk if there were a sidewalk.”

“Why don't you park it in your garage, or in the driveway?” asked Dunstable curiously.

“Because my battery acts up sometimes, especially when it's rained during the night, and I have a hard time getting started. So I park on that little incline at the end of Glen Lane. That way I can get her started by letting her roll down.”

“You lock your car when you park it for the night?”

“Yeah, sure.” Again he laughed nervously. “See, I drive in every morning to school where I park on Huntington Avenue. I always lock it there because there's a lot of car theft. Around here I realize I don't have to be so careful because who would bother to pinch a beat-up seventy-three Chevy? But I got in the habit.”

“Was it locked Wednesday night?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He thought a moment and then, “Yeah, I'm sure it was Wednesday night. Why? What happened Wednesday night?”

“You don't know? It was in the Lynn
Express
.”

“I don't read the
Express
, just the Boston papers.”

“There was a hit-and-run on Glen Lane.”

“So what's that got to do with me?”

“You had a broken headlight replaced yesterday, didn't you.”

“That's right. I was in Boston most of the day. It must have been broken there. Or I might have kicked up a stone while on my way home, or even on my way to Boston. I didn't know about it until the guy at the gas station pointed it out to me.”

“And where were you Wednesday night?”

“I was right here, studying for an exam. I didn't even go out to eat. I made something right here.”

“Well, suppose you come down with me to see Chief Lanigan, and you can tell him all about it.”

“Okay, I'll follow you.”

“No, you ride with me. Give Officer Norton your keys and he'll drive your car down.”

The young man hesitated. “Is this a—are you arresting me?”

Sergeant Dunstable was elaborately casual. “I don't have no warrant. The chief just told me to ask you to come down. Of course, if you don't want to, I'll go back and report. Then he might decide to get a warrant, or have the Registry people get one.”

Paul thought quickly. It was all a mistake, of course. Some guy got clipped by a drunk driver. There was probably glass found at the scene, so the police were checking up. He had had his headlight replaced, so he was one of those who were being questioned. Maybe others were also being questioned by the Lynn police and the Revere police, maybe even by the Boston police. He would explain that he had not even been on the road at the time. Maybe they would have him make a statement which would be taken down and typed up for him to sign. And that would be it.

“All right,” he said, “let's go.”

It was not that simple. Chief Lanigan, whom he was supposed to see, was not there when they arrived. He waited on a settee under the eye of the desk sergeant. Once or twice he got up, to stretch his legs, to get a discarded newspaper from the wastebasket in the corner. Once, when he went to the door, the sergeant asked him where he was going.

“I thought I might be able to get a cup of coffee someplace.”

“The chief will be along in a minute. He wouldn't like it if you weren't here. You want a cup of coffee? Okay, I'll see what I can do.”

The sergeant had someone bring coffee and even a doughnut from the wardroom. Paul did not feel that he was under restraint, and he had not been told he could not leave. But they had the keys to his car and there was no point in leaving until they were returned to him. It was after seven when Chief Lanigan finally arrived and asked him to come into his office.

He sat in the visitor's chair as Lanigan spoke on the telephone. Finally, Lanigan turned to him. With his hands behind his head, fingers intertwined, he teetered back and forth in his swivel chair. Then smiling, he said, “All right, now suppose you tell me all about it.”

“I don't know what you want me to tell you.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

“Look, all I know is what the sergeant told me, that there was a hit-and-run on Glen Lane Wednesday night. I was home that night. I didn't go out at all.”

“How did your headlight get broken?”

“I don't know. I go in to Boston every day and I park on Huntington Avenue, or the Fenway, or wherever I can find a place. Sometimes when you come back, you find your fender has been dented or scratched. You think they leave a note telling you to get in touch with them so they can make it good? They just ride off. So, somebody may have smashed my headlight Thursday, or even Wednesday, for all I know. Or while driving, I might have kicked up a stone. I don't know.”

“If it happened Wednesday, wouldn't you have noticed it when you got in to drive to Boston Thursday?”

“I don't go inspecting the car every time I drive it. I just get in and drive off. I don't see the front of the car. If it was at night and I had to put on my lights, then I would have noticed it. But not in the morning.”

Lanigan nodded. “That seems reasonable.” He teetered for a while, his face thoughtful. “Where are your folks?” be asked.

“They're away.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“I don't know right now. They're driving across the country.”

“So if you want to get in touch with them, you can't?”

“Well, they said they'd call me every few days. They were supposed to tonight.”

“I see. All right, let me tell you what we're up against. The victim in that hit-and-run died, which makes it vehicular homicide. That's serious. State detectives, Registry detectives, even the D.A.'s office all get involved. Now, there was glass found near the body, glass from a headlight that was broken by the impact. You know what we do with that glass?”

“Well, I saw a detective film on TV where the cops—I mean, the police match it up like—like a jigsaw puzzle.”

“That's right. That's just exactly what we do. We match up the pieces and cement them together if they fit. You had your headlight replaced at Glossop's. It was the first one they'd done in days. The remains of your old light, they tossed in the trash barrel. Our man got those pieces and we put them together and cemented them the same way we did the others.” Lanigan held up an admonishing forefinger. “Now, here's the situation: Those two cemented elements, with all the jagged edges, fit.”

“But that's impossible.”

“Just about, unless they were both parts of the same lamp.”

“But I was home all that night.”

Lanigan shrugged his shoulders, and then reached for the Miranda card stuck in the corner of his desk blotter.

“I want a lawyer,” said Paul.

Lanigan nodded. “Yes, I think that would be a good idea.” He slid his phone across the desk. “Go ahead. Call. I'll step out of the room if you like.”

“I—I don't know any lawyers,” said Paul sheepishly. “We're like new around here. I thought—er—I thought—”

“That we supply them? Well, when you're arraigned before a judge Monday, he will assign a lawyer to you if you don't have one. But—”

“Oh, I know one. That guy that just won the primary for senator.”

“Scofield? You know Jack Scofield?”

“Well, I don't
know
him. But I was with my folks at a party one night and he came and talked for a few minutes. He said not to hesitate to call him if we needed help. My old man, I mean, my father, said afterwards that he seemed to be as much interested in getting customers, you know, like clients, as he was in getting votes. Maybe if I call him … I can't think of anyone else.”

“Call him, but don't be disappointed if he refuses.”

“Why should he refuse? It's law business.”

“Yes, but it's a criminal charge, so he might want to talk to your folks first. Because in criminal cases lawyers usually expect to be paid in advance.”

27

It was after ten when the rabbi and Miriam returned home from the Friday evening service. Even as the rabbi fiddled with the lock, they could hear the telephone ringing inside.

“It's probably a wrong number,” said Miriam.

“Or it could be important,” said the rabbi, “if they're calling on the Sabbath.”

Still wearing his topcoat, the rabbi lifted the receiver. From the other end came the voice of a woman, hurried, breathless. “Rabbi Small? Oh, thank God, I got you. Forgive me for calling so late, but I'm—we're terribly worried. We didn't know whom to call, and then we thought of you. I'm Sally Kramer. We're neighbors. We moved into the house at the end of the street, Maple Street, right at the corner of Glen Lane. I would have called my next-door neighbor, but I don't know them. I mean, I don't even know their name. Of course, I don't really know you, either. I mean, you don't know me, but we're planning to join the temple first chance we get and—”

“What is it you want of me, Mrs. Kramer?”

The rabbi heard a male voice say, “Here, let me talk to him.” A moment later over the phone, “Ben Kramer speaking. My wife is kind of nervous, Rabbi. You see, we're taking a trip across country. I told my son, Paul, who's staying at home since he has to go to school, that we'd call him every Friday night around seven. Well, we called and there's no answer. Chances are he didn't think I'd start this Friday—we only left Wednesday morning—and he probably went out for the evening, but my wife is worried.”

“What would you like me to do, Mr. Kramer?”

“Well, if you could walk down there and just look around. See if his car is there. It's a kind of beat-up black Chevy, a seventy-three, I think, and oh yes, with a Northeastern University sticker on the rear window, then it would mean he's home, and you could ask him to call us. If his car isn't there, and oh, it probably won't be in the garage or in the driveway, but right on the corner of Glen Lane, well then, it will mean he's gone away for the evening, and there's no need for my wife to worry.”