The Ritual Bath. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
the only one looking at Zvi. All the women who had used the mikvah last night were gaping at him. The “incident” was the topic of whispered conversation in the balcony. Rina couldn’t stand the gossip and speculation. Though they tried to engage her in conversation, she remained aloof.
She concentrated hard on the Hebrew text in front of her. Tonight, praying seemed especially significant, and she davened with renewed spirit. Truly, fate is in the hands of Hashem, she thought. But to help Him along, she’d take the detective’s advice and be very careful. Usually after services she and her boys rushed home, allowing her to complete preparations for the Shabbos meal. But tonight she waited for her guests, and they all walked together.
The dinner came off without a hitch. The table was set with her finest silver, china, and table linens and spotlighted in the warm glow of candlelight. The food was plentiful and superb. Everyone had a grand time singing and telling stories. Her children and the Kriegers’ each had a chance to relate their amusing incidents of the week, then her students gave a short dvar Torah—a Talmudic lesson. They ended with grace after the meal and more singing.
The festivities lasted until midnight. By the time everyone left, her boys were overwrought with fatigue. Yaakov, the seven-year-old, was running around in circles singing at the top of his lungs. Shmuel, one year his senior, was break-dancing and singing an Uncle Moishy tune. Something about Gedalia Goomber not working on Shabbos Kodesh.
Rina kept her patience and calmed the boys down with a bedtime story and lots of kisses. She tucked them in, then headed for the kitchen. It was one-thirty by the time she’d finished cleaning up.
She crawled under the covers and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
In the wee hours of the morning she was awakened by a piercing scream. She shot up and ran to the boys’ room. They were fast asleep. She rechecked all the locks on the doors but didn’t dare peek out the window. Again, cries followed by scampering atop her roof.
The damn cats!
The house turned quiet—a suffocating quiet.
Rina trudged shakily back to bed. The adrenaline was surging throughout her body. Wide-eyed, she stared at the shadows on her wall until exhaustion overtook her.
“Eema could you pin my kipah?” Shmuel asked.
Rina put down the paper and attached the big, black yarmulke to the soft, curly locks with four bobby pins. No matter how many she put in, the kipah would always fall off. Little boys, she thought, smiling.
“There you go, sweetie,” she said, kissing his cheek. It was damp with salty perspiration and as soft as butter.
He thanked her and ran off to play G. I. Joe with his brother. Last she’d heard, the Joe team was beating COBRA, capturing and disposing of the evil forces with no mercy. Rina’d always felt that kids judged much more harshly than adults. If it were up to them, all criminals would receive the death penalty.
She reopened the paper, and the article jumped out at her. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. The Foothill rapist had struck again. Reading the article slowly, she saw Decker’s name in the second paragraph.
She closed the paper and sipped her coffee. It had been nearly two weeks since the rape at the mikvah. The initial fright had abated, and life progressed as usual. The only differences were a dead bolt on the mikvah door and husbands walking their wives home after the ritual immersion.
But Rina was still worried. Oftentimes she’d walk home with the last woman to use the facilities, but that meant either coming in early to clean the mikvah from the previous night or finding someone to wait for her as she scrubbed the tiles. Recently she found herself getting careless, sinking back into the old bad habit of walking home alone. Several times she thought of calling the detective—sure she’d heard things outside—but hadn’t wanted to bother him. Besides, nothing had ever materialized.
Now, seeing his name in print, she wondered about the progress of the case and wanted badly to call him. But the house was too tiny for privacy, and she didn’t want her sons to overhear the conversation. She’d have to wait.
When it was time, she walked the kids to the yeshiva’s day camp. Upon returning home she picked up the receiver and immediately put it down. Perhaps it wasn’t the right time to call. With this new rape, he was probably up to his neck in work.
She fixed herself another cup of coffee and turned on the radio to a news station. It was a half-hour before the story came on. No details were given. Just another rape attributed to him. She flicked the dial to off and thought to herself: Wasn’t she a citizen? Didn’t she pay taxes to support a police force? She had even voted against the tax cut that would have reduced police and fire services. With newly summoned determination, she dialed his extension. Besides, she was sure he wouldn’t be in.
To her shock he picked it up on the second ring.
“Decker,” he answered.
She was momentarily speechless.
“Hello?” he said loudly.
“Uh—yes, this is Rina Lazarus. I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Of course I do. What can I do for you, Mrs. Lazarus?”
“You must be busy.”
“Swamped.”
She felt foolish for calling. “I was wondering how the mikvah case was coming along. I realize it’s not as important as this Foothill rapist, but …”
She thought she heard him groan over the line. There was a pause.
“Frankly, Mrs. Lazarus, we have no mikvah case. Mrs. Adler never gave us any statement, so we have nothing to go on. The only way we’re ever going to find the perpetrator is if we catch him doing something else and he admits the rape as a by-product of the confession.”
Rina said nothing.
“Everything calm over there?” Decker asked.
“I hear a noise now and then. That’s all.”
“Someone walking you home at night?”
“Usually. We did get a lock on the door.”
“That’s good. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Not really.” She hedged, then said: “Suppose Mrs. Adler were to come in and give you a statement? Would that help reopen the case?”
“It would be a start.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
“Do that.”
Michael Hollander was fiftyish, bald, florid, and the proper weight for a man six inches taller. He, Marge, and Decker made up the juvey and sex detail for the division. They were referred to jokingly as The Three Musketeers—a title that Hollander had redubbed The Three Mouseketeers. He smoked a pipe, which was an inexcusable offense in such close quarters, but laughed off the complaints by demanding to know who’d be the squadroom’s scapegoat if he became civilized. Discussion closed.
He entered the detectives’ quarters, poured himself his ninth cup of coffee of the day, and placed a meaty hand on Decker’s shoulder.
Peter looked up from the phone, excused himself, and covered the mouthpiece with