Obsessed Page 16

  Stephen felt his heart thump a little harder. “Hmm.” He was chewing his fingernail again.

  Gerik handed the picture back and Stephen took it carefully.

  “Thank you.”

  “I doubt they’ll be found in our lifetime,” Gerik said.

  “No? Why not?”

  “Because they were part of some Nazi’s war spoils. No one knows which officer took them, but it’s rumored that they were pillaged from a wealthy Polish collector’s home in Warsaw. If the Nazi survived the war-crimes trials, he won’t be eager to show off his loot, I can promise you that.”

  “Maybe Rachel had all five.”

  “Unlikely.”

  Stephen went rigid. Did Gerik know something definitive, or was he just guessing?

  “Think so?”

  “Why give one Stone and not five?”

  “Exactly! That’s exactly what—no, that makes sense.”

  “I really should get back to the store. Half of my inventory could be gone by now.” Gerik walked toward the door, and Stephen followed him.

  “You’re right to treasure the picture, Stephen,” the old man said, turning back. “Wherever she is now, little Esther is worth more than all the Stones of David together. Now, there would be an obsession worth dying for, don’t you think?”

  Stephen felt his face blush, and he shifted his gaze. “I don’t know. It’s just a picture.”

  “No. It’s an idea. A memory. Perhaps a hope, but not simply a picture. I’m sorry I can’t help you find her.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Of course it is. If I’m not mistaken, you’re quite taken by her, which is understandable. I’m a Jew. I was there. She deserves your obsession, dead or alive. Your obsession gives her life value.” Gerik smiled politely and left.

  Stephen didn’t remember actually leaving the antique shop. He drifted rather than walked. The old man was right about some things and wrong about some things. Right about Esther deserving someone’s obsession, wrong about the Stones not being found.

  Unless they weren’t in the tin box.

  He wasn’t willing to dwell on that possibility.

  He drove to Rachel’s apartment. Still there. Still alone on the lot, towering in the midday sun while the busy beavers scurried through the upper floor, chewing, chewing, chewing. He drove around it once, then twice, doubling back three blocks away so as not to be too obvious. Too many passes of a blue Chevy Vega, and someone might raise an eyebrow. Or a gun.

  Shades were pulled. The hole in the garage door had been sealed with boards. They wouldn’t leave the bottom floor unguarded this time, not a chance.

  That’s right. This time. He had no choice but to go again.

  They probably had men or dogs or machine guns rigged to go off upon unauthorized entry. This time it would take more than a torch and a lighter to get in.

  Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes alone in the basement, and he would be finished.

  He finally parked the Vega on a side street and crept back up the stairs to his hiding spot on the fourth floor of Building B. He had to think this through. There was a way. There had to be a way.

  He leaned against the wall beside the window and slid to his seat. There was always a way. This one hid in the dark corners of his mind and refused to step into the light, but Stephen knew he could eventually coax it out. With enough patience, with enough focus, the right plan would present itself.

  He unfolded Ruth’s picture and gazed into her eyes. “Speak to me, Esther. Tell me.”

  21

  Los Angeles

  July 21, 1973

  Saturday Evening

  SYLVIA SAT AT HER DESK STUDYING THE PHOTOGRAPHS IN THE file. Forty in all, taken from every conceivable angle. They were duplicates from homicide, a precaution that the DA insisted on.

  “I want a parallel file compiled now, and I want you to build that file with every last bit of evidence that you can scrounge from every detective on this case. Baby-sit them if you have to, but I need that file to be up-to-the-minute.”

  It was Sylvia’s first high-profile case. No telling how long before they apprehended the killer, or when it would eventually go to trial, assuming he lived that long. But if and when the time came to prosecute, the DA would be ready. Sylvia would make sure of it.

  Three nights; three victims; same MO.

  She stared at the bodies. Blood pooled around each. Enough to conclude that whoever had killed the women had wanted them to bleed out.

  Why?

  The last victim had struggled more than the first two, according to the preliminary investigative reports. Bruises on the wrists.

  The sight sickened her. She’d become an attorney to protect the rights of victims, not analyze their brutal deaths.

  Jewish women across the city were double bolting their doors or moving in with relatives. The fact that the case had gone public was a good thing, despite the fear it caused. Better fear than death.

  And what about you, Sylvia? She glanced at the office door. The rest of the staff had already gone home. How easy would it be for a killer to break into the DA’s office?

  But really. What were the chances that she would be singled out? Besides, all three had been killed in their homes.

  Still, the quiet was disconcerting.

  The phone rang shrilly and she jumped. She snatched up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m worried, Sylvia.” It was Chaim. “Very worried. This isn’t like Stephen. Something’s wrong.”

  She reoriented her attention from the killer to Stephen.

  “Sylvia?”

  “I’m thinking, Rabbi.” She sighed. “He’s probably out on a hot date. What did you expect with all of your love talk?”

  “A hot date is the farthest thing from his mind. I would have thought at least he’d call.”

  “Maybe he did and the line was busy. Maybe he has something he wants to surprise you with. Maybe he’s at that Santa Monica property.”

  “He tore out his own window screen, for heaven’s sake!”

  That silenced her for a moment. “Like I said, he can be irrational at times.”

  “Impulsive, not irrational,” he said.

  He had a point.

  “Really, Sylvia, I’m worried, and this conversation isn’t helping me.”

  “Look, I’m sure he’s fine. He may be reeling from this news about his mother, and God knows he can do some crazy things when he puts his mind to it, but he’s not an idiot.”

  “This from the same woman who insisted that if anyone could find danger, Stephen could?”

  “Well, maybe I was wrong.”

  “And maybe you weren’t.”

  “He’s smart, Rabbi. Like you said, he really is. Let him follow his heart.”

  “Now you sound like Gerik.”

  “Would you like me to come over? I could bring some Chinese.”

  “Would you? Yes, I would like that.”

  STEPHEN HAD reviewed the situation a hundred times. Maybe a thousand, counting all the subconscious assessments. The long of it was that he was in a vicious circle of dilemmas; the short of it was that the dilemmas ended at an impasse. He just couldn’t see a way out.

  Still he paced in front of the window and rehashed his problem.

  His head hurt, and he wasn’t sure he was thinking so effectively anymore. Nevertheless, he was thinking: he was thinking that Gerik was much smarter than he’d imagined. His words of wisdom had set Stephen free.

  He was thinking he had wasted the day pacing and driving and avoiding the house.

  He was thinking he was avoiding the house because he didn’t want to answer to Chaim.

  He was thinking involving Chaim could be dangerous for the rabbi.

  He was thinking Roth Braun knew the Stones were in Rachel’s house and would kill for them.

  He was thinking he would either go home tonight or get a motel room. He might be a tad whacked-out, but he wasn’t loony enough to sleep here a
gain.

  He was thinking he really should go to the police.

  Then again, he knew a few things too: he knew he couldn’t go to the police because he, not Braun, was the one committing crimes here.

  He knew the Stones of David were in the basement over there.

  He knew the Stones in the basement were his.

  He knew there had to be a way into that basement to take the Stones that were his.

  Stephen peered out the window. A city worker walked up to Rachel’s building. His heart skipped a beat, but then he saw that she was only reading the meter on the back wall. Maybe he could take her place and demand to read the meters in the basement. Were there any meters in the basement? He couldn’t remember. Of course, they would see his face and end it right there. He had no reason to doubt their threats.

  He resumed his pacing.

  He also knew that nothing he knew was really for certain, except the fact that he couldn’t go to the police.

  There had to be a way into the building.

  He did know how not to get into the building. Not with a cutting torch.

  Not with a truck through the garage door.

  Not on a hang glider to the rooftop.

  Not via a helicopter pounding above their heads.

  Not through the front door.

  Not in a huge wooden horse, or in a cake, or in a massive scrumptious pizza delivered for the Wolfmeister.

  Not through the front door. Said that already.

  Not on a rocket . . .

  Stephen stopped. Not through the front door. Why was that again? Why not?

  His heart bolted. Could it work? He jumped to the window again. The meter reader was down the street now, climbing into a black Datsun. Why not?

  He resumed pacing, frantically now. It was bold. It was daring. It was the kind of thing no one could possibly expect.

  It was lunacy!

  Which made it perfect.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost seven. Almost dark. That was even better.

  But where would he get an outfit at this hour? His mind revved into overdrive. It was Saturday night.

  He knew something else. He knew that every Saturday night, Marjorie Stillwater played bingo.

  THE CHURCH Chaim attended was a small interdenominational affair, a study in cultural diversity. Black, white, Korean, Jewish—you name it— a hodgepodge of seekers who’d found their answer in Christianity. The old church building had a steeple on the outside and exactly thirty pews on the inside. Two hundred or so managed to squeeze into the sanctuary every Sunday.

  They were a friendly lot, a little too friendly for Stephen’s tastes. Hugs and kisses and smiles, smiles, smiles. They seemed genuine enough, but to an outsider like Stephen, who didn’t want to care about God, much less Christianity, their sincerity came across as a pressing invitation to join them. Fine for the meek and mild, not so fine for the headstrong.

  Stephen had attended services on three separate occasions, and each time he’d left feeling both welcomed and repelled by the oddity of it all. The fact that he suspected some truth in Chaim’s assertions that Jesus of Nazareth was more than a man only complicated the matter.

  He’d always seen religion as a function of some folks’ need for meaning and a moral compass. Whatever it was, it was not an object of personal faith. Father had led him and his foster brothers through the seven feasts, spring and fall, with an emphasis on Passover, and Stephen had dutifully followed the course expected of all non-Orthodox Jewish boys until he’d come to the United States.

  He’d found in Chaim a different kind of religion altogether. His was born less out of tradition than simple faith. The rabbi still was attracted to much of Judaism, but he also believed the Messiah had already come. He’d put his faith in Jesus of Nazareth, and he talked regularly about falling madly in love with him. Christianity: faith, love, and lots of wet kisses on the cheek from old ladies who wore wigs.

  Actually, one old lady would be more truthful, and one wet kiss even more so. He’d met Marjorie Stillwater within a few minutes of entering the church the first time, and he’d spent at least half the service watching her. Her big, flowing, blond wig had slipped to one side, and no one but him seemed to notice or care.

  One of the pastor’s teachings suddenly returned to Stephen. He’d heard it on his second—or was it his third?—visit. The pastor recounted a story Jesus had apparently told, about a man who was walking in someone else’s field one day, found a treasure, and basically went ballistic.

  That was the way the pastor had put it. Ballistic. In the parable, the man hadn’t told the landowner about the treasure on his land. No, he was far too focused on the treasure to do any such decent thing. Instead, he’d hidden it again, snuck out and sold all that he owned, approached the owner, and bought the field without telling the man about the treasure. A tad deceptive, to be sure. Surprising that Jesus would tell such a story. All things considered, one might think he was trying to say that man’s passion for God needs to look more like desperation than reason.

  Stephen nibbled on a fingernail and made a connection. His own ordeal with his mother’s building wasn’t so different from the man’s ordeal with the field, was it? Stephen might not be after the kingdom of God, but then neither was the man in the story. They really weren’t so different, he and this man. Neither was a Christian, both were after a treasure, and both were singularly focused on the task.

  The thought gave him some courage.

  Stephen had been to Marjorie’s tiny house six blocks from the Santa Monica Pier only once, but he’d seen enough to know precisely what he had to do now.

  He slowed the Vega to a crawl in front of the house. Light glowed through the living-room curtains, but he couldn’t tell if she was home. He had to either get her out of the house or verify that she already was. Pay phone.

  He found a phone three blocks over, searched the directory for her number, and made the call. The plan was simple enough—if she answered, he would call Marjorie to the church for an emergency. Come quick, Miss Stillwater! Don’t have time to explain, just get down here as fast as you can. It’s life or death. Click. That would send her scrambling.

  But ten rings later, she hadn’t answered, which meant she was probably at bingo, exactly as he’d suspected. Perfect. Bingo ended . . . when? Probably not before eight o’clock. That gave him almost an hour. Very perfect.

  Stephen drove to within a block of Marjorie’s house and approached her front porch on foot. He was getting in the habit of parking his car a block away from all his destinations these days, a noteworthy but not necessarily incriminating fact. He walked straight, without daring to look left or right. Nothing that would make him look suspicious to neighbors. Just nephew Stephen coming for a visit.

  The trusting old woman had locked her keys inside and used a spare from under the third flowerpot when Stephen had visited. The flowerless pot sat where he remembered it, full of dirt that had spilled to the wood porch more than a few times, judging by the stains. Stephen bent, withdrew the key, unlocked her door, and returned the key.

  And if she was still here?

  He stepped in. “Marjorie?”

  Her bedroom door stood open to a dark interior. Stephen closed the front door. “Marjorie?”

  The tiny house rang of silence. She was gone. Which meant she would be back sooner or later. With his luck, probably sooner. Stephen hurried into the bedroom, found the sliding doors that presumably led into her closet, and slid the door open.

  Two dozen dresses hung organized by color—reds and blues and purples. He had absolutely no business being here, staring at Marjorie Stillwater’s dresses. They smelled like talcum powder.

  Stephen ran his hand lightly down the row of hangers, parting each dress for a better view. This was how women shopped at Sears. For hours, inexhaustibly running their hands down the rows and around the carousels, imagining what, only God could really know. He’d gone shopping once with Sylvia and was exhausted after the fi
rst rack.

  A business suit of some kind would be best, but Marjorie just wasn’t a business-suit kind of person. He wasn’t sure he cared for her selection of colors. Lots of purples. Dresses might be too . . . feminine. A pantsuit would be better. At least it had pants and a jacket thing. Question was, did Marjorie own any pantsuits? He continued down the row and stopped three outfits from the end at a lime-green polyester pantsuit, freshly pressed. Maybe she’d bought the outfit in a moment of youthful extravagance and not yet worked up the courage to actually wear it.

  He wrestled the suit jacket from its hanger and held it up to his shoulders. Marjorie wasn’t thin, and he wasn’t large—should work. The idea was preposterous, but that was exactly the point. No one would suspect this woman could possibly be Stephen Friedman. Dressing as a man in disguise would be nearly impossible without the help of someone who knew what he was doing. Arriving as a woman, on the other hand . . .

  Still, he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of donning Marjorie’s lime-green pantsuit. He walked to her dresser and started rummaging through the drawers for the rest of his outfit. What else? Nylons—definitely nylons. Couldn’t walk in with hairy ankles. Maybe socks would work. Depended on the shoes.

  He bounded over to the closet again, dropped to his knees, and scanned her shoes. High heels, mostly. They’d never fit. Working women did wear men’s shoes on occasion, didn’t they? Shoes that looked like men’s? He stared down at the tassels on his own black leather shoes and tried to imagine them with Marjorie’s lime-green pants.

  He really had no choice but to split the difference—he’d go for the nylons and wear his own shoes. It wasn’t unbelievable that a woman in his occupation might wear comfortable shoes on the job.

  Stephen hauled his bundle into the bathroom and plopped it down on the floor. Flared lime-green polyester pants, matching suit jacket, lavender shirt with paisleys, white pantyhose or nylons (he wasn’t sure what this particular variety was called), white gloves, and the crowning element of this disguise—the reason Marjorie had been a brilliant selection— a blond wig.

  He dropped his pants and pulled on one leg of the nylons. Tight, but they were supposed to be tight. The hair on his legs was still visible, but the pants would take care of that. He stood and hopped into the second leg.