Читать книгу The Ritual Bath - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 11

“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.”