“She was a bitch. They’re all bitches. I’m telling you, they asked me to do it. They begged me.”

“And the one from the bar at Canary’s?” Marge kept at it. “She got a good look at you.”

“Hey, she loved it rough. Thought it was kinky, and she loved kink. I’m telling you, she loved the kink. Hell, she invited me in her car, man. I’m telling you, she asked me in.”

“How ’bout the girl from Jewtown?” Decker asked. “She beg for it also?”

“Jewtown?” For the first time, Macko looked honestly puzzled. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

“The one with the nice black pumps?” Decker tried.

“Kikes!” Macko spit. “I wouldn’t fuck those pieces of shit if they was the last bitches on earth.”

Decker’s eyes blurred for a split second. When they refocused, he realized his hand was on the butt of his.38.

Slowly, he let it drop onto his lap.

22

The Rosh Yeshiva greeted Decker with a warm smile and told him to place the two large boxes on his desk. It was an oversized slab of rich rosewood, the top protected by glass and completely clear of clutter-something that Decker found amazing. Gently, he lowered the cartons onto the area so as not to scratch the glass, then stretched. With Macko locked up, he could afford the luxury of the night off.

He looked around. The study exuded dignity and warmth. It was softly lit, carpeted in a rich brown wool pile, and furnished with a burnt brown leather sofa and two suede wing chairs. The rear and right walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with volumes of religious texts. Thrown in for contrast was one case devoted to secular philosophy and American jurisprudence. The front wall was a picture window that revealed a canyon view. The desk was placed advantageously, affording the rabbi a panorama of nature as he worked.

But it was the left wall-glassed-in cabinets filled with artifacts of silver and gold-that turned the room into a showpiece.

Lovingly, Schulman began to lecture about his treasures.

One shelf of menorahs: Several were German, seventeenth and eighteenth century, heavy and bold in their silver work; another was a delicate weave of silver filigree from Italy; still others were fashioned of bronze and Jerusalem stone from Bezalel the art institute in Israel. One entire case was devoted to spice boxes-miniature silver replicas of towers from which hung parcel gilt bells and flags-from the best silversmiths of Europe. Each was stamped and dated. Along the top ledge of another case were special silver and carved wooden boxes used to hold something called an etrog-a citron in English-which Decker learned was a bumpy, aromatic fruit similar in taste to a lemon. The etrog, the rabbi explained, was used on the holiday of Sukkos.

There were two shelves of pointers, each in the shape of a hand with an extended forefinger. The Rosh Yeshivah put one into Decker’s hand.

“What’s this for?” the detective asked.

“In the synagogue, a reader-a ba’al kriah-incants out loud a weekly portion of the Torah,” the rabbi explained. “Fingers aren’t allowed to touch the holy scriptures. The ba’al kriah uses a pointer to keep his place.”

Candlesticks, wine goblets, finials called keterim-crowns for the Torah scroll. The elaborate metalwork, the intricate carving, the splendor and sheer number of treasures. Decker was overwhelmed at the richness of a culture that had survived for over two thousand years.

“This is only a fraction of my collection,” the Rosh Yeshiva said. “But it contains the choicest pieces.”

“Truly incredible, Rabbi.”

“Someday, when we both have more time, I will show you my Hebrew manuscripts. I can’t keep them out in the open because over-exposure to the elements will cause irreparable damage to the parchment.”

“I’d like to see them when time permits,” said Decker.

“Yes. Come and let us see what you’ve brought. The hour is late, and an old man’s eyes are getting tired.”

The rabbi glided over to his desk, opened the first carton, and pulled out a prayer book.

“I don’t think I have anything really valuable. Not like these pieces.”

“Nonsense, Detective. Quite the contrary. One siddur is priceless because it contains the name of Hashem.”

He pulled out another book and leafed through it.

“These are in good to very good condition. If you were to put them up for auction, I would say they’d be worth fifty to two hundred dollars apiece. But they are worth much more to me personally. The thought of them sitting in an irreligious environment is very disconcerting. I will pay you fair market value if you’re thinking of selling them.”

“I wasn’t. But I’ll tell you what. You may have them as long as I can visit them from time to time.”

The Rosh Yeshiva smiled.

“Agreed.”

“Do they have any historical significance?”

“Only to a Jew from the area. Most are from Germany.” The rabbi unloaded the volumes onto his desk. “Rina Miriam told me these belonged to your ex-wife’s grandfather. He must have been a German Jew.”

“Look at this one here, Rabbi. The book is Hebrew, but the inscription is in another language, and it doesn’t look like German.”

The old man’s eyes lit up.

“This is Polish.” The Rosh Yeshiva shook his head. “I can’t understand her family’s complete disregard for their heritage.”

“Some people are less sentimental than others,” the detective said, picking up the megillah. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

The rabbi took the scroll and studied it.

“It’s of Polish origin also. This is worth a substantial amount of money: upward of three thousand dollars. The text is exceptionally clear and well preserved.”

“How about if you display it in your collection? I’m not hard up for cash right now.”

“You’re a good man, Detective.”

Decker shrugged and gave him a half smile.

The rabbi opened the next box and rummaged through newspaper.

“Rina told me those were Jewish law books,” said Decker.

“Yes, my good friend, that is exactly what they are,” the rabbi said, unwrapping a leather-bound text. “Jewish law books-a complete set. We can always use a set of shass. Thank you.”

The old man turned away from the books and faced the detective.

“It’s astounding what finds are tucked away in dusty old attics and basements. I will take good care of your valuables, Detective Decker.”

“I know you will.”

“Tell me something, Detective. When did the grandfather die?”

“Right before we filed for divorce. Must have been about five years ago.”

“Interesting. And where was he living at the time of his death?”

Decker smelled more than just simple curiosity on the rabbi’s part.

“Los Angeles. Why do you ask?”

“I’d like you to explain something to me, Detective. How is it that these books are wrapped in a New York Times that is dated just two years ago?”

What a cagey old man, Decker thought. He said nothing.

“I have extreme difficulty believing that your in-laws are complete and utter philistines. Would you care to amend your story regarding how these came into your possession? Or at least, make the fabrication consistent with the dates?”

Decker gazed out of the window.

“Why don’t you sit down?” the rabbi offered.

The detective remained motionless.

“Where did you acquire these?” the old man asked softly.

“From my father,” the detective said, still staring outward. “Not my real father, my biological father.”

He locked eyes with the old man.

“I’m adopted.”

“Your biological father was Jewish,” the rabbi said.

“And so was my biological mother. And that makes me Jewish. But you see, I don’t consider myself Jewish. I consider myself the product of my real parents-the ones who raised me. And I was raised Baptist, although I’m not really anything now. As Rina said to me the other day, it takes a lot more than just an accident of birth to make someone a Torah Jew.”