The Burnt House (10 page)

T
HE KINDLING OF
the candles signified the onset of the holy day of rest, welcoming the Shabbat bride with song and food. Showered and shaved, Decker felt clean and renewed. Since he’d decided not to go to synagogue, he dressed casually—a pair of khaki pants, a black polo shirt, and sandals. His stomach rumbled from the aromas emanating from the kitchen, and his mouth was watering by the time he sat down at the table. Seven place settings of china and crystal: Rina had done the centerpiece herself, the arrangements courtesy of her new hobby. She had turned their backyard into an English garden. The colors and the bouquets were dizzying. Insects and birds abounded. She called it their personal Eden.

Tonight, Rina had elected to wear an emerald-green A-line dress and silver flats. Her hair had been tied up in a knot, covered by a lacy mantilla that fell gracefully down her back. Hannah had two girlfriends over for the weekend, and Cindy and Koby rounded out the guest list. Whenever she had company, Rina and her cooking gene went haywire. Dinner started out with fresh-cured gravlax with a
mustard dill sauce. The fish course was followed by a puree of squash-and-carrot soup spiced with cinnamon and ginger, on its heels an arugula salad with grapefruit and orange segments. By the time the entrée was served—turkey breast stuffed with wild rice, with green beans amandine and baby carrots for sides—no one was really hungry. But that didn’t stop anyone at the table from eating. Nor did it dissuade the guests from polishing off the plum cobbler and a bowl of the season’s first cherries.

After they’d stuffed themselves silly, Rina tried to make everyone feel more virtuous. “It’s mostly fruit except for the crumble topping.”

“That’s the best part,” Koby told her. “I’ll have another piece.”

“I can always count on you, Yaakov,” Rina told him, spooning another scoop of the streusel-topped concoction onto his plate.

“That’s because I have no stop button when it comes to food.”

“Lucky you,” Decker muttered.

Rina tossed her husband a “behave yourself” look, even though she knew what he meant. At six two, one-fifty, Koby was as thin as grass. A wiry man, but deceptively strong. Like Decker, he was also handy around the house. In honor of Shabbat, he wore a white shirt and black slacks and loafers without socks. Cindy wore a black knit skirt and a turquoise sweater that set off her red hair, courtesy of her father’s DNA. Hannah and Cindy had nearly identical coloring, red hair, red eyebrows and eyelids, and clear alabaster skin that freckled in the summertime. The difference was only in the eye color: Cindy’s eyes were brown whereas Hannah’s were green. The sisters resembled each other even though they had clearly come from different mothers.

“Are you two getting any vacation time?” Decker asked his older daughter.

Cindy said, “Nothing definite yet.”

Koby said, “We’re trying for a weekend in Santa Barbara.”

“Do you need help clearing?” Hannah asked her mother. She and her two friends had finished dessert ten minutes ago. They were itching to leave and talk about important issues—school, poetry, alternative rock, Gossip Girl books, and boys, boys, boys.

Rina said, “Just bring in your plates and load them in the dishwasher. I’ll do the rest and call you when it’s time to bench.”

“Are you sure?” Hannah asked. But it was clear the girl was grateful to be dismissed.

“Positive.” Rina turned to Cindy. “Your father installed a new Shabbat dishwasher that has been an absolute godsend. I don’t know what in the world took us so long to buy it.”

“Those built-in dish drawers?” Koby asked.

“Yes, from the same company. We bought the full-size dishwasher for meat and a dish drawer for dairy. I lost a bit of cabinet space, but what we save on time spent doing dishes more than makes up for it.”

“We’re thinking of pushing out the kitchen,” Cindy said. “That’s why we’re asking.” When she noticed her father’s face, she smiled. “No, I’m not pregnant, but we do want a family. And it would be nice to have a genuine room for our future progeny.”

Koby added, “With home prices so expensive, we both think it is better to remodel.”

“Who’s going to do the work?” Decker asked.

“I am…and whoever else wants to help,” Koby answered.

Three pairs of eyes focused on Decker’s face. “Like I don’t have enough to do?” But he knew he’d cave in. That’s the way it was with children.

Cindy said, “We’re a ways off from lugging around two-by-fours, Dad. We’re still gathering information.” She turned to Rina. “The food was delicious. I’m stuffed.”

“Thank you. Can I make you a care package?”

“I was hoping you’d offer.” Cindy stood up and began to clear.

“You sit,” Decker told his daughter. “I’ll help.”

“Age before beauty,” she replied. “Actually, Dad, I am so full that it feels good to move.”

Decker said, “You know what? Why don’t you and I clear together and let Koby and Rina relax?”

Koby said, “It is an offer I won’t refuse.”

Rina smiled. He was trying to get time alone with his girl. “Great. I haven’t read the paper yet.”

“Neither have I.”

“Then we’ll share,” Rina said. “I’ll even pour you a scotch, Yaakov.”

The two of them retreated to the living room while father and daughter cleared the dining-room table of dishes and brought them into the kitchen.

“I wash and you dry?” Cindy offered.

“All you have to do is rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. Why don’t you let me do that?”

“You put away the food. I don’t know where it goes.”

“Deal.”

Cindy turned on the tap. “This is nice. Doing dishes together. Like old times but better.”

“Yeah, the old times were pretty good, too.” He gave her a brief smile as he scraped food into the garbage. “How’s GTA?”

“Busy. You know how it is. The weather starts getting warmer, it’s open season on cars.”

“Crime in general. When it’s wet and nasty outside, no one wants to work—even the psychos. How do you like teaming with Joe?”

Joe Papquick was her partner. “He’s fine. Not exactly loquacious, but he tells me what I need to know. It’s pretty routine, actually. You wind up investigating the same shops, the same junkyards, the same people. It seems the thieves rotate through twenty or so auto yards and it’s just a matter of the choppers getting caught with their pants down.”

“Be careful,” he warned her. “Routine doesn’t exclude bad surprises.”

She smiled. “Joe has this saying. If you don’t treat every call like it’s your first, it could be your last.”

“He is so right. If you’re feeling too comfortable, you let your guard down.”

“I’m careful. And it’s not always routine. Every once in a while, you make a good guess, and because of it, you get another sleaze bucket off the streets.”

“Makes you feel pretty good.”

“Very good, even though most of the time it’s grunt work.”

“That’s being what being a detective is.”

“I would think homicide’s
a little
more exciting.”

“It is more exciting, even though you get your obvious smoking gun cases. Then you spend lots of time trying to extract a confession.”

“There’s an art to that.”

“Absolutely. But sometimes no matter how skillful, you don’t get what you want. Then you hope forensics will buttress the case. And when that doesn’t work…that’s when it’s really frustrating. The ‘what did I miss?’ second-guessing game. First question is always Did I get the right person? You go through the file over and over, trying to find the magic bullet.”

Cindy said, “How often do you actually find something you missed when you look through an old case?”

“More than you think. The key is to put it away for a while so you review it through fresh eyes. Even with that, I’d say the success rate is maybe…I don’t know. I’d say you have a fifty percent chance that you find something that’ll jump-start something dead in the water.”

“Not a bad baseball percentage.”

“But dismal in murder,” Decker said. “It’s always hard to watch a case go cold. Then there’s the occasional cold case that falls in your lap.” He told Cindy about the sudden appearance of a disinterred body. As he spoke, she listened carefully, adding a word or two at the right spots. If she hadn’t chosen to be a cop, she would have made a hell of a shrink.

She said, “And forensics is sure that the body isn’t the flight attendant?”

“I went down to the Crypt and saw the sets of radiographs myself. So now instead of a solve, I’ve got two open cases.”

“That’s a pisser, but it’s really interesting. Did the apartment building have a basement?”

“No, it was a typical California building: wood-framed stucco, no basement.”

“What about subterranean parking?”

“I believe it had a lot in the back…built in days when land was a lot
cheaper. I’m remembering it as one parking space per unit and the rest was street parking.”

“And how many units did the building have?”

“Fifteen. Why do you ask?”

“You said the body was found above the foundation.”

“I don’t think I said yes or no. Why do you ask?”

“Back then, didn’t they build lots of Southern California buildings with crawl spaces between the subfloor and the foundation?”

“I would say yes. The earthquake codes were different. They don’t do that anymore. Usually the subfloor is attached to the foundation.”

“But in the older buildings, that’s where they put the plumbing, right?”

“Yeah, they’d put the sewer lines down there, especially if the building was multistoried.”

“You should find out if the building had a crawl space. It would be a perfect dump for a body since most of the tenants wouldn’t be aware of its existence. Or maybe the person who killed your Jane Doe could have been someone involved with constructing the building.”

“That’s exactly what we’re thinking. We’re looking up the builders as well as the tenants. And all the tradesmen. Plumbers, phone people…pest control.”

“But, Daddy, wouldn’t those people stick out? I mean, if you see a guy walking around your house or apartment, you’re going to ask who it is.”

“And…”

“All I’m saying is that a service guy might feel intimidated dumping a body in a building. He might be scared that someone would see him poking around. I’m thinking that anyone who would dump a body into the crawl space has to feel he wouldn’t attract attention.”

“That’s a very good point,” Decker told her. “So running with your idea, maybe we’re dealing with a janitor or super or maintenance guy who lived in the building. No one would think twice about seeing him getting dirty, hauling out trash, or poking around the insides of a building.”

“When in doubt, look at the maintenance man,” Cindy teased him. “I’ve watched enough of those crime-reconstruction shows to know it’s always the janitor.”

Decker smiled. “I’ll tell someone on the team to check it out. Good thinking, Detective.”

Cindy felt herself go hot and knew she was blushing. Whenever her father praised her, she felt an inordinate swell of pride. She looked down and pretended to be interested in the dishes. “Who’s primary on the assignment?”

“Either Scott or Marge. I don’t even know if they figured it out yet.”

“Sounds like you have your hands full, Dad. But look at it this way. You’re not pushing paper.”

“Yeah, be careful what you wish for.”

Cindy placed a Pyrex pan in the dishwasher. “Koby was offered a promotion.”

“That’s wonderful!” Decker told her. “When did this happen?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

“And you’re first telling me now?”

“He doesn’t know if he wants it. It’s more money but more time on the job, more paperwork, and it takes him off the floor and primary patient care, which is what he really likes. He shouldn’t be killing himself for a few extra dollars. But he’s obsessed with saving money for the construction.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll help you with the remodeling.”

“I know and I really appreciate it. But even if we can do most of the framing ourselves, there are still skills that we’re not going to attempt like electrical and plumbing. Last thing I want is a broken sewer line or a fried husband or father.”

“I agree.”

“Whatever we decide, it’s going to take money. Mom’s offered to lend us some cash, but Koby has his reservations. That’s why he’s considering the promotion or options that will make him more money.”

“Money’s important, but he should be happy.”

“That’s what I tell him.” Cindy paused. “Alan offered to help out.”

“Uh…fine.”

Cindy gave her father a smile. “Did I detect a bit of hesitation on your part?”

“Not at all. Your stepfather keeps your mom happy and that makes everything easier.” Decker gave a tepid smile. “I just never knew he was handy.”

“He and Mom have been really into home improvement. I think they own stock in Lowe’s or something.”

“What are they doing?”

“Installing new appliances—new dishwasher, refrigerator, and microwave. Alan also built a bookcase and a table.”

“How’d his handiwork come out?”

“Not too bad, actually.”

“Good. We can use as much help as possible. Do you have an architect?”

“We have a neighbor who’s helping us out at a reduced fee. AIA certified. Nice woman who does good work. I lucked out: a neighbor architect, a handy father and husband, a somewhat handy stepfather…count my blessings.”

“We’ll have good old barn raising.”

“Thanks, Daddy, I really appreciate it.” Cindy offered him a luminous smile. “And I’d like to add that I’m very proud of you.”

“Me?”

“You’re talking to me like a colleague instead of a daughter. To wit, we’ve been together for almost an hour and you have yet to give me a word of advice except to tell me that I shouldn’t treat any police case as routine, and that’s just what my partner says, so I can’t even claim that was an overprotective daddism.”

Decker started to say something, but nodded instead.

“Is it hard for you not to give me advice?” Cindy asked. “Tell me the truth.”

“Well, put it this way.” Decker thought a moment. “My tongue is nearly severed from biting it so hard.”