Faye Kellerman - Sanctuary

“No one’s picking up the phone,” Marge said. “I’ve got Gold’s home number. Should I try him there?”

Decker said, “How far are we from his condo?”

“About fifteen minutes away.”

“I vote for spontaneity. It’s in Encino, right?”

“Off Ventura Boulevard.” Marge gave him the exact address.

The numbers corresponded to several new, Mediterranean-style security buildings, all of them three stories, plastered in pink and framed with apricot cornerstones. The condos stretched a block and were fronted by a green lawn. Specimen trees and big bushes had been brought in to give the neophyte development some maturity. But it was a weak cosmetic job, like putting lipstick on a baby. The place seemed to be built on a large chunk of land judging by the number of tennis-court lights in the background.

Decker wasn’t sure which building housed Gold, so he parked in the middle lot in a visitor’s space. He and Marge got out of the Plymouth and started walking on meandering brick pathways toward the building on the right.

Marge said, “Gold and Yalom are…were partners. But Gold lives here and Yalom lives in a mansion.”

“Arik was the senior partner,” Decker said. “Gold told me that. And you’re forgetting Dalia’s independent money.”

“Still, there’s quite a discrepancy.”

Decker said, “This seems like a nifty place for a bachelor. Betcha there’re lots of hot tubs and exercise rooms-a good setup for meeting women.”

Marge thought about that. She could afford a small house, but chose to keep her apartment. Although she was private, she liked the idea of having people close at hand. She turned to Decker. “So why didn’t you move to a condo after your divorce?”

“I had Cindy. When she came to visit me, I wanted her to have a home.” Decker consulted the paper. “I think Gold lives on the third floor. It’s a security building. We’ll have to be buzzed in. You want to do the talking?”

“You met him before, you do the talking.”

Decker found the directory and pressed the red button corresponding to Gold’s name. A few moments later, a deep voice spoke slurred, incoherent words over the squawk box.

Decker said, “Police, Mr. Gold. Can we come in and talk to you for a moment?”

A pause, then a loud buzzer rang in Decker’s ears. They pushed in the double glass doors and stepped inside an atrium filled with potted ficus and ferns. Against the back wall were the elevators. They took one to the third floor. Gold was standing in the hallway, blocking his front door. As they approached, both noticed he was unkempt-unshaven, with his shirttail hanging out of baggy pants. He was holding a half-filled glass and reeked of strong whiskey.

“Was he like this before?” Marge whispered.

“Nope. He knows what happened.”

“Wonder what else he knows.” Marge spoke through the corner of her mouth. “If you want to be the tough one, I’ll be all tea and sympathy.”

Decker nodded. He stopped at Gold’s door and held out his hand. The Israeli took it, then dropped it. Like holding a dead fish. And just a day ago, it had been a vise grip.

Decker said, “You must know about your partner and his wife. I’m sorry.”

Gold’s lost eyes went from Decker, to Marge, then back to Decker. Though swarthy, his complexion was pale underneath a stubble of black beard. His hands were trembling. Standing in front of the doorway, he continued to stare blankly at them.

Decker said, “Can we come in, Mr. Gold?”

The Israeli hesitated, then backed up into the interior of his condo. Marge and Decker stepped inside.

No one spoke. Finally, Gold motioned them forward. They followed him into the living room. Decker looked around.

It was spacious-high vaulted ceilings, white crown moldings, light floors, and lots of light from French doors that led to a plant-covered terrace. The furniture was alabaster white and overstuffed, accented with throws and blankets that looked to be handmade. The walls were cream-colored, striped with floor-to-ceiling shelving. The display cases were filled with antiquities and primitive sculptures, each piece accompanied by a small card on a stand that gave a description of the work. Decker studied the visuals for a moment.

So that’s where his money went.

His eyes returned to Gold, who pointed to the living-room sofa. Decker and Marge walked over to the couch but nobody sat down.

Decker said, “You’ve got a bulge under your shirttail, Mr. Gold. You’re carrying a gun. Would you mind taking it out and slowly laying it on the coffee table?”

Gold’s eyes narrowed. He put down his drink. “I tell you I know how to use it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Gold. You’re drinking, you’ve got a gun. That’s not a good combination.”

“Drink and shoot,” Gold said. “That is your cowboy films.” He broke into an exaggerated American accent. “I give you to the count of three, partner.”

“Please remove the weapon,” Marge said.

Gold’s eyes hardened further. “Since when is law that I can’t have a nip and carry a gun in my own house.”

Decker said nothing. Abruptly, Gold reached for his weapon, holding the semi-automatic by the butt, then gently placed it on the coffee table. “Better?”

“Much,” Marge said. “Thank you.”

They sat down.

Decker said, “If I just found out my partner and his wife had been murdered, I’d be nervous, too.”

“Who are you nervous about?” Marge asked.

Gold focused in on her. “Who’s this lady?”

“I’m Detective Dunn.” Marge showed Gold her ID. “Detective Sergeant Decker and I have been assigned to investigate the murders of your partner and his wife.”

Gold pressed his lips together and said nothing.

“I’m very sorry about your loss,” Marge said. “Who broke the news to you? Orit?”

“Yoni, I think.”

“Husband,” Marge whispered to Decker.

“Maybe it was Orit…”

Gold rubbed his forehead, then positioned himself on the couch opposite Decker and Marge. “I don’t know who’d do such terrible thing.”

Marge said, “No idea?”

“No.”

Decker said, “You know we’re going to have to question you.”

Gold looked up, then down. Burying his head in his hands, he broke into deep, dry sobs. It took him a minute to calm himself. He said, “I’m sorry. You want something to drink?”

Marge said, “No, thank you.”

“Do you mind if I get something to drink?”

Decker said, “Would you mind if I unloaded your weapon?”

Gold picked up his glass, then put it back down. “You don’t trust me?” He waved him off. “I was in the army-tzalaf-how you say…the one with binocular…scope…who shoots.”

“Sniper?” Decker said.

“Yes, sniper.” He pointed to Decker. “With scope, I shoot a nail from five kilometers away. I was in four wars-’56, ’67, ’73, and ’81. I did three years in ’56, three in ’67. In ’67 war, I was in Golan Heights. The Syrians shooting down on us, picking us off like video game. We send up fourteen tanks, one comes back. I say maspeek! Enough! I crawl on my hands and knees to top of mountains. I climb up tree. Next thing bastards know, I pick them off.”

He sighted down on an imaginary scope and pulled a finger trigger.

“Pop…pop…pop.” He blew on his finger. “Anyone fucks on me, I can take care of myself.”

Decker said, “Can I unload your gun?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Sure. Take the clip out. I don’t care.”

Decker did just that, laid them both on the coffee table. “Was Arik also a sniper in the army?”

“Arik was in tanks. Dalia did office work.” A slight smile formed on Gold’s lips. “She did filing papers. Nothing important. But she was proud to be in uniform.” His lower lip trembled. “So Arik and Dalia come to America for the good life.” Gold slapped his hands together. “Pow, it’s over. What a bastard God is!”