Faye Kellerman - Sanctuary

“If I find one, you’ll be the first to know,” Decker said. “Right now we’re still trying to determine if the Klein family is in hiding or if they were abducted.”

“And you’re assigned to investigate Klein’s disappearance?”

“Yes. Can you tell me something about Gershon Klein’s murder? Something that might help me figure out what happened to the wife and kids?”

“All I got so far was a prelim on the coroner’s report. Klein was shot, but that wasn’t the cause of death.”

“What was?”

“Drowning.”

Lying in bed, Rina had the book in front of her, but had read the same page for the last fifteen minutes. Peter was still on the phone, saying a lot of uh-huhs, and taking a lot of notes. She was dying to look over his shoulder, but didn’t. Finally, he ended the conversation with a “thanks a heap, I’ll call you tomorrow,” then hung up the receiver. He plopped down on the bed. Rina put down her book and waited.

Peter stared at the ceiling, then at her. “How about a two-minute recap?”

“That should tide me over, thanks.”

“The official cause of death was drowning. So why was Gershon Klein shot in the head?”

“A coverup.”

“You’re good,” Decker said. “Dintz, the detective assigned to the case, is working on the assumption that the shooting was done afterward-to throw the police off track.”

“The ploy obviously didn’t work.”

“Autopsies don’t lie, and all homicide victims are autopsied. Death by drowning is a very easy thing to spot.”

“I’m confused,” Rina said. “Are you saying that Gershon was drowned on purpose? Then someone shot him to make it look like a normal murder?” She frowned. “Normal murder. Now there’s a contradiction in terms.”

“It looks that way.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “Seems to me, we’re working with amateurs instead of professional hit men.”

“What kind of amateurs?”

“Could be anyone-disgruntled friends…family…wife that’s pissed because her husband won’t make love to her anymore.”

“You mean Honey?” Rina shook her head. “I don’t believe it! I refuse to believe that. Beside, Honey’s what?…five four. Gershon was a lot bigger than that.”

Good point, Decker thought. Man, he was tired. His brain waves were close to flatlining. “I need some sleep.”

Rina leaned over and kissed him. “You’re going to keep working on the case, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Decker said. “I don’t care what her Rebbe says. Something’s rotten in the state of New York.”

“He seemed genuinely concerned about Honey’s safety, leery about the family’s whereabouts. He seemed to feel you could be endangering them.”

“And just what is he basing his thoughts on, Rina?”

She shrugged.

“You know what I think?”

“He’s holding back.”

“Bingo, you win the Thanksgiving turkey. Either he knows something bad or he’s protecting somebody.”

“Honey?”

“Maybe Honey. Maybe someone in the community. Maybe even himself.”

Rina stared at her husband incredulously. “Are you actually saying that the Rebbe had something to do with Gershon’s murder?”

“I’m saying I have a trained nose and, baby, I smell a rat.” He turned away from her. “Let’s go to bed.”

Rina waited a beat, then shut the lights off.

At his desk at seven the next morning, the first thing Decker did was call up West LA. His intentions were to leave a recorded message for Detective Sturgis, the one who had been assigned to Honey’s abandoned van. But to Decker’s surprise, Sturgis was in.

Decker filled him in. “Anything new I should know about?”

“Not on my end.” Sturgis paused. “What’s your make on the drowning?”

“Someone was working the guy over and didn’t want to leave marks. You know. Dunking his head in the toilet. Meanwhile, the wife was conveniently out of town. It could have been mob. But it sure could have been an arrangement made by the wife. But if she actually arranged the water torture, what was she trying to gain? To get any kind of renumeration like an insurance policy, her husband would have to kick.”

“He did kick.”

“A messy way to arrange a hit, don’t you think? Especially if you’re going to shoot him anyway. No, I’m thinking something got bungled. They were working him over but he wasn’t supposed to die.”

“Or could be someone meant to drown him. The head shot was done to confuse us. Which is precisely what it’s doing. Has anyone checked out the insurance policies?”

“Dintz from Manhattan said there’s none to speak of. But Gershon Klein was a diamond dealer. I’m sure he has some fancy stones in inventory.”

Sturgis said, “You want to know my take? She ripped off her husband, hired thugs to pop him, cashed out her stones here, then went underground.”

“But, Sturgis, she didn’t go underground. She came out here, to LA with her family.”

“To throw everyone off track before she made her big escape.”

“She’s religious. She’d have a hard time hiding.”

“Unless she decided to become un-religious.”

Decker thought about that. Honey was a religious woman swathed in clothing and custom-a lady who covered her hair practically all of her adult life. To change her appearance all she’d have to do would be take off her wig, put on some tight jeans, and eat tref. No one would recognize her.

“You still there?” Sturgis asked.

“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. If Honey decided to become un-religious, she could hide very easily. But, no pun intended, old habits die hard. If Honey chose to remain Orthodox, a religious lady just doesn’t have too many hiding spots in this country. I think there is a very real possibility that the lady bolted to Israel.”

Sturgis paused. “Yeah, could be. You know anything about Israel?”

“I’ve heard there are lots of religious people in certain areas. Lots of places to hide. Honey and her family could easily fade into the miasma.”

“That being the case nobody’s going to find her.”

“We’re not going to find her, that’s true. But an insider probably could.”

“You’ve got someone in mind?”

“I have only one international informant on Israel, Sturgis. But she’s a doozy.”

Marge raised her eyebrows and drank lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Just like Chucky the Clown to keep us waiting.”

“Be charitable, Dunn. It isn’t even eight yet.”

Marge grumped, set the cup on a side table, and took in the office-nice but it wasn’t overdone. An institutional desk, a leather couch, a couple of glass and chrome side tables, and one picture window with a smoggy view of the SF Valley. The bookshelves were filled with folders and binders. A moment later, Chucky graced them with his presence. He was dressed in a conservative-cut blue suit, white shirt, and hand-painted tie-doves and swans in brilliant colors. Must be how bankers let their hair down, Marge thought. She stood and held out her hand. Holmes took hers first, then Decker’s.

“Thanks for making time for us,” Marge said, returning to her seat.

“As long as you’re brief.” Holmes sat in his black leather desk chair and rubbed his forehead. “I’ve got the IRS breathing down my neck, angry that this wasn’t reported yesterday. I told them you had the paperwork but that didn’t seem to mollify them. They’re out for me now. I can just feel it.” He looked up at Marge and Decker, eyes ablaze. “Just who do they think they are?”

The room was silent for a moment. Holmes cleared his throat. “Yes, well…the Yaloms were valued clients. I do want to help you-as long as you’re quick about it.”