Faye Kellerman - Sanctuary

Immediately, Decker thought about Kate Milligan. He wondered if he and Marge were right about her. If she had dared to love a black…saw his plight. Maybe it had touched a rebellious spirit in her.

Milligan’s face appeared to him with clarity. Young and beautiful, she was a brilliant attorney at the top of her career. She was a woman with a mission. Decker mused about the nature of her mission as he started the car and drove to the hotel.

In the daylight, the Tel Aviv apartments didn’t look any less slummy and the neighborhood didn’t look any less poor. The sun only highlighted the defects. Decker saw the years of wear on the buildings-the crumbling plaster, the two-tone patch-up jobs, the lines of drying laundry strung from window to window. Though the main roads of the city were smooth, many of the side lanes were dirt ruts. He clucked his tongue.

“What’s wrong?” Rina asked.

“The way the news reports Israel…it makes it seem like it’s this big fat cat of a country preying on its impoverished neighbors. I don’t know…it looks so poor itself.”

“It certainly isn’t a fat cat,” Rina said. “But it’s not poor. You’re just thinking like an American. I’ll bet almost every apartment here has a color TV and a VCR.”

“So do ghetto kids.”

She turned to him. “Even though the area where the Yaloms live is solidly middle class by Israeli standards, don’t expect too much.”

Decker said, “I’m just wondering, where are the homes and the yards and the playsets?”

“City living means apartment living-like Manhattan. There’s not enough room for anything else. There are parks…not Central Park, but little corner places. If you want real countryside, Israel has plenty of farms or moshavs-collective farms. You miss your horses, Peter. I’ll find some for you.”

“Are you being sarcastic at ten in the morning?”

Rina smiled. “I think of it as acculturating you.”

“You’re making fun of me. Like I’m this big, dumb goy who doesn’t know shit from shinola-”

“You’re not dumb and you’re not a goy-”

“I need you for this assignment, Rina. I’m the first one to say that. Can we have a cooperative, respectful, working relationship?”

Rina took his hand. “I’m sorry, Peter. I know you’re dealing with something very serious.”

The car grew quiet. Decker said, “I liked the breakfast buffet the hotel gave us this morning. You can eat enough to get by for the entire day.” He smiled. “Even if you don’t surreptitiously wrap rolls with tissues and hide them in your purse.”

Rina sighed. “Now who’s mocking?”

“Why do they do that?”

“They?”

“I mean the tourists-”

“You mean the Jewish tourists.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Decker exclaimed. “You know, Israel may not be fancy, but it isn’t shtetl Poland. The country’s not going to run out of food. Not to mention the fact that the nefarious roll stuffer could afford to lose a few pounds.”

“It just gets thrown out anyway.”

“It’s uncouth.”

Rina smiled. “It’s déclassé, I agree, but what the heck. They’re paying for the food, they might as well eat it.”

“Eating it is one thing. You can eat all you want on the premises. But filling your purses with fruit and rolls and pats of butter-”

Rina began to laugh. “We only saw one lady who did that.”

“Then she put a carton of yogurt…” Decker smiled. “That was just out of line.”

They both started laughing. Decker finally said, “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s my pleasure. I know you’re going to be working the whole time, but I do hope you get a little chance to at least…soak up some atmosphere.”

Atmosphere, he thought. Then he said, “It’s weird. I feel like I’m in a foreign country. But I don’t feel I’m in a religious foreign country. Nothing Jewish except the Hebrew.”

Rina said, “If you get a chance to see the Bursa, you’ll realize it’s a Jewish country. From what I hear, it’s replete with Chasidic Jews.”

“There were lots of Chasidic Jews in the LA diamond mart, too.” He bit his mustache. “Maybe I’m not explaining myself right. This just doesn’t feel that much different from a working-class area in LA.”

“Wait until you get to Jerusalem. Then tell me if you feel the same way.”

Decker drove a few more blocks, following Rina’s directions. The area seemed to have turned nicer. The apartment buildings weren’t necessarily newer, but they seemed more solidly built. They were fashioned from ocher-colored limestone, held bigger windows, and had patios landscaped with potted trees and flowers. The main road was wide and divided, and had visible street signs. Directions to various cities were posted at the main intersecions.

“Where are we now?”

“Ramat Aviv.”

“It’s a wealthier area.”

“You can tell.”

“I’m learning. Are we near the Yaloms’ address?”

“Not too far.”

They passed a complex of big buildings floating in seas of emerald green lawn. Across from the buildings was a series of parking lots.

“University?” Decker asked.

“Museums.”

“Ahhhh. Are the museums good?”

“The Museum of the Diaspora is outstanding.”

“Is that where the Dead Sea Scrolls are?”

“No, that’s in Jerusalem. At the Shrine of the Book. You have an interest in biblical archaeology?”

“Just a curiosity. Too bad I won’t see any of it.”

Rina looked at him. He wasn’t being flip, he was disappointed. She took his hand and kissed it. “Next time. Under better circumstances.”

Decker heard himself answer with an amen.

A house of sadness. Black cloth had been draped over the mirrors, the paintings, and the TV. The cushions from the sofa had been removed, exposing the couch’s gauzy underlining. Decker knew that with the cushions gone, the sofa was permitted to be used as seating for the Jewish mourners.

But Moshe Yalom still opted for the floor. He was a thin man, perhaps in his early seventies, clean-shaven with curly, gray hair atop a long saggy face. A man beaten by life, but not defeated by it. There was still obstinacy in his milky blue eyes. His wife, Tziril, seemed younger. Proportionately, she was heavier than her husband, more meat on the bones, but her doughy flesh was pale. She wore a loose smock and her hair was covered by a scarf.

Rina had made the appointment with Tziril. She had commented that Mrs. Yalom had sounded amazed by the request, as if it had never occurred to her that America-a foreign country ten thousand miles away-was actually pursuing an investigation of her son’s murder.

Decker studied the woman as she spoke to Rina. Rina reported that she and Peter should sit in the chairs, they weren’t in mourning. Tziril talked some more. Rina translated: They had started the process of shiva-the seven days of intense mourning-earlier than Jewish law required. Technically, shiva should take place only after burial. But both Tziril and her husband had felt it was ridiculous to hold off. Who knew when their son would be brought home?

Tziril spoke once more, then disappeared inside a cubby off the living room. Her husband stood up slowly and padded down a long hallway.

“Where’s everybody going?” Decker whispered.

“I don’t know where Mr. Yalom’s going,” Rina said. “Mrs. Yalom went to get us some tea. She asked and I didn’t want to refuse her hospitality. It seemed important to her.”

“Absolutely.” He looked around the living room. “If it helps her relax…”

The apartment was small, the living room paced off around ten by thirteen. But it seemed larger because it had double glass doors that led to a generous wraparound porch. It was screened and held all-weather furniture-a dining-room table and chairs, an outdoor sofa and coffee table, a rocker in the corner. There were two potted citrus trees that were starting to bloom, the flowers emitting a lemony smell. The porch doors were open and allowed a fair amount of circulation. Otherwise, a room this compact would get stuffy in no time.