Faye Kellerman - The Ritual Bath

“How’s the lighting, Margie?”

“Backlighting from the street lamp, plus a bulb over the rear door of the restaurant. I’m beginning to wonder about Rayana’s credibility.”

“She never said definitely. You want to call it quits?”

“No. I’ve still got about an hour’s worth left in me.”

Hollander groaned, and Marge heard it.

“What the fuck is he bitching about? I’m the one who’s walking my ass off.”

“He does it to keep in practice,” Decker answered.

“I’m signing off. I see someone.”

The dot was still. Decker and Hollander watched the monitor for a few tense moments, but soon the spot was marching along like the bouncing ball used in the old TV sing-alongs.

“What did you think of Margie’s latest?” Hollander asked, putting aside the crossword book.

“Ernst? He seemed nice enough.”

“Faggy, don’t you think?”

“She likes ’em soft,” Decker said.

“Macho Woman meets Superwimp, eh?”

“He’s a good musician. That’s a step up from her last.”

“Yeah,” Hollander agreed, “but how can he stand playing with her?”

“Guess love is deaf as well as blind.”

“I can’t picture the two of them in bed.”

Decker shrugged.

“Bet she’s always on top,” snickered the fat detective.

“Hope not always. She’d crush him.”

“Think he’s Jewish?” Hollander asked.

Decker’s eyes darted from the screen to Hollander, then back to the screen.

“If he is Marge never mentioned it.”

“I think he’s a Jew. He looks Jewish. And with a last name like Katzenbach?”

“That could be German. Like the attorney general.”

“He looks Jewish to me, Pete.”

“You can’t tell from looks,” Decker said sharply.

“Take it easy. I’m not putting down your little honey.”

Decker felt his ire rising.

“Why don’t you go back to your puzzle?”

“Shit,” Hollander said, tamping his pipe. “Stop gettin’ so touchy. I can’t even mention Jewto-the yeshiva-without you blowing up.”

Decker pulled out a cigarette.

“Give me a light,” he said.

Hollander pulled out a match book.

“You gotta admit, Deck, Jews, in general, look like Jews.”

“Does Rina look Jewish?” Decker asked.

“She’s dark.”

“She’s got a nose smaller than a button.”

“Yeah,” Hollander admitted, “and you’ve got a Jewish nose. But still, I can tell that she’s Jewish and you’re not.”

“Fine, Michael. You’re an anthropologist.”

“’Course, maybe if you dressed her up in some normal clothes…” Hollander mused. “A low-cut blouse and a pair of jeans…”

There was a pause.

“Tight jeans,” Decker added.

“Real tight jeans.”

Both men laughed.

Marge buzzed through.

“As void as a black hole,” she said.

“How poetic,” said Hollander.

Decker picked up the portable radio.

“Are you getting tired?”

“The walking isn’t so bad. It’s these goddam pumps I have to wear.”

“Macko’s got a love affair with pumps,” Decker said. “Look, if you want to call it a night…”

“Another fifteen minutes.”

“Think you could adequately muscle an attacker?”

“To be honest, I have a few blisters. I couldn’t give him much chase.”

“We’re coming to get you.”

“Wait five minutes, Pete.”

“Will do.”

Decker clicked off the radio.

“Why don’t we just go in and arrest the son of a bitch?” Hollander said, shifting his bulk in the seat.

“Because we don’t exactly know where he is, Mike. He split from his former residence a week ago and hasn’t been heard from since. Rayana just thinks he’s around this area. He’s been known to drink at Sid’s.”

“For whatever that’s worth. What a flake!” Hollander lit his pipe and exhaled a cloud of acrid-smelling smoke. “What about a door-to-door?”

“And warn him we’re onto his whereabouts? Might as well put a full-page ad in the Times .”

Hollander checked his watch and grunted.

“It’s not even midnight,” Decker said. “Mary’ll still be up by the time you come home.”

“I dunno. She’s going to bed earlier and earlier these days.”

Marge’s voice came through the radio.

“Someone is following me, guys.”

Hollander started up the motor.

“Stay with it, baby,” Decker said. “We’re on our way!”

The attack came suddenly.

They could hear the fighting over the radio.

“Hold him!” Hollander yelled into the mike.

They got there just in time to see Marge lose her grip on the bastard. Hollander zoomed the Plymouth into the alley and caught sight of him running into the back entrance of Jose’s Hacienda Mexican Restaurant. The car squealed to a stop, and Decker flew out after him.

Seeing the fleeing figure run out the front door, Decker tore through the restaurant shouting his location into his radio. The assailant dashed across the street, turned right, then ducked into an alley between a toy store and a Chinese take-out place. Decker followed, pivoted, and stopped. The alley dead-ended.

Barely winded but drenched with sweat, he scanned the layout. The walkway was deserted and stank of garbage but was well lit. Barrels, empty cartons, and dumpsters lined the narrow strip of uneven asphalt scarred with potholes. He heard hissing from the Chinese restaurant’s kitchen fan, the distant rumble of a car’s ignition kicking in, mosquitoes buzzing. Asshole could be anywhere or nowhere. Sight was deceptive, sound everything.

The alley was still, but not lifeless. Decker could sense the bastard’s presence. Unhitching his revolver, he slowly began to walk forward, footsteps echoing against the pavement, eyes searching for the giveaway.

He peered into the first dumpster and a swarm of flies swirled across his face. Decker shooed them off and poked at the trash with the butt of his gun. Nothing but stench.

On to the next set of trash cans. The hissing grew louder.

Nothing.

The next bin contained plastic bags full of rotten food. A few of them had ripped open, spilling out congealed chow mein vegetables and gray strips of foul-smelling meat. The maggots were having a feast. Aside from them, the bin was inert.

The hissing became rhythmic: a goddam percussion section. Decker finally identified it: not the fan, but labored breathing emanating from a clump of barrels and crates in back of the toy store. Empty boxes of G. I. Joe army toys. The same war scene was splashed across all the cartons: helicopters zooming over exploding bombs, machine guns bursting with fire, men in camouflage parachuting from jets.

Decker stepped toward the combat, toward the breathing.

Suddenly the boxes shot up, came flying at him; the army men had charged. A figure leaped up, popping out like a jack-in-the-box, wide-eyed, terrified. Too big for a toy…

“Police! Freeze!” Decker shouted, pointing his.38.

The figure took off, but Decker knew he had him. His long legs sprinted in huge strides, and he quickly overtook his quarry and wrestled him to the ground. The man kicked, bit, and managed to claw a deep gouge in Decker’s forearm. The detective swore, flipped him on his stomach, twisted his arms, and tightly clamped on the cuffs behind his back.

“Hey, man, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”

“You have the right to remain silent-”

“I wasn’t doin’ nothin. I didn’t do nothin’.”

Decker groaned. Goddam same old shit. Same old excuses. Not me. I didn’t do nothin’. You’ve got the wrong man. She wanted it. She let me do it . He finished reciting Miranda and radioed the car. As soon as the Plymouth pulled up, Decker brought him to his feet and studied the face. It was lean and young, the sallow skin pocked with acne pits and sprinkled with light stubble. The eyes were a muddy green, small and quivering convulsively. The mouth was two tight rims of pale flesh that drew back to expose brown protruding teeth.