Faye Kellerman - The Ritual Bath

Anthony Macko.

God bless the poodle .

“I tell you I wasn’t doin’ a fuckin’ thing,” Macko protested, spraying Decker with sour spittle.

“How’d you get your clothes all torn up, buddy?” Decker asked, pushing him toward the unmarked.

“Hey, I like torn clothes!”

“You like jumping a police officer?”

“I didn’t know who you was.”

“I said who I was.”

“I didn’t hear you good. I just saw some dude come chargin’ at me. I thought you was a mugger.”

Hollander and Marge stepped out. She looked at Macko.

“Yeah, it’s him,” she said.

“Hey, I never saw this broad in my life!”

“Sure. Your eyesight is very poor.” Decker pushed Macko’s body against the hood of the car, kicked his heels apart, and began to shake him down. Finding nothing, he shoved the punk into the backseat, then slid in next to him.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, man!” Macko protested.

“What are we talking about, Macko?” Marge asked, flanking his other side.

“Hey, I’m not sayin’ a fuckin’ thing until I got a lawyer. I know my rights.”

“Your rights won’t save you now, Macko,” Hollander said as he started the car. “You screwed up.”

“Hey, man, I never saw this broad in my fuckin’ life.”

“Yeah, just like you never saw Brenda Crowthers,” Marge said. “You remember her, the little blond nurse who worked at Mission Presbyterian Hospital?”

“Man, I didn’t do nothin’ to her.”

“She tells it different, Macko,” Marge said.

“She spent three weeks in the hospital, and I bet you’re the one who put her there.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till I seen a lawyer.”

“We got your girlfriend, Macko,” Marge pushed.

“Lyin’ little cunt! I ain’t done nothin’!”

“What really happened with the nurse?” Decker prodded.

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“You saw her one day after work, didn’t you, Macko?” Marge said. “She was all alone, and her car didn’t start. You offered to help, and she thought that was nice of you. But you got distracted. You forced her into the backseat of her car, locked the door-”

“You got the wrong guy!”

“Hey, Macko, you attacked me,” Marge said, angrily. “I don’t think I got the wrong guy.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

“Bitch turn you on?” Decker whispered.

Macko was silent.

“She had big knockers, didn’t she?”

“I’m tellin’ you, you got the wrong guy.”

“And those fuckin’ sexy little pumps, right?” Decker nodded eagerly. “Ooo, I love those little backless, fuck-me shoes.”

Macko started to sweat. His eyelashes fluttered.

“In black, man,” Decker continued. “Has to be black, right?”

“She let me do it, man,” Macko said. “I’m telling you, she begged me to do it to her. She liked it rough, man. I didn’t want to get rough, but she wanted it that way.”

“Who else wanted it that way?” Decker asked.

The thin lips clamped shut.

“Ain’t saying nothin’ till I see my lawyer.”

“You’ll get a lawyer,” Marge said, taking off one patent leather black pump and passing it to Decker across Macko’s field of vision.

Decker stroked the shoe. “Who else wanted it rough, Macko?”

The rapist eyed the shiny leather and began to breathe audibly. He squirmed against the cuffs and his pants bulged.

“They all did.”

“That little hostess from Benito’s?” Marge asked.

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Decker caressed Macko’s cheek with the shoe.

“How ’bout the brunette from the library?” Decker asked.

“Don’t know no brunette from no library.”

“Funny, Rayana knew all about her,” said Marge.

“I tol’ you. Rayana’s a lyin’ cunt!”

“C’mon, Macko. You remember who we’re talking about. She had on those spiked heels, and her shoes were two-toned with pointy toes. Oh, you liked those shoes, didn’t you?”

A sick smile tightened the drawstring mouth.

“She was a bitch. They’re all bitches. I’m telling you, they asked me to do it. They begged me.”

“And the one from the bar at Canary’s?” Marge kept at it. “She got a good look at you.”

“Hey, she loved it rough. Thought it was kinky, and she loved kink. I’m telling you, she loved the kink. Hell, she invited me in her car, man. I’m telling you, she asked me in.”

“How ’bout the girl from Jewtown?” Decker asked. “She beg for it also?”

“Jewtown?” For the first time, Macko looked honestly puzzled. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

“The one with the nice black pumps?” Decker tried.

“Kikes!” Macko spit. “I wouldn’t fuck those pieces of shit if they was the last bitches on earth.”

Decker’s eyes blurred for a split second. When they refocused, he realized his hand was on the butt of his.38.

Slowly, he let it drop onto his lap.

The Rosh Yeshiva greeted Decker with a warm smile and told him to place the two large boxes on his desk. It was an oversized slab of rich rosewood, the top protected by glass and completely clear of clutter-something that Decker found amazing. Gently, he lowered the cartons onto the area so as not to scratch the glass, then stretched. With Macko locked up, he could afford the luxury of the night off.

He looked around. The study exuded dignity and warmth. It was softly lit, carpeted in a rich brown wool pile, and furnished with a burnt brown leather sofa and two suede wing chairs. The rear and right walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with volumes of religious texts. Thrown in for contrast was one case devoted to secular philosophy and American jurisprudence. The front wall was a picture window that revealed a canyon view. The desk was placed advantageously, affording the rabbi a panorama of nature as he worked.

But it was the left wall-glassed-in cabinets filled with artifacts of silver and gold-that turned the room into a showpiece.

Lovingly, Schulman began to lecture about his treasures.

One shelf of menorahs: Several were German, seventeenth and eighteenth century, heavy and bold in their silver work; another was a delicate weave of silver filigree from Italy; still others were fashioned of bronze and Jerusalem stone from Bezalel the art institute in Israel. One entire case was devoted to spice boxes-miniature silver replicas of towers from which hung parcel gilt bells and flags-from the best silversmiths of Europe. Each was stamped and dated. Along the top ledge of another case were special silver and carved wooden boxes used to hold something called an etrog -a citron in English-which Decker learned was a bumpy, aromatic fruit similar in taste to a lemon. The etrog , the rabbi explained, was used on the holiday of Sukkos.

There were two shelves of pointers, each in the shape of a hand with an extended forefinger. The Rosh Yeshivah put one into Decker’s hand.

“What’s this for?” the detective asked.

“In the synagogue, a reader-a ba’al kriah -incants out loud a weekly portion of the Torah,” the rabbi explained. “Fingers aren’t allowed to touch the holy scriptures. The ba’al kriah uses a pointer to keep his place.”

Candlesticks, wine goblets, finials called keterim -crowns for the Torah scroll. The elaborate metalwork, the intricate carving, the splendor and sheer number of treasures. Decker was overwhelmed at the richness of a culture that had survived for over two thousand years.