Faye Kellerman: Sacred and Profane

“I knew…this…would happen,” she said between sobs.

He rocked her, kissed a delicate earlobe jeweled with a single diamond stud.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. He knew she would leave. It was best for both of them. But every condemned man can still pray for an eleventh-hour reprieve.

“I love you,” he said. “We’ll work it out if you stay.”

She still said nothing. Her tear-streaked face leaned against his shirt, looking as lost and forlorn as a wet puppy.

He sighed and gave up. “I’m a phone call away, honey,” he said. “You ring, I take the next flight out.”

She nodded and brought his mouth down to hers.

A sweet kiss.

A flight number was announced over the loudspeaker.

“That’s my flight,” she said, wiping tears off her face. “Oh my God, Peter. What am I going to do without you?”

He smiled. “You’ll do real well without me.”

Too well, he thought.

“I don’t think so,” she said, breaking away. She took a deep breath. “Walk me to the gate?”

Decker hesitated. “I’ve already said bye to the boys. I don’t think your parents are too anxious to see me again.”

“I’ll miss you terribly,” she said.

“I’ll miss you terribly, too,” he said. “You write, you hear? Or better yet, call…collect.”

“That won’t be necessary, Peter,” she answered. “I have a feeling we’re going to rack up enormous phone bills.”

“I’ll pay for them all.”

“We’ll split them down the middle,” she said.

“Liberated woman.”

“Hardly.” Her lip began to tremble.

“You know, Rina,” he said. “If I’m going to keep studying with Rabbi Schulman, I figured I should take on a Jewish name. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea,” she said, breaking into a dazzling smile.

“Schulman suggested Pinchas. I guess that was as close an approximation to Peter that he could find. Then I discovered that Pinchas is Phineas in English-as in Phineas Fogg. I vetoed that one.”

“It doesn’t suit you, either,” she said. “Pinchas was a religious zealot.”

“No, that’s not me,” he said. “I like Akiva. What do you think?”

“I love it!”

The loudspeaker announced the final flight call.

“I’ve got to go.” She kissed his lips softly. “Take care of yourself.”

The tears had come back, but that didn’t stop her. She pivoted and walked toward the gate. She had a lovely sway, a graceful step.

“I love you, Rina,” he called out.

“I love you too, Akiva,” she shouted, turning her head to look at him as she strode toward her family.

By the time Decker got back to the car, he noticed his cheeks were wet. Goddam smog, he thought, rubbing his stinging eyes. Even at night, it doesn’t leave you alone.

Decker revved the Porsche up to ninety and flew on the empty stretch of freeway. The speed and wind gave him an illusion of infinite freedom, youth, and immortality. It had been months since he’d last burned rubber, and after seeing Rina off, he needed to rid himself of the emotion that had swelled inside and cut loose. The abandon lasted only a few minutes; his beeper went off, and his rearview mirror reflected a cruiser flashing him its blues. Pulling the Porsche onto the shoulder, he took out his badge disgustedly, got out of the car, and handed it to the uniform. The officer examined it carefully, then handed it back to him.

“What’d you clock me at?” Decker asked.

“Ninety-two.” The officer eyed the car. “Nice set of wheels.”

“Thanks. Put her together myself from bits and pieces over the years,” said Decker. “She sure can race.”

“I’ve got a ’68 ’Vette myself. Blown and supercharged. It’s one hell of a fast motherfucker.”

“A land jet.”

“You’ve got it, Sarge.” He smiled at Decker. “Take it easy.”

“I just got beeped,” Decker said. “I’m working Homicide. Mind if I use your radio?” He gave the cop his unit number and a moment later was patched through to Foothill.

“A break?” the patrolman asked after Decker hung up.

“Not sure, but I can hope,” Decker said. He got into his car and left behind a cloud of exhaust.

Marge was waiting for him at his desk.

“What’s so urgent at…” Decker checked his watch, “11:36 P.M.?”

“Did you take your No-Doz tonight?”

“What do you have?”

She slapped some papers into his hands-warrants.

“That was fast,” he said.

“Arlington’s statement carries clout with a certain judge. Morrison called up and voilà!”

Decker read the documents-search warrants for Executive First and Cameron Smithson’s condo, and an arrest warrant for Smithson Junior himself.

“Nothing for Dustin?” he asked.

“We don’t have anything on him. Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got.” Marge put on her coat. “A couple of West L.A. detectives are searching Junior’s house. We’ll take Executive First.”

Decker pocketed the papers.

“Let’s go catch a bastard,” he said.

Forty minutes later, the detectives turned onto Avenue of the Stars. The Century City thoroughfare was an empty ribbon of glistening blacktop bordered by steel-griddle buildings that shimmered in the cool, overcast air. Marge pulled the unmarked into a loading zone in front of a postmodern edifice of chrome and glass-no doubt someone’s architectural statement, she thought. Cold cold cold!

They walked up the black brick pathway to double glass doors. The entrance hall was brightly lit by a ceiling of fluorescent tubing and a security guard sat reading Sports Illustrated in a booth to the right of a bank of six elevators.

Decker knocked and the guard looked up-a middle-aged man with thick, fleshy features and a cue-ball head. Placing his hand on his gun, the guard swaggered over to them. They showed him their badges through the glass.

“What is it?” he asked them, opening the locked door.

“We have a search warrant for suite 581 of this building,” Marge informed him. “Your superior should have notified you of our arrival.”

“No one called me,” said the bald man, shrugging.

“Why don’t you call in?” suggested Decker.

As the watchman phoned, they waited on a bench in front of the elevators. Decker placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his palms. Until now he hadn’t fully realized how much of his life Rina, the boys, and the yeshiva had taken up. Now, with long stretches of time suddenly at his disposal, he felt aimless instead of liberated. Sudden anger welled up inside his chest. Rina had no right to desert him. Or maybe it was the other way around. Hadn’t he suggested they take a breather from each other? But a breather didn’t mean her leaving him and moving away.

Fuck it all! Well, better hostility than depression. At least anger pumped him up for work. Depression left him a zombie.

“What do you think we’ll find?” Marge asked.

“I’m not naive enough to think that the asshole left his books out in plain view, but maybe we can locate something incriminating against the whole shitload of scum.”

“You okay, Pete?”

“Fine.”

The guard put down the receiver and motioned them over.

“Yep,” he said to them, “you’re all cleared. Someone should have called, but you know how messages get screwed up. I think half our operators are on something.” The man scrunched his eyes and rubbed his egghead. “They talk kind of slurred and giggle all the time.”

“Can you take us up now?” Marge asked impatiently.

“Oh yeah. Sure, Detective. Right away.”

He unlocked an elevator, rode with them up to the fifth floor, took out a passkey, and walked them to the suite. Muffled voices could be heard through the walls. Decker put his index finger to his lips and motioned them into the corner of the hallway, far enough away from the suite not to be heard, but close enough to keep an eye on the door.