Faye Kellerman - Day of Atonement

To my brothers—Allan Marder and Stan

Marder—who teased me, but taught me

Contents

Cover

Title Page Faye Kellerman Day of Atonement A Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus Novel

Dedication Dedication Dedication Prologue Part One: Tephila—Prayer Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Part Two: Tzedakah—Charity Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Part Three: Tshuvah—Repentance Chapter 29 Chapter 30 About the Author Also by Faye Kellerman Predator Copyright About the Publisher To my brothers—Allan Marder and Stan Marder—who teased me, but taught me

Prologue

Part One: Tephila—Prayer

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part Two: Tzedakah—Charity

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part Three: Tshuvah—Repentance

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Also by Faye Kellerman

Predator

Copyright

About the Publisher

He wrote down the name Hank Stewart. Stared at it for a while and decided it was a good start.

A start.

But not there yet.

He wrote Dr. Hank Stewart. Then: Hank Stewart, M.D.

But hell, doctors were nothing special. Matter of fact, they were assholes, all puffed up and full of themselves.

So he wrote Hank Stewart, ESQ.

Crossed that off the list. Lawyers were bigger assholes than doctors.

How about Hank Stewart, Nuclear Physicist.

Or Hank Stewart, Nobel Prize Winner.

Give ’em a smile as they took his picture.

Hell with that. That kinda fame was too short-lived. A picture in a newspaper for about a day. Big effing deal.

Hank Stewart, CIA.

Stewart—Superspy.

Good ring to it.

Ah, that was stupid. Kid stuff.

Still, kid stuff was better than peddling fish.

I’ll take one pound of snapper, please.

Yeah, lady. Right up your ass.

The old people always buying fish ’cause they didn’t got no teeth to chew meat. They came up to the counter, moving their mouths over their dentures, whistling the word “snapper,” their hands and head shakin’, looking like they wasn’t glued together very tight.

That was the worst part. Working behind the counter.

Now the gutting part was okay. Especially once you got the feel for it, didn’t let the suckers slip out of your hands.

Fish were slimy little bastards, all the gook would get over your clothes and you never could get the smell out. Thing to do was just work in smelly clothes for a while, then chuck ’em in the garbage.

Or stuff ’em in the mailbox of that jerk who was giving you a real hard time.

Now if he was a real asshole, you’d stuff some fishheads in with the smelly clothes.

Good old fish. Flopping in the pail, looking up at you with glazed-over eyes sayin’ “Put me out of my misery, man.”

At first he used to do it just like the old man did. Cut the gills. But then he found a better way. He’d step on their heads.

Stomp!

All the brain squishing out.

That part was okay, too. But the best part was the swim bladder. Bounce it with the tip of the knife. Careful, careful. It was delicate.

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.

Then if you were quick enough, you’d jam the tip all of a sudden and it’d pop.

But that was kid stuff, too. Old stuff. He’d moved on to better stuff than popping swim bladders. And things were going real good until he got caught.

Hell with that shit. No sense moaning about the past. Better to make something of the future.

After all, he was young.

He wrote Hank Stewart, Real Estate Developer.

Like that guy who owned all those casinos in Atlantic City. Man, he could have his pick of chicks ’cause he had bread.

Hank Stewart, millionaire.

Hank Stewart, billionaire.

Hank Stewart, trillionaire.

Ah, that was stupid, too. Money wasn’t everything. It didn’t show what you got in your pants.

Hank Stewart, stud.

Ah-hah!

Hank Stewart, rock star. Hair down to his ass, wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans, sweat streaming down his hard, lean body. Girls coming after him, screaming their little heads off, waiting for him to give it to them.

Hank Stewart, King of Rock and Roll.

He paused a moment, then wrote: Hank Stewart, King.

King Stewart.

Emperor Stewart.

Lord Stewart.

God Stewart.

Or just plain God would do.

Brooklyn.

Not the honeymoon Decker had imagined.

Twelve grueling months before he’d rack up another two weeks’ vacation time and here he was, alone in a tiny guest bedroom, his long legs cramped from having slept on too small a bed, his back sore from lying on a wafer-thin thing that somebody had mislabeled as a mattress. He’d bunked up in foxholes that had been bigger than this place. Most of the floor space was taken up by the pullout sofa bed. The rest of the furnishings were worn pieces old enough to be antiques, but not good enough to qualify. A scarred wooden nightstand was at his right, the digital clock upon it reading out ten-forty-two. The suitcases had been piled atop an old yellowed pine bureau adorned with teddy-bear appliqués. The sofa pillows had been stuffed into the room’s only free corner. On the east wall, two wee windows framed a gray sky.

The honeymoon suite.

Très charmant.

Two days ago, he’d danced blisters on his feet, whooping his voice raw, carrying his stepsons around on his shoulders. It had been a wild affair—the drinking and dancing lasting until midnight. Now his body was paying overtime for his exuberance.

Of course, the undersized sofa didn’t help.

He chewed on the ends of his mustache, then pulled the sheet over his head.

They say Jews don’t drink much, but they’ve never seen ultra-Orthodox rabbis at a wedding. The men downed schnapps like water. Decker had thought his father had a large capacity for booze, but Dad was a piker compared to Rav Schulman.

Dad and Mom. Sitting in the corner, wondering what the hell was flying. Cindy trying to coax Grandma to dance. Rina did get Mom to dance once. Even Mom couldn’t turn down the bride. But that one time had been the only time.

Well, at least they came. A big surprise and a step in the right direction. They liked Rina, he sensed that immediately. Rina could charm anyone and she was truly a nice person. But his parents couldn’t come out and tell him they liked her. Mom did admit that if he had to marry another Jew, Rina seemed like a decent woman. Very high praise. Then she added that Rina seemed sincere in her beliefs even though they were dead wrong.