Zaddik, page 16
It had taken Czartoryski over thirty years, but now the prize was almost his. And what a triumph that would be! The Israelis thought they were so clever. Well, he would show them. With the stone in his hands, he would become the Odessa’s Überführer and sit at the head of the table. How could he walk away from that?
So far, only Maria had been identified. Send her to London? Tonight? No, he would need her to bring Levin to him. Put her on a plane tomorrow, after.
Tonight he would get the diamond. Perhaps, thought Czartoryski, it will be easier now. The Israeli Levin is probably frightened. All he wants now is to be rid of the stone. That will make him more tractable.
Then, with the Israeli dead, and the diamond in my hands, I can tie up the loose ends and go home to Rome.
And really, thought the Magician, calmer now, there’s only one loose end. This detective, whoever he may be.
Well, thought Czartoryski, opening the closet to choose a tie, we will soon find out.
Chapter 26 West Fifty-fifth Street, Manhattan
Monday, September 13
THERE SHE WAS. Taylor stepped back into the shade of the drugstore’s awning on the west side of sunny Sixth Avenue and watched Maria Radziwell, wearing her white linen dress, crossing Fifty-fifth Street. Not hard to spot, thought Taylor. Even in a city as full of beautiful women as New York, this one stood out. She looked like that model, Taylor thought, the one in the Absolut vodka ads, the one with the build, the incredible legs, and the sexy little overbite. No way a woman like this is with our chunky Mr. Levin out of love, he thought.
Radziwell paused in front of the Astro Coffee Shop, looking around. For a moment Taylor felt the blonde’s eyes sweep his face, and he retreated deeper into the shadows. Then she turned and walked into the shop where Levin had disappeared a few moments before. Taylor bought a package of Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews and kept his eye on the shop’s door.
Ten minutes and three Peanut Chews later, Taylor saw Levin leaving the shop. After a moment’s indecision, Taylor decided to stay where he was. I can find him later, Taylor thought, watching Levin move uptown.
Away from his office, Taylor noted. He’s not going back to work. Is he afraid of the police turning up?
A minute later Radziwell emerged and began walking uptown at a brisk clip, her long gait eating up the sidewalk. Taylor followed her from across the street.
The Cutter was also trailing Radziwell, but not to see where she was going. Staying a block behind her, the Cutter was watching to see if she was being tailed.
Sharp pains were shooting through the Cutter’s gut, and he was furious. He had just gotten up off the toilet, where he had spent much of the night and most of the morning, when the Magician had called to tell him to pick up Radziwell at the coffee shop, and why. Holding the phone tightly, he had had to bite back the bitter words that had risen into his mouth. You old fool, he had wanted to shout. You idiot. Look what you’ve done. Not for the first time, the Cutter wondered if the Magician’s skills were failing him, and he tried to imagine a life without his mentor.
And there he was. The tall man in sunglasses across Sixth Avenue. He was walking fast, pacing Radziwell, and his head was turned, keeping the whore in his line of sight. An amateur, the Cutter thought. So obvious. Well, that will make it easier.
Dov Taylor, still keeping to the opposite side of the street, watched the blonde turn into the apartment building on West Fifty-ninth Street. He waited until she had cleared the lobby, then followed. The doorman was a young Puerto Rican in jeans, sandals, and a fluorescent Hawaiian shirt. Twenty bucks bought Taylor Mary Rubel’s name, her apartment number, and the not-so-surprising news that the doorman would sure like to fuck her. Taylor thanked the young man, and for another twenty dollars he had a lifelong friend who would keep an eye out for anything unusual.
Taylor took the elevator to the fourth floor, found Rubel’s apartment, and rang the buzzer. A moment later the door, still chained, opened a crack, and Dov Taylor was looking into Maria Radziwell’s wide-set, slightly slanted Slavic brown eyes.
“Yes?”
“Miss Rubel?”
“Yes?”
“Mary Rubel?”
“That is correct.”
“My name is Dov Taylor, Miss Rubel. I’m a, well, I’m a detective, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“You have some identification, please?”
“I’m a private detective, Miss Rubel, a very private detective, you might say, working for the family of Zalman Gottleib, who was murdered two weeks ago in the building where Mr. Ariel Levin works. I could show you my driver’s license, and that would tell you that I am who I say I am, but I’m working unofficially. If you don’t want to talk to me, well, I understand, but I promise you it would be in your best interests. Unless, of course, you have something to hide.”
“I have nothing to hide, Mr.…”
“Taylor. Dov Taylor.”
“I have nothing to hide, Mr. Dov Taylor.”
“Then let me in and let’s talk. It will only take a moment, I promise.”
“A man was murdered?”
“And a woman. Zalman Gottleib and Shirley Stein.”
“I do not know these people, Mr. Taylor.”
“I understand. But I would like to ask you about Ariel Levin and Morris Schumach. Like I say, it will only take a few minutes. May I come in?”
“Just a moment,” said Rubel. The door closed.
Well, that’s it, thought Taylor. She’s gone. Probably calling the cops. I couldn’t blame her. But then Taylor heard the chain slide off, and the door opened.
“Come,” said Rubel, and Taylor followed her down a hall to a large living room decorated sparsely in white.
Rubel turned and sat on the end of a white couch, crossing her ankles and clasping her hands on her lap like a giant schoolgirl. Taylor felt himself tremble slightly, a melting feeling he had not experienced since he’d first kissed Carol and felt her hard little breasts on the backseat of his Volkswagen bug outside her parents’ apartment building in the Bronx. He tore his eyes away from Rubel’s breasts only to find himself staring at her long, tanned, muscular legs. He could see the tiny blond hairs flat on her thighs. God, she was delicious.
“I will trust you, Mr. Taylor. What is it you wish to know?”
“Thank you,” said Taylor, sitting on an overstuffed white chair set at right angles to the couch. He removed his notebook from his pocket. “First of all,” he began, “I’d like to know if you’re an athlete.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, but you look like an athlete.”
“When I was a girl, I played basketball in school in Poland. I was not very good.”
“I can’t believe that. You’re being modest. I’ll bet you were terrific.”
“You are not being like a policeman, Mr. Taylor.”
“I’m not? You could be right. I’ll start over. Tell me, Miss Rubel, what are you doing in New York?”
“I am in New York because this is where my husband lived.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes. He died not so long ago. I am a widow.”
“And his name was?”
“Martin Rudenstein.”
“Rubel is your maiden name?”
“Rubelski. I made it American.”
“And where did you meet your husband?”
“In England. I am Polish. I went to England to escape the Communists. Mr. Taylor. I don’t—”
“You called up Morris Schumach two weeks ago to ask him to look at some jewelry of yours. Is that right?”
“Yes. That is correct.”
“How did you come to call Mr. Schumach?”
“Mr. Taylor, you must tell me what you want. Perhaps I can help if you will tell me.”
“Miss Rubel, Zalman Gottleib and his secretary, Shirley Stein, were murdered the same day you saw Mr. Schumach. Mr. Gottleib was Mr. Schumach’s partner. I am just trying to re-create the events of that day. And you have been hard to find, Miss Rubel. You left your house in Queens kind of quickly.”
“Yes. It has bad memories of my husband. But I do not know how I can help you, Mr. Taylor. I saw Mr. Schumach, and he buys some jewelry from me. Then I move into this apartment.”
“And then you went to see Mr. Ariel Levin.”
“Yes, to have a ring fixed.”
“Mr. Levin was less than forthcoming about you, Miss Rubel.”
“Yes? I am sorry, my English is not so good. What does that mean, forthcoming?”
“It means he lied to me. How did you come to call Mr. Levin?”
“A friend gave his name to me.”
“The same friend who recommended Morris Schumach?”
“No, another.”
“And his name is?”
“I do not think I should give you his name. I do not want him to become, how do you say, involved.”
“Miss Rubel,” said Taylor, “after I leave, I’m going to give your name and address to the police. They’ve been looking for you, too. I don’t want to cause any trouble for you, or for your friends, but two people have been killed. I’d advise you to be completely honest with me and with the police. It’s in your best interests, believe me.”
“I do not know what to say. I have nothing to do with any of this, with murder.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Just tell me the names of the men who recommended Mr. Schumach and Mr. Levin to you.”
“Well, Mr. Schumach’s name was in my husband’s papers, with a list of the jewelry. You see, the jewelry was my husband’s. So I just called the name. Mr. Levin’s name was given to me by a man named Jacob Cohen. But he is not in New York. When I want the ring fixed, I call Mr. Cohen, who I know in London, where I live before meeting my husband and coming to New York. He is in the jewelry business, Mr. Cohen.”
“Do you have Mr. Cohen’s phone number?”
“Yes. Here.” Rubel rummaged in her bag and removed a large leather Filofax. She opened it and read off a number to Taylor, who wrote it down in his notebook.
“Thank you, Miss Rubel,” said Taylor. “Tell me, how well do you know Mr. Levin?”
“Not so well,” Rubel said. “He seems nice.”
“Did you know that Mr. Levin worked in the same building as Morris Schumach?”
“No. It is a surprise to me.”
“And you didn’t know about the murder? You didn’t read about it in the papers or see anything about it on television?”
“My English is not so good for the newspapers, I am sorry. And I am not interested in the television.”
“May I ask if Mr. Levin is your lover?”
“No, you may not.”
“I’m sorry. The police will ask the same questions, Miss Rubel. They’ll also ask you if you’ll be staying in New York now that your husband has passed away.”
“I do not know,” said Rubel. “It seems like a very frightening city to me. And now you tell me that the police are going to interrogate me.”
“If you tell them what you know, you won’t have anything to worry about,” said Taylor. “I understand this must be unpleasant for you, but New York is not such a bad place. Did your husband take you around much?”
“No. He was killed soon after we come here.”
“How?”
“In an automobile accident.”
“Has Mr. Levin? Shown you around?”
“Ariel, he, no, not really.”
Christ, thought Taylor, I’m hitting on her.
“Would you like me to show you the town, Miss Rubel?”
“Is that proper, Mr. Taylor?” she said, smiling.
“Why not?” said Taylor, thinking that he must be imagining it, but, no, he could smell her—a fruity scent, mixed with earth.
“I think that would be very nice, Mr. Taylor,” she said, smiling, relaxing, and her abrupt shift snapped Taylor out of his erotic fog.
He stood up. “Well, thank you, Miss Rubel. You have been very helpful. I’ll call Mr. Cohen and perhaps we can clear this all up.”
Rubel stood up with him and stretched, running her hands through her hair. Her breasts rose.
She’s putting on a show, thought Taylor.
Rubel walked him to the door, and he was aware of her body close to his. He imagined he could feel heat wafting off her.
“Good-bye, Miss Rubel. Thank you.”
“You said you would call the police?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I will call you tomorrow to see how it went. And if you have any trouble with them, don’t hesitate to call me. I’m in the Manhattan book. Downtown. Near the Village.”
“The Village?”
“Greenwich Village. It’s a part of New York. A very interesting part. I’d love to show it to you sometime.”
“That would be nice, yes,” she said, extending her hand. It seemed to him as if her lips were parted slightly. Is she offering a kiss? Taylor wondered. He started to sway toward her, then stopped himself. Crazy, he thought. This is crazy.
“Well, good-bye again, Miss Rubel.”
Rubel let him out, and he walked back to the elevator, both aroused and confused. Something, he knew, was wrong. Not just her answers, which were evasive and vague. And not just the London phone number, which he was sure would turn out to be a dead end. No, there was something about her, the way she switched on the sex. What had Schumach told him? That she reminded him of a hooker? Maybe.
Taylor left the building, crossed the street, and ate another Peanut Chew. Only one left. When he was a cop, on stake-outs, he’d set fire to a whole pack of Merits in a few hours. Now, for the first time since he’d quit, he really wanted one.
He walked the few blocks to the precinct house, and the desk sergeant directed him up the stairs to homicide. Frank Hill was talking on the phone with his feet up on his desk.
“Yeah,” Hill was saying, “yeah, I’ll pick something up on the way home… I don’t know.” He paused, listening. “Don’t I always?… Yeah… Okay… Me too.” He hung up. “The wife,” he explained to Taylor. “So, you want to see the pictures? Real fucking ugly.”
“I’ve seen ugly before,” Taylor said.
“Not like this,” said Hill, opening a drawer and pulling out a file. He fished out some eight-by-ten glossies and tossed them, along with the file, across the desk to Taylor. “Want some coffee?” he asked. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Sure,” said Taylor. Hill stood up, leaving him alone with the photos.
Bodies like Shirley Stein’s, their throats cut, he had seen hundreds of times. Zalman Gottleib, hanging upside down, gutted, was something new. He turned to the medical examiner’s report. Gottleib’s intestines and lungs had been lifted out of the torso cavity and left dangling.
Taylor turned again to the photographs. Close-ups of the wounds. Something about the pattern of the two cuts—across the throat and from belly to sternum—struck a chord.
Hill returned with Taylor’s coffee in a heavy beige mug. “So?” asked Hill. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Taylor took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter, like cop coffee the world over. “Either somebody’s sending a message, or we got a bad nut. Nobody sane cuts somebody up like this.”
Hill nodded in agreement.
“I found Schumach’s blonde,” Taylor said. Hill opened his pad and took down Rubel’s address. “I also talked to the guy she visited in Gottleib’s building, Ariel Levin, an Israeli.”
“Well, you’ve been a fucking beaver, Taylor,” said Hill. “What can you tell me?”
“Levin says he doesn’t remember her, doesn’t know who the hell I’m talking about, but as soon as I leave him he cuts out and leads me straight to her. Then she tells me she doesn’t know him too well, but that’s clearly bullshit, too. They’re obviously fucking, or partners together. She’s supposed to be this grieving widow, but I don’t buy it. And, Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“Schumach was right. A bombshell.”
Hill smiled. “You know, man, I got to apologize for yesterday. I know you’re in AA, and I shouldn’t have offered you that beer. I was just pulling your chain. I’m a fucking asshole sometimes, can’t help it. So”—Hill stuck out his hand—“shake?”
Taylor reached over the desk and shook Hill’s hand over the pictures of Zalman Gottleib’s and Shirley Stein’s mutilated bodies.
After promising to keep Hill informed, Taylor walked back down to the street. On a whim he ducked into a phone booth and asked Information for a new number belonging to a Mary Rubel on West Fifty-ninth Street. He was informed that it was unlisted at the customer’s request. Then he asked for an Ariel Levin in Manhattan and was told there were two residential listings and a business number.
He felt his excitement ebbing. So Levin had lied to him. So he had found Morris Schumach’s blonde, and she seemed a little wrong. Why would she need an unlisted number? On the other hand, so what? Maybe they were just having an affair. Who’s to say Rubel couldn’t find the Israeli attractive? Maybe he had a shlong like Wilt Chamberlain’s.
For the first time, he felt sad about losing his job at the bank. It hadn’t been much, but it had given him a place to go every day. Now he had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Hill would question Rubel and Levin; he would either find out something or he wouldn’t. And, Taylor reminded himself, he had been kissed off by Naomi, so he couldn’t even get laid. Would he sleep with Mary Rubel? He had the clear sense that that was available if he wanted it. He imagined himself on top of her; he felt himself growing aroused.
“What am I doing?” he asked himself aloud. Playing detective. Tailing mysterious blondes and trying to date them up. Standing in a phone booth talking to myself like a typical New York loony.
