Zaddik, page 44
A young uniformed officer came into the living room and whispered in Antonelli’s ear. Antonelli nodded, said, “Okay,” and the uniform left the room.
Through the living room door, Taylor could see Rabbi Kalman being led down the hall. The rabbi, his eyes red, his hair disheveled, turned and looked at Taylor. What, he asked himself, had he done to this family?
“Don’t let him touch anything,” Antonelli called out as the young patrolman led the rabbi upstairs. To comfort his wife, thought Taylor.
Then Antonelli turned back to Taylor. “So,” he said, “where were we?” He glanced down at his notebook. “So, Rubel and Radziwell. Are there any other names you know about that she might have used?”
“The rabbi doesn’t know anything about this,” said Taylor. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
“So tell me,” Antonelli said.
There was something a bit show-bizzy about Antonelli, Taylor decided. With his slicked-back hair and his Italian suit, Taylor thought he looked like someone bucking for captain. He’s going to take me in, Taylor thought. That’s what I would do. And if he takes me in, how am I going to find Sarah?
“She once told me her real name was Rubelski,” said Taylor. “But that was before she told me it was Radziwell. And maybe she used her husband’s name. I think she told me it was Rudenstein. I have it in my notebook back at my apartment. But I’m not sure she was really married.”
“I count four names. Not bad. Interesting lady. So let’s start again,” said Antonelli. “From the top. And slower this time. With feeling.”
Taylor sighed. There was no way Antonelli was going to like the story Taylor was telling him. He wasn’t even going to like the parts that were true.
I introduce a woman I barely know—I don’t even know her real name—to my rabbi, and ask him to hide her. Why? Because she has information about a crime, a murder, and she’s afraid for her life.
Do I call the police with this information? No, I do not. I do not call the police.
The next day she’s murdered, and the rabbi’s daughter disappears.
Does it matter that I didn’t know that the rabbi was going to take her into his own home? No, it does not.
And what information did the victim have about this murder?
She said she knew the men who committed it. She said she had taken something from them, something the murder was committed for, something they wanted.
And what was that something?
I don’t know, Officer. She wouldn’t tell me.
Sure, thought Taylor, he’ll take me in. He’ll conduct a formal interrogation. Why not? That’s what I’d do. I might even throw me in the cage. If not as a suspect or a material witness, then just for being a wiseguy. Anyway, right now, I’m all he’s got.
As Taylor repeated his story, not mentioning the diamond that he knew would put him away for withholding evidence from a criminal investigation, he watched men walking up and down the hallway outside the living room, acting out their parts in the crime scene drama.
Some carried plastic bags containing evidence: towels, cups, silverware, maybe the murder weapon. The crime lab people, wearing their plastic gloves and white overalls, were dusting for prints. The photographer was snapping pictures of the kitchen, the bathroom, and the hallway. The men from the morgue were waiting with a body bag, waiting for the medical examiner to finish. His job would be simple tonight. The body was fresh—rigor had not yet set in. Given the time the Kalmans had left the house, and the time they had returned, plus the rate of lividity—blood, pulled by gravity, settling in the backs of the thighs, the buttocks, the back—the time of death would be relatively easy to establish. And the corpse displayed numerous large wounds, obviously from a knife.
It was curious, thought Taylor, how different men reacted in the presence of death. Some whispered, others spoke louder than necessary. Some treated death with respect, others regarded it with contempt. Still others were frozen in anger—how dare death invade their lives, intrude on their watch?—and others kept death at bay with jokes or with the efficiency with which they carried out their tasks.
One thing Taylor knew from his years on the force: no one was untouched, no one was ever truly indifferent. There was no event that changed a man’s world as much as violent death, even the death of a stranger.
But there was no stranger here.
After having received Rabbi Kalman’s phone call, after having tried, unsuccessfully, to calm him down, and after having told him to call 911, Taylor had left a message for Frank Hill. Then he’d cabbed to Crown Heights. The police were there when he arrived, and Antonelli, after listening to Taylor explain who he was, had led him into the kitchen to identify Maria Radziwell’s corpse.
Taylor had seen lots of bodies. Over the years he had trained himself to stop seeing them as people, to see them as people-shaped boxes containing clues, nothing more. He had tried to do that here, but his mind animated the corpse on the kitchen floor.
He saw her walking around his apartment.
He saw her standing, her head thrown back, waiting for his kiss.
He saw her walking through the Lubavitcher study hall with athletic strides, the students’ eyes upon her.
He saw her as he had left her, standing in Rabbi Kalman’s office in her cotton raincoat, thanking him for protecting her.
He had failed her, and now she was dead. She had come to him for help, and she had ended up dead.
Just the day before, he had been aroused by this body. Now the thought of touching it repelled him—140 pounds of fat, meat, and bone weltering in its own blood. Tissue breaking down; gases building up, making the belly swell. The exsanguination was almost complete, Taylor noted. The corpse was extremely livid; the blood that once warmed it was oxidizing, turning brown on the linoleum floor.
A uniform had cracked a joke about one hell of a period. Another uniform had told him to shut up.
Did it end here? Taylor asked himself. Did it end, as it had in Lublin, in blood, death, and disaster? Was the Seer’s stone gone forever? Czartoryski and the Cutter, were they on their way to who knew where? What could he tell Antonelli about them? He couldn’t even describe them. Go ask the Israelis, thought Taylor. Find that son of a bitch Phil Horowitz and ask him. And Sarah. What had happened to Sarah?
That was the one ray of hope, Taylor told himself. The fact that Sarah was missing could mean only one thing. Why else would they have taken her?
But trading for her is going to pose a problem, Taylor thought, since I don’t know where the stone is.
“Let me get this straight,” Antonelli was saying. “You were investigating the murder of this diamond dealer for the Satmarer rebbe, but you’re not a private investigator. Your last job was as a guard at the First Bank of Williamsburg. You don’t have a PI’s license. And you accepted money for this? You were paid money for whatever it is you thought you were doing?”
Taylor saw two uniforms carrying the body bag down the hallway. They stopped as the front door opened and Frank Hill, wearing sneakers, jeans, and a blue windbreaker over a blue-and-red New York Knicks sweatshirt, stepped into the apartment.
Hill told the men to put the bag down and open it up. He bent over for a moment and then straightened up. “Hi, Taylor,” he called over. “You want to look?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Schumacher’s bombshell, right? The big blonde.”
“Schumach,” said Taylor.
“Whatever,” Hill said, walking into the room. He shook hands with Antonelli and introduced himself.
“He tell you he called me?” Hill asked Antonelli. “You like his story?”
“Love it,” said Antonelli. “Can’t get enough of it. Want to hear it, oh, say, about ten or twenty times.”
“You taking him in?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Mind if I join in?”
“Be my guest.”
“Wait a second, guys,” said Taylor. “Detective Antonelli, may I have a word alone with Detective Hill? Just for a moment?”
Hill looked at Antonelli, and Antonelli nodded. He walked out of the room, and Hill sat on the couch next to Taylor.
“They’re going to try to get in touch with me, Frank,” said Taylor.
Hill laughed mirthlessly. “I just don’t know, man. There’s so many ways I could respond to that. Like, for instance, who’s gonna get in touch with you? That’s a good start. Or, why? Or maybe they’re going to have a hard time getting hold of you in jail.”
“If Antonelli takes me in,” said Taylor, “they’re just going to wait until I get out to ask me what they want to know.”
“Okay. I’ll play. Who the fuck are ‘they’?”
“I know there are at least two of them. An old guy, a Pole, named Ladislaw Czartoryski. I don’t know the other one’s name. The girl called him the Cutter. According to the girl, they’re the guys who killed Gottleib and Stein, and probably Levin. They’re the guys who stabbed me. The girl thought they were in New York. She thought they were going to come after her. I guess she was right.”
“You fucking asshole,” said Hill, standing up abruptly. “I can’t believe you’re still jerking me around. You think I’m fucking lame? You think I’m going to ask Antonelli to let you walk away from this, you don’t even tell me what it’s all about?
“I’ve had it with you, man. I really have. Do you realize what you’ve done? You tried to hide a fucking material witness to a fucking felony murder, and now she’s dead. You know how bad that is? You fucking ought to. Where were your brains, Taylor? Were you fucking her? Is that it?”
“All right, Frank.”
“No, man. It is not all right. She’s dead, and as far as I’m concerned it’s your fault. Your fault, motherfucker. And let me tell you, you don’t stop playing these fucking games, you’re not just going to be held, you’re going to be charged. You’re going to be sitting in a fucking cell waiting for a grand jury, which the Brooklyn DA will call in about two fucking seconds. You understand? I’m tired of sniffing corpses while you play twenty questions with me.”
My fault? thought Taylor. No. I did what I could. I did what I had to.
“All right, Frank,” said Taylor, “all right. Sit down. Come on,” Hill remained standing, his arms folded across his chest. “Okay,” said Taylor. “You’re right, I’m wrong. Maybe I’ve been wrong all along. Listen.”
Taylor took a deep breath. He looked at Hill, at his belly hanging over his jeans. He thought about Hill’s home, the broken toys lying on the filthy rug, the big backyard with its “fuck you” weeds growing high and wild. How could he make Hill see that he was beginning to understand that he was tied to the people who had come before him, and, more important, he was bound to the people who shared the earth with him. And that because of those ties, it might be possible to heal a wound that had been bleeding, uninterrupted, for over one hundred and fifty years.
No, he decided. It was not possible. He knew what Hill believed in. Like all cops, Hill believed that wounds never healed; they only festered. That’s why so many cops ate their guns.
“They took a stone from the dealer, from Gottleib,” Taylor began, knowing that he would give Hill all the truth he could—and that that might amount to only half. “Czartoryski, the Cutter, probably the girl, too. A diamond, Frank. A special diamond. That’s what this is all about. A diamond that’s belonged to the Satmarers for hundreds of years. No one knows anything about it. There’s no record of its existence. Nobody but the Hasids have ever seen it. Not recently, anyway. It was a secret. It’s tied up to their religion, to their history, in ways I can’t explain. Not because I don’t want to, Frank. I just can’t. I don’t have the words. But what’s important is that it was going to be the Satmarer rebbe’s daughter’s dowry.
“It’s a big deal, this wedding. A very big deal. It’s like, in the Middle Ages, if the king of France’s daughter and king of England’s son were getting married. It’s more than a marriage; it’s a political alliance.
“Anyway, the blonde stole the diamond from Czartoryski and the Cutter. I figure that’s why they took the rabbi’s daughter. Rubel didn’t tell them where it was. They figure I know. They figure she told me.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
Hill made a face.
“Honest to God, Frank,” said Taylor, “she didn’t tell me, and I got no idea where it might be.”
“No idea?”
Taylor shook his head.
“I’m going to search this apartment,” said Hill.
“Good, search away. I hope you find it.”
“And I should believe you on this because you’ve been so straight with me all along?” said Hill.
“I couldn’t tell you about the diamond before. The rebbe made me swear not to.”
“Well, maybe the rebbe will post your bail when we charge you with obstruction and withholding evidence.”
“Come on. You can’t get an indictment, Frank. Withholding from what? Obstruction of what? An investigation that didn’t have a suspect? The theft of a diamond no one knew existed? Maybe after you make a case, then you get an indictment. But how are you going to make a case? Against who? Ladislaw Czartoryski? No way he’s using that name here.
“So you hold me now, for what? Twenty-four hours? Forty-eight hours? They’re still going to come after me, Frank. And what about the girl, the rabbi’s daughter? The longer they hold her, the worse it’ll be for her. You know that.”
“Maybe they already got the diamond, Taylor. You think about that? Maybe the blonde had it on her. Maybe they took it when they offed her.”
“I don’t think so. If they got the diamond, why would they take the rabbi’s daughter?”
“Because she witnessed a murder. We’ll probably find her body in an alley somewhere, or stuffed in the trunk of a car on the Cross-Bronx.”
Taylor repeated Hill’s words to himself, but his mind wouldn’t accept them. It couldn’t be true.
“Why leave one body on the floor and then try to hide another?” he protested. “No, Frank. They want to trade the girl for the diamond. I’m sure of it.”
“Even if I go along with that, you got a problem, don’t you, Taylor?” said Hill. “You just said you didn’t know where it was.”
“That’s true, but they don’t know that.”
Hill was silent a moment. “You want me to use you as bait,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Taylor. “Tap my phone. Put a tail on me. Put men in my bedroom. Move in with me. I don’t care. When they call, I’ll tell them I got the stone. I’ll wear a wire. Then, when it’s time for the swap, you’re ready to pick them up.”
Hill sat back down on the couch. “What else do you know?” he asked Taylor.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what else do you know about the blonde, about the Pole, and the other guy, this Cutter character? You got a description, anything?”
“Nothing, Frank,” said Taylor. “Not a thing. That’s why you have to go along with me on this.”
Hill was silent.
“Frank, I’m not asking you to trust me,” said Taylor. “I know, well, there’s no reason you should. I’m just asking you to use me. You know it’s the right play.”
“And when you make the meet and there’s no stone, what then?” said Hill. “They don’t seem to be the type of guys’ll take it so fucking well.”
“You’ll be there.”
“And what if I’m not? Shit happens, you know.”
“I know,” said Taylor. “Well, if shit happens, shit happens. You haven’t lost anything.”
“I know you’ve asked around about these guys. Maybe you didn’t get a description, but you got something,” said Hill. “Don’t shit me, Taylor. You’ve made a good start, and maybe I’ll ask Antonelli to go along with you on this, but what else did you find out?”
“For what it’s worth,” said Taylor, “the Polack, Czartoryski, seems to have been a Nazi, and he’s a known diamond criminal. Big-time. The South African police got him on file. I can give you the name of a guy in Miami, a retired diamond cop, who got the information for me. Or you can go direct to the International Diamond Security Organization. And I think there’s Israelis involved. I’m sure of it. The Israelis know about the diamond. And the guy who set me up in the diamond district, the Hasid I told you about, the one nobody can find, Horowitz, I think he works for the Israelis.”
Hill stood up again. “You know,” he said, “it’s very interesting that you should say that. Around five in the morning we found a stiff downtown. In a Dumpster. Throat cut. We found some telephone numbers. One of them was the Israeli embassy.”
“What was his name?”
“It wasn’t a him,” said Hill, “it was a her. And her name was Rosenberg. Carol Rosenberg.”
Chapter 70 East Fourth Street
The Lower East Side, Manhattan
Thursday, October 31
“I COULD GET you something to drink,” the Cutter said.
A cockroach skittered along the baseboard. Sarah Kalman, sitting on a mattress, hugging her knees to her chest, watched it.
“I could get you some ice for your face,” the Cutter said.
The cockroach began climbing up the gray, water-stained wall.
“I will get you some ice,” said the Cutter.
In the kitchen, the Cutter worried a blue plastic ice tray out of the freezer’s frozen grasp. He twisted the tray, and the ice cubes popped out and clattered into the sink. He scooped them up, dropped them into a gray, rust-stained washcloth, and brought them back to Sarah Kalman.
“Here,” said the Cutter. “Put this on your face. It will make it feel better.”
Kalman made no move to accept the cloth. The Cutter set it down on the floor by the edge of the mattress and retreated to his chair by the window.
Kalman bent forward, her hair falling over her face, and picked up the washcloth full of ice. She pressed it against her bruised lips and then against her purpling cheek.
