It’s rare that a cop encounters raw sex in his daily routine. The naked bodies he sees are generally cold and covered with caked blood. Even vice-squad cops find the act of love sordid rather than enticing. Eleanor Fay was lying full length on the living-room couch with a man. The television set in front of the couch was going, but nobody was watching either the news or the weather.

  When the two men with drawn guns piled into the room behind the imploding door, Eleanor Fay sat bolt upright on the couch, her eyes wide in surprise. She was naked to the waist. She was wearing tight-fitting black tapered slacks and black high-heeled pumps. Her hair was disarranged and her lipstick had been kissed from her mouth, and she tried to cover her exposed breasts with her hands the moment the cops entered, realized the task was impossible, and grabbed the nearest article of clothing, which happened to be the man’s suit jacket. She held it up in front of her like the classic, surprised heroine in a pirate movie. The man beside her sat up with equal suddenness, turned toward the cops, then turned back to Eleanor, puzzled, as if seeking an explanation from her.

  The man was not Arthur Finch.

  He was a man in his late twenties. He had a lot of pimples on his face, and a lot of lipstick stains. His white shirt was open to the waist. He wore no undershirt.

  “Hello, Miss Fay,” Meyer said.

  “I didn’t hear you knock,” Eleanor answered. She seemed to recover instantly from her initial surprise and embarrassment. With total disdain for the two detectives, she threw the jacket aside, rose and walked like a burlesque queen to a hard-backed chair over which her missing clothing was draped. She lifted a braissiere, shrugged into it, clasped it, all as if she were alone in the room. Then she pulled a black, long-sleeved sweater over her head, shook out her hair, lighted a cigarette, and said, “Is breaking and entering only a crime for criminals?”

  “We’re sorry, miss,” Carella said. “We’re looking for your boy friend.”

  “Me?” the man on the couch asked. “What’d I do?”

  A glance of puzzlement passed between Meyer and Carella. Something like understanding, faint and none too clear, touched Carella’s face.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “You don’t have to tell them anything,” Eleanor cautioned. “They’re not allowed to break in like this. Private citizens have rights, too.”

  “That’s right, Miss Fay,” Meyer said. “Why’d you lie to us?”

  “I didn’t lie to anybody.”

  “You gave us false information about Finch’s whereabouts on —”

  “I wasn’t aware I was under oath at the time.”

  “You weren’t. But you were damn well maliciously impeding the progress of an investigation.”

  “The hell with you and your investigation. You horny bastards bust in here like —”

  “We’re sorry we spoiled your party,” Carella said. “Why’d you lie about Finch?”

  “I thought I was helping you,” Eleanor said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

  “We’re staying a while, Miss Fay,” Meyer said, “so get off your high horse. How’d you figure you were helping us? By sending us on a wild-goose chase confirming alibis you knew were false?”

  “I didn’t know anything. I told you just what Arthur told me.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Why don’t you get out?” Eleanor said. “Or are you hoping I’ll take off my sweater again?”

  “What you’ve got, we’ve already seen, lady,” Carella said. He turned to the man. “What’s your name?”

  “Don’t tell him,” Eleanor said.

  “Here or uptown, take your choice,” Carella said. “Arthur Finch has broken jail, and we’re trying to find him. If you want to be accessories to —”

  “Broken jail?” Eleanor went a trifle pale. She glanced at the man on the couch, and their eyes met.

  “Wh— when did this happen?” the man asked.

  “About ten o’clock tonight.”

  The man was silent for several moments. “That’s not so good,” he said at last.

  “How about telling us who you are,” Carella suggested.

  “Frederick Schultz,” the man said.

  “That makes it all very cozy, doesn’t it?” Meyer said.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter,’ Eleanor said. “I’m not Finch’s girl, and I never was.”

  “Then why’d you say you were?”

  “I didn’t want Freddie to get involved in this thing.”

  “How could he possibly get involved?”

  Eleanor shrugged.

  “What is it? Was Finch with Freddie on Saturday night?”

  Eleanor nodded reluctantly.

  “From what time to what time?”

  “From seven to ten,’ Freddie said.

  “Then he couldn’t have killed the rabbi.”

  “Who said he did?” Freddie answered.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this?”

  “Because . . .” Eleanor started, and then stopped dead.

  “Because they had something to hide,” Carella said. “Why’d he come to see you, Freddie?”

  Freddie did not answer.

  “Hold it,” Meyer said. “This is the other Jew-hater, Steve. The one Finch’s sister told me about. Isn’t that right, Freddie?”

  Freddie did not answer.

  “Why’d he come to see you, Freddie? To pick up those pamphlets we found in his closet?”

  “You the guy who prints that crap, Freddie?”

  “What’s the matter, Freddie? Weren’t you sure how much of a crime was involved?”

  “Did you figure he’d tell us where he got the stuff, Freddie?”

  “You’re a real good pal, aren’t you, Freddie? You’d send your friend to the chair rather than —”

  “I don’t owe him anything!” Freddie said.

  “Maybe you owe him a lot. He was facing a murder rap, but he never once mentioned your name. You went to all that trouble for nothing, Miss Fay.”

  “It was no trouble,” Eleanor said thinly.

  “No,” Meyer said. “You marched into the precinct with a tight dress and a cockamamie bunch of alibis that you knew we’d check. You figured once we found those to be phony, we wouldn’t believe anything else Finch said. Even if he told us where he really was, we wouldn’t believe it. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “You finished?” Eleanor asked.

  “No, but I think you are,” Meyer answered.

  “You had no right to bust in here. There’s no law against making love.”

  “Sister,” Carella said, “you were making hate.”

  * * * *

  11

  Arthur Finch wasn’t making anything when they found him.

  They found him at ten minutes past two, on the morning of April fourth. They found him in his apartment because a patrolman had been sent there to pick up the pamphlets in his closet. They found him lying in front of the kitchen table. He was still handcuffed. A file and rasp were on the table top, and there were metal filings covering the enamel and a spot on the linoleum floor, but Finch had made only a small dent in the manacles. The filings on the floor were floating in a red, sticky substance.

  Finch’s throat was open from ear to ear.

  The patrolman, expecting to make a routine pickup, found the body and had the presence of mind to call his patrol-car partner before he panicked. His partner went down to the car and radioed the homicide to Headquarters, who informed Homicide South and the detectives of the 87th Squad.

  The patrolmen were busy that night. At three a.m., a citizen called in to report what he thought was a leak in a water main on South Fifth. The radio dispatcher at Headquarters sent a car to investigate, and the patrolman found that nothing was wrong with the water main, but something was interfering with the city’s fine sewage system.

  The men were not members of the Department of Sanitation, but they nonetheless climbed down a manhole into the stink and garbage, and located a man’s black suit caught on an orange crate and blocking a pipe, causing the water to back up into the street. The man’s suit was spattered with white and blue paint. The patrolmen were ready to throw it into the nearest garbage can when one of them noticed it was also spattered with something that could have been dried blood. Being conscientious law-enforcement officers, they combed the garbage out of their hair and delivered the garment to their precinct house — which happened to be the 87th.

  Meyer and Carella were delighted to receive the suit.

  It didn’t tell them a goddamned thing about who owned it, but it nonetheless indicated to them that whoever had killed the rabbi was now busily engaged in covering his tracks and this, in turn, indicated a high state of anxiety. Somebody had heard the news broadcast announcing Finch’s escape. Somebody had been worried about Finch establishing an alibi for himself that would doubtlessly clear him.

  With twisted reasoning somebody figured the best way to cover one homicide was to commit another. And somebody had hastily decided to get rid of the garments he’d worn while disposing of the rabbi.

  The detectives weren’t psychologists, but two mistakes had been committed in the same early morning, and they figured their prey was getting slightly desperate.

  “It has to be another of Finch’s crowd,” Carella said. “Whoever killed Solomon painted a J on the wall. If he’d had time, he probably would have drawn a swastika as well.”

  “But why would he do that?” Meyer asked. “He’d automatically be telling us that an anti-Semite killed the rabbi.”

  “So? How many anti-Semites do you suppose there are in this city?”

  “How many?” Meyer asked.

  “I wouldn’t want to count them,” Carella said. “Whoever killed Yaakov Solomon was bold enough to —”

  “Jacob,” Meyer corrected.

  “Yaakov, Jacob, what’s the difference? The killer was bold enough to presume there were plenty of people who felt exactly the way he did. He painted that J on the wall and dared us to find which Jew-hater had done the job.” Carella paused. “Does this bother you very much, Meyer?”

  “Sure, it bothers me.”

  “I mean, my saying —”

  “Don’t be a boob, Steve.”

  “Okay. I think we ought to look up this woman again. What was her name? Hannah something. Maybe she knows —”

  “I don’t think that’ll help us. Maybe we ought to talk to the rabbi’s wife. There’s indication in his diary that he knew the killer, that he’d had threats. Maybe she knows who was baiting him.”

  “It’s four o’clock in the morning,” Carella said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea right now.”

  “We’ll go after breakfast.”

  “It won’t hurt to talk to Yirmiyahu again, either. If the rabbi was threatened, maybe —”

  “Jeremiah,” Meyer corrected.

  “What?”

  “Jeremiah. Yirmiyahu is Hebrew for Jeremiah.”

  “Oh. Well, anyway, him. It’s possible the rabbi took him into his confidence, mentioned this —”

  “Jeremiah,” Meyer said again.

  “What?”

  “No.” Meyer shook his head. “That’s impossible. He’s a holy man. And if there’s anything a really good Jew despises, it’s —”

  “What are you talking about?” Carella said.

  “— it’s killing. Judaism teaches that you don’t murder, unless in self-defense.” His brow suddenly furrowed into a frown. “Still, remember when I was about to light that cigarette? He asked me if I was Jewish — remember? He was shocked that I would smoke on the second day of Passover.”

  “Meyer, I’m a little sleepy. Who are you talking about?” Carella wanted to know.

  “Yirmiyahu. Jeremiah. Steve, you don’t think —”

  ‘I’m just not following you, Meyer.”

  ‘You don’t think . . . you don’t think the rabbi painted that wall himself, do you?”

  “Why would . . . what do you mean?”

  “To tell us who’d stabbed him? To tell us who the killer was?”

  “How would —”

  “Jeremiah,’ Meyer said.

  Carella looked at Meyer silently for a full thirty seconds. Then he nodded and said, “J.”

  * * * *

  12

  He was burying something in the back yard behind the synagogue when they found him. They had gone to his home first and awakened his wife. She was an old Jewish woman, her head shaved in keeping with the Orthodox tradition. She covered her head with a shawl, and she sat in the kitchen of her ground-floor apartment and tried to remember what had happened on the second night of Passover. Yes, her husband had gone to the synagogue for evening services. Yes, he had come home directly after services.

  “Did you see him when he came in?” Meyer asked.

  “I was in the kitchen,” Mrs. Cohen answered. “I was preparing the seder. I heard the door open, and he went in the bedroom.”

  “Did you see what he was wearing?”

  “No.”

  “What was he wearing during the seder?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Had he changed his clothes, Mrs. Cohen? Would you remember that?”

  “I think so, yes. He had on a black suit when he went to temple. I think he wore a different suit after.” The old woman looked bewildered. She didn’t know why they were asking these questions. Nonetheless, she answered them.

  “Did you smell anything strange in the house, Mrs. Cohen?”

  “Smell?”

  “Yes. Did you smell paint?”

  “Paint? No, I smelled nothing strange.”

  They found him in the yard behind the synagogue.

  He was an old man with sorrow in his eyes and in the stoop of his posture. He had a shovel in his hands, and he was patting the earth with the blade. He nodded, as if he knew why they were there. They faced each other across the small mound of freshly turned earth at Yirmiyahu’s feet.

  Carella did not say a solitary word during the questioning and arrest. He stood next to Meyer Meyer, and he felt only an odd sort of pain.

  “What did you bury, Mr. Cohen?” Meyer asked. He spoke very softly. It was five o’clock in the morning, and night was fleeing the sky. There was a slight chill on the air. The wind seemed to penetrate to the sexton’s marrow. He seemed on the verge of shivering. “What did you bury, Mr. Cohen? Tell me.”

  “A ritual object,” the sexton answered.

  “What, Mr. Cohen?”

  “I have no further use for it. It is a ritual object. I am sure it had to be buried. I must ask the rov. I must ask him what the Talmud says.” Yirmiyahu fell silent. He looked at the mound of earth at his feet. “The rov is dead, isn’t he?” he said, almost to himself. “He is dead.” He looked sadly into Meyer’s eyes.

  “Yes,” Meyer answered.

  “Baruch dayyan haemet” Yirmiyahu said. “You are Jewish?”

  “Yes,” Meyer answered.

  “Blessed be God the true judge,” Yirmiyahu translated, as if he had not heard Meyer.

  “What did you bury, Mr. Cohen?”

  “The knife,” Yirmiyahu said. “The knife I used to trim the wick. It is a ritual object, don’t you think? It should be buried, don’t you think?” He paused. “You see . . .” His shoulders began to shake. He began weeping suddenly. “I killed,” he said. The sobs started somewhere deep within the man, started wherever his roots were, started in the soul of the man, in the knowledge that he had committed the unspeakable crime — thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not kill. “I killed,” he said again, but this time there were only tears, no sobs.

 

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