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“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, we do our job. Which means you’ve got to go out there and calm down a hysterical woman. Take my word for it, Margie. The assignment is no cakewalk.”
Mountain View Estates was a fifty-home development tucked into the Santa Susana pass, replete with communal tennis courts, pools, spas, and a gymnasium for homeowner exercise in inclement weather. Built in the profligate eighties, the customized tract houses, standing on third-of-an-acre lots, started at half a mil. Some of the houses had been originally priced upward of seven figures. But then the nineties hit, and with it a crash in California real estate prices. Decker had known a fair share of people who’d gotten into trouble by overextending themselves. With a sudden downturn in income coupled with a heavy mortgage, people were often forced to sell their bits of paradise at rock-bottom prices.
The given address put them curbside to a mock Tudor roofed in genuine slate and faced with used brick and cross-hatched beams painted deep brown. The lawn was a rolling emerald wave breaking onto a shore of leafy ferns and leggy impatiens that would rebloom when the weather got warmer. The front door was wood-paneled and inlaid with stained glass. Decker parked the Plymouth, and he and Marge got out of the car. They began walking up the basketweave-brick pathway that led to the entrance.
Guarding the manor was a skinny woman with short black hair snipped close to the scalp. She wore a jewel-studded, oversized black T-shirt, black spandex leggings and backless heeled shoes, toenails polished fire-engine red just like her dragon-long fingernails. She had dark eyes and a dark complexion, her cheeks accented with blush. Half-dollar-sized gold earrings hung from her lobes. Decker wondered how a thin fold of skin could tolerate such weight. Her eyes became alive when she saw help had arrived. She tapped her watch.
“Finally!” She began rummaging through a floppy handbag as big as a carry-on suitcase. “You want me to open the door for you? I don’t want to go in the house again. To see it so empty … lifeless.” Her voice faded. “You just tell me everything’s okay, I leave you alone.”
She spoke with a heavy accent.
Marge looked at Decker. The woman suddenly became pale. “You’re the police, no?”
Marge took out her ID. “Yes, ma’am, we are the police.”
“Orit, please. This is my brother’s house. I haven’t heard from him in going on two days.”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” Marge asked. “Maybe he went on vacation.”
“Impossible,” Orit stated. “Dalia works at my office; she didn’t say anything. The boys are in the middle of school. The school knows nothing. Besides, I come here yesterday. They are still getting the paper and their mail.” She craned her neck to look up at Decker. “My brother’s a diamond dealer. He deals in big stones and lots of cash. It’s hard times. People do funny things. You never know. I’m worried about my brother.”
Marge and Decker exchanged glances, then pulled out their notebooks. Marge said, “You think your brother might have been involved in something … illegal?”
Orit bristled. “Impossible. My family has been in the diamond business for over a hundred years. Our family name is Yalom, which means diamond. My father taught us to cut diamonds before we could read. Arik wouldn’t do shady business. But there are others who are maybe not honest.”
“Are you thinking about anyone specifically?” Decker said.
Orit bit a red bottom lip. “No. No one particular. You go in, okay?”
Marge said, “The officers who were out here yesterday said everything looked fine.”
Orit waved her hand in the air. “I didn’t like them—their attitudes. They looked unhappy to help me. Like why is this crazy foreigner wasting our time.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t the case,” Marge said.
She shrugged. “Fine. You can think what you want.”
“Did you tell the officers that your brother’s a diamond dealer?” Decker asked.
“No. Why should I give personal information to people who sneer at me? You two at least take out notebooks and look like you’re listening. You pretend good.”
Decker smiled. “We’re not pretending. We’re here to serve the community. When was the last time you heard from your brother?”
Orit said, “Two days ago. I called police yesterday, then again today. I don’t like this. I’m nervous.”
“Place seems pretty quiet,” Marge said. “Family have any pets?”
“No. Arik doesn’t like animals.” Orit sighed. “Maybe I’m over-acting. But this is crazy. Arik wouldn’t leave without telling me. Dalia wouldn’t leave without telling me. And the boys? Where are the boys? Why would they pull them out in the middle of the term and not tell me—even for a few days?”
“Do they go to the local high school?” Marge said.
“Yes. My daughter is in the same class as Dov. Gil is a grade older.”
“Have you asked your daughter about her cousins?” Marge asked.
“Yes, of course, what you think?” Orit shook her head. “She knows nothing. Something’s wrong.”
Decker slipped his notebook into his suit jacket, then ran his hand through ginger hair. “Do you want to open the door for us?”
Again, Orit began hunting through her purse. “Yes. I can wait out here?”
Marge said, “You can wait out here.”
Orit pulled a key from her valise. “Ah, here it is.” She snapped open the dead bolt and pushed the door wide open. “Take your time and look around.” She gave them a wan smile. “Please, tell me I am hysteria. Tell me I’m wrong.”
3
The first thing Marge noticed was how cold it was inside. Lots of stone and marble—elegant but not friendly. Footsteps echoed as she and Decker ambled around the massive two-story entry. The house appeared to be a center-hall plan—living room to the right, dining room to the left, and straight back was the family room. She stopped and peered upward at a coffered ceiling fifteen feet away.
“Pretty nifty spread. Guess diamonds are recession proof.”
“Guess so.”
“What do you think about Ms. Bar Lulu?” Marge asked.
“She made me curious.”
“Me, too,” Marge said. “Think she knows more than she’s letting on?”
“Maybe.” Decker looked around. The place was massive, made even a person as big as he was feel small. First thing Decker noticed was an ornate, oversized mezuzah on the doorframe—a sterling-silver sculpture of vines and grape leaves and fruit. In his house, it would have looked grossly out of place. But here, it added to the splendor. Yet something about it disturbed Decker. He shrugged the feeling off.
“I’ll take the downstairs, you take the upper story … stories. I thought I saw some dormer windows. Could be just a storage attic.”
“Or a place to stuff bodies,” Marge said. “I’ll holler if I notice something.”
“Ditto.”
Marge disappeared. Sketching the floor plan, Decker took in the entry area. It was big enough to be furnished—a large center table holding abstract scuplture, flanked by a couple of brocade wing chairs. Two open-shelf display cases sat against opposite walls. The one on the left, announcing the dining room, contained china plates on stands. The right sidewall held figurines and a bowl.
Decker studied the pieces in the case on the right wall. There were two multicolored porcelain fighting dogs, a set of cloisonné parrots, a set of aqua vases decorated with fire-breathing dragons, and a simple green bowl with a cracked glaze that probably cost a month’s salary.
He stared at the pieces, eyeing them longer than he should have. The dogs were standing in a perfect line, the bright-colored glazes running into one another. The bowl was obviously the centerpiece of the cabinet. It took up a shelf by itself. The parrots looked very old; the blue enamel was dulled and drab. The vases were shaped like a thermometer bulb, dragons snarling as they encircled the bases and curled up the stems.
Interesting pieces, yet, again, something about them was off kilter. The house was taking on the appearance of an Escher drawing—lots of steps leading nowhere. He exhaled forcibly, then shrugged it off and moved on. He walked through an arched doorway and stepped into the living room.
It was more a museum than a room in a house—cavernous, with a vaulted ceiling and a white marble floor covered at strategic spots with lush, floral area rugs. Artwork adorned apricot-colored walls that were topped with carved crown molding. The furniture was grand—giant sectional sofas holding tapestry pillows and throw covers. Lots of tables but no lamps on them. Decker looked up. Small, recessed lights were set into ceiling molding.
He began to jot down some notes.
Lots and lots of porcelain—vases and figurines sitting on tables, resting on the mantel and in a six-foot-long mirrored display cabinet. An expensive collection, yet the pieces didn’t appear to be affixed to the surfaces. He wondered if the Yaloms had earthquake insurance.
He went on.
There was a semicircular outpouching off the living room. Decker stepped inside, turning on the light switch with a latex glove. A high-gloss wood-paneled space filled with books. The library. Neat … clean … nothing seemed out of order.
He reversed directions to examine the other side of the first floor. The dining room was designed on the same large scale as the living room. One entire wall was taken up by a breakfront that sparkled with china and crystal. Another wall was the backdrop for an antique clock.
Yalom seemed well-heeled. Once, Decker would have assumed the man rich. But the last decade’s pernicious policy of spend-now, pay-later made it hard to tell. Decker wondered how many of the items had been bought and paid for. He walked through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen.
It was bigger than Marge’s apartment—a sterile expanse with white lacquer cabinets and dark granite counters. A booth was tucked into the corner. He ran a gloved finger over the surfaces. They seemed clean, at least devoid of blood.
Women are murdered in the bedroom, men in the kitchen.
Decker opened the cutlery and utensil drawers. Nothing seemed to be missing, the carving knives seemed to be complete.
Decker continued to open the kitchen cabinets. The couple was obviously Jewish, but they didn’t appear to keep kosher. Decker found only one set of everyday dishes and one set of fancy china. He turned the plate over. Limoges—tref Limoges. For some stupid reason, he was bothered by Israelis not keeping the dietary laws, especially since they had a grandiose mezuzah in the entry hall.
He thought a moment, then looked at the kitchen doorframe. No mezuzah. That wasn’t unusual. Only Orthodox homes seem to have mezuzahs on every doorframe.
Onward—through the kitchen into a utility bathroom and a service porch. The door leading out to the backyard was locked. He flipped the bolt and scanned the rear portion of the property. Most of it was taken up by pool and patio. A long strip of flowers against a stucco wall marked the end of the property. It didn’t look large enough to bury bodies, but he’d check it out later.
Back inside into the family room. Like the library, it was wood-paneled. But the room was lighter, the walls’ picture frames fashioned from blond, burled maple. The furniture was casual, but expensive. There was a large leather sectional littered with patterned pillows and woolen throws; off to the side were suede game chairs around a green felt-top table. One wall was taken up by a floor-to-ceiling fireplace; opposite the hearth was a mirrored wet bar. The mirrored shelves held cut-glass crystal and a modern glass-sculptured menorah. Decker had to look twice but that’s what it was. The two remaining walls were hung with family photos. Decker took a closer look at the snapshots.
The Yalom boys as babies, as toddlers, then as bar mitzvahs holding the Torah, with their prayer shawls draped over their shoulders. They were still prepubescent in the religious photos. A year later—in graduation pictures from junior high—the boys showed progression toward adolescence. The most recent pictures captured the boys doing sports—basketball and soccer for one, swimming for the other.
From Orit, Decker knew the boys were a year apart. But it was damn near impossible to tell which one was the elder from the photos. After studying the pictures for the longest time, he came to the conclusion that Gil was the swimmer—he had a small mole under his eye. Dov, according to Orit, was a year younger.
Handsome kids—muscular, with curly black hair and dark eyes. They looked like their dad. There were several family photos—a few formal eight by tens and one casual eleven by seventeen group picture. Dad and the boys were standing, dressed in T-shirts and denim. Seated in front of them was Mom, wearing a flowing, flowered dress and laced-up boots.
Mom.
She looked out of place—a different genetic strain, with light eyes, poker-straight auburn hair, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. Her expression was soft, the eyes seemed gentle. The body language of the photo showed the boys leaning toward her, not the father … whatever that meant. Kids usually felt closer to their mother.
He walked over to the wet bar and looked in the drawers. Inside were bottle openers, ice tongs and pick, glass stirrers, plastic toothpicks, and an ice pick. Lo and behold, it wasn’t covered in blood.
Decker tapped his pencil against his notebook. On a superficial level, everything seemed fine. He closed his notebook and went upstairs.
“Four bedrooms,” Marge said. “Parents’ room, guest room, and each of the boys had his own room.” She brushed her toe against the soft maroon carpeting of an upstairs circular landing. “The boys shared a bathroom; the master bath is a marble palace.” She threw up her hands. “I didn’t grid-search the place, but I looked carefully. Nothing jumped out at me. How about you?”
“Nothing slapped me across the face, either,” Decker said. “What about the attic?”
“Unfinished. Nothing up there except for furnace equipment. Did you take a peek under the house?”
“Just crawl space except for a small wine cellar which looked untouched.”
“No secret torture chamber?”
“Not that I could find.” Decker perused his notes. “The garage had all three cars in it. I also looked around the yard, in the pool house, in the flower bed. Nothing.”
“I did find a few pieces of luggage,” Marge said. “They don’t have a perfectly matched set. There could be a piece missing and I wouldn’t know. Clothes seem complete, but again—take a pair of pants out, who’d know the difference?”
“They’re going to make this hard on us,” Decker said. “I’ve got a couple of questions. This guy’s supposed to be a big diamond dealer, right?”
“Right,” Marge said. “You’re wondering if there is a safe. None that I could find. I looked in closets, behind pictures, underneath area rugs. I take it you came up dry as well. Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking the question.”
“What a pro,” Decker said. “No, I came up empty.”
“Nothing in the cellar?”
“Unless it’s behind all those collectible bottles. I didn’t pull them all out.”
“And I didn’t look behind the furnace in the attic,” Marge reported. “But I did check out the toilet tank—where druggies hide their stash. Nothing. Did you check the freezer?”
“Yep. There was food and ice—the H
O kind.”
“Why don’t we ask Sis about the safe? See what she has to say. What’s the next question, Rabbi?”
“The guest bedroom upstairs. I did a quick search inside. There were no clothes in the closet or in the dresser. The bathroom was spotless—no toothpaste mucking up the counter or sink. It was also decorated with guest towels, not regular towels.”
Marge was puzzled. “Guest towels generally go in the guest room.”
“That’s the point,” Decker said. “It is definitely a guest room.” He rolled his stiff, beefy shoulders. “There was no maid’s room downstairs, Margie. A house this big … think Mom cleans it by herself?”
Marge said, “So the maid isn’t a live-in. You want to know who she is.”
“It’s always good to take a look at the staff.”
Marge’s eyes lit up. “You’re thinking an inside job?”
“I’m just thinking out loud.”
Marge laughed. “So I’m leaping to conclusions. It relieves the boredom. I’ll go ask Sis to step inside now. You want to do the primary questioning?”
“You do it,” Decker said. “It’s officially your assignment.”
Marge paused, then shook her head.
“What?” Decker asked.
“There’s something spooky about this case.”
“Agreed,” Decker said. “We comb the house and everything looks in military order. There are clothes in the closet, food in the refrigerator, and three cars in the three-car garage. Everything’s perfect except where are the people? It’s as if the place had been nuked with a neutron bomb.” He paused. “Ready to talk to the sister?”
Marge nodded. They walked down the stairs into the marble entry. Suddenly Decker placed a hand on Marge’s shoulder, stopping her from opening the front door.
