Sanctuary

“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, a

Decker studied the pieces in the case on the right wall. There were two multicolored porcelain fighting dogs, a set of cloiso

He stared at the pieces, eyeing them longer than he should have. The dogs were standing in a perfect line, the bright-colored glazes ru

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 sca

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.