His office was utilitarian, a windowless room with a messy desk stacked with catalogs. The only personal touch was a bright red shelf filled with photographs of his children and his wife. This long mantel was mounted to the wall behind Rubin's desk, almost like a credenza, so Tess ended up facing all those photos when she sat opposite him. The photos made her feel guilty, as if the children's faces were pleading with her to bring them back to a place where they had smiled and laughed as they did in these photos. Their mother, however, was somber-lips together, eyes downcast. But there was a kind of calculation in the look, too, a sense that Natalie Rubin was striking a pose, her eyes sliding away from the camera's lens lest it glimpse her secrets.
"I never knew this little shopping center existed," Tess said, making conversation. "Have you always been here?"
"My father opened the store in this location about thirty-five years ago. Like most merchants, he started off downtown, but he was quick to figure out that the customers were moving farther and farther away and that the stores needed to follow them. He was already making plans to relocate when the riots came. But we always lived out here in Pikesville. We had to."
"Why? It's not like those old real-estate covenants barring Jews were still in effect in the other neighborhoods."
"I have to live within walking distance of my shul," he said, his voice patient, yet a little patronizing. It was becoming a familiar tone to Tess. Had he spoken to his wife with these same inflections? That would explain a lot.
"Right So where's the other son?"
"What do you mean? Have you learned something about Isaac and Efraim?"
"No, no-the store is called Robbins amp; Sons. I figured out that Robbins is simply Rubin, anglicized. But you're the only son here. Did you have a brother?"
"Oh." He shrugged. "The name goes back to my father. The other furriers in town-Mano Swartz, Miller Brothers-had such impressive-sounding names. And he had a partner in the beginning, when he was downtown, but they went their separate ways. So Robbins amp; Sons, two lies for the price of one. Only one son, and the name is Rubin. But if my boys… if my boys… well, perhaps we'll make the name true yet."
Tess completed his thought in her head: If his boys were found, if they were okay. Apparently, Mark Rubin had his own reservations about tempting the evil eye.
"Did you feel obligated to go into the family business?"
"Not at all. I considered it a privilege. My father made it clear, early on, that our partnership was to be a two-way street-I could say no, but he could, too. If I wanted to do something else, there would be no hard feelings. And if he decided I didn't have the brains to run it, then no hard feelings on my part either. Some people found my father rather… rigid. Strict, at least in business."
"What do you mean, 'at least in business'?"
"He wasn't strict about religion at all. My father considered himself Orthodox, but he did things I would never do. Dance with a woman who was not his wife, for example. Eat in nonkosher restaurants. Such looseness was more common before the Conservative movement gathered strength. I decided I wanted to follow a more traditional Orthodox lifestyle. It's all relative. There are Hasidim who consider me unspeakably liberal."
"Was there a reason you embraced a stricter version of the religion than the one practiced in your family?" The question was asked out of nothing more than sheer curiosity. One of the perks of being a private detective was that one was allowed to pursue topics considered outrageously rude in everyday life. Tess could ask people about their income, their sex lives, and even about religion, the most forbidden topic of all in some ways.
"Reasons, I'd say. But they all fall under the general heading of growing up, moving on. My father died ten years ago. Heart attack. Died, in fact, carrying an armload of furs into the vault. The last thing he said to me was, 'Mark-grab the coats.' He didn't want them to fall. He was dead when he hit the ground."
"This was just before you married, right?"
The shrug again. Rubin was an eloquent shrugger. "My father was fifty-five when I was born, yet he outlived my mother, who was twenty years younger and died before my fifth birthday. He also outlived my stepmother, who died when I was a teenager. I was in no hurry to marry, and my father seemed to enjoy my companionship. Besides, I was waiting for a love match, a true one."
"I guess a good-looking Orthodox furrier doesn't want for prospective wives."
He stroked his beard, amused. "How nice to know you think I'm good-looking."
Tess pretended to be flustered, but the compliment had been calculated. She had wanted to soften him up before she began asking the ruder questions. "So… about Lana Wishnia."
"I didn't know her." Said quickly, as if that would make the subject go away. "And the police told me she was Natalie's manicurist. You say they were friends, but this is the first I've heard of that."
"I'm more curious about the check Lana wrote to Natalie-and your little bookkeeping system, which made it necessary. Why didn't Natalie have money of her own?"
"She had credit cards, an ATM card, accounts at all the stores where she shopped. She never wanted for anything."
"C'mon, it was pretty medieval, and not even in keeping with your own beliefs. Jewish women have always been given a lot of control over their homes, allowed to have their own money. Was it a bone of contention in the marriage? Did Natalie want things set up differently? Maybe this whole disappearing act is a walkout intended to get you to change some things."
"No," he said, an edge to his voice. "No, you have the wrong idea."
"Really? Then would you point me in the direction of the right idea? Again, I have to ask you if Natalie had an addiction of some sort. Because that's the usual reason not to entrust a family member with cash."
"I don't want… You shouldn't ask such questions. This is the mother of my children, my wife. You're being disrespectful."
The phone rang just then, and Rubin flicked on the speakerphone. A man's voice, high and reedy through the distortion of the voice box, started out tentatively: "This is Jack Reid, up in Montreal, and there's a small problem with the knitwear you ordered for this fall."
"There are no small problems, Jack." Mark Rubin's voice took on a cold, ruthless quality that Tess had not heard before. I wouldn't want to go up against him in a business deal, she thought Then she realized she already had, and he had acquiesced readily at the price she named. She must have underbid the job.
The voice on the speaker continued, clearly nervous. "The per-unit cost quoted you… my assistant… well, he's new, and he didn't figure in some ancillary costs. There are some complicated tariffs and shipping fees, at least in order to make the October date we agreed to. You see, we get the pieces from New York, but still have to assemble them here, so you're talking a really fast turnaround."
"That's your problem."
"But I'm going to lose money if you hold me to that price."
"No you're not. You may not make as much as you counted on making this fall, but you won't lose money, not in the long run. The way you'll lose money is by trying to renegotiate the price or delay delivery. Then you'll lose a lot of money, because I'll never buy from you again, and I'll persuade other merchants in my area to blackball you, too, tell them how unreliable you are. You'll never make another sale in the Mid-Atlantic region."
"But, Mark-"
"No, Jack. Do it for the agreed-on price, delivery on the contracted date, or we're through. You're through."