Scratch the lawyer.
Finally, there was Ari Schnitman, the recovering addict who knew Ephraim from Emek Refa’im. Since Luisa and Leon weren’t going to help, it was almost by default that the Chasid was elected. Schnitman dealt in wholesale diamonds on the East Side. Since Decker didn’t want to lose his parking space or battle traffic jams, he elected to catch a cab instead of driving on his own.
Twenty minutes later he was dropped off in the heart of the diamond district, at the 580 building on Fifth between Forty-seventh and Forty-eighth, the exchange floor located between a blue awning OshKosh B’Gosh clothing store and another blue awning retail jewelry store. It was a grand old building-about fifty stories at its high point-holding arched windows with panes segmented by bronze metal in a pattern reminiscent of a child’s drawing of a sunrise. American flags hung above gingerbread and plaster molding that included the heads of Roman soldiers complete with helmets. Across the street was Bank Leumi, one of the official banks of Israel.
Years ago, Decker had led a homicide investigation revolving around the murders of a Los Angeles gems dealer and his wife. The case found its conclusion in Israel, specifically on the trading floor of the Diamond Bursa in Ramat Gan, Tel Aviv, so Decker had some familiarity with the industry, giving him context for comparison. Art Deco in style, the 580 building had an anteroom that was smaller than Israel’s but larger than the diamond center in downtown L.A. The lobby was more of a hallway, a feast in gray granite, and it was teeming with watchful-eyed people carrying briefcases. Metal sconces lined the dark rock walls, giving the space dots of light, but it was still dim inside. Straight ahead were clocks showing various time zones around the world. Security was tight. To the left was the ever-present metal detector, followed by a turnstile, and then a team of four gray-jacketed guards who checked personal belongings as harried people passed into the bowels of the building. To the right was a touch-screen computer directory. According to the listings, the multistoried structure seemed primarily occupied by Jews, but there were names indicating other nationalities as well-Indian, Armenian, South American, and Russian.
The private offices and exchange floor were for the trade only, so Decker knew he’d have to check in with the front desk. After a bit of a grilling, one of the gray guards consented to call up Schnitman. A minute later, Decker held a temporary pass to the eleventh floor only, with the name Classic Gems and the suite number handwritten in the spot where the badge had asked for Place of Business. He stepped into an elevator and was taken up to the eleventh floor by an operator with a gun.
Schnitman was waiting for him, a few doors away from the Classic Gems entrance, leaning against one of the walls that made up a narrow hallway. Guards were posted on either side of the foyer, in front of the emergency stairwell exits. In traditional Chasidic garb of a black coat, white shirt, and black hat, he looked older but even smaller. He was stroking his beard, eyes small behind the windows of his glasses. His expression was grave, bordering on hostile. It seemed that Decker made friends wherever he went.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Decker tried out. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a couple more-”
“I do mind!” he spat out. “I cooperated with the police. I told you all I know. Now you come and bother me at my place of business. Do you know what would happen to me if my problems got back to my boss?”
Decker’s expression was flat. “Why would he assume that I was anyone other than a customer? Calm down and let’s go find a place to talk.”
Schnitman checked his watch. “I have a lunch meeting in twenty minutes. I was about to leave.”
“No problem. We can talk while we walk.”
He exhaled loudly. “Wait here. Let me get my coat.”
It took less than a minute for Schnitman to return. They rode the elevator down in silence, Decker following the young Chasid as he speed-walked out of the building, turning left, hands clasped behind his back, his coat and payot flapping in the wind. Schnitman continued to race-walk until he got to Forty-eighth; then he hooked a right.
Decker said, “If you don’t slow down, we can’t talk. Then you can’t get rid of me.”
Schnitman stopped at the green-lettered Fleet building, leaning against the glass, his eyes on his polished black shoes. In front of him was a table overloaded with baubles and clothing festooned with the American flag. The vendor was sitting next to the trinkets, his face hidden by dreadlocks and a copy of yesterday’s Post. The air rapped out horn honks and engine rumbles.
“Where are you meeting this client?” Decker asked.
“Clients. Fifty-third and Second. They’re from Japan, so my brilliant boss figured that I should take them to this Japanese kosher restaurant. It’s a good place, but it’s kind of like bringing coals to Newcastle. I’m sure they would have preferred a deli.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Decker said.
“What do you want, Lieutenant?”
“You said that Ephraim was edgy right before he was murdered. Any ideas?”
“No.”
“Tell me that again, Schnitman. This time, do it with eye contact.”
The Chasid looked away.
Decker took his arm and held him in place. “Look, Ari, I can understand your not wanting to say too much in front of the police, that maybe it’ll bring attention to your secret organization-”
“It’s not a secret organization,” he answered testily. “We’d just like to assure as much anonymity as possible. Otherwise, people don’t come and get the help they need. Believe me, it’s hard enough reaching out without cops butting into internal affairs.”
“Which is why you should help me. Right now, it’s one-on-one, and maybe I can help you. Turn me away, city police are bound to come back.”
He rubbed his hand over his face and beard. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Ephraim didn’t talk to me, but he did talk to someone in the group-his sponsor. I didn’t tell you this initially, because I just found out about it last night-at our weekly meeting. Don’t ask me for the name, I won’t give it to you. You can threaten me with exposure, embarrassment, jail time, the works, but I will not, under any circumstances, break a confidentiality by giving you a name.”
“You’re not a lawyer, doctor, or pastor-”
“I have smicha, so technically I am a rabbi. If I have to use it, I will do that.”
Decker looked around. Scores of people in dark overcoats whistling down the streets, scarves streaming behind them, waving in the breeze like banners. Harsh pewter clouds clotted on the sky’s surface like chrome plating peeling from dross metal. The atmosphere was saturated with dirt and the smell of noontime frying oil. Traffic was fierce. A sudden gust of wind whipped up under Decker’s coat. He tightened his scarf, suddenly realizing he was hungry. “What did he or she tell you?”
The Chasid stuck his gloved hands in his pockets. “That Ephraim was clearly troubled, wrestling with issues.”
“Go on.”
Schnitman said, “He couched the specifics in Halachic terms-what was the Jewish obligation of brother toward brother?”
“Interesting.” Decker nodded. “Are we talking metaphorical?”
“Exactly, Lieutenant. Usually, Jewish brotherhood isn’t blood brotherhood. It’s the larger family of klal Yisra’el-Jew to Jew. But this time, it was literal. Ephraim was having conflicts with his brother.”
“Business conflicts?”
“Yes, it was business.” Schnitman nodded. “Ephraim told his sponsor that he had talked several times to his brother about what was bothering him. But the problem didn’t stop.”