Sanctuary

As always, with love and gratitude to my family.

And a special thanks to Eli Benaron and Yehoshua Grossgold for giving me a wealth of information and for being such terrific tour guides.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Part 1: America

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part 2: Israel

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Part 3: America

Chapter 39

About the Author

Also by Faye Kellerman

Predator

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

The call was a surprise; the reason behind it even more so. Though Rina had known Honey Klein née Hersh for years—the two girls had been classmates—she had never considered her a close friend. Their small Orthodox high school had had a student body of eighty-seven at the time of Rina’s graduation: twenty-two seniors—twelve boys, ten girls. Rina had been friendly with all the girls. But as the years passed, the two women had crossed paths only sporadically; the chance meetings had held nothing beyond pleasantries. Honey had married young to an ultra-religious Chasidic diamond dealer. She had four kids. She seemed happy.

So when Honey asked if she and the kids might spend a week with Rina and her family in Los Angeles, Rina thought it strange. Her first thoughts were: Why me and why here?

Peter’s ranch was located in the rural portion of the San Fernando Valley. The environs had wide streets and big commercial plots roomy enough for storage centers, wholesalers, and warehouses. Sure, the newer residential neighborhoods sprouted tract homes and apartment buildings, but there were still many ranches large enough to stable horses and livestock—parcels similar to Peter’s homestead, her homestead now. The area was LA’s last refuge of undeveloped scrubland, most of it hugging the timbered foothills of Angeles Crest National Park.

Rina knew Honey had closer friends residing in the heart of the Jewish communities—in the Fairfax area, Hancock Park, or the newer westside area of Beverlywood. Honey had girlfriends who owned homes within walking distance of the Orthodox synagogues, of the kosher restaurants and bakeries. No one deeply religious stayed at the Deckers’ ranch because it was so isolated. But when Rina had mentioned the geography over the phone, Honey had brushed it off.

“So it’s a little off the beaten track,” Honey stated. “I figured it’s about time I let the kids see the other side.”

“The other side?” Rina asked.

“You know … how the other half lives.”

“This isn’t exactly a den of iniquity, Honey. I still cover my hair.”

“No, no!” Honey protested. “I didn’t mean that. I’m not criticizing you. Who am I to judge? By the other side, I meant the fun stuff—Universal Studios, Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, Grauman’s Chinese Theater with the movie stars’ footprints. Is that old relic still around?”

“It’s called Mann’s Chinese Theater now,” Rina said. “You aren’t planning to take the kids to the movies?”

“No,” Honey said. “Just the outside of the building. And the sidewalks with the stars in them. They’re still around, right?”

“Yes.”

“No, we’re definitely not going to the movies,” Honey said, quickly. “It would be too much for them. We don’t have televisions here. We don’t even have phones in the village. Well, that’s not true. There are phones in the produce store, the butcher shop, and the bakery. For emergencies. But we don’t have phones in the houses.”

Rina knew lots of religious people who didn’t own television sets or go to the movies. She knew plenty of Orthodox adults who shied away from popular fiction and magazines like Time and Newsweek. The stories were too lurid, the pictures were prurient. But no phones in the houses was a first.

“Since when is it halachically forbidden to use a phone?” Rina stared at the receiver. “Aren’t you using one now?”

“I’m using the one at the bakery,” Honey said. “I know it sounds like every year some group is trying to outfrum the other. That another group goes to more and more extremes to shut out the outside world. But the Rebbe’s not trying to do that.”

The Rebbe, Rina thought quickly. Which Rebbe? Most people thought the Chasidim were one cohesive group. In fact, there were many Chasidic sects, each one interpreting the philosophy of the Ba’al Shem Tov a little bit differently.

“I’m sure you have your reasons, Honey. I don’t mean to sound disparaging. Goodness knows most people think me strange, being as religious as I am. And poor Peter. The guys at the station house think he’s gone nuts. Like you said, who am I to judge?”

“You have to understand the Leibben philosophy,” Honey said. “Modern machines drive wedges between people.”

Leibben, Rina thought. That’s right. Honey had married a Leibbener Chasid.

“Once you get used to not using a phone, it really is very nice,” Honey explained. “We take walks in the park and schmooze. We have lots of afternoon get-togethers … tea parties. It’s kind of … quaint.” Honey giggled. Rina remembered it as one of the nervous mannerisms Honey had developed after her mother died. “Anyway, if putting us up is too much for you …”

“I’d love to see you, Honey, if I can arrange it. Things are a little hectic since the baby’s—”

“You had a baby?” Honey gasped. “That’s so exciting! When?”

“Hannah’s nine months old.”

“Oh, Rina, how wonderful! You finally got your little girl! You must be thrilled!”

“I’m very lucky.” Rina noticed her voice had dropped to a whisper. The birth had gone smoothly but there were complications afterward. Hannah would be Rina’s last baby and not by choice. There was a long pause. Honey asked her if everything was okay.

“Just fine.” Rina tried to sound chipper. A strain since chipper wasn’t part of her normal vocabulary.

Honey picked up the slack. “So the boys must be big by now … teenagers.”

“Fourteen and eleven.”

“Isn’t adolescence so difficult?”

Actually, Rina found the boys easier the older they got. But she answered, “It can be trying.”

“Mendel’s turned into a very quiet boy. He’s lovely, but I can never tell what he’s thinking. And Minda is so moody. Everything I say, she jumps down my throat. We all really need this vacation. So you think you can put us up?”

“I’m pretty sure I can, but I have to check with Peter.” Rina paused. “Not that it’s any of my business, Honey, but Gershon doesn’t mind doing worldly things like going to Disneyland?”

Honey didn’t answer. There was background chatter over the line.

“Hello?” Rina asked.

“Sorry, I was distracted,” Honey said. “Gershon’s not coming. He’s in Israel. Didn’t I mention that?”

It was Rina’s turn to pause. “I don’t remember. Does he know of your plans to take them to Disneyland?”

“He didn’t ask and I didn’t say. All he knows is that I’m going back to Los Angeles to visit some old friends.”

“Very old,” Rina answered dryly.

“We’re not exactly ready for the glue factory,” Honey said. “Though sometimes it feels that way. Rina, it’s been wonderful talking to you. Thanks so much for everything. And if it’s too much trouble—”

“Not at all,” Rina said. “I’ll ask Peter and call you back.”

“Great. I’ll give you the bakery’s phone number. Just leave a message that you called and I’ll ring you back.”

Honey gave her the number. Rina wrote it down.

“When exactly are you planning to come out, Honey?”

“Soon. In two days.”

“Two days?” Decker looked at his wife. “She didn’t give you much notice, did she?”

Rina spooned yogurt into Hannah’s mouth. “Not a lot.”

Decker sipped his coffee, then took a bite of his turkey sandwich. Watching Rina feed their daughter, he was grateful for the peaceful interlude. His new assignment at the Devonshire station took him farther from the ranch each morning. But work was still close enough to steal an occasional lunch at home. He sat contentedly, smiling as Hannah smeared coffee-colored goop over her mouth … Rina was trying to keep her tidy but it was a losing battle—baby one, parent zero.

Decker’s eyes swept over the cherrywood dining table. Crafted in his bachelor days, it was too small for the family, the surface scratched and gouged. But Rina could be hopelessly sentimental. She refused to part with his handiwork.

“Who is this Honey lady anyhow?” Decker said. “I never heard you mention her name before.”

“That’s because we weren’t close.”

Decker finished half his sandwich. “So what’s she looking for? A free hotel?”

Rina wiped Hannah’s mouth. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

“Such as?”

“Such as why didn’t she call Evie Miller? She and Evie were as thick as thieves. If I were Evie, I’d be hurt.”

Hannah sprayed a mouthful of yogurt in Rina’s direction. Without pausing, she threw back her head and chortled with delight.

“Very funny,” Rina said. But she was smiling herself. “How come I can’t get angry with you, Channelah?”

“Because I’m too cute, Mommie,” Decker answered.

Once again, Rina tried feeding Hannah, but the baby grabbed the spoon and started to bang it on her high chair tray. Rina leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know why she didn’t call Evie.”

“Maybe she did. Maybe Evie doesn’t want her. The woman sounds a little odd.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say she was odd—”

“She doesn’t own a telephone?”

“It’s part of the ethos of the village.”

“The village?” Decker shook his head. “What’s wrong with living in a city or at least a town? Since when is upstate New York sixteenth-century Poland?”

“It’s a psychological thing, Peter. Blocking out the outside world. Less distraction. Easier to learn Torah.”

“They sure don’t mind asking for money from the outside world.”

“Everyone has to live, including scholars.”

“It’s possible to work and learn. I don’t believe in welfare for able bodies, Jews included.”

“The Leibben Chasidim are extreme,” Rina admitted. “Their Rebbe has some very odd ideas about kabbalah and how it relates to the messiah and afterlife. It’s considered very way out, not at all accepted belief.”

“Was Honey always fanatically religious?”

“Not at all. She grew up like me. Modern Orthodox. She had a big crush on John Travolta. I think she saw Saturday Night Fever ten times.”

Decker finished his sandwich and didn’t say anything. Rina poured a half-dozen Cheerios on Hannah’s high chair tray. The little girl dropped the spoon, stared at the O’s, then carefully pinched one between her forefinger and thumb, successfully navigating it to her mouth.

Rina wiped the baby’s plastic bib. “You’ve got the cop look in your eyes, Peter. What is it?”

“What do you think she’s really after?” Decker asked.

“An escape,” Rina said. “But so what? You know how stultifying the religion can be at times.”

“Really now?”

Decker was impassive. Rina hit his good shoulder—the one without the bullet wound. “Why shouldn’t Honey have an opportunity to cut loose?”

“You up for entertaining her?”

“Actually, Peter, I think it would be nice to have a little company. Someone to reminisce with.”

Decker smiled to himself. Could someone as young as Rina actually reminisce? Because she was young—twelve years younger than he was. Something Decker didn’t like to think about.

Rina liberated Hannah from the high chair and gave her to Decker. “So what should I tell Honey? Should I give her the okay to come out?”

“It’s up to you, darlin’. It’s okay by me.”

Decker bounced Hannah on his knee. She was a good-sized baby—tall and long-limbed with red hair and pale skin just like him. But feature for feature, she looked like Rina, thank God. The baby gave him a drooling grin of six teeth, tiny fingers going straight for the mustache. With little hands on his mouth, Decker rotated his mustache to his daughter’s glee.

He said, “I’m just wondering how you get from John Travolta to no phones.”

“How’d you get from being a Southern Baptist to an Orthodox Jew, Peter—a much bigger transition. Life’s just full of little mysteries.”

“I was running toward something, Rina. Mark my words. This woman’s running away from something.”

“Agreed. So let her run here and I’ll find out what it is.”

2

Nine months later and Decker still couldn’t turn off the autopilot. Whenever he pulled out of his driveway, the unmarked strained to go east instead of west. He’d left behind a decade of memories at the Foothill substation—most of them good, some bad, and one overzealous chase-turned-political nightmare that would haunt the city for years to come. He had made few friends and missed few people. But habit was habit, and at times he felt nostalgic for the old country.

Exiting the 118, he made a quick series of turns until he was riding west on Devonshire. At this point, the wide, pine-lined boulevard was bordered by rows of small wood-sided ranch houses resting on patches of pale winter lawn. The driveways played host to older-model compacts and trucks as well as bikes and trikes. Most of the homes had attached two-car garages, ubiquitous mounted basketball hoops hanging above the parking structures.

Anywhere USA. The only hint of Southern California was the full-sized orange trees towering over the houses they framed. The street even held a couple of citrus groves—remnants of LA’s long-gone agricultural days.

Decker lowered the sun visor in the car, cutting the glare, and slipped on a pair of shades. He thought about his new job.

The transition had been easier than expected because Marge had come with him. Originally, Homicide at Devonshire had only one vacant slot. But with a little savvy, Decker had managed to stretch a single into a double. Given the profound need for LAPD to liberalize, the brass was quick to pick up on his drift. Yes, the carefully calculated decision to place Detective Dunn—i.e., Detective Dunn, the woman—in Homicide detail was politically correct. Still, the promotion had been just. Marge had the requisite experience, a keen mind, and lots of patience—a great combination for a murder investigator.

Cranking open the car window, Decker inhaled clean air, enjoying the smogless blue skies common during the cooler months. As he traveled west, the houses gave way to bigger buildings—apartment houses, factory showrooms, a medical plaza, and the ever-present shopping centers. Traffic was light, the area surrounded by foothills made green and lush from the recent rains. The mountains were the boundaries of LA City—to the north was the Santa Clarita Valley, to the west Simi Valley. Most of the hillside areas were still undeveloped plots or regional parkland, giving the San Fernando Valley plenty of breathing room.

Decker thought about his partner.

It was Marge’s first time in Homicide and she was chomping at the bit for a real case. All they’d gotten so far were two gang-related retaliations, a half dozen Saturday night party-hearty shootings, and some irate spouses with problem ’tudes toward their adulterous mates. Messiness with no brainwork.

But thems what it is.

Even if the cases were “routine,” it didn’t mean the victims were any less dead. Marge had treated each assignment with impeccable sensitivity. But having spent some six professional years with the woman, Decker knew she wanted serious cerebral exercise. She wanted to prove herself.

Marge was around Rina’s age—old enough to know the ropes but still full of the fire of youth. Marge was standing on the threshold of opportunity and was bursting to take a giant step forward.

They had been on Homicide detail for less than a year.

Time was on her side.

Living in California earthquake country, Decker couldn’t figure out why Devonshire, like most of LAPD’s station houses, was made out of bricks. Maybe the architect wanted to impress upon the bad guys that the station was wolf-blowing durable and could double as a jail in a pinch. Or maybe the city had a sweetheart contract with a brickyard. Whatever the reason, Devonshire was like the rest of LA’s station houses—a windowless masonry building adorned by an American flag. Except that this substation had the unique pleasure of being located next to power transmitters. Yes, a policeman’s job was a dangerous one, but up to now, leukemia hadn’t been a real concern.

What the hell. So he’d glow in the dark.

He drove the Plymouth to the back lot restricted to “authorized personnel only,” then saw Marge stalking through the parking area. She wore an olive car coat over khaki slacks, her arms folded across her chest. Her face, normally softened by doelike eyes, was stiff with tension. Decker honked, Marge looked up. Immediately, she shifted direction, tramped over to the Plymouth, and plopped down in the passenger’s seat.

“Know what that Davidson asshole did?”

“What?”

“God, I hate that man. He treats me like a peon. While I realize I am a peon in this upper echelon of the boys’ brigade, you’d at least think he could fake it better.”

“Are we talking in the car for a reason?”

Marge extracted a slip of paper from her purse. “I’ve got to go calm down a hysterical woman who thinks Martians kidnapped her brother and his family. Believe it or not, Davidson has classified this as a possible homicide. You want to come with me?”

“What’s the address?”

Marge handed him the paper. Decker looked at the numbers—Mountain View Estates. He did a three-point turn and pulled out of the lot.

“He gives me nothing but bullshit assignments, Pete,” Marge went on. “He doesn’t even try to hide it. He knows they’re bullshit! He wants me to know they’re bullshit, too! You know how he phrased this little jaunt? ‘Get this lady off our backs, Dunn. If something important comes up, I’ll contact Pete and he’ll fill you in.’ Can you believe that jerk? Not even a pretense.”

“Diplomacy isn’t the Loo’s strong suit.”

“The guy has a hard-on for me.”

“Yes, he does.”

Marge did a double-take. “He does?”

“Yep.” Decker turned west onto Devonshire. “Your appointment was shoved down his throat. He’s resentful. But that’s his problem.”

“But I gotta live with it.”

“So live with it.”

“That’s your answer? Live with it?”

“Yep.” Decker headed toward the foothills. “What’s this assignment all about?”

Marge’s jaw began to ache. She forcibly relaxed her mandible. “Just what I said. We gotta make nice to some woman who’s wondering why she hasn’t heard from her brother.”

“How long has it been?”

“I don’t know. At least twenty-four hours. The blues were out there yesterday. At the brother’s house. No one was home but everything looked fine. Apparently that wasn’t good enough. The lady’s been calling nonstop, demanding some detectives.”

“Has she filed a Missing Persons?”

“I don’t think so. It sounds like she wants reassurance more than anything. Someone to look around the house again and convince her that nothing terrible has happened.”

“What kind of family are we talking about?”

“Uh … wait a sec.” Marge pulled out her notebook. “An Officer Mike Gerard interviewed her. Family consists of a mother, father, and two kids—boys. Teenagers specifically. My first thought was an impulsive vacation. But according to Gerard, the woman said no way.”

“That makes sense,” Decker said. “It’s in the middle of the school year. Weird time to take a vacation.”

“Or a great time,” Marge stated. “Beat the crowds. I haven’t talked to the woman directly. She’s been persistent with the calls, a real pain in the ass.”

“What’s her name?”

“Orit Bar Lulu. Bar Lulu is two words.”

“She’s Israeli?”

“You got it. She’s also a real estate agent.”

Decker said, “Why does she think something happened to her brother and his family?”

“I don’t know,” Marge said. “Davidson dismissed me without many details. What do you mean, I should ‘live with it.’ Don’t you think I should say anything?”

“You can do what you want. It’s a free country.”

“You think I should just shut up and do nothing?”

“Let your work talk for you. You’re a great detective, Marge. Eventually, you’ll get a case that’ll show off your balls. When you earn your stripes with Davidson, eventually he’ll leave you be.”

“So the best I can hope for is a grudging acceptance?”

“I don’t know Davidson any better than you do. Maybe he’ll continue to be an asshole. Maybe he’ll come around and turn out to be okay.”

“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.