The Forgotten

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 2001

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Faye Kellerman 2001

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photography © Shutterstock.com

Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293604

Version: 2018-12-13

Dedication

For Andy, Joanne, and Miriam

In memory of Shira—aleha ha’shalom

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

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

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading

About the Author

Faye Kellerman booklist

About the Publisher

1

The call was from the police. Not from Rina’s lieutenant husband, but from the police police. She listened as the man spoke, and when she heard that it had nothing to do with Peter or the children, she felt a “Thank you, God” wave of instant relief. After discovering the reason behind the contact, Rina wasn’t as shocked as she should have been.

The Jewish population of L.A.’s West Valley had been rocked by hate crimes in the past, culminating in that hideous ordeal a couple of years ago when a subspecies of human life had gotten off the public bus and had shot up the Jewish Community Center. The center had been and still was a refuge for all people, offering everything from toddler day camps to dance movements to exercise classes for the elderly. Miraculously, no one had been killed—there. But the monster—who had later in the day committed the atrocious act of murder—had injured several children and had left the entire area with numbing fears that maybe it could happen again. Since then, many of the L.A. Jews took special precautions to safeguard their people and their institutions. Extra locks were put on the doors of the centers and synagogues. Rina’s shul, a small rented storefront, had even gone so far as to padlock the Aron Kodesh—the Holy Ark that housed the sacred Torah scrolls.

The police had phoned Rina because her number was the one left on the shul’s answering machine—for emergencies only. She was the synagogue’s unofficial caretaker—the buck-stops-here person who called the contractors when a pipe burst or when the roof leaked. Because it was a new congregation, its members could only afford a part-time rabbi. The congregants often pitched in by delivering a Shabbos sermon or sponsoring an after-prayer kiddush. People were always more social when food was served. The tiny house of worship had lots of mettle, and that made the dreadful news even harder to digest.

Driving to the destination, Rina was a mass of anxiety and apprehension. Nine in the morning and her stomach was knotted and burning. The police hadn’t described the damage, other than use the word vandalize over and over. From what she could gather, it sounded more like cosmetic mischief than actual constructional harm, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

She passed homes, stores, and strip malls, barely glancing at the scenery. She straightened the black tam perched atop her head, tucking in a few dangling locks of ebony hair. Even under ordinary circumstances, she rarely spent time in front of the mirror. This morning, she had rushed out as soon as she hung up the phone, wearing the most basic of clothing—a black skirt, a white long-sleeved shirt, slip-on shoes, a head covering. At least her blue eyes were clear. There had been no time for her makeup; the cops were going to see the uncensored Rina Decker. The red traffic lights seemed overly long, because she was so antsy to get there.

The shul meant so much to her. It had been the motivating factor behind selling Peter’s old ranch and buying their new house. Because hers was a Sabbath-observant Jewish home, she had wanted a place of worship that was within walking distance—real walking distance, not something two and a half miles away as Peter’s ranch had been. It wasn’t that she minded the walk to her previous shul, Yeshivat Ohavei Torah, and the boys certainly could make the jaunt, but Hannah, at the time, had been five. The new house was perfect for Hannah, a fifteen-minute walk, plus there were plenty of little children for her to play with. Not many older children, but that didn’t matter, since her older sons were nearly grown. Shmueli had left for Israel, and Yonkie, though only in eleventh grade, would probably spend his senior year back east, finishing yeshiva high school while simultaneously attending college. Peter’s daughter, Cindy, was now a veteran cop, having survived a wholly traumatic year. Occasionally, she’d eat Shabbat dinner with them, visiting her little sister—a thrill since Cindy had grown up an only child. Rina was the mother of a genuine blended family, though sometimes it felt more like genuine chaos.

Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the storefront. The tiny house of worship was in a building that also rented space to a real estate office, a dry cleaners, a nail salon, and a take-out Thai café. Upstairs were a travel agency and an attorney who advertised on late-night cable with happy testimonials from former clients. Two black-and-white cruisers had parked askew, taking up most of the space in the minuscule lot, their light bars alternately blinking out red and blue beams. A small crowd had gathered in front of the synagogue, but through them, Rina could see hints of a freshly painted black swastika.

Her heart sank.

She inched her Volvo into the lot and parked adjacent to a cruiser. Before she even got out of the car, a uniform was waving her off. He was a thick block of a man in his thirties. Rina didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything because she didn’t know most of the uniformed officers in the Devonshire station. Peter had transferred there as a detective, not a patrol cop.

The officer was saying, “You can’t park here, ma’am.”

Rina rolled down the window. “The police called me down. I have the keys to the synagogue.”

The officer waited; she waited.

Rina said, “I’m Rina Decker, Lieutenant Decker’s wife …”

Instant recognition. The uniformed officer nodded by way of an apology, then muttered, “Kids!”

“Then you know who did it?” Rina got out of the car.

The officer’s cheeks took on color. “No, not yet. But we’ll find whoever did this.”

Another cop walked up to her, this one a sergeant by his uniform stripes, with Shearing printed on his nametag. He was stocky with wavy, dishwater-colored hair and a ruddy complexion. Older: mid to late fifties. She had a vague sense of having met him at a picnic or some social gathering. The name Mike came to mind.

He held out his hand. “Mickey Shearing, Mrs. Decker. I’m awfully sorry to bring you down like this.” He led her through the small gathering of onlookers, irritated by the interference. “Everybody … a couple of steps back … Better yet, go home.” Shouting to his men, “Someone rope off the area, now!”

As the lookie-loos thinned, Rina could see the exterior wall—one big swastika, a couple of baby ones on either side. Someone had spray-painted Death to the Inferior, Gutter Races. Angry moisture filled her eyes. “Is the door lock broken?” she asked the sergeant.

“’Fraid so.”

“You’ve been inside?”

“Unfortunately, I have. It’s …” He shook his head. “It’s pretty strong.”

“My parents were concentration-camp survivors. I know this kind of thing.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Watch your step. We don’t want to mess up anything for the detectives.”

“Who’s being brought in?” Rina said. “Who investigates hate crimes?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. As she stepped across the threshold, she felt her muscles tighten, and her jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder that her teeth didn’t crack.

All the walls had been tattooed with one vicious slogan after another, each derogatory, each advocating different ways to exterminate Jews. So many swastikas, it could have been a wallpaper pattern. Eggs and ketchup had been thrown against the plaster, leaving behind vitreous splotches. But the walls weren’t the worst part, minor compared to the holy books that had been torn and shredded and strewn across the floor. And even the sacrilege of the religious tomes and prayer books wasn’t as bad as the horrific photographs of concentration-camp victims that lay atop the ruined Hebrew texts. She averted her eyes but had already seen too much—ghastly black-and-white snapshots depicting individual bodies with tortured faces and gaping mouths. Some were clothed, some nude.

Shearing was staring, too, shaking his head back and forth, while uttering “Oh man, oh man” under his breath. He seemed to have forgotten about her. Rina cleared her throat, partially to break Mickey’s trance, but also to stave back tears. “I suppose I should look around to see if anything valuable is missing.”

Mickey looked at Rina’s face. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Did the place have anything valuable …? I mean, I know the books are valuable, but like flashy valuable things. Like silver ecumenical things … is ‘ecumenical’ the right word?”

“I know what you mean.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Decker.”

The apology was stated with such clear sincerity that it brought down the tears. “No one died, no one got hurt. It helps to get perspective.” Rina wiped her eyes. “Most of our silver and gold objects are locked up in that cabinet … the one with the grates. That’s our Holy Ark.”

“Lucky that you had the grates installed.”

“We did that after the Jewish Community Center shootings.” She walked over to the Aron Kodesh.

Shearing said, “Don’t touch the lock, Mrs. Decker.”

Rina stopped.

He tried out a tired smile. “Fingerprints.”

Rina regarded the lock with her hands behind her back. “Someone tried to break inside. There are fresh scratch marks.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Because you have the lock, they musta figured that’s where you keep all your valuables.”

“They would have been right.” A pause. “You said ‘they.’ More than one?”

“With this much damage, I’d say yeah, but I’m not a detective. I leave that up to pros like your husband.”

Abruptly, she was seized with vertigo and leaned against the grate for support. Mickey was at her side.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Decker?”

Her voice came out a whisper. “Fine.” She straightened up, surveying the room like a contractor. “Most of the damage seems superficial. Nothing a good bucket of soapy water and a paintbrush could take care of. The books, of course, are another story.” Replacing them would put them back at least a thousand dollars, money that they had been saving for a part-time youth director. Like most labors of love, the shul operated on a shoestring budget. A tear leaked down her cheek.

“At least no one tried to burn it down.” She bit her lip. “We have to be positive, right?”

“Absolutely!” Mickey joined in. “You’re a real trooper.”

Again, Rina’s eyes skittered across the floor. Among the photos were Xeroxed ink drawings of Jews sporting exaggerated hooked noses. They probably had been copied out of the old Der Stuermer or the Protocol of the Elders of Zion. Again, she glanced at the grainy photographs. Upon inspection, she realized that the black-and-whites did not look like copies. They looked like genuine snapshots taken by someone who had been there. The thought—someone visually recording dead people—sickened her. Now someone was leaving them around as a frightful reminder or a threat.

Again, her eyes filled with furious tears. She was so angry, so desolate, that she wanted to scream at the world. Instead, she took out her cell phone and paged her husband.

Decker had many thoughts rattling through his brain, most of them having to do with how Rina was coping. Still, there was some space left over for his own feelings. Anger? No. Way beyond anger, and that wasn’t good. Such blinding rage caused people to make mistakes, and Decker couldn’t afford them right now. So instead of mulling over a crime he had yet to see, he looked out the windshield and tried to get distracted by the scenery. By the rows of houses that had once been citrus orchards, by the warehouses and strip malls that lined Devonshire Boulevard. He tried not to think about his stepson in Israel or his other stepson at a Jewish high school. Or Hannah, who was currently in second grade—young and trusting and as innocent as those rows of preschoolers led out of the JCC a couple of years ago after that god-awful shooting.

He realized he was sweating. Though it was the usual overcast May in L.A.—the air cool and a bit moldy—he turned the air conditioner on full blast. Someone had given him the address as a formality, but even if he hadn’t known the locale, the cruisers would have been a tip-off.

He parked his car in a red zone, got out, and told himself to take a deep breath. He’d need to be calm, not to deal with the crime but to deal with Rina. A quartet of uniforms was buzzing around the space like flies. Decker hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when Mickey Shearing caught him.

“Where is she?” Decker’s voice was a growl.

“Inside the synagogue,” Shearing answered. “You want the details?”

“You have details?”

“I have …” Mickey flipped through his book. “… that the first report came in at eight-thirty in the morning from the guy who operates the dry cleaning. I arrived about ten minutes later, found the door lock broken. I called up the synagogue to find out if there was a rabbi or someone in charge. I got a machine with a phone number on it. Turned out to be your wife.”

“And you didn’t think to call me before you called her?” Decker’s glare was harsh.

“There was just a phone number on it, Lieutenant. I didn’t realize it was your wife until afterward.”

Decker broke eye contact and rubbed his forehead. “S’right. Maybe it’s better coming from you. Anyone been interviewed?”

“We’re making the rounds.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Probably done in the wee hours of the morning.” Shearing slid his toe against the ground. “Probably by kids.”

“Kids as in more than one?”

“A lot of damage. I think so.”

“Tell me about the guy in the dry cleaners.”

“Gregory Blansk. Young kid himself. Uh … nineteen …” He flipped through more pages. “Yeah, nineteen.”

“Any chance he did it and is sticking around to see people admire his handiwork?”

“I think he’s Jewish, sir.”

“You think?”

“Uh … yeah. Here we go. He is Jewish.” Shearing looked up. “He seemed appalled and more than a little frightened. He’s a Russian import himself. Two strikes against him—Jewish and a foreigner. This has to scare him.”

“Currently, Detective Wanda Bontemps from Juvenile is assigned to Hate Crimes. Make sure she interviews him when she comes out. Keep the area clear. I’ll be back.”

Having worked Juvenile for a number of years, Decker was familiar with errant kids and lots of vandalism. He had worked in an area noted for biker bums, white trash, hoodlum Chicanos, and teens who just couldn’t get behind high school. But this? Too damn close to home. He was so distracted by the surroundings, he didn’t even notice Rina until she spoke. It jolted him, and he took a step backward, bumping into her, almost knocking her down.

“I’m sorry.” He grabbed her hand, then clasped her body tightly. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m …” She shrugged in his arms. Don’t cry! “How long before we can start cleaning this up?”

“Not for a while. I’d like to take photographs and comb the area for prints—”

“I can’t stand to look at this!” Rina pulled away and turned her eyes away from his. “How long?”

“I don’t know, Rina. I’ve got to get the techs out here. It isn’t a murder scene, so it isn’t top priority.”

“Oh. I see. We have to wait until someone gets shot.”

Decker tried to keep his voice even. “I’m as anxious as you are to clean this up, but if we want to do this right, we can’t rush things. After the crews leave, I will personally come over here with mop and broom in hand and scrub away every inch of this abomination. Okay?”

Rina covered her mouth, then blinked back droplets. She whispered back, “Okay.”

“Friends?” Decker smiled.

She smiled back with wet eyes.

Decker’s smile faded as the horror hit him. “Good Lord!” He threw his head back. “This is … awful!”

“They took the kiddush cup, Peter.”

“What?”

“The kiddush cup is gone. We kept it in the cabinet. It was silver plate with turquoise stones and just the type of item that would get stolen because it was accessible and flashy.”

Decker thought a moment. “Kids.”

“That’s what they’re all saying. Why not some evil hate group?”

“Sure, it could be that. One thing I will say on record is it’s probably not a hype. If he wanted something to swap for instant drug money, the crime would have been clean theft.”

“Maybe the cup is hidden underneath all this wreckage.” Rina shrugged. “All I know is the cup isn’t in the cabinet.”

Decker took out his notebook. “Anything else?”

“Fresh scratch marks on the padlock on the Aron—the Holy Ark. They tried to get into it, but weren’t successful.”

“Thank goodness.” He folded his notebook and studied her face. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m … all right. I’ll feel better once this is cleaned up. I suppose I should call Mark Gruman.”

Decker sighed. “He and I painted the walls the first time. Looks like we’re going to paint them again.”

Rina whispered, “Once word gets out, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of willing volunteers.”

“Hope so.” Decker stamped his foot. An infantile gesture but he was so damn angry. “Man, I am pi … mad. I’d love to swear except I don’t want to further desecrate the place.”

“What’s the first step in this type of investigation?”

“To check out juveniles with past records of vandalism.”

“Aren’t records of juveniles sealed?”

“Of course. But that doesn’t mean the arresting officers can’t talk. A couple of names would be a good start.”

“How about checking out real hate groups?”

“Definitely, Rina. We’ll work this to the max. Nothing in this geographical area comes to mind. But I remember a group in Foothills—the Ethnic Preservation Society or something like that. It’s been a while. I have to check the records, and to do that properly I need to go back to the office.”

“Go on. Go back. I’ll be okay.” She turned to face him. “Who’s coming down?”

“Wanda Bontemps. She’s from the Hate Crimes Unit. Try not to bite her head off. She had a bad experience with Jews in the past.”

“And this is who they bring down for a Jewish hate crime?”

“She’s black—”

“So she’s a black, and an anti-Semite. That makes it better?”

“She’s not anti-Semitic at all. She’s a good woman who was honest enough to admit her issues to me early on. I’m just … I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” He looked around and grimaced. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut. I’ll chalk it up to being a little rattled. Wanda’s new and has worked hard to get her gold. It hasn’t been an easy ride for a black forty-year-old woman.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Rina answered. “Don’t worry about her, Peter. If she just does her job, we’ll get along just fine.”

2

The pictures of the concentration-camp victims had to have come from somewhere. It was possible that they were downloaded from a neo-Nazi on-line site and enhanced to make them look like real photographs. Still, it was equally as likely that they had come from some kind of local organized fascist group. The fringe group that Decker had remembered from his Foothills days had tagged itself the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity. When he had worked Juvenile, it hadn’t been much more than a post-office box and a once-every-six-months meeting in the park. A few quick phone calls told him that the group was still in existence and that it had evolved into something with an address on Roscoe Boulevard. Decker wasn’t sure what they did or what they espoused, but with that kind of a name, the hidden message had to be white supremacy.

He checked his watch, which now read close to eleven. He got up from his desk and went out into the squad room. There were lots of empty spots, signifying that most of Devonshire’s detectives had been called into the field, but luck placed Tom Webster at his desk, and on the phone. The junior homicide detective was blond, blue-eyed, and spoke with a good-ole-boy drawl. If anyone could pose as an Aryan sympathizer, it would be Webster … except for the dress. Neo-Nazis didn’t usually sport designer suits. Today, Tom had donned a navy suit, white shirt, and a maroon mini-print tie—probably Zegna. Not that Decker wore hundred-dollar ties, but he knew the brand because Rina’s father liked Zegna and often gave Sammy and Jake his cast-off cravats.