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.
Marge looked at Decker. The woman suddenly became pale. “You’re the police, no?”
Marge took out her ID. “Yes, ma’am, we are the police.”
“Orit, please. This is my brother’s house. I haven’t heard from him in going on two days.”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” Marge asked. “Maybe he went on vacation.”
“Impossible,” Orit stated. “Dalia works at my office; she didn’t say anything. The boys are in the middle of school. The school knows nothing. Besides, I come here yesterday. They are still getting the paper and their mail.” She craned her neck to look up at Decker. “My brother’s a diamond dealer. He deals in big stones and lots of cash. It’s hard times. People do funny things. You never know. I’m worried about my brother.”
Marge and Decker exchanged glances, then pulled out their notebooks. Marge said, “You think your brother might have been involved in something … illegal?”
Orit bristled. “Impossible. My family has been in the diamond business for over a hundred years. Our family name is Yalom, which means diamond. My father taught us to cut diamonds before we could read. Arik wouldn’t do shady business. But there are others who are maybe not honest.”
“Are you thinking about anyone specifically?” Decker said.
Orit bit a red bottom lip. “No. No one particular. You go in, okay?”
Marge said, “The officers who were out here yesterday said everything looked fine.”
Orit waved her hand in the air. “I didn’t like them—their attitudes. They looked unhappy to help me. Like why is this crazy foreigner wasting our time.”
“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.