The Evil That Men Do Read online

  I returned to my search of the desk, moving gingerly, unwilling to disturb the computer another time. The shallow middle drawer had an accumulation of years-old office junk: pencils, pens, paper clips of every variety, coins, some chopsticks, a pair of glasses, old roll books, and a box of toothpicks. The large filing drawer on the left contained a rusty coffee maker, a couple of mugs, some Styrofoam cups, several partially filled jars of instant coffee, tea bags, packets of sugar and non-dairy creamer. There was a drawer full of stationery and envelopes. Another had stacks of notebooks. I found nothing of interest.

  It was 4:30 and I wanted to meet Akrich at the synagogue. There was the small problem of leaving the office. If someone saw me who knew Akrich was away, I could be in trouble. Of course, I could wait until after hours, when the hallway was sure to be empty, but time was critical. I took the bold approach. I removed my left glove and opened the door a crack with my right hand. I caught the door with my foot and removed the other glove at the same time, careful not to touch anything. I turned and said to the empty room, “Thank you for your help, Dr. Akrich. I think I understand the questions much better now. Shall I pull the door closed?” He obviously answered, “Yes,” for I shut the door, using parts of my hand that didn’t have prints on file. I sauntered away casually. The hallway’s sole occupants were two girls having an animated discussion about whether President Clinton had had an affair with “that woman,” Miss Lewinsky. They barely noticed me.

  At the car I retrieved my bag from the trunk and put the picks, gloves and microfilm in it. Since I was headed for a place of worship, I let the Glock remain in the glove compartment for the time being. I left campus and drove toward Church Avenue. In fifteen minutes I was in the parking lot behind the Abraham M. Weiss Synagogue and Jewish Community Center. A dozen or so cars were scattered among the carefully painted stalls, scrupulously avoiding the five unoccupied handicapped spaces.

  The building is in the shape of a giant dumbbell with large hexagonal disks at either end. It lies lengthwise on Church Avenue. One of the disks, on the Roman Road side, is the synagogue itself. The other disk is the school and community center. The architect had ceded a little to the Spanish motif of the region, with a generous use of exterior tiles in yellow, green, and ocher shades. But no doubt was left regarding the religious nature of the edifice. A magnificent blue and white stained-glass window in the shape of a six-sided star dominated the wall of the sanctuary facing the main street.

  I entered through a double door located in the corridor that connected the religious with the secular parts of the building—the bar of the dumbbell, as it were.

  The sounds of tired children, and the stressed voices of equally tired teachers, emanated from the right. Also wafting in from that direction were after-school odors. I’m not sure what ingredients comprise this particular smell: perhaps a combination of microwaved snacks, watercolor paints and the occasional missed toilet appointment.

  I assumed that the board meeting would take place in the other wing, away from the school. I turned left and walked toward the synagogue proper. If it was like a church, there would be, in addition to the actual place of worship, administrative offices, a conference room or two, and perhaps a small library. The corridor ended at an antechamber. On the right, three sets of double doors opened into the sanctuary. On the left, a passageway led to other parts of the building. The walls were bedecked with plaques that bore various inscriptions in both English and Hebrew. Scattered around the periphery of the room were half a dozen short benches upholstered in a sturdy green twill fabric.

  I ventured into the passageway and stuck my head round the first open door. A middle-aged woman was behind a desk talking on the phone. An engraved brass name sign on the desk read Sylvia Akrich. I assumed she was the professor’s wife. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Can I help you, dear?” She had an eastern accent, maybe New York City.

  “I’m wondering if I’m too late to catch Mr. Akrich. I understand he’s in a board meeting.”

  “No, they haven’t let out yet. They usually go right to five.”

  “Is it okay to wait for him? His secretary at the school said it was, but—”

  “It’s fine, dear,” she interrupted. “They’ll have to come down the hall when they leave. You can catch him in the lobby.” She returned to her phone conversation.

  I returned to the area outside the sanctuary and took a seat. There was nobody around this time of day. Only the sporadic wail of whining children broke the silence. I was too hyped-up to sit still for long. I tested one of the doors to the sanctuary. It was open.

  I hesitated before entering. I’d never been in a modern synagogue before. They are in short supply in Germany and Turkey, the two countries where I’d grown up. It might be interesting.

  I slipped inside and let the door close behind me. It wasn’t as different from a church as one might have thought, leastwise in its atmosphere of spirituality. It lacked the symbols of Christianity—the Cross, the images of Jesus, the Apostles and the Saints, the depictions of the life of Jesus—of course. In their place were portrayals of scenes from the Old Testament: God creating the universe; Moses parting the seas; Moses holding aloft the tablet of the Ten Commandments; the Israelites in battle dress; Daniel in the lions’ den; Samson bringing down the house.

  The auditorium lacked the nave and transept form of many churches, and there were no chapels off to the side. No narthex, apse or sacristy, either. A large, ornate cabinet stood against the far wall of the pulpit where a church might display a large cross. Above it, light streamed through the star-shaped window, bathing the dais in a multi-colored ethereal glow.

  The solemn silence was soothing. I could have sat for a while, relaxing, and thinking. I didn’t want to miss Akrich, however. I went back to the lobby and listened for footsteps. Nothing.

  I paced a little, stopping to read some plaques. They were all of different sizes and shapes and commemorated the various weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, and major donors. I read some of the plaques, just to pass the moments. One had a long list of bar mitzvah celebrants: Louis Aaronsen, Dennis Abrahmson, David Augeberg, Evan Benjamin, and on and on.

  Another plaque with fewer names was for bat mitzvah graduates: Brawna Arkady, Roberta Blumberg, Francine Brown and more.

  Mrs. Akrich interrupted my musings. “It’s five o’clock, dear. I’ve done my eight-to-five and I’m going home. I’m sure Julius’ll be along in a few minutes. They don’t like to stay late. Have a good evening.”

  I thanked her and returned to my reading.

  On another wall, weddings were remembered: Sidney and Lorraine Adelman, née Ginsberg; Gerald and Anne Agee, née Verango; Julius and Sylvia Akrich, née Maas. That stopped me in my tracks. Akrich married a Sylvia Maas. I started looking for the name Maas. I found Richard Maas’s name on a plaque honoring major donors, and on another one mentioning past presidents of the congregation. My mind shifted gears. Is Richard Maas the brother-in-law of Julius Akrich? Cousin-in-law? Is this the missing link in a chain of murdered students, a thieving professor, and the drug Nandrolex? I needed more time to plan my confrontation with Akrich. The sound of men’s voices drifted into the lobby, becoming louder. I bolted for the exit.

  Chapter 21

  I walked rapidly down the central corridor. Groups of parents and children were coming from the opposite direction. I slowed to a businesslike gait. I didn’t think Akrich would recognize me from behind, especially as he had no reason to expect to see me.

  I slipped in front of a mother whose child had shifted into reverse and was trying to return to the school. The tug-of-war was going poorly for the mother, who kept pleading, “Now Daryl, now Daryl,” as she permitted the child to pull her slowly back from the door.

  In the parking lot, SUVs and “momma-vans” were arriving from all directions. Others, laden with children, were trying to depart, creating a chaotic traffic pattern. Everyone crept slowly to ensure the safety of the loose ki
ds who helter-skeltered about.

  My mind was racing. I had a link between Akrich and Wellex, but I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Akrich couldn’t have killed Judy. I knew where he was when Judy died. I hadn’t verified his whereabouts when Troy had been murdered. That was a question for later.

  When I reached into my bag for my keys, I felt the spool of microfilm. According to the plaque, Akrich had married Sylvia the year following Starry Night’s death. The fact that he’d had a large wedding at the synagogue meant his courtship wasn’t a whirlwind affair. He had most likely known his wife, and the Maas family, for a considerable time before the wedding. I wondered if they were acquainted at the time Starry Night had died, or when Akrich had photographed the notebooks.

  I exited the parking lot onto Roman Road and headed away from the synagogue. Two quick right turns and a left onto Church pointed me toward downtown and the Santa Barbara police headquarters. I intended to file a missing person’s report on Lucy and test the waters at the homicide division. I also needed to find out if Charles had had any luck with the coroner. Homicide was unlikely to take action on my account alone.

  Charles answered on the first ring. I related my day’s experiences succinctly, ending with my suspicions about Starry’s demise. “I wish you could have autopsied her,” I said, wistfully.

  His response surprised me. “It may not be too late.”

  “C’mon, she’s been dead and buried for some twenty-odd years.”

  “You’d be surprised what we can do.”

  “Charles, how can we get a court order for an exhumation? We can’t even convince the authorities when we have a fresh corpse to examine.”

  “Who said anything about a court order?”

  “Are you suggesting something illicit? Something that might cost us both our licenses?” I tried to sound incredulous.

  He wasn’t buying it. “You’re right, love, we’ll have to be exceedingly careful. I’ll come round at six.”

  As simply as that, I launched into the weirdest, most macabre night of my life as a private investigator.

  I stopped at the police station and filed the report. I debated with myself about walking over to Homicide, but I decided not to, because time was short, and I thought I’d have stood a better chance if I’d been able to take my brother John with me. He knew most of the homicide detectives and would vouch for my sanity.

  There was a message on the answering machine when I got back to John’s. I hoped it was from Lucy, or one of the Worthingtons with news about her. It turned out to be Professor Gribith. “Dagny, Bill Gribith from UCLA. Do you remember I said something was nagging at my memory? I thought of it. I think Julius married somebody whose brother was in the pharmaceutical business. I believe it to be Wellex, but I’m not positive. I don’t know if this helps. Let me know how things turn out. Bye.”

  “Thanks, Professor, that does help,” I said to the machine. I hadn’t doubted that Sylvia Maas was related to Richard Maas, since she was married in the same synagogue that he belonged to, and Maas isn’t all that common a name. But given what I was about to do based on that relationship, I was more confident now, having had independent confirmation. It was also helpful to know that Richard Maas and Julius Akrich were almost doubtless brothers-in-law.

  It was a quarter to six. I could feel my shoulders sagging. I’d already put in a twelve-hour day, which had included jogging, fruitless interviewing, and breaking and entering. I could have fallen asleep on a bed of nails. Instead, while water was boiling for instant coffee, I packed an overnight bag with essentials. I took my coffee upstairs where I stripped and took a two-minute shower. I dribbled some cold water into the coffee so I could gulp it down, and then brushed my teeth. I dressed in my nighttime skulking outfit: black jeans, a black T-shirt beneath a black turtleneck, a pair of black sneakers. I grabbed a black hooded sweatshirt and threaded it through the handles of the small black bag.

  Charles was prompt to the minute. A quick hug, and off we went to dabble in one of the world’s oldest professions: grave robbing. Once on the 101, Charles engaged the cruise control and asked me to bring him up to date, sparing no detail. I did. He was fascinated by the breaking and entering, and the discovery of the microfilm evoked a wide grin and a high five.

  “We’re in luck in one way,” Charles said, when I’d finished. “The moon’s in its fourth quarter. It won’t rise until about two in the morning. Perfect for a midnight excursion. Do you know where she’s buried?”

  “Tommy said the Churok burial grounds. I got the impression it was somewhere out of town. I hope it’s not in the middle of some village.”

  “All I hope is that she was buried in a relatively dry place.”

  “Oh, I get it. Less decomposition.” I wrinkled my nose.

  Charles noticed the gesture. “It won’t stink. The soft tissue and fluids are long gone. We’ll find some bones, and with some luck, a fingernail or two.”

  Charles drove hard and by ten after eight we were at the Makrui town limits. I didn’t think it wise to ask directions to the cemetery. It would be impossible not to leave traces of digging, and someone would remember two strangers asking questions. I had Charles pull into the same quickie mart I’d been in two days before. While he filled the tank, I went inside and purchased a map of the locale. Back in the car, we drove a couple of blocks and pulled over to study the map. About ten miles east of Makrui, just off the main road, was a shaded-in patch similar to the ones designating recreational areas and parks. Small black lettering read CNBG Cem.* The footnote was *Churok Nation Burial Grounds Cemetery.

  Dusk was on the edge of becoming night when we found the cemetery. It was a mile or so from the highway, reached by an unpaved service road that forked into a loop that circled its periphery. The isolation was both good and bad. Good because we wouldn’t be observed by passersby; bad because if someone did come up the road, we couldn’t slip away unseen.

  The grounds were large, at least forty acres. We got out and looked around. The gravesites varied from majestic to humble. Some had vertical headstones as tall as Charles, and were elaborately engraved with mysterious glyphs. Others were marked by a small brick of granite with the bare essentials: name, year of birth, year of death. One brought a lump to my throat: a small headstone in the form of a bunny rabbit marked the final resting place of a four-day-old infant.

  If we had to find Starry by examining every grave, it might take all night. I thought to check just the ones with vertical headstones. Starry was an important person. She’d have a gravesite commensurate with her status.

  It was already too dark to read the smaller letters. Charles went to fetch a couple of torches while I surveyed the necropolis. A black, polished, granite monolith loomed in the center of the circular grounds. It would make a good starting point for our search. Our path would spiral around and away from the central point in ever-widening rings as we methodically checked headstones.

  I stood staring at the central monument amid an utter stillness broken only by the occasional car on the highway a mile away, or the clickety-clack of a distant train. Charles returned with several flashlights, spare batteries, and a good-sized lantern. Together we walked toward the center while I explained the plan in a low voice.

  The air was bone dry with little inclination to hold the heat of day. The once pleasant nocturnal breezes now chilled me from the outside, while the enormity of what we were doing chilled me from within.

  We reached the monolith. It marked the graves of a husband and wife named Hunter. He had been born in 1875 and had died in 1940; she had been born in 1880 and had died in 1952. No inscription indicated what either had done in life to merit the beautifully polished seven feet of granite that watched over their double tomb. The name Hunter appeared frequently on the headstones closest to the monolith. The further away from the center, the less frequently the name appeared.

  Many of the headstones were engraved in the Churok language. I had to hope that the grave marker of Starry
Night would have her English name on it somewhere. We only read the headstones of graves whose occupants had died the same year as Starry. Mostly we had to be careful not to leave any gaps of unexamined headstones, a heedfulness that grew more difficult as the spirals became wider and the night darker.

  We moved counterclockwise keeping about five feet apart. Charles was on the inside, scanning the headstones to his right between himself and me. I scanned the headstones to my right. We weaved in and out in an attempt to cover a ten-foot swath with each cycle. After each cycle, we moved outward five feet and repeated the process. This gave us double coverage, with Charles going over what I had supposedly seen.

  Forty acres is big. Developers can squeeze a hundred good-sized homes onto forty acres, including streets, easements, and recreational areas. After an hour, the flashlights dimmed.

  “Batteries have gone flat,” muttered Charles.

  We replaced the worn batteries and continued. We were on our thirtieth or so spiral, still less than halfway finished, when Charles gave a little cry. He was staring down on a grave covered with a slab of white marble. I remembered having walked past it on our previous pass, but having ignored it because there was no standing headstone.

  “Pay dirt,” I exclaimed.

  “Quite, as it were,” said Charles. The slab bore a long inscription in Churok, followed by a shorter one in English: Here rests the body of our sister, known to many as Starry Night. May her soul shine with the stars. “I just caught a glint of the name out of the corner of my eye. Jolly lucky it’s white and reflective.”

  My exhilaration at the discovery quickly turned to dread. “Now what?” I whispered, as if I didn’t know.

  “Where are we?” said Charles. “All this moving in circles has me disoriented. Can you see the car?”