Golda sounded scared. “Rachel, where are you? The cops want to see you, there’re reporters everywhere. My God, Rachel. Where are you?”

“Golda, you’ve got to help me.”

“How?”

“Tell me who else is from Dabrowa.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean who doesn’t live with us. Who’s not a”— Rachel searched for the right word—“a member.”

Golda knew what she meant. “There’s one man I know about. Two, but one’s in Israel, I think. The one who lives here came to Adam’s funeral.”

“Did I see him?”

“No. They had you in the back when he came.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Relkin. Joseph Relkin, an importer of some kind.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Northern suburbs, Connecticut or Westchester. I’m not sure.”

Hawkins called Sam Hunt in Manhattan and a few minutes later Hunt called him back. There was only one J. Relkin, he reported. Importer who had an office on Thirty-­second and Fifth and a house in Larchmont. Three cars were registered to him, a Mercedes 300, a pimp­mobile, and a Pontiac station wagon. “To go to the station, I guess,” Hunt said. He had two speeding tickets from the sixties, both paid without protest. No arrests, no convictions. “He’s clean,” Hunt told Hawkins, “clean and rich.”

Rachel called J. Relkin in Larchmont. He had a husky voice that reminded her of Walinsky’s. When she told him who she was he was quiet for a moment, then he asked how Jacob was.

“He’s fine,” she answered.

“Good,” he said, “I thought maybe it was another funeral.” She asked if they could see him and he said he wouldn’t be back until three. Then he asked who “they” were. She told him and he asked softly, “Trouble?”

“Yes,” she answered.

He was quiet again, then he said, “Sure, wife of Adam. Beloved of Jacob. I’ll see you.”

2

Chapter 2

Mrs. Relkin led them into the living room and they sat in front of the dying fire and talked about the weather, about Temple Emmanuel where Mrs. Relkin ran Hadassah and Mr. Relkin embarrassed her by never showing up. She asked about Leah, and about Golda. She answered her own questions. Rachel leaned back and listened to logs cracking in the fireplace, to the wind outside the big picture window that looked over the back acreage across the empty swimming pool to the trees. Aqua paint was peeling, the pool sides were dotted with dead leaves. Hawkins reached for his teacup and she saw the pale inside of his hand.

Mrs. Relkin raised the diamond-­studded cover of her wristwatch. “He should have been here before now,” she said. “I’m supposed to play bridge; I wouldn’t mind, but they’re counting on me.”

“Go anyway,” Rachel offered, “Mr. Relkin expects us.”

Mrs. Relkin looked at Hawkins uncertainly.

“I could . . .” she said.