you’re coming to dinner this week.”
I waved to him, and headed around the police vehicles blocking the road. As I walked to my Jeep parked on the side, the night still felt pretty quiet. Baltimore would be getting up soon – maybe a little later than usual, for it was now Saturday morning – but the air was still calm.
I climbed into the Grand Cherokee and headed back to Katie’s.
4
When Katie opened her eyes in the morning I was next to her. Not asleep, but next to her.
“Good morning,” I said, maybe twelve inches from her eyes. “How do you feel?”
“Mmm. Pretty good,” she smiled. She leaned over and gave me a kiss. “And you, did you sleep?”
“Not really.”
She just smiled, knowing a sleepless night was not unusual for me. “What did Nate have for you?”
“Ah, romantic pillow talk, huh?”
She smiled. “Was it good news or bad news?”
I always debated how much to tell Katie about stuff like this. Katie had seen me defend myself, but never with the really bloody, bone crunching stuff. Ever since I broke up with Alli, who flipped out witnessing my violent side when we were once attacked, I was leery about getting too specific with Katie. She might have been fine with me telling her I had to shoot a guy in the head, or that I probably broke a guy’s neck for instance, but I really wasn’t sure.
“You’re debating how much to tell me, aren’t you? Just tell me, Gidon.”
“Oh, you sweet talker.” I paused. “Okay, so I stopped some intruders in the Mandels’ house. Well, Nate and I think it’s more than that. We think someone is trying to kill them…or one of them.”
“Oh my God.”
“We’re not a hundred percent sure, but it’s looking that way. Someone killed one of the men we caught so we couldn’t interrogate him. He was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital when someone shot the driver and then shot my guy on his stretcher.”
“They’re dead?”
“They’re dead.”
“What about the other man? You said ‘intruders,’ plural.” Katie hadn’t missed that. “Can’t you find out from him?”
“Nope. I shot him last night…in the head. He was holding Josh hostage.”
She looked at me for a long second. I had no idea what she was thinking.
“And the Mandels don’t know what’s going on?” She had either processed what I had done or was ignoring it.
“They say they have no idea.”
“Do you believe them?”
“I believe that on the surface they can’t figure out what this is all about.”
“But you’ll help them?”
“They’re friends. Yes.” I didn’t mention that the guy who sent the hit team might have gotten a look at me. The fact was, I didn’t really know what was going on. The guy in the Buick was probably just a wheel man. No way of knowing yet.
“So what are you going to do now?”
“Now,” I shifted a little closer to her, “I am going to invite you into the shower, and we’ll see what develops.”
S
We had a late breakfast and then I headed back to my place to change. I lived less than five miles away near the Hopkins Homewood Campus in a modest, forty year old, two story home. In a matter of minutes, I was back in my car, heading to the Mandels’ Beit Shalom Synagogue. My interest still wasn’t in prayer. I did, however, want to see how Josh, Shelley, and their kids were doing. There’d be no visit to the sanctuary.
I parked half a block from the synagogue and walked back to the building. The sky was cloudless and the air was still cool. Single family brick homes were set back on modest front lawns, and a mixture of cars and vans were parked either in driveways or at the curb. Pink, red, and lavender azalea bushes guarded several of the walkways, and blooming rhododendrons added to the peaceful, clean, suburban atmosphere.
As I approached the single floor synagogue, I could see a number of young couples hanging around in front. I had no idea if services were still underway. It was just before noon, and Saturday morning prayers could typically run from two and a half to three hours, depending on the speed of the cantor, how many times the rabbi wanted to emphasize a message, or just because the pace was slower or faster on any given day.
I crossed Seven Mile Lane to see a County Police Car blocking the driveway entrance. A uniformed officer was leaning against the side of the vehicle and watching the front of the synagogue. I walked over to him and he watched me through rectangular wire-rimmed sunglasses. The officer was about my age and half a head taller, blond, fit looking, and maintained a high and tight haircut.
“Good morning,” I said.
He only nodded, arms across his chest. On his right forearm I could see part of a tattoo that had parachute wings and a scuba diver. There were also the words “Semper Fidelis.” He had been a Marine.
“Recon?” I asked.
“Force Recon,” he specified. “You?”
I shrugged. After a moment I said, “The guy you’re looking for may not come in the Buick.”
He looked at me again. “Heard some Israeli Special Operator walked into a hostage situation last night at the rabbi’s house. Took a gun off of one guy and used it to put two in the other guy’s head.”
I looked up at him and held his gaze through his sunglasses. “Actually…it was one round.”
He grinned. “Oorah. My lieutenant said it was one shot, too.” He held out his hand. “Greg Thompson. My friends call me Tuck.”
“Tuck,” I repeated, shaking his hand. “Gidon.”
“My unit had some joint training with Israeli paratroopers on a base northwest of Jerusalem.”
“Near Modi’in.”
“Yep. Met some real cool dudes.” He paused for a minute. “What can I do for you?”
“Services over? I want to speak to the rabbi, but don’t want to go in.”
“Don’t think so, but folks are drifting out.”
Sure enough, in a few minutes people began pouring out of the synagogue. There were older people, younger people, teens, and young couples with children. The men were dressed mostly in ties and jackets and the women in dresses. I didn’t see the Mandels. My guess was they’d be among the last to leave.
I turned to Thompson. “How long have you been on duty?”
“Drove
