family made no secret of it,” Goldin said. “Davida was in her forties when Lilah was born. I suppose her late husband wanted a son and Davida just couldn’t pull it off again. Hence Freddy.”
He thought a moment.
“Davida wasn’t nice to him, but Davida wasn’t really nice to anyone. She had a real combative relationship with King, who was her biological son. King was the bull seal of the family—Lilah’s surrogate father. He despised me, tried to buy me off. I refused the money, and Lilah and I married, much to everyone’s chagrin.”
“What about John Reed? You said you didn’t see too much of him.”
“John was actually all right. Not that we were ever friendly. But he wasn’t tangled up in Davida’s little web. His words to me were: ‘If you want your marriage to work, get the hell away from Mother.’ I tried, but …”
Decker said, “Davida can be a very formidable person.”
“So you know.” Goldin appraised Decker. “Old lady went for you, didn’t she? You’re her type. You’re Lilah’s type, too. Despite her brief fling with Jewish intellectuals, she really likes the big macho, shoot-em-up Gentiles à la Clint Eastwood, no offense.”
“I’m Jewish,” Decker said.
Without missing a beat, Goldin said, “Okay, so how about you talk for a moment so I can yank my foot out of my mouth.”
Decker smiled.
Goldin paused to take a breath. “You’re not putting me on?”
“No, Perry, I’m not.” Decker flipped a page of his notebook. “Why do you think Lilah picked you to rebel with?”
“I’ve often thought about that. Probably because I was handy—I was around. I was hired by King to teach Davida bridge. I wasn’t intimidated by Davida’s money and I think Lilah liked that. Also, Davida liked my attention and Lilah was acutely aware of that. My ex got a big thrill out of diverting my attention away from Davida. There was fierce competition between the two.”
“Competition and jealousy,” Decker said.
“You’ve got their number. Toward the end, Lilah was convinced I was sleeping with her mother. Nothing I could say or do could convince her otherwise. It was awful.”
“Were there good times?”
Goldin was thoughtful. “In the beginning, it was wonderful. We’d talk a lot about solving the world’s problems. The kind of thing you do when you’re young and idealistic. She seemed so moved, so full of desire to do good. Once we even sailed with Greenpeace into the North Sea waters to prevent the Soviets from whaling. With the wind-chill factor, it was forty below on the seas. We were all freezing our butts off. Lilah loved it—thrived on it.”
“Was that the extent of her altruism?”
“Not at all. We did a lot of other things on a smaller scale. Collected coats and blankets for the homeless, volunteered to serve in the hash lines at the missions. She even taught an arts and crafts class for the elderly at a recreation center. Matter of fact, one of Lilah’s students became one of her best buddies for a while. Turned out the old lady was from Germany and vaguely knew Lilah’s father.”
That got Decker’s attention. “She knew Hermann Brecht?”
“Vaguely. Lilah had a real hang-up about her father. Idolized him even though she never really knew him. We used to watch his movies together. I don’t mind movies that tell life like it is. But his movies … whew! What a thoroughly depressing, debilitating view of life. I’m not the least bit surprised old Hermann committed suicide.”
Decker said, “Do you remember the old woman’s name?”
“Sure. Greta Millstein. Like I said, they were pretty close. Greta was different—offbeat—and I think Lilah liked that. She claimed one of her daughters was a Jewish baby given to her by neighbors right before they were sent off to Dachau. Of course the family perished, so Greta raised the child as her own. Maybe she was snowing me because I was Jewish, but I saw no reason to doubt her.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“I haven’t seen her in five years. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. Why are you interested in her?”
“Because she knew Hermann Brecht. And like you said, Lilah is obsessed with her father.” Decker looked up from his notepad. “Did Lilah ever mention her father’s memoirs to you?”
“Memoirs?” Goldin played with his beard. “Did Hermann Brecht write memoirs?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“If he did, this is the first I’ve heard about it.”
“Did Lilah ever intimate she’d been willed something by her father?”
“Not to me.” Goldin shrugged. “Sorry. What does this have to do with Lilah’s attack?”
“I’m not sure it has anything to do with it. Do you remember where Greta Millstein was living then?”
“In the Valley—a block-long apartment complex planted with rolling lawns and trees. I doubt if it’s there anymore. Some developer probably got his mitts on it and turned the space into a shopping mall.”
“Where in the Valley, Mr. Goldin?”
“Corner of Fulton and Riverside. I never knew the exact address, but Greta’s apartment number was fifty-four.”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“Memory is my bread and butter, Detective.”
“Did you see Greta often?”
“Only occasionally. But Lilah used to visit her two, even three times a week. It was sweet to see them together—this wrinkled old woman and this beautiful young princess. They had this relationship that bridged what must have been a fifty-year age span. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly. Frankly, that wasn’t uppermost in my mind. Lilah and I were having lots of problems by that time.” Goldin grew pensive. “She was on my case, nonstop. Instead of finding me enthusiastic and stimulating, now I was obnoxious and overbearing. Which I was, but I was always like that. She just didn’t like me anymore. I was crushed when she served me papers. I was angry and bitter and …”
He threw up his hands, shook his head, and became quiet.
Decker waited a beat, then said, “You seem all right now.”
Goldin smiled. “Yeah, I am. All the credit goes to my wife. Man, if Humpty Dumpty had known Wendy, he’d be sitting on the wall today. First time I met her, I wasn’t knocked off my feet like I was with Lilah, but …” He let out a soft chuckle. “God, I love that woman. She scares the hell out of me working downtown at night. But she’s altruistic—genuinely altruistic.” He sighed. “What can I do?”
Decker
