Jews come in three flavors: Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform, or as my father liked to say, Jewish-Lite. I was raised Conservative, but I flushed all religious knowledge down the toilet the day after my Bar Mitzvah. I was still pissed at God for making me go to Hebrew School twice during the week and once on Sunday, which interfered with my Little League games. Because I was always late, I had to sub in at right field, the wasteland for losers. And although I still carried on some of the Jewish holiday traditions, considering them more of a cultural thing than a religious one, I really had no use for organized religion of any flavor.

So Aunt Shel was justifiably surprised when I told her I was taking her to Friday night services at B’nai Shalom, one of the two main synagogues in Reston and the only Conservative shul in the area. We got there early and stood outside the sanctuary in a reception area along with the other worshippers. The conversations ebbed and flowed, some hushed, others loud and boisterous. Aunt Shel and I waited in silence.

At the far end of the reception area, a couple of women prepared for the kiddush ceremony. A few white linen napkins covered the challahs, and one lady was pouring grape juice into little plastic cups lined up on the long table.

“Look, there’s Lev and his family,” Aunt Shel said, pointing through the window toward the parking lot. A minute later, Lev, Peter, Jenn and their two kids entered. They paused at the door and scanned the crowd. When they saw us, Lev headed our way and Peter leaned over and said something to Jenn. She gave us a half-hearted wave and herded the kids off down a hallway, no doubt in search of restrooms, while Peter caught up to his dad.

“Hello, Shel,” Lev said. “How are you?”

She issued a protracted sigh. “Feeling better,” she said, “now.” She patted my arm and forced a smile. “Josh found what he’d been missing.”

Lev squinted at me and Peter’s eyes grew wide. “You found them,” Lev said, not a question.

“Yes. And they’re locked away in the vault.” I’d taken the bag directly to Virginia Central after Yakov had left. I hadn’t run into Cyndi, but Earl had given me a couple world-class sneers on my way out.

Peter said, “That’s great. Now you can really get on with your life. Move forward and leave all this unpleasantness behind. I’m so happy for you.” He winked at me. “And if you need help with any investing now that you’ll have some extra cash …”

Yakov had given me a figure close to $200,000—which I guessed still had a little wiggle room built in. “Thanks. But I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with them.” I tried to be as ambiguous as possible, deciding not to tell anyone about the additional missing diamonds. Didn’t want to wreck anyone’s good mood.

Aunt Shel spoke up. “You’re going to sell them. And invest wisely. Listen to Peter. He knows about money. Such a nice house he has.” Then she reached up and poked me in the chest. “And you’re going to get a job and make a living, too.”

Jenn joined us and we chatted amiably about nothing. When I looked around our little circle, everybody seemed happy and relaxed. Everyone except stone-faced Lev, who stared at me until I looked away.

Lev wanted to be able to see better, so he and Peter and his family found an empty row close to the front of the sanctuary. Aunt Shel and I begged off, preferring to sit in the last row, on the aisle closest to the back door.

Up on the bimah, the Rabbi, a big bear of a man in a tight-fitting brown suit, began services with an upbeat hymn. Then, after a short greeting in English, he launched into a series of prayers in Hebrew, some spoken, some chanted. I recognized some of the words from twenty years ago, but the tunes and cadences seemed different to me now, not so dirge-like. Maybe Judaism had modernized when I wasn’t looking.

The sanctuary itself was also more modern than the synagogues I remembered from my youth. The ark appeared to be made of some kind of brushed metal and the bimah had blond wood accents and lots of curved surfaces around the edges.

From my vantage in the back, I noticed a preponderance of gray heads. The synagogue was located only a few blocks from the Hebrew Home, so many of the more mobile residents attended. The average age of the congregants had to be over fifty-five, and that included the dozen or so kids I saw squirming in their seats. In front of me, a little girl, maybe three years old, peered over the seatback. She stuck her tongue out and I returned the favor. She giggled until her mother spun her around to face front. I got a nasty sideways glare from the mom, as if I had been the one to start things.

Most of the service was conducted in Hebrew. Next to me, Aunt Shel kept nodding off and I couldn’t blame her. It was hard maintaining concentration when you didn’t have any idea what was being said. My chin hit my chest a few times, too. An hour or so later, the Rabbi delivered a mini-sermon—thankfully, in English—and then led the congregation in Aleinu. After the prayer was over, he leaned in to the microphone, modulating his sonorous voice. “All mourners, please rise for the Mourner’s Kaddish.”

I helped Aunt Shel to her feet and held her arm as we stood together. About a dozen others also rose, most holding a siddur—prayer book—open in their hands. Aunt Shel and I would wing it without one. Lip-synching the prayers was the one thing I’d nailed back in Hebrew School. I felt the stares of all the “non-mourners” upon me as I prayed, judging me, Mr. Hypocrite, the man with no use for organized religion.

“Yitgaddal v’yitqaddash …”

___

I went straight home after dropping off Aunt Shel. Wanted nothing more than to watch some TV and get a good night’s sleep. My stress level was through the roof and I had no real hope that it would lessen any time soon.

I managed to remove my coat and hang it up, but I only got as far as the stairs. I plopped down on the second stair and leaned back, resting my elbows on the step above. Stared at the spot where my father had died.

There hadn’t been any blood and I hadn’t seen it firsthand, but my imagination had taken over, generating photos every bit as vivid as the real ones in Morris’ file must have been. Sometimes you hear that dead people looked like they were sleeping when they died. Not so in my version. There was no doubt my father was dead.

And what had he left me? A gigantic mess, that’s what. His purported cousin, barely able to function on his own, was out wandering the streets. For all I knew, he was lying dead himself somewhere, in a morgue or an alley or a ditch in the woods, corpse being devoured by foxes. I figured he’d just run away, but maybe I should check out the area hospitals to see if he’d been admitted. Maybe I should call Carol to get her advice. She seemed like she would know better than I. But I didn’t move. Kassian wasn’t dead. He’d run off after I practically accused him of murdering my father. And, as sad as it sounded, I didn’t have to worry about Kassian’s survival. He could take care of himself on the streets better than most, given his extensive experience.

My father had left me a bag of diamonds and a boatload of questions. But—if Yakov Sapperstein can be believed—many more were still missing. Why would the thief return just some of the diamonds? Wasn’t it an either/or proposition? Either you were a thief or you weren’t. Was Kassian on his way to Atlantic City with the rest, looking to parlay his plunder into megamillions? Or was there someone else involved in the diamond theft? I thought about the facts. My father had taken the stones out of the bank on Thursday, in anticipation of Yakov’s appraisal on Tuesday morning. He’d have to get them sometime before the holiday weekend because the bank wouldn’t be open on Tuesday in time for his meeting. He could have gotten them on Friday sometime, but maybe he didn’t want to go out if he was expecting Lev over to play chess. Besides, what’s an extra day or two? I mean what are the odds you would get robbed of your diamonds on any particular day?

Who knew my father even had diamonds? Aunt Shel. Lev. Carol. Kassian, most probably, even though he claimed he didn’t know. None of them seemed like prime suspects. Which brought me back to my original assumption. A stranger broke into the house, killed my father, took the diamonds.

But there had been no evidence of a break-in. Doors locked—dead bolts, too—and windows secure. Someone with a key? Kassian had a key. Carol had a key. I pictured Carol returning her key and hanging it on the hook next to the … spare key. Only there hadn’t been a spare key hanging there. Had the murderer coerced his way in and used the spare key to lock the door behind him?

I rubbed my face with my hands. My headache had returned, in spades. The more I thought about it, the more confused I got and the more I believed Kassian was the linchpin. He knew something he wasn’t sharing with me, something important that would shed some light on my father’s death and the diamond theft.

Mentally, I ticked off the supporting facts. He was living here when it happened. He knew my father’s most recent activities. And he was playing woodsman watching Stephen Wentworth’s house. I had a feeling if I found Kassian and got him to talk, the mysteries would start to unravel.

But where had he gone?

I went upstairs. Decided to skip TV and climb right into bed. Find a good book to take my mind off things. I emptied my pockets onto the top of my dresser and remembered I’d turned my phone off before we went into services. I turned it on, hoping there’d be a message from Rachel, but afraid there’d be a dozen messages from Dani. I wouldn’t be surprised if she somehow had wheedled Heath to take her back and I was once again a smudge on the bottom of her shoe.

There were two messages and neither was from Rachel. One from Dani, the other from Erik. I listened to Dani’s first.

Hello, Josh. Why won’t you call me back? Sorry about the other night. I’m feeling better now, I can see that Heath was a big mistake. I’m really so sorry. We need to talk, Josh. I’d like to see if we can work things out, give ourselves another chance. We were good together, for a while. Next time, we’ll have learned what we can …

I cut the message off while she was still rambling. There won’t be a next time, Dani, I whispered to myself. Fool me once …

Erik’s message simply said to call him, so I found his home number in my contacts list and clicked. He answered promptly, as usual. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was his cell or home phone. “Hello.”

“Hey, it’s Josh.”

“Yes, I know. It’s this new thing, Caller ID. I hear they’re working on something even better. A cordless phone.” Erik paused. “Nice of you to return my call.”

“You’re welcome. What do you need?” I asked.

“Actually, it’s what you need. I got you an appointment with your father’s real estate guy. Terrible Teresywzki. And it wasn’t too easy, let me tell you. That guy’s calendar is jammed until Easter. But I got you in,” Erik said. There was a moment of silence. “You still want to talk with him, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“There’s only one catch,” Erik said.

I sighed. Sounded like some hoop-jumping on the horizon. “What? I’ve got to ride with him in a cab to the airport or something?”

Erik laughed. “Worse. Six-thirty a.m. Monday morning. At Gerry’s Gym. Wear workout clothes. He left your name at the front desk.”

“Thanks.”

“One more thing. Don’t pull too many muscles.” Erik was still laughing as I hung up.