Guggenheim Pavilion
Mount Sinai Hospital
Manhattan
Ben Berman found Detective Wojciechowski alone at a table for four. The detective’s trench coat and suitcoat lay draped over one of the chairs, and he had loosened his threadbare tie.
“They got kosher stuff here, Doc,” he said.
“I forced myself to eat everything offered on the plane,” Ben said, “so I’d better just have a salad.”
“You don’t gotta follow any food rules?”
“No. But I was raised on a lot of kosher food, and I like it.”
“So you’re not still Jewish?”
“Actually I’m more Jewish now than I was. I mean, I always will be ethnically, of course. But I’ve learned more about Judaism since believing in Yeshua than I ever knew before that.”
When his salad arrived, Ben asked Wojciechowski if it would embarrass him if he asked a blessing.
“You mean pray?”
Ben nodded.
“Out loud?”
“Not so anyone else can hear.”
“Either way, heck ya, I’d be embarrassed.”
“No worries,” Ben said. “I can do it silently.”
“That doesn’t help. What’m I supposed to do while you’re doin’ that?”
“I think that customarily, if a Messianic Jew is praying silently, a Gentile is required to stand on the table and dance—in any style you choose.”
The detective squinted. “Here I’m tryin’ to clear you of a crime, Berman, and you’re a laugh a minute. I don’t get it.”
“Truth is,” Ben said, “humor is my defense mechanism. Always has been. Even when I was a rebellious teenager, I tried to be funny.”
“What you got to be defensive about? You hidin’ something from me?”
“Of course I am. Don’t look so shocked. I have zero fear you’re going to clear me, and not just because I was across the Atlantic when this happened. I’m guessing by now you and your people have talked to enough friends and associates of mine to know I’d have no motive, no reason, no anything that would cause me to have anything to do with hurting my wife.”
“You’re right, Doc. So what’re you hidin’? You said it, I didn’t.”
“I’m hiding how I feel about all this.”
“See, why would you do that?” Wojciechowski said. “You gotta know I do this almost every day. I look into some crime and I start clearing everybody I can, startin’ with the people closest to the victims. And no matter how many of these blessed cop shows people watch, there’s a typical response. They’re horrified by what happened, they’re insulted we would imply they coulda had anything to do with it, and that makes ’em angry. We take a lotta heat for doin’ what we have to do, and we accept that. Only I don’t see that from you.”
“What do you see, Detective?”
“I see smart. I see earnest. I see helpful, as far as I can trust you. But I don’t see the pushback I’ve learned to expect. You’re always quick with a quip.”
“All right, I don’t mind telling you how I feel about all this. I am angry. Nobody’s ever gone after Ginny before, at least not that way.”
“What way, then?”
“Oh, when she handled the books for us, she could be tough on vendors and debtors. She expected them to be as precise and timely as we were, and she would not allow them to take advantage of us. But if I caught wind that anybody even raised their voice to her, I got involved. She didn’t want me to and tried to keep all that stuff from me.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted to fight her own battles, and one of the big reasons she wanted the job—and you know she volunteered, saved the foundation a lot of money—was to take the burden off me. I mean, I couldn’t have done it myself anyway; that’s not in my wheelhouse. I would have had to hire somebody full-time or work with some outside firm, but she rightly wanted to free me to play to my strengths.”
“So I’m back to what you’re hidin’.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to see how terrified I am. I don’t want Nicole to see that either. I know she’s scared. She doesn’t need me to be.”
“You’re ignoring your salad and haven’t even done your prayer thing yet.”
“Not hungry. I’ll have ’em box it up.”
“Men like to be macho. Heroes. But you think I’d be surprised or think less of you if you showed a little anger or fear? I never had anything like this come close to either of my families, but I can put myself in your shoes. I’d be scared to death and wouldn’t care who knew it.”
“Well, now you know, Detective. And if it makes you feel any better, making light of it doesn’t help me either. In fact, it makes me feel guilty.”
“You are guilty, aren’t you, Doc?”
“Sorry?”
“Just sayin’ I’m not the only one you hid your real self from. You been keepin’ stuff from the missus, haven’t you, Ben?”
“Like what?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Because I have no idea.”
Which wasn’t entirely true. But Ben couldn’t imagine how Ginny would have a clue, let alone Wojciechowski.