Due Diligence (2 page)

Chapter One

Friday the rabbi slept late.

He was sleeping peacefully when I awoke a few minutes after seven o'clock. I glanced over and smiled. He was on his back, his chest bare. An arrow of curly black hair started at his navel and disappeared beneath the bedsheets, which were low on his slender hips. This was definitely not your grandfather's rabbi. He looked like a male model in one of those sexy ads for men's jeans. I turned on my side toward him, careful not to disturb his sleep. He had a delicious musky smell. It made me want to growl.

Rabbi David Marcus. My brilliant, gorgeous expert witness. He had been wonderful and masterful. In court, that is. Well, last night, too. I still couldn't believe that we'd known each other for less than a month.

I had called him three weeks ago because I needed an authority on the Holocaust to serve as an expert witness in a probate case on the trial docket for the following week. The decedent was Yetra Blumenthal, a survivor of Auschwitz who'd lost her husband and children in the death camps. She'd come to America after the Allies liberated Auschwitz, never remarried, and died childless and alone. In her will, she left her entire estate to the State of Israel. Unfortunately, the original document was never found—only a photocopy of the will. Under Missouri law a photocopy isn't enough. I represented the State of Israel, which was the party trying to reinstate the missing will.

In my final trial preparations, I decided I needed an expert witness on the psyches of Holocaust survivors. A friend at the Jewish Federation told me to call David Marcus, the new assistant rabbi at Temple Shalom, a huge reform congregation in the western suburbs. “He's written a book on Holocaust survivors,” she told me, “and he's a doll.”

I had called him later that day. He was polite and low-key over the telephone and agreed to meet me the following afternoon. I offered to drive out to the synagogue, but he insisted on coming to my office in the city, explaining that he would be in the Central West End earlier that day anyway. I had assumed that he was coming to the city for the usual rabbinical visit with ailing members of the congregation who were in one of the hospitals along Kingshighway; it was only later that I learned that Wednesdays and Saturdays were his days to work in the shelter for battered women that he had helped establish.

I must confess that my preconceived image of Rabbi David Marcus was based in part on his profession, in part of his soft-spoken manner over the telephone, and in part on my grandfather's rabbi. I assumed he was short and overweight, with thick glasses (probably horn-rimmed, probably crooked), a wrinkled black suit, a baggy white shirt, an unkempt beard, and pudgy fingers.

Well, that was not the Rabbi David Marcus who arrived at my office that Wednesday afternoon. He was tall and good looking, with gentle brown eyes, dark hair, a strong nose, and large, powerful hands. The few points of overlap with my grandfather's rabbi were actually points of contrast. Both wore yarmulkes, although David's was small and embroidered. Both wore white shirts, although David's covered broad shoulders and a slender waist. Both had a slightly rumpled look, although David's look was rugged rumpled, as if he had paused at a playground on the way over to shoot some hoops. The image fit. Despite a slight limp, he moved across the room with the grace of an athlete.

I was strongly attracted to him from the start and had to force myself to remain in my professional role as attorney interviewing a prospective expert witness. It was quickly obvious that he not only possessed impressive credentials for the task but had a calm reassuring manner that would make him a compelling witness. Money was no issue, since he didn't want to be compensated for his testimony. And best of all, I told myself, given that the trial was just a week away, if I retained him as my expert witness we would have to spend many hours together between now and then.

We did.

My initial attraction continued to grow. David Marcus was an unusual man. Earnest and committed were adjectives that fit. He was serious about his Judaism, about his Holocaust studies, about his involvement with the shelter for battered women. He was no lightweight. But fortunately, he also had a sense of humor. Otherwise, as I told him after the trial, he'd be an insufferable bore.

“A bore?” he had repeated with a perplexed smile.

That was four nights ago. The trial had ended well, and we'd gone out to celebrate with dinner at Baliban's in the Central West End. We were walking back along Maryland toward my office to get our cars. I'd had one too many glasses of wine at dinner, and during dessert had had an almost overwhelming urge to lean across the table and kiss him. Really kiss him. A wine-spilling, silverware-clanking, busboy-blushing kiss. The urge passed somewhere between the first and second cups of espresso, leaving me almost ashamed for having such lustful thoughts about a rabbi, especially since I had no clear sense of what his feelings were for me.

“A bore,” I had answered mischievously, looking up at him as we walked along. “You men don't seem to realize that a sense of humor is not merely vital. It's sexy.”

“Sexy?” he repeated.

“Very.”

He stopped to study me. “I don't think so,” he finally said.

“Oh, no?” I responded, fighting back a smile. “And what do the great Talmudic rabbis have to say on the subject?”

“All I know is what this rabbi thinks.” He put his arms around my waist and gently pulled me toward him.

“And what does he think?” I whispered, looking up at him.

He kissed me tenderly on my forehead. “He thinks your forehead is sexy.” He kissed me on each eyelid. “He thinks you're sexy here, too.” I shivered as he moved his lips down my nose. “And he thinks your nose is exquisitely sexy.” He kissed me on each side of my nose and then pulled back. He stared into my eyes, and then dropped his gaze slightly to my lips. “And definitely here,” he whispered. He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. Our first kiss, slow and gentle.

I let it last until I could just sense that all of my defense systems were shutting down. I opened my eyes as I leaned back in his arms. “Maybe you're right,” I said hoarsely. “That sure beats a joke.”

Two days passed, and then a client called with a pair of box seat tickets to the Cardinals game that night. It was the first of May, and I hadn't been to a game since opening day. I called David, who seemed delighted to hear from me but unenthused about going to a baseball game.

“Come on,” I told him. “They're playing the Pirates. Our seats are fabulous.”

Reluctantly, he agreed to go.

He probably doesn't like baseball
, I told myself after I hung up. Or maybe he didn't even understand how the game was played.
Don't forget
, I said,
you've never really known a rabbi before
—
at least outside of a synagogue. Don't assume a thing
.

But to my surprise, David Marcus turned out to be an extremely knowledgeable student of baseball. Several times during the game he quietly pointed something out that I never would have spotted on my own—a subtle shift in the infield alignment, a change in the pitcher's motion or the catcher's position, a batting strategy based on the next two players in the lineup.

On the way home from the game I made my decision. “Come on in,” I told him when he pulled in front of my house. “I'll make us some coffee and you can meet Ozzie.”

“Who is Ozzie?”

I raised my eyebrows impishly. “A gorgeous redhead I've lived with for the past seven years.”

David and Ozzie hit it off immediately, although I must admit that I have yet to meet anyone who doesn't hit it off immediately with Ozzie. I've had Ozzie since he was six weeks old, and as far as I am concerned, he is the most lovable, gentle, loyal, and tolerant golden retriever in the Western Hemisphere.

When the coffee was ready, I let Ozzie out in the backyard and David brought the steaming mugs into the living room. When I came into the living room, he was kneeling next to the stereo system flipping through my old albums.
A good sign
, I told myself. He had ignored the rack of CDs.

“What are you in the mood to hear?” he asked.

“Your choice,” I said.

Any lingering doubts vanished when I saw the album he selected:
The Greatest Hits of Smokey Robinson and the Miracles
. I knew then it would be a wonderful night, and it was. We kissed on the couch to “Shop Around.” We made love on the bed to a medley that ended with “I Second That Emotion.” We awoke at three in the morning and made love again, this time to our own music.

And now, at 7:15 in the morning, I gazed at my handsome sleeping rabbi. He had actually carried me from the couch to the bedroom last night, scooping me up as if I weighed nothing. I was surprised by his strength, but as I studied his bare arms and chest I could see how powerful they were. A weight-lifting rabbi? You could do worse. I stretched with contentment. You could do a whole lot worse than a strong, dark, and handsome rabbi who knew baseball, enjoyed good food, and could sing all the words to “Tracks of My Tears.”

“Good morning, Rachel.”

I turned to find him looking at me, a twinkle in his eyes. I leaned over and kissed him on the nose. “Good morning, David,” I said, nuzzling against his neck.

***

An hour later, barefoot and wrapped in my terrycloth bathrobe, I came into the kitchen, fluffing my hair with a bath towel. The sight I found made me smile. David was dressed and at the kitchen table, reading the front page. Ozzie was curled on the floor at his feet. A fresh pot of coffee was on the counter and a basket of croissants, rolls, and Danish was on the table.

“Wow,” I said as I joined him at the table. “Where did you get the goodies?”

He smiled. “The St. Louis Bread Company. I ducked out while you were in the shower.”

I leaned across the table and kissed him on the lips. “Thanks.” I sat back and ravenously surveyed the basket of pastries. I picked out a raspberry croissant, took a bite, and got up to pour myself some coffee.

“I thought rabbis only ate bagels,” I said when I returned to the table.

“Not when we're romancing beautiful, long-legged attorneys.” He winked. “There's a special exception set out in the Torah.”

I reached for the sports page.

“By the way,” I said a few moments later, “your friend never showed up.”

David looked up from the newspaper. “My friend?”

“That guy you sent me. Bruce Rosenthal.”

“He's not really a friend. He's a member of the congregation. He came to me Saturday morning after services. He was agitated, but didn't tell me much. From what he was willing to say, it sounded to me like he needed to talk to a lawyer. I suggested he give you a call. I thought he did.”

“He did,” I said. “He called last Thursday.”

“Were you able to help him?”

I shrugged. “Not yet.”

“What happened?”

“He was real nervous. He was calling from his car phone. He didn't want to talk about it over the phone, only face-to-face. ‘Strictly confidential,' he told me, which was fine. Most new clients are reluctant to describe their problems over the phone, especially a car phone. We scheduled a meeting for eleven o'clock the next day—that was last Friday.”

“And?” David said.

“I had to reschedule. He got to my office right on time, but I was still stuck in a court hearing downtown. I called him from court and apologized. We rescheduled the meeting for Tuesday morning at nine.”

“What happened?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. He never showed up, never called to explain, never called to reschedule. I haven't talked to him since last Friday. Has he said anything to you?”

David leaned back in his chair and scratched his neck pensively. “He was at Shabbat services on Saturday morning. I haven't talked to him since then.”

I stood up with a shrug. “Well, let's hope his problem went away.” I glanced up at the kitchen clock. “I'm going to get dressed. It won't take me long.”

Five minutes later I was zipping my skirt when David Marcus came into the bedroom. I turned with a smile, which faded when I saw his ashen face. He was holding the newspaper in his hand.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Here.” He handed me the paper. It was open to page three of the metropolitan section. He pointed to the headline at the top of the page:

LOCAL CONSULTANT DISCOVERED INSIDE TRASH COMPACTOR; APPARENTLY DEAD FOR DAYS

I started reading the story:

The body of a 29-year-old engineering consultant was discovered yesterday afternoon when the contents of an industrial trash compactor container were dumped out at the Chain of Rocks landfill near Granite City, III. Workers at the site watched in horror and disbelief as a male corpse, still attired in a conservative business suit, came tumbling out of the compactor container along with dozens of large brown bags of trash.

Police at the scene identified the man as Bruce A. Rosenthal of Clayton, Mo. His employer had reported him missing the day before his body was discovered. A homicide investigation has commenced, according to Captain Ron Price of the St. Louis Police Department.

Rosenthal was employed as a manager at the engineering consulting firm of…

I looked up from the article. David was sitting on the bed, his head down. I glanced at my watch. I had to be downtown for a deposition in forty-five minutes, but I didn't want to act rushed. David was shaken by Rosenthal's death. I could tell that he was trying to shoulder some of the blame, as absurd as that was.

“You did what you could,” I said.

He turned to me, puzzled. “Pardon?”

“He needed an attorney, not a rabbi,” I explained. “I gather he wanted to talk to an attorney about a matter he was working on. I assume he had discovered something about one of his firm's clients and wanted to know who he could tell.”