Washington Masquerade Read Free Page A

Fitzgerald?”
    â€œEvery day, Chief. Only it’s the meaning of death.” She shook her head. “I’m beginning to sound like Izzy.”
    Sergeant Isadore Silverman was her new partner. Talk about outsiders, she thought smiling. Now there was an anomaly, a black Jewish cop. She suspected that the Eggplant had done it deliberately, his idea of a joke. Actually, she was beginning to warm up to the arrangement, although Izzy drove her crazy with his Judaic slant on every aspect of the job.
    â€œIs it working?” Chief Hodges asked, unwrapping another Panatela.
    â€œWe’re adjusting,” she admitted. She sorely missed some of her old partners, but the realities of attrition, and the lure of higher salaries had taken their toll. What was left were the truly dedicated and committed, like her, Chief Hodges, and Isadore Silverman. Izzy could be infuriating with his penchant to philosophize with obscure Talmudic references. So far they had handled only the routine and mundane. Nothing controversial had come their way in the two weeks they had been together.
    â€œHe’s a good man,” Hodges said. He put the unlit Panatela in his mouth and bit down. The telephone rang, and he picked it up, looking out the window. She got up and went back to the squad room.
    ***
    The call came in about an hour later. A man had jumped or fallen in front of a subway train at Metro Center. The whole system would have to be delayed until the police got there.
    â€œBad choice,” Izzy said, as they sped toward the station. “With high-rises and bridges everywhere, why throw yourself in front of a train?”
    â€œMaybe he was pushed,” Fiona grunted.
    â€œSuicide is against God’s plan. He owns our bodies, and no one has a right to deliberately destroy it.”
    She looked toward him and made a face with good-natured admonishment.
    â€œLeave God out of it, Izzy.”
    â€œNot possible. Although that concept is more Christian than Jewish.”
    He was gaunt with high cheekbones and a strong chin, and at certain angles he struck her as movie-actor handsome. His complexion had a mahogany sheen, and against his premature graying hair, white teeth, and hazel eyes, which in bright light turned green, he had a look that was decidedly different, it hinted at some pure but obscure African bloodline. Despite that she had heard there were pockets of black African-Americans who considered themselves Jews, she had never met one and was having difficulty getting used to the phenomenon.
    She was, of course, curious about his unusual background, but refused to pry. She didn’t have to. Knowing he was an anomaly, he offered Fiona occasional information about his unique background, noting that he was inspired to enter police work by Reuben Greenberg, the much honored and revered black Jewish Chief of Police of Charleston, South Carolina, who had transformed that once crime-ridden city and created a model for outstanding police work.
    Izzy was in his late thirties with two children and a wife who was an analyst in the Department of Education. She had converted to his faith and both had joined the Anshe Emet Temple off Connecticut Avenue. Raised in Harlem in the tight, tiny, black, self-proclaimed Jewish sect, he had earned a Master’s degree from New York University, and nearly ten years with the New York City Police Department when his wife was transferred to Washington. He was deeply committed to his work. Izzy was awkward with camaraderie and slightly standoffish, which was often interpreted by his fellow officers as snobbery. He knew exactly where he stood in the societal pecking order: a natural target for triple bigotry—religious, racial, and class. Thankfully, he had a healthy sense of humor and a talent for investigative insight.
    Izzy’s insufferable Judaic comparisons aside, he had a rigid moral streak in him that eschewed vulgarity. He was one of the few people in the department