FAYE KELLERMAN
SACRED AND PROFANE

A PETER DECKER AND RINA LAZARUS NOVEL

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publisher 2014

Copyright © Faye Kellerman 1987

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2014 ISBN: 9780007536382

Version: 2016-03-24

Dedication

For my rocks of ages, past and present:

My father, Oscar, alav hashalom.

I miss you very much.

My mother, Anne.

My ingenious one and only, Jonathan.

And the three musketeers,

Jesse, Rachel, and Ilana.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Faye Kellerman

Predator

About the Publisher

1

You can keep your white Christmas, thought Decker dreamily, as sunlight blanketed his prone frame. Give me December in L.A. anytime. Currier and Ives snowscapes looked swell on wrapping paper, but as far as he was concerned, icy Christmas winters were best left to penguins and polar bears.

Besides, he wasn’t really sure what relevance Christmas—with or without snow—held for him any more. No tree adorned the picture window of his living room, no cards sat atop the mantle of the fireplace, no multicolored lights hung along the wood planked siding of his ranch. Hell, here it was the day of Christmas Eve and he was out camping in the foothills, isolated from civilization, playing big brother to two little boys with yarmulkes. Christmas had never been a big deal to him, but still it felt strange. Some habits were hard to shake.

Using his knapsack for a pillow, he shifted onto his back. The air was sweet and tangy, the ground rich with mulch. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he noticed that it had been cooked a deep salmon and he cursed his coloring, typical for a redhead—all burn, no tan. He should have been more generous with the sunscreen. The arm, already dully throbbing, would blossom into full-fledged pain by tonight. He propped himself onto his elbows and called out to Ginger. The Irish setter trotted over to him, plopped down by his side, and went to sleep.

Decker glanced at Sammy, who sat twenty feet away, reading while dipping his toes into an isolated pool of rainwater. Behind him, a narrow stream carried mountain run-off from last week’s rains. Earlier in the day, Decker had offered to take the boys wading, but Sammy had complained that the water was too cold. Though he wasn’t weak or timid, he just wasn’t keen on the outdoors. The star-studded nighttime sky, the hikes, the cookouts had left him unmoved. Though he insisted he was having the time of his life, Decker knew the kid would have been just as happy holed up anywhere as long as he had Decker’s undivided attention. The boy could talk. Often, after his younger brother, Jacob, had fallen asleep, Sammy would start to pour his heart out, engaging Decker in conversation that sometimes lasted until the early hours of the morning. He was an overly mature kid, not surprising for the first born who’d taken on the role of man of the house.

Jacob was a different story. The eternal optimist, an enthusiastic youngster who could elicit a smile from a slab of marble. Great at amusing himself. Right now he was busy watching an ant hill, eyes glued to the nonstop action.

Decker enjoyed both of the boys, but knew if he walked out of their lives tomorrow, Jake would recover quickly. Sammy was the vulnerable one. And that worried him because his relationship with their mother was so ambiguous. He and Rina were in love but not yet lovers. Her religious values forbade intimacy outside of marriage, and marriage right now was impossible. They were in limbo until Decker officially converted.

There was an easy way out. He could reveal to Rina that he was adopted and that his biological parents were Jewish, so there was no legal reason for him to convert. But he didn’t consider that a viable option. Too dishonest. He was a product of his real parents—the man and woman who’d nurtured him. And they had raised him a Baptist. Besides, Rina deserved a genuinely committed Jew for a husband, not a Jew by accident of birth. Anything less would make her miserable. He knew he’d have to come to Orthodoxy on his own.

He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the pungent, crisp air.

He was making progress. His weekly sessions with Rabbi Schulman had shown him to be a quick learner. So far, he had no trouble grasping the intellectual and legal aspects of Judaism. But Hebrew remained a roadblock. The boys loved to play teacher with him, drilling him on the alef beis from their first grade primers, correcting his pronunciation and handwriting. They giggled when he made a mistake and flooded him with compliments when he came up with a correct answer. It was a game with them, an ego boost to instruct a grown-up, and though he went along with their lessons good-naturedly, inside, in spite of himself, he was humiliated. Afterwards, he’d return home and take out his feeling of frustration on his horses, running them around his acreage, working up a sweat until he smelled like a man and no longer felt like a child.

He lay back down and groaned. You’re on vacation, he admonished himself. Take it easy and forget your obligations. He had no trouble blanking out work, but as always, his cloudy status with Rina—and Judaism—continued to gnaw at him. Seeing life through the skewed eye of a cop, Decker found faith hard to come by.

The sun grew stronger and he took refuge under a Douglas fir. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on pleasant images: his daughter Cindy as a little girl, laughing carelessly as she pumped her legs to swing, himself as a boy, ’gator baiting with friends in the Everglades, Rina’s touch, her breath … breath lids grew heavy. Halfway through a jumbled dream, he felt rain on his trousers. Startled, he sat up, only to see Jacob standing over him, gleefully sprinkling his legs with dirt.

“What’s that for?” he asked, wiping off his clothes.

The boy shrugged.

“You bored?”

“A little.”

“Hungry?”

“A little.”

Decker tousled the ebony hair that stuck out from under Jacob’s kipah and unzipped the knapsack.

“We’ve got peanut butter or salami sandwiches,” he announced.

“What about the chicken?”

“Finished it yesterday.”

“The bagels?”

“They’re gone, too. We’re on our last day of vacation, Kiddo. The way we’ve been packing it away, it’s a wonder we haven’t run out of food altogether.”

“I’ll take peanut butter.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“I dunno.”

Decker stood up and looked around. Ginger rose with him, coppery fur gleaming in the sunlight. Sammy was nowhere in sight.

“Wasn’t he just reading over there?” Decker asked.

“He said he was going for a walk,” Jake answered. “You were sleeping. He told me not to bother you, but I got bored.”

“Sammy?” Decker called out, taking a few steps.

Nothing.

“When did he leave?”

“I dunno.”

Decker cupped his hands and called out:

“Sammy Lazarus, are you playing a game with me?”

He waited for a response. The sounds of the woods became magnified: bird songs, the rush of water, the buzz of insects.

“Hmm. Must have wandered off.” Decker took Jake’s hand and started to check out the immediate area. The dog followed.

“Sammy?”

Silence.

“Sammy, can you hear me?” Decker frowned and patted the dog. “Know where Sammy is, Ginger?”

The dog’s ears perked up, but her expression was blank.

“Sammy!” Jake called out.

“Okay,” Decker thought out loud. “Let’s take this one step at a time. He can’t be very far away.”

He picked up Sammy’s discarded sweat jacket and held it under the dog’s nose. She immediately skipped over to the area where Sammy had been sitting and parked herself.

The ground revealed a few bare footprints. Decker tried to follow them, but they were light and sporadic, disappearing altogether as the copse thickened with foliage.

“Sammy?” Decker bellowed.

Stay organized. He constructed an imaginary hundred-foot radius from the last footprint and decided to search that area meticulously, go over every single inch for a sign of a footprint, a torn piece of clothing …

Ten minutes of hunting and shouting proved to be fruitless.

“Where is he?” Jake asked nervously.

“He’s somewhere around here,” Decker said. Despite his anxiety, he kept his voice steady. “We’ll find him, Jakey. Don’t worry …. Sammy!”

“Why doesn’t he answer?”

“You know your brother. His head’s in the clouds.”

Decker was not given to panic—his job required a detached mind and a cool head—but images began to form in his mind. Horrible images …

“Sammy!” he shouted.

“Maybe he hurt himself,” Jacob said. His bottom lip quivered.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Kiddo,” Decker answered.

But the grotesque images grew more vivid. The look of terror on Rina’s face—he’d seen her like that before …

“Sammy, can you hear me!” he yelled.

“Sammy!” Jake echoed, then turned to Decker, wild-eyed. “Peter, what are we gonna do?”

“We’re going to find your brother, that’s what we’re going to do.” Kids, he thought. You need eyes in the back of your head. “Sammy!”

“Peter, I’m scared.”

“It’s going to be fine, Jakey,” Decker said.

His responsibility. His fault.

“Did you see or hear anything unusual while I was sleeping?” he asked Jake.

The boy shook his head fiercely.

“Then he’s got to be around somewhere. He’s just lost.” As opposed to kidnapped. “Sammy!”

His voice was growing hoarse.

All those kids. Those missing kids. He knew it all too well. Goddam dumb parents, he used to think. Yeah, they were goddam dumb. He was goddam dumb, too. Suddenly enraged, he ripped through the area like a wounded animal, trying to clear a path for himself and Jacob.

The little boy started to cry. Decker picked him up, hugged him, and continued the search as Jake clung tightly to his neck.

“Maybe we should head back, Peter,” Jake suggested, sniffing. “Maybe Sammy went back to where we were.”

Decker knew otherwise. Sammy should have been able to hear their calls even if he were back at the campsite.

“Sammy?” he tried once more.

He needed help, the sooner the better. Lots of people … Helicopters … There was still plenty of daylight left, but no time to waste. He gave the empty woods a final once over and headed back toward camp.

Suddenly, Ginger took off, her haunches leaping forward in a single fluid motion. The two of them raced after her and saw a small figure, shrouded by trees, standing over a thick clump of underbrush.

Decker ran over to the shadow and grabbed it firmly by the shoulders.

“Damn it, Sammy!” he said. “Didn’t you hear me calling you? You scared me half to death!” He clutched him to his chest. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

The boy held himself rigid. Decker saw that his eyes were glazed.

“What’s wrong with you? What happened?”

“Yuck!” Jake spat out, staring into a pile of decayed foliage. Decker looked down.

There were two charred skeletons. Except for the right shinbone, which was buried under leaves and dirt, the first skeleton was completely exposed, a blackened arm-bone and fist sticking straight up as if beckoning for a hand to hoist it to its feet. The skull and the breastbone bore holes the size of a silver dollar. Shreds of flesh were clinging to the torso, petrified and discolored from exposure.

The second skeleton was partially buried, the ribcage and left legbone completely covered with dirt. A trail of leaves overflowed from the lower jaw, falling downward as if the dead mouth were vomiting detritus. Bits and pieces of charred skin stuck to the pelvis and limb bones, but unlike the first skeleton, the eye sockets and cracked skull retained dew-laden globs of jelly that glistened in the sunlight. Brain and eye. A cloud of flies and a mass of black beetles were feasting on the leftover morsels, unperturbed by the presence of intruders.

Gently, Decker walked the boys away from the ghastly sight and swore to himself. Nothing like a vacation to remind him of work.

“Are they real, Peter?” Sammy asked at last, his troubled eyes beseeching Decker.

“Yes, they’re real.”

“What are we gonna do?” Jake asked.

“I think we should bentch gomel,” Sammy said quietly.

“What’s that?” Decker asked.

“It’s like what you say when you don’t get killed in a car crash, or like when you don’t die from the chicken pox.” Jacob looked up at Decker. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Sit down, Jakey. Catch your breath.”

The boy sank into a pile of leaves.

“Go ahead and pray, Sam,” Decker said, placing a broad hand on the boy’s shoulder. He reached into his rear pants pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He’d been trying to cut down, but at this moment he needed a nicotine fix badly.

“And when you’re done,” he said, striking a match, “we’ll go call the police.”

2

They stood like pickets in a fence: Decker, Ed Fordebrand, a homicide cop from the Foothill Division of the LAPD, and Walt Beckham, a deputy county sheriff for the Crestview National Forest Service. The woods were swarming with activity: crime technicians combing the brush for evidence, police photographers popping flashes, the deputy medical examiner barking directions for the removal of the bones. Beckham hitched up his beige uniform pants and sucked on his pipe. Fordebrand started scratching his left arm, which had broken out into welts. Decker glanced at the boys. Jake was standing to one side. His color had returned and now he was fascinated by the action. But Sammy had distanced himself from the commotion and sat huddled under a massive eucalyptus.

“Nice goin’, Deck,” Fordebrand said, rubbing his forearm. “I thought you were on vacation.”

“Fuck you.”

“And a merry Christmas to you, too,” Fordebrand growled.

Decker shrugged.

“Sorry,” he said.

Fordebrand was six two and pure beef: the reincarnation of a Brahma bull.

“You want to take this, Sheriff?” he asked Beckham. “It’s your jurisdiction.”

Beckham tugged a corner of his gray mustache.

“Seems to me it’s right on the border between County and Foothill.”

“Closer to you,” Fordebrand said.

“Detective, how ’bout you and me slicing through the shit,” said Beckham. “You don’t want to do this now. And I don’t want to do this now. We’d both rather be home, downing a brew and singing carols to the Savior.”

“How about a joint operation?” Fordebrand tried. “Cut the paperwork by half.”

“Why don’t you flip a coin?” suggested Decker.

“I like the man’s logic,” Beckham said. He won the toss and smiled. Fordebrand made a last-ditch effort.

“I still think it’s on your side of the border, Sheriff,” he said.

“You’re being a sore loser, Detective,” said Beckham.

“Go home,” Decker said. “We’ll work it out.”

Fordebrand gave Decker a dirty look.

“My replacement’s coming in a half hour,” Beckham said. “I’d appreciate it if you could fill him in. If any questions should come up, who do I call?”

The big bull took out his card and gave it to him.

“Edward,” Beckham said, reading it and sticking out his hand, “it’s been a pleasure.”

Fordebrand grumbled, then pumped the deputy’s hand firmly. “You call and ask for me or call the same extension and ask for Detective Sergeant Decker here—”

“I’m not working Homicide,” Decker said.

Fordebrand smiled cryptically, still digging at his forearm. The rashes and welts were manifestations of an allergic reaction that occured whenever he dealt with corpses—inconvenient, considering his chosen profession.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you gentlemen now,” said Beckham.

“Yeah,” Fordebrand said. “Merry Christmas. Merry fucking Christmas.”

Beckham jogged away and Fordebrand turned to Decker.

“Goddam hillbilly shitheads. What the hell do they do all day? Sit up in the ranger station and jerk their chains?”

“He’s right,” Decker said. “The area does belong to Foothill. He might as well save himself the hassle.”

“Stop being so noble.”

“What’s with the shit-eating grin when I said I wasn’t working Homicide?”

“Well, when you get back you’ll notice that we’re slightly shorthanded.”

“We’ve got five homicide dicks.”

“Pilkington’s transferred to Harbor Division, Marriot’s on vacation, Sleighton’s father took sick in Canada, so he flew out to be with him for the holidays. That leaves me and Bartholemew. I just found out today that Bart broke his leg riding a bicycle.”

“Shit.”

“Morrison did a little rearranging. Starting December twenty-sixth, you and Dunn are working Homicide. Dunn is actually jockeying back and forth between Homicide and Sex and Juvey—”

“I don’t want to hear about this, Ed. I’m still on vacation.” Decker looked at the boys. “Such as it is.”

“Rina’s kids?” Fordebrand asked.

Decker nodded. “The older one found the bones. What a crappy deal! Nice weather, so I take them for a few days in the wild—unpolluted skies, unspoiled nature—and they have to be exposed to this crud.”

“That’s too bad.” Fordebrand’s right arm had begun to swell. He clawed at it and winced. “So you want this one, Deck?”

“All right. Starting the twenty-sixth. Nothing’s going to go down between then and now anyway.”

“Easy case,” Fordebrand said. “Open and shut. Poke around a little just to say you did something. Look through a few Missing Persons files and forget about it. A week’s worth of desk work—nice and clean.”

“If it’s so appealing, Ed, you can take the case.”

“I’ll be happy to, Decker, if you take the packinghouse slashings.”

“Pass.”

Fordebrand ran his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, you look through a couple of Missing Persons files, then close the books, and they go down in the annals as a couple of John Does.”

“Jane Does,” Decker said. “They look like females to me.”

“Jane Does, John Does, who the hell cares? Nobody’ll hear from ’em again.” Fordebrand slapped him on the back. “I’ll handle the preliminary garbage. You go off and finish your vacation. Take care of the boys.”

“Sorry I had to drag you out on Christmas Eve.”

“Ah, it’s okay,” Fordebrand said magnanimously. “I’ll be back in time for the honey-glazed ham and the turkey. The ham’s in the oven; the turkey’s coming in from Cleveland.”

Decker smiled. “Your mother-in-law?”

“Who else?”

“Have fun.”

“If you get lonely tonight, Deck—”

“I’ll be up here with the boys, but thanks anyway.”

Fordebrand nodded.

“Yeah, you probably don’t go in for Christmas anymore, do you, Rabbi?”

Decker shrugged.

“You like playing Daddy, Deck?”

“They’re good kids.”

“What’s with you and their mama anyway?”

“Beats me, Ed.”

Decker called out to Jake, and jogged over to Sammy and sat down beside him. The younger boy came running and jumped onto Decker’s lap.

“The police will take it from here, guys, so we can go back to the campsite now. We’d better get going. We still have to pitch the tent—”

“Peter, I want to go home,” said Sammy.

Decker blew out air forcefully. “All right. Is that okay with you, Jakey?”

“Yeah, I’d like to go home, too. I’m sick of peanut butter.”

Decker put his arms around the boys. “I’m awfully sorry, guys.”

Sammy leaned his head on the detective’s shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Are you guys a little spooked?”

“Maybe a little,” Sammy answered.

“How about you, Jake?”

Jacob shrugged.

“It’s a normal feeling to be freaked out. You kids handled this very well.” Decker helped them to their feet. “Let’s go pack up. I hope you guys had a good time before all this happened.”

“I did,” Sammy said. “I really really did.”

It was hard to tell whether he was convincing Decker or himself.

Decker drove them home in the jeep. The boys said nothing as they rode down the winding, one-lane dirt paths with five-hundred-foot drops bouncing along bumpy mountain roads. When the four-wheeler finally exited the mountain highway and hooked onto the freeway on-ramp, Sammy let out a big sigh.

“Do you ever worry about getting killed?” he asked Decker.

“I used to when I was a uniformed policeman, but not anymore, Sammy. My work is pretty safe. It’s mostly pushing papers and talking to people.”

“Were you ever shot?” the older boy continued.

“No.”

There was a brief silence.

“I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I don’t want to be a cop.”

Decker nodded. “It can get pretty gross sometimes.”

“Know what I want to be?” said Jake.

“What?” the big man asked.

“A pilot in the Israeli Air Force.”

“Not me,” said Sammy. “I don’t want to get killed.”

“They never get killed,” Jake protested.

“’Course they get killed, Yonkie. The Arabs are shooting at you. You think they don’t get lucky and get a hit once in a while?”

“Well, I’m not gonna get killed!” Jake said firmly.

“Yeah! Right!”

Silence.

“I don’t know what I want to do,” Sammy pondered. “I’d like to get smicha, but I don’t want to learn full time like my abba or my uncles did.”

“Are all your uncles rabbis?” asked Decker.

“All except one,” answered Sammy. “One of my eema’s brothers lives in Jerusalem. He’s a sofer. That’s kind of interesting I guess.”

“What’s that?” Decker asked.

“Uh, you know, the guy who writes the Torah and the mezuzahs,” explained Sammy.

“A scribe,” Decker said.

“Yeah, I think that’s what they call them,” said Sammy. “My other uncles, the ones married to my abba’s sisters, used to teach in yeshiva, but now they’re businessmen. They live in New York.”

“We’ve got tons of family there,” Jake said, excitedly. “We’ve got a bubbe and zayde and two great-grandmothers, and a whole bunch of cousins. We’re not alone at all.”

Then the little boy licked his lips and frowned. “But sometimes it feels like it.”

“Especially when you see scary stuff like today?” said Decker.

“Aw, that doesn’t bother me,” Jake said mustering up bravado. “That was kinda neat … kind of.”

“Eema’s other brother, the one that’s not a rabbi, sees dead bodies all the time,” Sammy said. “He’s a pathologist and owns cemeteries … Anyway, him and Eema get into fights about that all the time because he’s a kohain—a Jewish priest—and kohains aren’t supposed to to be around corpses.”

“Your uncle’s not religious?” Decker asked.

Sammy nodded. “Him and Eema fight about that, too. You can bet that we don’t see much of Uncle Robert.”

They rode another mile in silence. Decker broke it.

“Are you interested in medicine, Sammy?” he asked.

“No way,” Sammy answered. “I don’t like blood.”

“How about business? Like your New York uncles?”

“Borrrrring,” said Sammy.

Decker smiled.

“Well, you boys have plenty of time to figure out what you want to be. Heck, it’s okay to do a lot of different things in a lifetime. I used to do ranching when I was a kid in Florida. I did construction work in high school. I was a lawyer for a while, and I don’t see myself as being a cop forever. You’ve got loads of time to experiment.”

Sammy mulled that over for a while.

“You know what I’d like to be?” he said. “I think I’d like to be a journalist. Maybe write editorials that make people think.”

The kid was all of eight and a half.

The grounds of Yeshivas Ohavei Torah were located on twenty acres of brush and woodland in the pocket community of Deep Canyon. It was twenty freeway minutes from the police station and fifteen minutes from Decker’s ranch. The locals of Deep Canyon were working-class whites, and they and the Jews had little to do with each other, but over the past few years there had grown an uneasy, mutual tolerance.

The locals weren’t the only ones who felt uncomfortable with the Jewish community. The Foothill cops were equally baffled by the enclave, imagining it a slice of old Eastern Europe that had been frozen in a time warp. Actually, the yeshiva embodied aspects of both past and present, but the cops never delved that deeply. They had nicknamed the place Jewtown, which is what Decker had called it before his own personal involvement. Now, at least when Decker was around, they referred to it by its rightful name.

The lot for the yeshiva had been cut out of the mountainside. Huge boulders had been hauled away and the ground had been leveled, leaving a mesa of flat land surrounded by thick foliage, evergreens, and hillside. Set in the middle of a broad carpet of lawn was the main building—a two-story cement cube that contained most of the classrooms. On one side were smaller buildings—additional classrooms, the library, the synagogue, and the ritual bathhouse. The other side was open space for a thousand feet, then housing—a dormitory and a cluster of prefab bungalows.

Most of the yeshiva residents were college-age boys engaged in religious studies, but the place also had a high school, with secular and Jewish curricula, and an elementary school for children of the kollel students—married men studying Talmud full time. Private homes were provided for the kollel families, the two dozen rabbis who served as full-time teachers, and the headmaster—the Rosh Yeshiva. He was a meticulously dressed, distinguished man in his seventies named Rav Aaron Schulman. Rina’s husband had been his protégé and most brilliant student. Because of that, she and her sons had been allowed to stay on after he died.

Rina had once admitted to Decker that she was an outsider at the yeshiva. The women who lived on the grounds simply came along with their husbands or fathers. The school catered exclusively to men, and as a widow, she had no role there whatsoever. Though the residents treated her kindly—it was demanded of them by the Torah—she still felt like an interloper living in free housing, even though she taught math at the high school and operated the ritual bath. She knew she’d have to leave one day, but in the meantime she was grateful for the interlude that let her try to figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

Decker parked in front of the main gate, told Ginger to stay, and walked with the boys across the lawn. The place was almost empty at this time of the year; most of the boys had gone home to their families. Still, a seminar was being held on the grass. A full-bearded rabbi wearing a black suit and hat sat with five pupils—bochrim—under an elm. The students and their teacher were engaged in animated dialogue. Decker and the kids walked down the main pathway, turned onto a dirt sidewalk that cut through the residential portion, and stopped in front of a white bungalow.

“I’d appreciate it if you boys didn’t mention the bones until after I’ve spoken with your mother.”

They nodded.

Rina opened the door at Decker’s knock, her eyes widening with surprise, lips opening in a full smile.

“I didn’t expect you guys back until tomorrow!”

Sammy fell into his mother’s arms and embraced her tightly. He leaned his head against her breast and hid his gaze from hers. Rina cupped his face in her palms and looked at him, noticing moisture in his eyes and the tremble of his lower lip. She kissed him on his forehead and he broke away. Jake gave her a playful hug and smothered her face with kisses.

“I think they missed you,” Decker said.

“Happy to be home?” she asked them as they went inside.

The boys nodded.

“I’ve got surprises for you both. They’re on your beds.”

“Oh boy!” Jake exclaimed, heading for the bedroom. Sammy lagged behind.

“Shmuel,” she said, holding his arm, “is everything okay?”

He nodded.

“Something’s bothering you.”

“I’m fine, Eema. I’m just tired.”

“Okay,” said Rina, disconcerted at his evasion.

He gave his mother another hug, then trudged off to the bedroom.

“What happened?” she asked Peter as soon as they were alone.

“Could I have a cup of coffee, Rina?”

“Uh … Uh. Of course,” she said. “Sit down, Peter. You look exhausted.”

He took a seat on the left side of her brown sofa, letting his head flop back against the cushion, then ran his hands over his face.

“Why are the boys upset?” she asked.

“It’s complicated. But everyone’s fine.”

“Okay,” she said. “Relax. I’ll make coffee and then you can tell me what’s going on.”

Her house was tiny—800 square feet crammed with mementos—tchatchkas, she called them. Display cases full of Jewish figurines, propped photos, and sketches of Israel. The white walls were dotted with landscapes of the Judean dessert, charcoals of the Old City of Jerusalem and the Wailing Wall, and photos of the Lower East Side of New York. Hanging above the sofa was a magnificently colored and elaborately scrolled Hebrew document—her wedding contract, her ketubah.

That’s what a Jewish marriage is, she had said. A contract. You’re supposed to know what you’re getting yourself into.

But do you ever really know, he had wondered out loud.

Emotionally, of course not. But a ketubah spells out the specific obligations for a husband as well as a wife. You’ve got to remember that back then, most societies considered women things—objects. The idea that a man was accountable to his wife was revolutionary.

Her entire east wall was the family gallery—snapshots of her parents, and her brothers and their families, pictures of her sons as infants and toddlers clumsy in bulky diapers, and antique sepia portraits of her grandparents and great-grandparents in gilt frames. And the wedding pictures—Rina and Yitzchak under a canopy holding a shared wine glass. The groom was looking directly at the rabbi, his eyes intense and serious. He’d been a handsome young man, Decker thought, lean, with even, strong features. But Rina was the focus of the photograph—a stunningly beautiful girl with sapphire eyes and gleaming ebony hair that fell to her waist. She was dazzling as a bride. Whenever he looked at the picture, he felt a twinge in his chest.

His eyes drifted from the photo to the overflowing bookcases. She owned some secular books, but most were religious—Hebrew and Aramaic books of prayer, law, and ethics that were double and triple stacked on the shelves. She had skimmed through some of them, she had told him, but Yitzchak had known them all by heart.

Rina came back with black coffee for him and a milk-laced cup for herself. She sat down, tucked her legs under her denim skirt, and brushed midnight silk out of her eyes.

“Now,” she said. “What happened?”

“Everything’s okay,” he started out. “Sammy went exploring in the woods and came across a couple of human skeletons—”

“What?”

“It scared him, of course. It scared Jake, also, but they’re okay,” he said.

“What’d they do?”

“They asked a lot of good questions and I answered them. Kids do well with the honest approach.”

“Was it disgusting?”

“It was graphic.”

“What’d they ask you, Peter?”

“They acted pretty characteristically. Jake seemed more interested in the bones per se. How did they get there? Did the bad man who dumped them still live in the city? Is he going to kill us—”

“Dear God, I’d better talk to him—”

Decker held up the palm of his hand and continued.

“He watched the police procedures, and it was good for him. Gave him a sense of resolution. He’s not the one who took it to heart.”

“What’d Sammy say?”

“Sammy had a more adult concept about the whole thing. He talked about death—how the rabbis approached it. I think it was a speech he’d heard in the past. It may have brought back some painful memories.”

“Did he mention Yitzchak?”

“Not by name. He did tell me that Jews aren’t buried in airtight coffins—that their bones disintegrate into dust. Reading between the lines, you could tell what he was thinking.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“I’ll see how they’re doing,” she said quietly.

Decker nodded. She left the room and he slowly sipped his coffee.

It had been six months since he’d first stepped onto the grounds of the yeshiva, entering an alien world governed by laws codified thirteen hundred years ago. He’d been the detective assigned to a brutal rape that had occured outside the mikvah—the ritual bathhouse—and Rina had been a witness. As the investigation unfolded, it became clear that she’d been the intended victim all along. By the time the perpetrator was caught, their lives had become permanently enmeshed.

And now was the endless period of waiting. Long hours of studying that he hoped would lead to commitment. But often he wondered if this was what he really wanted. If Rina had never entered his life, he wouldn’t have changed. But she had, and he felt as if he were trapped between floors in a stuck elevator. His past seemed remote, his future uncertain. Some people found uncertainty exciting. He considered it a giant headache.

He closed his eyes, attempting to rest, and opened them only when he heard Rina reenter the room.

“They seem all right,” she said. “Jakey recounted everything in gory detail. He said the bodies had been burned.”

She looked at him for confirmation and he nodded.

“That’s repulsive,” she said shuddering. “He also said you were assigned to the case.”

“It’s called being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Can’t get away from work, huh?”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Decker. “How’s Sammy doing?”

“Quiet. He’s reading a book that Yitzy used to read to him. He hadn’t looked at it in years, and now it’s way too easy for him. You were right about reading between the lines.”

“He talked a lot about his father before he found the skeletons.”

Rina was taken aback.

“He did?”

“Yes. The kid has a good memory. He told me how Yitzchak used to take him to class and he’d sit on all the rabbis’ laps, about how he and his father learned together.”

Her eyes misted. “What else did he say?”

“He became very emotional when he described Yitzchak’s possessions—”

“What possessions?”

It had never dawned on Decker that Sammy hadn’t told his mother all of this. Suddenly, he realized that he was breaking confidences.

“Uh,” he stalled. “He has his father’s siddur, his tallis, things like that.”

Tears streamed down her cheek. She walked over to the window and stared outward.

“The day before Yitzchak’s burial,” she whispered, “I turned this house inside out looking for that tallis. I wanted him to be buried in it.” She shook her head. “And all this time, Sammy had it … I’m glad he does. In retrospect, it would have been stupid to bury a treasure like that. Yitzy must have known.”

Decker walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She turned to face him.

“Sammy doesn’t talk to me about his father. Not that I haven’t tried, but he refuses to open up. Maybe I get too emotional myself. But I’m glad he talked to you.” She laughed tearfully. “You’re a good guy, Peter. I’m sure you explained the corpses a lot better than I could have.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he said. “Let’s just say I’m used to talking about things like that.”

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then pulled away.

“I was talking to Rav Schulman yesterday,” she said.

“How’s he doing?”

“Fine. He’s impressed with you. He’s says you’re very sharp, that you possess a natural Talmudic mind.”

Decker smiled.

“That’s good to know because I sure feel like a slug sometimes, especially with the language.”

“It will come, sweetie.”

“Maybe. I’m too old for this, Rina.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Rabbi Akiva was forty when he started learning Torah. You’ve got a good year’s jump on him.”

“And look where it got him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wasn’t he one of the ten rabbis who was tortured by the Romans? The one who had his back raked open by hot iron combs?”

Rina looked at him.

“All I meant to say was that coming to religion later in life isn’t necessarily a handicap,” she said. “Rabbi Akiva went on to be one of the greatest sages of all time, and he was a total ignoramus when he started learning. I certainly wasn’t thinking about how he died.”

Decker took her hand and kissed it. “I know you meant it as encouragement,” he said. “It was a morbid association.”

“I guess it was in line with your day,” she sympathized.

“Yeah,” he said. “It goes with the territory. Cops just seem to fixate on death.”

3

The dental offices of Hennon and MacGrady were on Roxbury Drive, north of Wilshire, in Beverly Hills. Decker pulled his unmarked ’79 Plymouth into a loading zone—the only free space he could find—and placed his police identification card on the front dash. It was late in the afternoon, almost dusk, and he was tired from battling city traffic. If the meeting with the forensic odontologist wasn’t unduly long, he’d make it home before eight.

He entered the waiting room, and immediately his nostrils were assaulted by pungent, antiseptic smells that plunged him into Pavlovian anxiety. The office decor did little to comfort him. The furniture was black and gray, the table, glass and chrome, and the eggshell walls were covered by monochrome graphic art—repetitive figure-ground designs, like a black-and-white TV test pattern. It made him dizzy and hostile.

A hell of an unfriendly way to furnish a dental office.

He walked up to a glass window and knocked on the frosted pane. The window slid open, and the receptionist, a blonde girl no more than eighteen, gave him a practiced smile.

“Can I help you?” she beeped.

“I have a five o’clock appointment with Dr. Hennon.”

“Name?”

“Decker,” he said.

She scanned the appointment book.

“Yes, you do,” she confirmed. “Is this your first time here, Mr. Decker?”

“I’m not a patient.”

The girl was thrown off balance.

“Oh,” she said, then brightened. “You’re the salesman from Dent-O-Mart, right?”

“No, I’m a police sergeant.”

She frowned. “Is anything wrong?”

“Why don’t you tell Dr. Hennon I’m here and you can call me when she’s ready to see me?”

She was still puzzled.

“She’s with a patient.”

“Just poke your head in, huh?”

The girl got up reluctantly and came back a moment later.

“She’ll see you in a minute, Sergeant,” she announced, relieved.

“Thank you.”

She slid back the partition and it slammed shut. End of conversation.

Decker sat down on an unyielding ebony cushion and squirmed uncomfortably. Sorting through the magazines on the table, he settled on Architectural Digest, skimming through pages of mansions he’d never be able to afford. He heard a door open, and glanced upward to see a woman at the reception desk. She had to be at least his age, he thought, maybe even a couple of years older, which would put her around forty-one or -two. Her face wasn’t anything to write home about, but her figure was tight—a good bust and a dynamite ass neatly packaged in designer jeans. She knocked loudly on the receptionist’s window, turned around, and flashed him a mouth full of ivories.

“Nice smile,” Decker said, returning her grin.

“It should be,” she said. “It cost me five g’s.”

“Well, you got your money’s worth.” He realized he was coming on to her inadvertently and returned his eyes to the magazine. But he could feel the heat of her gaze.

“What are you in here for?” she asked, pulling out a gold credit card.

“Business,” he said.

“Interested in a little pleasure?” she asked, lowering two inches of lash.

“I’m married,” Decker lied.

“So am I,” she responded. “I’m on number three and he’s unappreciative.” She puffed out her chest and gave him a full view. “He never notices my smile. And I do hate to drink alone.”

“I’m happily married,” he said.

“Yeah, aren’t all you guys with the roving eyes.” She signed the credit slip, threw the card into her purse, and snapped it shut. “Suit yourself,” she said, icily.

The receptionist slid open the glass panel.

“Dr. Hennon will see you now, Sergeant.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Sergeant?” the toothy woman said. “You’re a military man?”

“Cop.”

“You don’t look like a cop.”

“No?”

“No. I would have said you were an architect or a producer.”

Decker looked down at his outdated suit and white shirt. His striped tie was loosened and his shoes were scuffed. Nothing about his appearance suggested money or sophistication.

“Then again,” the woman continued, “my second husband, Lionel, always said I was a good judge of lovers, but a lousy judge of character.”

Decker agreed with Lionel on both counts.

Dr. Hennon’s office was small but cheerful. Bright yellow walls full of posters with bold swatches of color. The room contained a cluttered desk, a corkboard full of notes and dental articles, and a Formica bridge table that held casts of teeth and jaws. Above the desk was a large, wall-mounted X-ray viewing box on which hung radiographs of teeth clipped to metal hangers.

To the left of the viewing box was a waist-up frame photograph of a man and a woman at sunset. A striking shot streaked with brilliant oranges and lavenders, the sun highlighting, almost bleaching out, the woman’s face. She appeared to be in her thirties, with milky green eyes, and a head full of metallic auburn waves. Her features were sharp and her face was long, ending in a strong, dimpled chin.

Decker took out a manila folder, opened it and began to scan for forensic reports on the two Jane Does. A moment later, the woman in the photo came in and offered him a delicate, manicured hand. He stood up and held out his own.

“Annie Hennon,” she said shaking his big, freckled hand.

“Pete Decker.”

“Thanks for coming down to my office, Pete.”

“No problem.”

“I appreciate it. Most cops don’t know that forensic odontology isn’t a full-time job. I look at skulls maybe a dozen times a year—unless there’s a disaster. We haven’t had too many of those lately, thank God. If I have to take a day off from the office to meet you at the morgue, I lose a great deal of income.”

“It’s a pleasure to be on the good side of town for a change,” he said. “That’s a nice picture of you.”

“Better than the real thing, huh?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

She laughed. “I’m just terrible. Thanks. It is a nice picture. That’s my brother and me. Mom took the picture. Mom’s an okay photographer.”

She pulled up a chair, and they both sat down.

“Actually, my brother is the one who got me interested in forensic odontology,” she said. “Him and Heinz.”

“Heinz?”

“Heinz Buchholz. A little white-haired gnome of a man who made his mark in history by identifying Hitler’s jaw. When I went to dental school, he was sixty-five, maybe seventy, and he used to roam the labs asking us students if his denture set-up would pass the state licensing examination. Can you imagine that? An important man like him decked with honors, a pioneer in forensic dentistry, and he was reduced to worrying about passing the state board.”

She shook her head and turned to Decker.

“You made quite an impression on Babs Terkel,” she said, dryly.

“Pardon?”

“My last patient. The bleached blond with the big boobs. She came back to my office girl and started pumping her about you.”

“I thought she had a nice smile.”

Hennon kissed her fingertips and spread them outward.

“My six-to-eleven porcelain fused to gold. Didn’t I do a great job?”

“I’ll say. She has a great set of teeth.”

“Now she does,” the dentist said emphatically. “You should have seen her when she walked through my door. Bucky Beaver.” She waved her hand in the air. “Babs is all right—narcissistic as hell, but she’s reliable. Keeps her appointments and pays her bills. I wish I had a thousand of those.”

She walked out of the room and came back carrying two cups of black coffee.

“You want some sugar? I’m all out of cream.”

“Black’s fine,” he said.

She noticed the forensic report.

“Been to the morgue, huh? The county one, that is, not the one out there.” She jerked her head toward the waiting room. “My partner’s wife and her decorator spent six months and ten thousand dollars redoing it to achieve the look of death. No accounting for taste. Anyway, what does the anthropologist say?”

“The report came in this morning. Doesn’t tell me too much, although I realize there’s not a hell of a lot to go on.”

“What did he come up with?” she asked, sipping her coffee.

“From the bone structure, he surmises that they were both female, young—in their late teens or early twenties at most—and Caucasian. Jane Doe One looked to be about five-four, five-five and small-boned. She had reached ninety-five percent of her postpuberty growth. Number Two was taller, maybe five eight, and had a large frame. She’d stopped growing according to the bone plates. The bodies weren’t lying in the mountains as long as I would have thought. From the skin fragments he said they probably were dumped about three months ago. They were burnt either alive or shortly after they were shot, because their fists had curled from muscle contraction due to the heat, which would only happen if there was still some muscle tone prior to rigor mortis. He also found a few partial fingerprints lodged in the inner folds of the finger joints, but that doesn’t help unless the girls had been printed. So far, I’ve struck out with that. There’s no record of their prints in our computer. They were shot with the same .38 caliber weapon—the bone rills match—and his guess is that the firearm was a Colt.”

Decker slapped down the report.

“He said you may have a thing or two to add.”

“Burnt alive?”

“Probably.”

“That’s revolting,” Hennon said, sticking out her tongue.

Decker threw up his hands. “Lots of perverts out there. I’ve got a teenage daughter of my own. I’m constantly restraining the urge to call her and ask if she’s okay.”

“And they ask me how can I stand looking in mouths all day. Hey, I’d rather look at tooth decay than deal with sicko deviates who burn people alive.”

She sighed and flicked on the light of the X-ray screen. Decker pulled out a notepad.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “I’ve got it all written down for you.”

“I like to take notes.”

“You’re trying to quit smoking,” she said matter-of-factly. “It gives you something to do with your hands.”

“You missed your calling as a detective.”

“Your teeth—smoker’s stain. Probably also coffee stain,” she said, staring at his mouth. “Sorry. It’s an occupational hazard. Make an appointment with Kelly and I’ll do a really nice polish job, gratis.”

“I’ll do that just as soon as I find a spare minute.”

“I’ve heard that excuse before.” She smiled impishly and covered the screen with a four-by-ten radiograph.

“This X ray is a panoramic view of Doe One’s mouth. It covers all the bony structures of the mandible and maxilla from ear to ear, thereby giving us a good overall look at jawbones and teeth. It’s not great for detail, but you can see her third molars hadn’t erupted. Here they are, just tooth buds in her jaw.”

She pointed to four spots on the radiograph. Inside the jawbone next to well-defined teeth were small white disks that looked like cotton balls delineated by a white circle.

“What’s the circle?” he asked.

“The lining of the tooth follicle. Normal radiographic feature. You can see her third molars—the wisdom teeth—much more clearly on these radiographs.” She placed several small X rays on the screen. “These are called ‘periapicals’ and these are called ‘bite-wings’—the kind of X rays you normally have taken by the dentist. They give much better detail than the orthopantogram. Judging from the maturation of her molars, I’d put Jane Doe One at about fifteen or sixteen.”

She placed another celluloid on the screen. “This is the panoramic of Doe Two. Her third molars hadn’t erupted either, but that’s because they were impacted. Eventually, they would have had to be extracted. But you can see for yourself how much more differentiation there is in the tooth crown; root development had already taken place. This girl was around twenty, twenty-one at the time of her death.”

She clicked off the light and looked at Decker.

“I’ll tell you something else about the two girls, Pete. They may have died on the pyre together, but they didn’t come from the same neighborhood.”

“Why do you say that?”

Hennon walked over to the Formica table and picked up several pink plaster casts of teeth and gums.

“This is a cast of Jane Doe One’s teeth. Let’s call her Jean. Jean has had orthodonture; her teeth are beautifully aligned, although I betcha she hadn’t been wearing her retainer as much as she should have. We’ve got a little lippage here. But be that as it may, her occlusion is A-1 and she’s had serial extraction.”

“What’s that?”

“A standard procedure. In a small mouth with an otherwise normal bite, you extract specific teeth to make room in the jaw for the incoming canines or molars. It prevents overcrowding. Her first premolars have been extracted. Somebody spent money on her teeth, Pete. Orthodonture isn’t cheap. And her general dental work was done by someone with integrity. The few silver fillings she does have were carved neatly. There’s a tiny sliver of an overhang on number three but it happens to the best of us. Little Jean took good care of her teeth and had excellent dental care—middle class or above.

“Now take a look at the second Jane Doe. Let’s call her Jan.”

Decker winced and the dentist noticed it.

“Did I hit a nerve?” She grimaced. “Sorry—bad choice of words for a dentist.”

“Jan’s my ex-wife’s name. I don’t carry the torch for her, but let’s call the bones Joan instead.”

“Joan, it is. Poor Joanie. She never had a chance. Look at these teeth.”

Decker picked up the pink casts. The first thing he noticed were the odd-looking front teeth.

“They look like pegs,” he said.

“Right. Pegs notched up the center. And her first lower molars are odd-looking also. The occlusal table or biting surface is a mushy pile of oatmeal, suggesting to me Hutchinson’s incisors and mulberry molars—congenital syphilis. Dollars to doughnuts Joan was born with VD. Furthermore, Mom didn’t do much to help her daughter’s mouth, postpartum. The teeth left on the jaws are full of caries—decay. Several are broken off at the root, suggesting severe decay. And the little dental work she’d had done in her lifetime was strictly temporary. Trying to hold back a cracked dam with Scotch tape. You’re looking at a girl who didn’t have the finer things in life.”

“Unfortunately,” he said, “they both ended up in the same spot.”

She shook her head, clearly bothered, and Decker liked that. Most of the people he worked with, himself included, had hardened their attitude so they could get the job done. You couldn’t let it get to you. But once in a while he liked to be reminded that murder was something to feel badly about.

“So what do we have?” he thought out loud. “A middle-class sixteen-year-old female Caucasian about five four with a petite built, and a lower-class female Caucasian about twenty, five eight, with a big frame. Both were killed about three months ago, burned, and shot with the same .38 caliber.”

“Amazing what a bag of bones will tell you. Where do you go from here, Pete?”

“Shuffle papers. I’ll run a line on sixteen-year-olds reported missing for at least up to six months ago. A middle-class girl like Jean should have been reported missing, although as often as not, they’re runaways. The second one will be trickier because she’s older. May have been on the streets for years. I’ll go with Jean first. After I get the files, I’ll call the family and contact the family dentist. Then I’ll send all the Missing Persons X rays to you, and with a little bit of luck, you’ll get a match.”

“Long shot,” Annie said.

“Yep. But sometimes long shots pan out.”

“Well, let me throw this out at you—and this isn’t in my report because it’s not an official observation. Children with congenital syphilis are often born deaf or with hearing problems. That might narrow your search for Joanie.”

“Very helpful,” he said, rising. He stuck the pen in his notebook, flipped over the cover, and stuffed the notebook in his coat pocket. “Dr. Hennon—”

“Annie,” she quickly said.

“Annie, thank you for your time.”

He held out his hand and their eyes met.

“I’ve got an hour or so to kill before I meet a friend for dinner,” she said. “Want to grab a drink or two?”

Jesus, Decker thought, two in one hour. He must be coming across lean and hungry. She was a fine looking woman with a very likeable disposition. If he’d met her six months ago, he would have jumped at the opportunity, but now there was Rina. Still he ruminated, there was no harm in one drink; sit and shoot the breeze. But what would be the point? Suppose he liked her and wanted to see her again as a friend. And suppose it led to something more, like casual sex. And suppose he began to enjoy the casual sex. Then he’d have to deal with two women. He knew he was a poor juggler, which meant they’d both inevitably find out and he’d lose everything—Rina and the sex. He’d pledged from the outset to give himself a year with Rina to figure out what was going on. And it had only been four months. Most important, he loved her and she loved him even if they couldn’t show it physically. It was absurd to think of other women when his heart belonged to Rina, but sexual deprivation was beginning to muddle his sensibilities.

He realized he had been silent for an awfully long time.

“Uh, thanks for the offer, but I’ve got to run.”

“What the hell were you thinking about?” Hennon asked. “I’ve had pauses to size me up in bed before, but yours lasted so long you must have been up to the house and kids by now.”

Decker broke into laughter.

“There’s someone else … sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Well, we’ve got a few differences to work out, but so do all relationships.”

“Then what are your plans for the evening?” she asked.

“Nothing really. I think I’ll go home and pray.”

“Pray? I didn’t figure you for a religious man.”

And Babs hadn’t figured him for a cop. It was a good time for an undercover assignment.

“Well, I don’t really know if you’d call me religious.”

“What religion are you?” she asked.

“I’m not quite sure. I’m Jewish … sort of.”

“Sort of?” She licked her lips and pursed them slightly. He felt a stirring below. Suddenly the months of celibacy seemed like years. Man, he was horny.

“Thanks again,” he said as he moved toward the door.

“Have you always had trouble with commitments, Pete?” she asked.

“Sort of.”

Back home, after working out and grooming the horse, he grabbed a bottle of Dos Equis and picked up the phone. He stood with his hip against the kitchen wall, receiver tucked under his chin, and gulped beer while listening to the ringing on the other end. His ex-wife answered.

Damn!

“Hi, Jan,” Decker said. “Is Cindy around?”

“She’s doing her homework.”

“During Christmas vacation?”

“Well, she’s working on something important.”

“Can I talk to her, please?”

“You know how she doesn’t like to be interrupted when she’s concentrating—”

“I won’t keep her long.”

“It’s late, Pete. It’s after ten.”

“It’s only a quarter to.”

“Well, you still should have called earlier.”

“I did, Jan. No one was home.”

“I was home. When did you call?”

Shit!

“I guess it was around four. Can you put Cindy on, please?”

“Four?” There was a silence. “What was I doing at four? Allen was home at four.”

“Maybe it was a little earlier.”

“Allen’s been home since three.”

“Well, no one answered the fucking phone, Jan.”

There was a pause.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you, Pete?” she said.

He took a deep breath.

“Can I talk to my daughter, please?”

“Hold on. I’ll see how involved she is.”

He heard her shriek Cindy’s name. It was one of her most annoying habits. She’d never enter a room to tell you something. She’d scream the message from wherever she was. Decker heard the extension being picked up.

“Hi, Dad,” Cindy said.

“Did your mother hang up?” Decker asked.

The question was immediately followed by the sound of a slamming receiver. Cindy laughed.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I just called to say hi.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You sound upset. Did you have a fight with Rina?”

“No.”

“What is it, Dad? Did you haul in another sixteen-year-old runaway who reminded you of me?”

“For your information, Cynthia, I happen to be working on a very clean case.”

“What kind of case would that be?”

“Some bones that were found in the mountains. We’re trying to identify them.”

“Don’t tell me. They’re the bones of a sixteen-year-old girl.”

He paused.

“You know me too well,” he conceded.

“I’m alive, Dad. I’m alive and healthy. Here, listen real close.”

He heard muffled sounds over the line.

“You know what that was, Daddy?” she went on. “That was my heart beating.”

“It’s good to hear.”

“I’ve got a really strong heart by now because I jog every day. And you know what else, Daddy? I’m not in any trouble. I’m not on drugs like the runaways you pick up. And I’m doing well in school. And I’m not pregnant. You have nothing to worry about. So why don’t you take care of yourself instead of worrying about me?”

“I’m not worried about you, I just like to—”

“Bull, Daddy. No disrespect meant, but bull. Every time you get a case with a girl my age, you get that tightness in your voice. How are you going to cope when I go away to college?”

“I’ll call you long distance.”

“After you get my tuition bills, you won’t be able to afford it.”

Decker laughed.

“Seriously, Daddy, I think I have a very good chance at getting a National Merit Scholarship. I think I did very well on the test.”

“Great!”

“I mean I’d like to help you and Mom out as much as possible, but going East is just so expensive.”

“Listen, honey, we told you not to worry about it. Just get the grades, and your mom and I will work out the rest.”

She paused.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she announced.

“Uh oh.”

“Well, uh …”

“What?”

“Uh, you know that Eric is back east at Columbia and, uh …”

“Go on, Cindy. I’m not going to faint.”

“Well, maybe it might be a bit more frugal if we kind of …”

“You two want to live together?”

“That was sort of the idea.”

Sort of, he thought.

“Did you tell Mom?”

“God, no! At least, not yet. You know Mom. I love her dearly, but she hasn’t come to grips with the fact that my age is in double digits. I thought maybe you could kind of break the idea to her …”

Silence.

“Dad, are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you know how much safer I’d be living with a boy.”

“Uh huh.”

“And with splitting the expenses, it would be so much cheaper.”

“Uh huh.”

“So maybe you’ll talk to Mom?”

“Uh uh. If you’re old enough to make your own living arrangements, you’re old enough to face your mother. But I’ll support you, although knowing your mother, my support will work against you. If anyone asks my opinion, I’ll back you up.”

“I guess that’s fair … are you angry, Daddy?”

“No … not really.”

“You’re worried.”

“You know me. It takes me a while to adjust to something new. Don’t concern yourself about me. Just take care of yourself, huh?”

“I will. You do like Eric, don’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s a good kid.”

“It’s hard to find good boys these days, Daddy.”

“Well, he must be special if he hooked you. Go back to your work.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, honey.”

“Bye.”

She hung up. He stared at the receiver and shook his head in confusion.

Decker sat upright in his solitary bed. It was an extra-long California king with an extra-firm mattress—good for holding a lot of bulk. But lately the only bulk it’d been holding was his own.

Four fucking months.

What the hell was he doing, surrounding himself with foreign words, strange symbols, and mystic concepts which were supposed to bring him closer to God. In his own way, Decker had always felt close to God. They’d reached an understanding based on mutual tolerance: God was tolerant of Decker’s human foibles; Decker was tolerant of floods and earthquakes. Why was he doing this?

Rina, he thought. Was he just doing it to please her? At first, he didn’t think so. He was very curious about Judaism. He wanted something more spiritual, something antithetical to his work. But now he wasn’t so sure that Orthodoxy was the answer.

He looked down at the primer in front of him.

Shalom, yeladim, the first line said.

He could read it. He could actually read and understand that sentence in Hebrew. Whoopee! None of the guys at the station house could read and understand Hello, children in Hebrew.

He went on.

Mi ba?, the book continued.

Four whole months. He was going crazy. Love does have its limitations. If he was willing to accommodate her by subjecting himself to first-grade Hebrew lessons, she should damn well accommodate him a little.

Abba ba, he read.

But it wasn’t stubbornness that was causing her to hold out. It was deep belief. He knew he could probably talk her into sex, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted sex with sanctification. There was something to be said for those ancient Midianite fertility rites.

Mi ba’ah?

She was religious. In a world full of transient morality and situational ethics, her spiritual values—which were good and just—remained absolute. How could he expect her to give up something so essential to her being just to accommodate his physical desires?

Eema ba’ah.

And what about her physical desires? It was chauvinistic to assume he was the only one suffering physically. If she could suppress her sex drive—she being much younger than he was—certainly he could show a little restraint. Give it a year, he said to himself. Priests do it for a lot longer.

He translated the Hebrew in his mind, proud that he could understand it. Who is coming? Father is coming. Who is coming? Mother is coming.

Well, he thought, at least someone is coming.

4

The detective squad room of the Foothill Division was undersized and overcrowded. The furniture could have come from a garage sale, and that made the people in the neighborhood feel right at home. The detectives rarely complained about the outdated equipment or the makeshift desks and chairs, but the lack of elbow room got to everybody, especially when the weather was hot.

Decker was on the phone, explaining to a local dentist why a girl’s X rays were needed, when his second line rang. He put the dentist on hold.

“Decker,” he said.

“Hi—”

“Rina, I’m on another call. Can you wait a minute?”

“It’s nothing important—”

“Honey, I’ll be off in a second.”

“Go ahead, sweetie. I’ll wait.”

Back to Dr. Pain. Spelled P-a-y-n-e.

“So if you could just sent the X rays you do have of Kristy Walkins to Dr. Anne Hennon—”

“Detective, I’m really rather choosy about to whom I send my records; they aren’t junk mail to be tossed around randomly. And with the recent proliferation of lawsuits …”

“I realize that, Doctor, but we’re talking about a homicide investigation.”

“If I knew for certain that the victim found was indeed Miss Walkins and the X rays would serve as absolute proof of identification, I’d feel much better about sending them to you.”

If we knew that, we wouldn’t need X rays, schmuck!

“Dr. Payne, I could get a subpoena and then we wouldn’t have to bother with this polite conversation. Now, I’m asking you to send the X rays on your terms. If you keep giving me a hard time, I’m going to take them on my terms. The choice is yours.”

There was a long pause full of heavy breathing.

“I could round up some duplicates,” Payne said, “but I guarantee you the clarity of the radiographs will leave much to be desired.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine, Doctor. Thank you.”

Decker gave him Hennon’s address, thanked him again, gave the phone the finger, and pressed Rina’s line.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing really. Just called to say hi.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you did.”

“I … I guess you’re busy, huh?”

“Not too busy for you.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

There was a long awkward pause. This is leading somewhere, he thought.

“What’s on your mind, Rina?”

“Why do you think something’s on my mind?”

“I’m just asking.”

She coughed over the phone, then cleared her throat. “I bought a gun, Peter.”

Shit!

“You what?” he said softly.

“I bought a gun. A .38 caliber Colt six-shot Detective Special. Same one you use off duty. It’s being registered now. Can you get me a conceal permit?”

“No. And you shouldn’t be fooling around with a gun unless you know how to use one.”

“I agree. That’s why I’ve signed up for private lessons. At Berry’s Guns and Ammo. The teacher’s name is Tom Railsback. He said he knows you.”

“I know Tom,” said Decker quietly. “He’s a good guy. Rina, why the hell are you doing this?”

“Because I’m a nervous wreck. Because I constantly hear noises at night. Because I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in the six months since the violence here, and I don’t want to be addicted to Valium.”

“Honey, these things take time to get over. He can’t hurt you now. He’s locked up.”

“Intellectually, I know you’re right. But I can’t help myself. I need something more. I need to know I can take care of myself.”

“And you think a gun will take care of you?”

“Are you being sarcastic?” she asked innocently.

Decker paused, then said, “Sort of.”

“Please don’t be. I’m not careless, Peter. I’m not impulsive. I’ve thought about it a long time. I really think it’s what I need.”

“Then why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

“Peter, I broached the subject with you a dozen times and you kept putting me off.”

Decker pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He had put her off. He was worried about her keeping firearms with small children around the house. He was worried it would misfire and she’d get hurt. Or maybe it was just a macho thing, feeling she should have trusted him to take care of her. Jan had never wanted a gun: she’d hated guns. But Jan had grown up in the sixties; Rina was from a different generation. Peace, love, and Woodstock had been replaced by terrorism and Rambo.

“If you’re serious and you learn how to shoot properly, I’ll see what I can do about getting you a permit.”

“Thanks.”

“But that’s going to take months, Rina.”

“That’s okay.”

“That means you can’t hide the gun in your purse in the meantime.”

“I won’t.”

“Or under a car seat—”

“The gun will be kept at home. Relax, sweetie. You sound wired.”

He was wired.

“The other line is ringing,” he said. “Hold on a moment.”

He punched down the flashing white phone light.

“Decker,” he yelled.

“Take it easy, Pete. It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning.”

Decker recognized the voice.

“H’lo, Annie.”

“We got lucky, Sergeant. Can you make it down here by noon?”

“I’ll be there. I’ll even bring my own lunch.”

“What a guy!” She hung up.

He connected back to Rina’s line.

“Look, I’ve got to head on out to Beverly Hills. I’ll drop by tonight. We can discuss this further then.”

“I should be done with the mikvah around ten.”

“Ten it is.”

“What’s in Beverly Hills, Peter?”

“A dentist who may have identified the bones we found.”

“What’s his name? I can use a good dentist. My old one retired and I don’t like the guy who took over his practice.”

“He’s a she. Her name is Annie.”

“Does Annie have a last name?”

Decker smiled.

“Hennon,” he said.

“Does Annie also have a red afro and a dog named Sandy?”

“Not quite. She’s actually pretty. Not in your category, Rina, but her face wouldn’t cause your mouth to pucker. She has nice eyes.”

“Really now.”

“Yes. They’re green.”

“Noticed the color, did you?”

“I’m a cop, Rina. I pride myself on a keen eye for detail.”

“That’s just fine so long as you keep your keen eye above Annie’s neck.”

Decker arrived a few minutes early and was escorted into Hennon’s office by the office girl, dressed in a white uniform that barely covered her ass. Chewing on bubble gum, she cracked it in her mouth, then offered Decker a stick, which he politely refused. A second later he heard Hennon yell for the girl’s assistance.

The girl rolled her eyes backward. “That woman is a terror,” she said. Her lower lip was in a sultry pout. “Dr. MacGrady is so much nicer.”

I’ll bet he is, thought Decker.

“You’d better go see what she wants,” he said.

She left him alone with his baloney sandwich, carrot sticks, potato chips, and chocolate cupcake. He’d been over at Rina’s house last night while she was making lunches for the boys and she’d offered to pack him something. He had agreed under the condition that she’d go to no extra bother—give him exactly what she was making for the boys.

Are you sure, Peter?

Positive.

Hence, the kiddie lunch.

He unwrapped the sandwich. At least, it was on rye. He took a bite and in walked Hennon.

“Don’t bother to get up,” she said motioning him back down. “Finish swallowing.”

He did and put down the sandwich.

“Want some coffee?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Kelly,” she called out. “Two black coffees, one with sugar.”

The receptionist ambled into the office, sulking. “It’s my lunch hour, Dr. Hennon.”

Hennon stared her down and a moment later Kelly brought in two styrofoam cups.

“Have a good lunch,” said Hennon.

The girl mumbled and slammed the door as she left.

“I would have fired her a long time ago, but my partner has a soft spot in his heart and a hard spot somewhere else for her. Speaking of true love, how’s your ‘sort of’ girlfriend, Pete?”

“She’s fine. She just bought a gun. You own a gun, Annie?”

“No. I’d probably maim myself. Why’d she buy one? Just feeling vulnerable?”

“About six months ago, a psycho almost raped her. She’s still nervous about it. Claims she hears noises outside.”

She whistled. “If I were her, I’d buy a gun, also.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“You carry a picture of her?”

“Who? Rina?”

“If that’s her name.”

Decker dug out his wallet and showed the dentist a snapshot. Hennon frowned.

“Is this an exceptionally good photo of her?”

“Neither exceptionally good nor bad. It’s what she looks like.”

The dentist handed him back his wallet.

“Shall we get down to business?” she asked.

Decker said, “What do you have?”

She flipped on the viewing monitor.

“I went down to the morgue this weekend. Dr. Marvin Rothstein sent me a set of X rays that looked promising as one of our Jane Does. This is the original full mouth set I took on Jean—twenty shots. Compare these to Dr. Rothstein’s set.”

She let Decker look for a minute.

“There are similarities,” she said, “Same number of teeth, same teeth in the mouth have been restored, same interdental spacing, except that everything looks a little off kilter—like looking in a mirror at a funhouse. For instance, this right bitewing molar shot that I took on Jean shows the amalgam—the silver filling—covering the top of the upper molar and two sides: a typical filling for this tooth called an MOD. The angle I took it from shows a little tiny sliver of filling extending past the preparation line. It’s called an overhang and it’s a teeny one. Rothstein’s X rays don’t show it all.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m coming to that. Take a look at this, Pete. This one is the full mouth set of Jean that I shot over the weekend,” she said mounting another set of X rays on the viewer. “Now compare this set to Dr. Rothstein’s.”

Decker studied the films.

“It doesn’t show the sliver of filling, either.”

“Exactly. And look how much more similar the two sets are. Know what I did? I angled the X ray tube a little bit forward. Foreshortened the beam. When one compares radiographs for something as important as identification of a murder victim, one better make damn sure that the two sets of X rays are shot from the same angle. Otherwise, one may miss an obvious match and feel stupid.”

She breathed on her fingernails and rubbed them on her white coat.

“But the clincher is this. I called up Dr. Rothstein and asked for the patient’s orthodontist. His name is Dr. Neiman and he sent me her casts. You want to compare the two?”

She showed them to Decker.

“To me, they look identical.”

“Not quite. Remember I told you that the girl wasn’t wearing her retainer as much as she should have. The skeleton’s teeth weren’t quite as aligned. But even so, I superimposed a bite plate of Jean’s teeth and matched it to his patient’s casts, and then I reversed the procedure and superimposed the patient’s bite plate over Jean’s teeth. It’s the same person.

“Pete,” she said, pointing to the plaster casts. “Say hello to Lindsey Bates.”

5

At the time of the Missing Persons Report three and a half months ago, Lindsey Bates had been sixteen years and two months old, five feet four inches tall, 108 pounds, with blue eyes, blond hair—American pie turned vulture fodder. Last seen by her mother after announcing that she was going to the Glendale Galleria to find a hot pink blouse to match her new yellow baggies. She’d planned to be back around four, and when she hadn’t returned by five, Mrs. Bates began to worry. Forty-eight hours later, Lindsey was considered an official Missing Person. There were several other entries in the file—interviews with parents and friends—but nothing had proven useful.

The Glendale detective assigned to the case had been Don Oldham, an energetic, overweight man of fifty, who had reached twenty-five biggies a month ago and hung up his shield. After the Bates identification was made and the parents notified, Decker visited him in his condo that overlooked the smoggy San Gabriel mountains. Some say retirement kills the spirit, but if there existed a happier man than Oldham (Donnie as he insisted on being called) Decker hadn’t met him. Oldham was an avid tropical fish breeder, and he reminded Decker of a mad scientist as he tested water samples and added chemicals to the fifty aerated aquariums that filled his living room. The tanks gurgled and bubbled like boiling cauldrons. It took Donnie nearly twenty minutes to get down to business.

He remembered the case. His conclusion was profound: Either an abduction or a runaway.

Did he favor one over the other, Decker asked.

Oh, probably the abduction, said Oldham. None of the girl’s personal effects seemed to be missing. Her car was still in the parking lot. People don’t leave without taking some memento along.

But then again, he added gleefully, she still could have been a runaway.

Decker thanked him. As he turned to leave, he saw Oldham taking off his shirt and dipping his bare arms into a tank of guppies. A caved-in patch of glossy scar tissue decorated the man’s right shoulder. Decker wondered how he’d caught the bullet.

He arrived back at the squad room shortly after noon and found Marge at her desk, looking sick.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“Chug-a-lugged too many beers,” she answered, pushing hair out of her eyes. The blond strands hung limply down to her shoulders. Her complexion was wan.

“You don’t look hungover; you look sick. As in the flu. Why don’t you go home?”

She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “The aspirins’ll kick in. I’ll be all right.”

“What are you working on now?” Decker asked.

“I just got another weenie wagger. Third one in a week. Seems this particular dude just loves to excite himself in the movie theater, preferably kiddy films. They caught him at the climax—his—buttering some little girl’s popcorn at the Brave Li’l Mouse Movie.”

Decker groaned.

“Mama went bonkers,” Marge continued. “Started screaming in front of a full house. ‘Did you see what that man just did! He ejaculated in my daughter’s popcorn!’ Meanwhile, the perv’s just sittin’ there with this smug grin plastered across his mug. No resistance to the arrest. Too damn wasted.”

“I hope they got their money back,” Decker said.

“Yeah, they did—and a free popcorn to boot—but Mama was none too pleased.”

“Do you have any other cases—besides the wagger—that are pressing?”

“My load’s pretty light. What’s up?”

“We got a name to match a set of bones that we dug up.”

Marge nodded approval. “Not too shabby, Pete.”

“Sometimes you get lucky. A sixteen-year-old white female named Lindsey Bates. Disappeared around four months ago.”

“Want me to talk to her mother?”

“If you can. I need someone with a soft touch.”

“When?”

“Right now, if you feel up to it. I figured I’d take a peek at the kid’s room while you interviewed Mrs. Bates.”

Marge stood up. In heels, she was nearly eye level with him. Her shoulders, housed in a padded jacket, appeared immense.

She picked up her bag and said, “Let’s go.”

The Bateses lived in La Canada. The house was on a tree-lined street at the end of a cul-de-sac—a split level with a wood and stone facade. The lawn had been newly planted and was bisected by a stone walkway lined by manicured rose bushes bursting with Day-Glo colors—hot pinks, scarlet reds, and sunshine yellows—a wreath for the house of mourning. Marge gave the door a hard rap, and a moment later a wisp of a blonde appeared in the doorway.

“Mrs. Bates?” Decker asked, showing his shield.

“Come in, Sergeant … I’m sorry I forgot your name.”

“Decker, ma’am.” He handed her his card. “This is Detective Dunn.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bates,” Marge said, gently.

Mrs. Bates acknowledged the condolences by lowering her head. Under a different set of circumstances she might have been pretty, but sorrow had washed out her face, blurring her features. Her eyes were sunken, the blue iris faded. The cheeks sagged, the mouth was slack and pale. Her coloring was fair, as her daughter’s had been, but her hair was stringy and unwashed. She seemed to wilt under the detectives’ eyes and made a futile attempt to straighten her housecoat.

“Forgive my appearance,” she said in a whisper.

Decker placed a hand on her small, bony shoulder.

“Mrs. Bates, I’m very sorry to intrude upon you at a time like this. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears.

“Please come in.”

They were led to the living room sofa—white velvet, and spotless. Everything in the room was spotless. She asked them if they wanted some coffee, but they both declined.

“If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Bates,” Decker began, “I’d like to take a look at Lindsey’s room.”

“What … What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Nothing specific,” he answered.

That was the truth. But it was more tangible than that. He was trying to get a feel for Lindsey so he could relate to her as a living entity. Her room would be a logical starting place. Rooms and luggage. Ever want to do a quick analysis of a person, find out what he packs for a weekend jaunt.

“I guess that would be okay,” Mrs. Bates said hesitantly. “It’s down the hall, the third door to the left. The one that’s … that’s closed.”

Decker thanked her and left the two women alone.

Marge waited until Mrs. Bates spoke.

“I don’t know what I could possibly tell you that I didn’t already tell the police the first time around,” she said.

“If you’re ready,” Marge said. “I’d like you to recount what happened the day of Lindsey’s disappearance.”

Mrs. Bates peered into her lap and Marge took advantage of the opportunity to slip out her notepad.

“It was a Saturday,” she began. “I can’t believe that she’s actually …”

She paused to catch her breath, then asked imploringly.

“It is possible they made a mistake? After all, how could they make such an important decision based on teeth?”

“They seem to be sure—”

“But it’s only teeth!”

“I wish I could tell you differently, Mrs. Bates,” Marge said, quietly. “If I had any doubts, I wouldn’t be here. But we seem to be quite certain that we found your daughter. I’m so sorry. It must be so hard to accept that.”

“I hope you’ll never know.” Mrs. Bates dropped her head in her hands and sobbed. Marge offered her a Kleenex and she blew her nose. Then she tried again.

“As I started to say, it was a Saturday …” She started crying again.

Marge put down her pad. “Maybe we came too soon for you to do this. It’s not because we’re callous. It’s just that every second we let slip by is less time for us to do our job and more time for your daughter’s murderer to get away. But if this is too hard on you, we can come back tomorrow.”

Mrs. Bates dried her tears and shook her head no. “I’m all right.”

“Sure?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Bates said. “What was I saying?”

“It was Saturday,” Marge answered, taking up her pad.

“Yes, Saturday,” Mrs. Gates repeated. “Lindsey said she was going to the Galleria to shop, to look for a blouse … she’d just started driving and the mall was close to home …” She threw up her hands. “What else can I tell you? That was the last anyone ever heard of her … until now.”

“Do you know if she was planning to meet someone?” Marge asked.

Mrs. Bates’s face turned livid.

“The original detective asked me the same question. Don’t police ever read each other’s reports?”

“I like to be thorough,” Marge explained.

The woman sank back into her chair. “I’m terribly sorry for my behavior—”

“No, don’t apologize. You’re doing fine.”

“As far as I know,” Mrs. Bates said, “she wasn’t going to meet anyone. I can give you a list of all of her friends and you can ask them if Lindsey called them.”

“Thank you. That would be helpful.” She continued. “Do you know the stores your daughter routinely shopped at?”

“Bullocks, Broadway, May Company, Robinson’s. She like Contempo, although I always thought they were a little on the high side.”

“Did she follow a certain routine when she shopped? Park in the same place? Comb the stores in the same pattern?”

“Not that I know of. Her friends could tell you better than I can.” Her facial expression became wistful. “We used to shop together years ago, but you know kids … They like to be with their friends … Lindsey loved my taste in clothes. People often mistook us for sisters.”

Marge couldn’t see it. But the woman had probably aged ten years since her daughter’s disappearance. She consulted the notes Decker had prepared for her.

“Lindsey has a younger sister, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Were they close?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a defensive note to her voice. “We’re a very close family.”

“And she’s at school now?”

“Yes. Erin’s at school.” As if she were reassuring herself.

“I’d like to talk to her, also.”

The woman’s eyes darkened.

“Why? Do you think the girls were keeping secrets from me?”

“It’s routine, I assure you, Mrs. Bates.”

Mrs. Bates bit her lip.

“If you think it’s necessary.”

Marge nodded.

“The girls are … were very different,” Mrs. Bates mumbled.

“In what way?”

“I’m … I was closer to Lindsey. We shared more interests. She was the sweetest thing on two feet, Detective. And beautiful inside and out.”

“And Erin?” Marge prompted.

“Erin’s more of an individual. But she’s a good girl also.”

“I’m sure she is,” Marge said. “The Glendale police interviewed Lindsey’s friends. She seemed to have had a lot of them.”

“What can I tell you, Detective? She was very popular.”

“Did you know most of her friends?”

“Yes. Our home was their hangout.” Again eyes welled up with tears. “I miss the noise.”

“Did Lindsey have a boyfriend?”

She shook her head. “Her father and I discouraged her from getting too involved with anyone special. A sixteen-year-old girl doesn’t need an immature boy breathing down her neck, monopolizing her attention. That’s how kids get into trouble.”

The irony wasn’t evident to her, and Marge talked quickly to keep it that way.

“But she dated?”

“She went out in groups with her friends. We knew all her friends, Detective. They’re nice kids.”

“What kind of student was she?”

“She didn’t have a head for academics, but she passed her classes.” She sighed. “We had tutors, but we decided against college for her … her charm was her kindness and beauty. You’ve seen her picture. A lovelier girl never existed.”

Marge agreed with her.

“She was head junior cheerleader,” Mrs. Bates continued. “She had to compete with one hundred girls for that spot, but she knew she’d win. That’s the type of girl she is.”

Marge didn’t correct her tense.

“Was she involved in other extracurricular activities besides cheerleading?”

“She was on the tennis team. What a backhand!” The woman came alive, revitalized by the memory.

“What was her weekday routine, Mrs. Bates?”

“School at 8:10. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, tennis team from 3:15 to 4:30. Cheerleading practice was every day from five to seven. On Wednesday and Thursday nights at eight she had patch—ice skating, Once a week, on Tuesday, piano lessons. She loved to be active. She has an incredible energy level, unlike Erin who’s a—.”

She fell silent. Tension between Erin and Mom, Marge noted in her pad. She asked, “Did Lindsey go out on weekends?”

“Yes. But she had to be in by ten.”

Marge smiled, trying to look benign.

“Mrs. Bates, how would you describe your relationship with your daughter?”

“We were very close,” she said. “My daughter was not a runaway.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t,” Marge said quickly. She noticed Mrs. Bates was digging her nails into her hands.

Keep her talking.

“Do you happen to know if Lindsey kept a diary?” Marge asked.

One nail broke skin. There was blood.

“She did, didn’t she?” Marge said.

“I know she kept one,” Mrs. Bates admitted. “I haven’t been able to find it. Everything else is the way it always was. Her clothes, her money, her records, her jewelry—and most of it isn’t cheap, costume junk—sentimental mementos, her awards. But I … I can’t seem to find her diary.”

Because she ran away from home and took it with her, Marge thought. That’s why you haven’t been able to find it.

She asked her some wind-down questions about Lindsey. What emerged from Mrs. Bates’s answers was a shell of a girl, a sweet kid who never disobeyed her mother. Marge decided to wrap up the interview since nothing enlightening was likely to come out of it.

“After the police failed to find her, did you try to locate her yourself, Mrs. Bates?” she asked. “Did you and your husband hire anyone to try and find her?”

The woman lowered her head.

“Who’d you hire, Mrs. Bates?”

“It was a reputable firm. The Marris Association.”

Marge agreed they were reputable.

“And expensive,” Mrs. Bates grumbled. “They wasted thousands of our dollars and came up with nothing.”

“Who was the private investigator assigned to the case?”

“His name was Lee Krasdin. And older, fat man with a disgusting red face. Didn’t do a damn thing! I don’t think he ever left his office.”

“I’d like to talk to him. Would you do me a favor? Would you ask him to release your daughter’s report to me? Otherwise I’m going to have to get a subpoena—”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll call him up right now.”

“How about if I call him up and you write me out a release statement for your daughter’s records?”

“Fine.”

“And I’ll need that list of your daughter’s friends.”

“Of course.”

Marge called the Marris Agency and said someone would be there in an hour to pick up the file. She was putting the final touches on her notes when Mrs. Bates returned with a few sheets of paper.

“Here,” she said, standing over the detective. She smelled slightly stale, as if her clothes hadn’t been washed recently.

“This is the list and this is the release statement. Does it say what you want it to say?”

“It’s fine,” Marge said. “I appreciate your taking the time out to talk to me, Mrs. Bates.”

“That’s all right,” she answered softly. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“That would be fine.” Marge saw Decker standing off to the side. How long he’d been there, she didn’t know. It was good that he didn’t intrude. His size could sometimes be intimidating. Marge thought that this was one of the times.

She said, “Oh, Sergeant Decker’s back.”

“Just about done?” he asked, entering the room.

“Yes,” Marge answered, winking at him. “Perfect timing.”

“Did you find anything illuminating?” Mrs. Bates asked Decker. He noticed anxiety in her voice.

“Not really. It’s just a teenage girl’s room,” he said; then added quietly, “not unlike others I’ve seen.”

Like my own kid’s, he thought.

Mrs. Bate’s eyes began to swell with tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Decker said.

She nodded.

“Mrs. Bates,” he asked, “did your daughter ever know someone who was deaf or hard of hearing?”

The question took her by surprise.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“It may be important.”

“How so?”

“I’m not really sure. But as soon as I am, I’ll let you know.”

“A hearing aid?” the woman asked.

Decker said yes.

“No, I don’t believe so,” she answered, deep in thought. “Maybe I can ask Erin … when does she get home? … Let’s see, it’s Wednesday … Thursday? … I think it’s Thursday …”

She realized she’d been talking to herself and gave an apologetic smile.

“Also, I’d like to talk to your husband when it’s convenient for him,” Decker said. “May I call him at home tonight to arrange an appointment?”

“Certainly.”

Marge flipped her notebook shut.

“You’ll keep me abreast?” Mrs. Bates asked.

“Of course,” replied Marge.

Mrs. Bates wrapped herself in her arms and began to knead them like dough.

“I loved my daughter,” she said. “I want you to catch the monster that … that killed her. But perhaps you can understand if I tell you that maybe I’m better off not knowing everything.”

Decker flashed to his own daughter.

“I understand,” he said.

“What’d you find out?” Decker asked Marge. He turned on the ignition, let the motor idle for a moment, then backed out of the driveway.

“Mom liked to shop with her daughter,” answered Marge.

“The usual denial?”

Marge nodded. “Not my kid! She couldn’t have run away.” She rubbed her hands together. “They fix the car heater yet? Day’s turned nasty.”

“No, but the air-conditioner works perfectly.”

“Terrific. Why don’t we chill up the inside so the outside’ll feel warm by comparison?”

Decker laughed. “You’re looking a little better,” he said.

“You talk to people with real problems, you all of a sudden don’t feel so sick,” she said. “What’d you find in Lindsey’s room?”

Decker said, “I found an average, nice kid. Not too deep, but not angry, either. Her records were standard top forty stuff, no heavy metal or rebellious punker crap. Her clothes were a bit more adventurous than preppy, but definitely not punk, either. She was into her nails in a big way. Found at least a half dozen nail kits.”

He pulled onto the freeway and floored the gas pedal. The car protested, bucked, then surged ahead.

“Girl didn’t read at all. Her book shelves were filled with knick-knacks and stuffed animals. Not a single book.”

“Posters?” Marge asked.

“Rock stars, a few of the top New York models. A few framed homilies—Love conquers all … love is the treasure of kings, Love is the treasure of life. Stuff like that.”

“A nice kid,” Marge said.

“A nice kid,” Decker said.

“Pictures of boyfriends?” Marge asked.

“Couldn’t find any. Couldn’t find any snapshots in her room. The family probably keeps photo albums in a different place.”

“You didn’t by any chance happen to come across a diary?”

Decker shook his head. “She kept one?”

“Mother says she did. She couldn’t find it. She said everything else in the girl’s room was left untouched.”

“If Lindsey was a runaway, she traveled light,” Decker said. “It didn’t look like the room of an unhappy girl.”

“Maybe the kid got tired of being a saint,” Marge suggested.

“She wasn’t a saint,” said Decker. “She had her fun. I found a small stash, birth control pills and a roach clip.”

“Mother didn’t mention them.”

“Wonder why,” he said. “I discovered them inside a stuffed animal—a big turtle with a hidden zipper.” Decker thought a moment. “But that doesn’t change my impression of the girl. The room lacked … anger … teenage hostility. And you know what else it lacked? Individuality. There wasn’t anything in there that seemed different … it seemed unique.”

“Those are usually the types to suddenly pull up stakes,” Marge said. “They keep it all inside.”

“Seems strange to leave without your stash and birth control pills,” Decker mentioned.

“You could pick those up anywhere. But a diary … That you’d take along.”

“True,” Decker said. “Could be she walked away with just her diary and the clothes on her back.”

“I’ve got a list of her friends,” Marge said. “They’ll flesh her out. Also, someone should talk to her sister.”

“How’s the rest of your day holding up?” Decker asked.

“Court appearance in the afternoon.”

“Give me the list of her friends,” Decker said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Also, Mrs. Bates hired a private detective. Someone at the Marris Agency. I got her to sign a release. They’re expecting someone down there in about an hour.”

“No problem,” Decker said. “Did they come up with anything?”

“According to Mrs. Bates, they came up with an enormous bill.”

“Probably didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear,” Decker said.

“No doubt,” she said. “I think you should interview the kid sister, Pete. I got the feeling that she and Mama don’t get along so hot. Maybe she relates better to men.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “But I want you to come with me. I don’t want to be alone with a teenage girl who likes men.”

“Good point,” Marge agreed, then smiled to herself. “You sure as hell don’t need that.”

Marris was a slick operation. Lee Krasdin was even slicker. He had a face like a Toby mug and Decker didn’t like him. Mrs. Bates had been right about him. He hadn’t done anything.

“Is that all?” Decker said when he was done with the report.

Krasdin spread his fingers and placed them palm down on the desktop, as if he were going to hoist himself upward. The effort turned him purple.

“There was nothing left to do, Detective,” he said nervously.

“You didn’t think she might be a runaway?”

“From everyone we talked to, she seemed like a sweet kid. They do exist, Sergeant—sweet kids who end up in trouble.”

Decker threw him a disgusted look.

“You didn’t interview her sister.”

“Her sister was broken up. You can’t intrude upon people like that and expect cooperation.”

Decker remembered the Hippocratic oath: Above all, do no harm. That was the only compliment you could pay an incompetent like Krasdin.

“Do you know how many runaways we process in a week?” Krasdin said defensively.

“Not as many as LAPD.”

“Let me tell you,” the man said indignantly. “I can spot a runaway situation with my eyes closed, and this wasn’t a runaway. We talked to friends, we talked to relatives, we talked to church leaders, we talked to teachers. The kid was a random abduction, and that left us nowhere.”

“Mr. Krasdin, when someone is missing, I look for them. If they don’t show up at a friend’s or relative’s house, I look outside the neighborhood. You didn’t do anything except knock on a few doors. A Fuller Brush salesman could have done better.”

“If you would read the report carefully, Sergeant Decker, you’d notice that we did pursue a runaway assumption. We went into Hollywood and talked to the police. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the girl.”

“You talked to the police to find out about runaways? That’s about as worthwhile as talking to runaways to find out about the police. You want to find out about street kids, you talk to street kids.”

“Assuming they’ll talk to you.”

“They’ll talk.”

“I resent your implications about the thoroughness of our investigation,” the man sputtered.

“That’s your prerogative. In the meantime, I’m going to keep this Xerox of the report.”

“Certainly. Despite the adversarial tone of this conversation, I want you to know that I’ll help you in any way I can, Sergeant. At Marris, we believe in cooperation with law enforcement.”

Decker immediately took him up on it. “You interviewed Lindsey’s friends. Happen to notice if anyone was hard of hearing?”

“Not that I recall. Of course, I don’t routinely check for hearing aids. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind.”

By the time he left Marris, it was nearly four. Decker slid into the unmarked and pulled out the list of Lindsey’s friends. He had time to see one or two before heading back to Bates’s. The first one on the list was a boy named Brian Armor. After thirty minutes on the Golden State Freeway North, he swung onto 134 East—wide open lanes of asphalt that cut through the San Gabriel mountains. The air was crisp, the sky a brilliant blue; a beautiful smogless day not atypical of L.A. winters. He passed the La Crescenta city line and ten minutes later pulled the Plymouth into a circular driveway. He killed the motor.

The house was a graceful two-story colonial—a downscale replica of an antebellum mansion. During Decker’s childhood, family vacations had often included excursions into the deep South, where majestic plantations loomed larger than life in the little boy’s eyes—the stately scrolled columns; the massive, two-story double entrance doors; the porticoes dripping flowers, set into acreage that expanded to the horizon. As he grew older, Decker’d lost his lust for mansions, but he had always retained a love of land.

He walked up to the door and pushed the bell, which chimed resonantly. The kid who answered had a football player’s build and a very cocky expression on his face. The look was tempered a second later when he realized he was looking up at Decker.

“Whaddaya want?” he asked, in a voice surprisingly high and squeaky.

Decker flashed his badge.

“I’m looking for Brian Armor.”

The last remnants of cockiness disappeared.

“He’s not home.”

“Who are you?” Decker asked.

“Listen, I don’t have to talk to a cop without a lawyer.” He started to slam the door shut, but Decker was ready and caught him off balance. The door flew back open and the boy went stumbling backward. The detective stepped inside.

“You can’t come in without a search warrant,” the boy said, stunned.

The smell of marijuana was overwhelming. Decker opened his jacket and gave the kid a view of his shoulder holdster. The boy licked his lips.

“Hey man, no trouble.”

Decker made his way through the formal living room and into the den. Four teenagers stopped talking and looked up. Bruce Springsteen provided the background music.

Even if he had a warrant, and even if he had been from narcotics, it still wouldn’t have been much of a bust. A lid or two of grass—who gave a fuck? But image was all-important. He scooped up the bag and motioned Brian over.

“Where’s the john?” he asked.

“Third door to the left.”

Decker turned to the other teens.

“I’m a police officer,” he said. “You kids stay right where you are. Understand?”

They nodded solemnly.

“C’mon, buddy,” Decker said. He gave Brian a slight shove forward and prodded him down the hallway into the bathroom. When they were both inside, Decker locked the door.

The boy’s hands squeezed into tight, white-knuckled balls.

“You’re not going to try anything stupid, are you?” Decker asked.

The boy didn’t answer.

“Unclench your fists, son. I’m not about to duke it out with you.” Decker smiled. “In a john of all places.”

The boy’s fingers slowly relaxed.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Decker said, “this never existed.” He dumped the contents of the bag down the toilet and gave it a flush. “I gave you a break. Now you give me one.”

The kid stared, amazed.

“Whaddaya want?” he repeated, his tone of voice deferential this time.

“I’m looking for Brian Armor.”

“I’m Brian.”

“I want to talk to you about Lindsey Bates.”

The boy stared at him.

“Lindsey? … This is about Lindsey?”

“Yep. Your bad-ass attitude lost you your stash for nothing.”

“Aw, shit.”

“But look at it this way. I’m not gonna bust you.” Decker took out his notepad. “You wanna talk in here or you wanna go out there?”

“All my friends out there—they were friends of Lindsey’s.”

Decker grinned. He had just saved himself a mess of legwork.

“Let’s go.”

The gang was waiting, stiff and grim. When they saw Brian smile, their posture loosened.

Brian cocked a thumb at Decker.

“He wants to talk about Lindsey.”

“Why should we talk to you?” said a sulking brunette in torn clothing. He knew from Cindy what those rags cost.

“You’re a friend of Lindsey’s?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe you give enough of a fuck about her to help me find her murderer.”

She lowered her eyes.

“What’s your name?” Decker asked the girl.

“Heather.”

Decker consulted his list.

“Heather Hanson.”

Her head jerked up.

“That’s right.”

The detective checked her name off.

“I’m going to read some names,” he said. “Answer me if it’s you.”

They were all there. Decker marveled at his good fortune.

“So what do you want to know about Lindsey?” asked a big blonde with purple lips. She was Lisa O’Donnell.

“She left home at eleven A.M. Saturday morning, September tenth. Did she call any of you earlier that day?”

“She called me,” Heather answered. “I was her best friend.”

“And?”

“And she asked me to meet her at the Galleria at 12:30. She didn’t show up.”

So she had run away or had been abducted somewhere between eleven and 12:30. Amazing that no one had picked up on something so simple.

Heather went on: “I didn’t think anything about it. We change our plans lots of times.” She twirled her curly hair. “I mean, I didn’t tell the police about her phone call the first time around.”

“You’re not going to get into any trouble. I’m only interested in Lindsey now. Were the two of you supposed to meet anyone else?”

“No,” she said quickly.

Decker stared at her.

“Like maybe she was supposed to meet her boyfriend that her parents didn’t know about and you were supposed to meet your boyfriend that your parents don’t know about,” Decker pushed.

The girl studied her fingernails.

“Who was her boyfriend, Heather?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said weakly. “Is she really dead?”

Decker nodded.

Heather swallowed hard and looked away.

“It matters, Heather,” Decker said, “if it was her boyfriend who ripped her off.”

“Hey,” Brian butted in. “He wouldn’t do something like that. Man, he was torn to shreds when Lindsey took off. He thought she dumped him.”

“How long had they been sneaking around together?”

“They were in love!” Heather protested. “It wasn’t anything raunchy.”

Decker backed off.

“Okay, they were in love. Nobody’s saying they weren’t. How long were they going together?”

“Over a year,” Lisa volunteered. “He was a nice guy, but sort of a dropout. You know, free-lance photographer, a one-day-at-a-time person.”

“What’s his name?”

The room was silent. Decker waited.

“Chris Truscott,” Lisa blurted.

“Snitch.” Brian muttered.

“Listen, jerk,” the girl yelled, “if he had anything to do with Lindsey’s death, I don’t want him to go unpunished.” She looked to Decker for approval.

“It was okay to protect him before,” the detective said. “After all, if the two of them ran away together, it’s not your business. But now you know Lindsey has been murdered. She was probably burnt alive and suffered a lot of pain. No sense letting Chris walk away as innocent as a newborn babe if he lit the match.”

Stunned silence. Decker hated this. Bullying people with misery to get what he wanted. Tears fell down Lisa’s cheek.

“He lives in Venice,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I forget the exact address. I think it’s Fourth and Rose.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty,” Brian answered. “I don’t know how the rest of you feel, but I feel shitty talking about Chris like he was a criminal. He was in love with Lindsey.”

“Do you think she took off with him, Heather?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Decker could barely hear her.

“Tell him about the gig, Heather,” Lisa prompted.

“What gig?” asked Decker.

“Photography gig,” Lisa answered. “See, Chris didn’t get it together with Lindsey that day—”

“Why don’t you let Heather tell it, since Chris made the friggin’ phone call to her?” Brian interrupted.

All eyes went to Heather. She drew her knees into her chest and rolled herself up into a tight ball.

“He had this photography gig,” she began in a small voice. “I think it was a wedding or a baptism. I forget. Anyway, he said that’s why he didn’t make it. He asked me to pass the word to Lindsey. See, he was off-limits to her. Her parents hated him even though they’d only met him once. Lindsey didn’t want to upset them by telling them that she was in love with Chris, so she lied and said that she broke up with him. But she didn’t. Anyway, she never showed up and I thought she’d just made other plans. Sometimes Lindsey’d forget things if she’d get real involved with her makeup or nails.”

Decker told her to go on.

“Anyway, much later that night,” Heather continued, “her mom had called me, all freaked out. Lindsey hadn’t come home. Was she at my house? God, I got all freaked myself. I didn’t know what to think. Where was Lindsey? She didn’t show up at the mall, she wasn’t at home … home she really did take off with Chris and he just told me he didn’t meet her at the Galleria to throw me off base. So I called Chris and asked him. But he swore no. I didn’t think he was lying. I mean, he really, really loved her.” She paused, then said. “God, I’ve thought about the whole thing over and over. What went wrong? What really happened to poor Lindsey? I’ve had a ton of nightmares. I just don’t know what to think anymore.” She buried her face in her knees and began to sob. “I don’t feel so good.”

Lisa threw her arms around her and rocked her back and forth.

Peter, you callous asshole, thought Decker. He comforted himself by saying he was on the right side.

When Heather seemed to have calmed down, he asked, “Have any of you had contact with Chris since Lindsey’s disappearance?”

“A little. Like the first week after she split,” Brian said. “He kept coming to the neighborhood, trying to find her. Then, nothing.”

“Chris and I used to ride in a bike club together,” answered a boy with lank dark hair and a huge Adam’s apple. His voice was a rich baritone and his name was Marc. “I saw him a couple of weeks ago, first time since Lindsey disappeared. He had sold his bike to someone at the club; said he was hard up for cash. I believe it. He looked terrible, totally wiped out. Asked me if I had heard from Lindsey. ’Course I didn’t.” The boy’s black eyes were sharp and alive. “He couldn’t have killed her, Officer. I’m not saying they didn’t take off together, but he couldn’t rip her off. He was really wild about her.”

“Any of you know his phone number by heart?”

“He’s listed,” Lisa said.

“Did Chris and Lindsey hang around you guys or did they have their own set of friends?”

“They hung around us sometimes,” Heather said. “Sometimes, me and my boyfriend would double with them. But they tried to be alone as much as possible. I don’t know much about his friends.”

“Did Lindsey ever talk about knowing a deaf girl?”

“Dead?” Brian asked.

“Deaf,” Lisa snapped. “Like you can’t hear.”

“Huh?” Brian joked.

“Get serious, Armor. This isn’t the time,” Marc scolded. He looked back at Decker. “She never mentioned any deaf girl to me.”

“To me either,” said Heather.

“Any friend of Chris’s deaf?”

Blank stares.

“So none of you heard a thing about Lindsey after she disappeared.”

They all shook their heads.

“Did Lindsey ever talk, even jokingly, about running away with Chris?”

“Lindsey may have dug the guy,” Marc said, “but she wasn’t the type to do something like take off. She had lots of plans for the senior year.”

“What kind of plans?” Decker asked.

“The prom. Varsity cheerleading,” Heather said.

“She was really into cheerleading,” added Lisa. “And modeling. She wanted to be a model. She certainly had the body for it.”

“I’ll say,” Brian said lecherously. The other kids gave him reproving looks. The boy blushed.

“Lindsey seemed to be a nice girl,” Decker said. “Considerate of her parents, not wanting to hurt their feelings by going with Chris. Enthusiastic about cheerleading. Anybody want to add anything?”

“She was a doll,” Lisa said. “Not real heavy on the gray matter—”

“Like you are?” Brian said.

“Shut up, Armor.”

Suddenly Brian became enraged. “Will you quit picking on me!” he screamed, turning crimson.

The room fell silent. A minute passed, then Brian let out a hollow laugh.

“She was a great kid,” he said in a cracked voice. “She was nice to everyone … even me.”

“She was real sweet,” Marc said softly. “The world could use more positive people like her.”

Decker had to admit it; she didn’t sound like a prototypical runaway. No evidence of heavy drug use, she didn’t seem to hate her parents, she had a supportive peer group and was involved in school activities. It was beginning to smell like an abduction. Which meant either the boyfriend was involved and Decker would have a substantial lead, or the boyfriend wasn’t and he was up shit’s creek without a paddle.

Decker folded his notepad and distributed his cards.

“If any one of you thinks of something that might help, give me a call.”

Lisa squinted and mouthed the word “Decker.”

“You got a daughter on the intramural track team?” she asked.

Decker nodded. “You know Cindy?”

“Not personally. I just remember this long-legged redhead named Decker who competed last year. Ran like lightning. She should go into the Olympics or something.”

Despite himself, Decker swelled with parental pride.

His watch said 6:15. Hard to believe that he’d been in there for over an hour and a half. He was supposed to meet with the rabbi at eight, so he had plenty of time to fix himself dinner. But he wasn’t hungry.

A nice girl disappears and turns up a corpse, murdered gruesomely. The scenario suppressed his appetite. Making matters worse, the case had little to go on.

It became all too clear to him why he had transferred out of Homicide. Any victim was better than a dead one. True, he’d seen his fair share of assholes getting blown away in sour drug deals and junkies who kicked themselves. The memories didn’t keep him up at night. It was cases like this one that left the bile in this throat.

A nice girl.

He thought of his own daughter. She was safe, he assured himself. She was careful. But the words seemed empty. Careful wasn’t enough.

His daughter. Alone in New York.

He took out a cigarette.

He’d call Jan the minute he got home. Cindy and Eric living together? He thought that was a fine idea.

6

“Very good,” Rabbi Schulman said, twirling gray wisps of beard around his index finger. “You’re making very good progress.”

“Thank you,” said Decker.

The Rosh Yeshiva closed the chumash—the Jewish bible. They were learning bible in the rabbi’s study, a spacious, wood-paneled room that reflected the warmth of its host. The picture window revealed a tranquil evening, the foliage dappled with moonlight like early morning frost on a winter’s landscape. Decker felt a spiritual calm, even though the circuitry of his nervous system was pushing overload.

“Study next week’s portion and we’ll go over it together. Use the English of course, but try to look at the Hebrew also. Remember what I told you about looking for the shoresh—the three-letter root—in the word.”

“I will.” Decker stared back at his open Bible and began shuffling through back pages, not quite ready to call it quits.

“And you’ll be spending Shabbos weekend with us?” the rabbi asked.

“I’m planning on it. Thank your wife again for her hospitality.”

“I will do that. And Zvi Adler wants to have you over for Shabbos lunch. I think it would be nice if you accepted the invitation.”

“That’s fine.”

“Sarah Libba would have called you, but she’s exquisitely shy, so Zvi asked me invite you.”

“Tell him I’d be delighted.”

Schulman stood, his posture as rigid as a T-square. He sensed Decker’s jumpiness and went to a liquor cabinet.

“A shot of schnapps, Peter?”

Rotgut, Decker thought. It was amazing the man had any lining left in his stomach. Yet, here he was in his seventies with more energy than someone half his age.

“Thank you, Rabbi. That would be nice.”

The rabbi gave Decker a shot glass and raised his cup in the air.

“L’chaim,” he said.

“L’chaim,” Decker repeated.

The old man peered over the detective’s shoulder and noticed the open chumash.

“Fascinating isn’t it”—Schulman downed the liquid fire in a single gulp—“to read about our ancestors, God’s chosen people? He said to Yaakov, ‘I shall remember your seed, and they shall be as numerous as the stars in the sky.’ And then we learn that Yaakov’s sons sold their brother, Yoseph, into slavery because they were poisoned with jealousy; that Miriam—a prophetess—was turned into a leper because she spoke ill of Moshe’s wife; that Tamar, dressed as a harlot, seduced her father-in-law, Yehudah, in order to secure her rightful seed; that Shimon and Levi—brothers in spirit as well as blood—avenged the rape of their sister by wiping out a nation. Superficially, one would think we descended from a bunch of hoodlums.”

The old man coughed.

“Such is not the case at all. Those men and women were righteous, Peter. On a far higher madraga—level of spirituality—than we are today. You must remember they were worth enough to have been recorded in the chumash for prosperity.”

“But they were still human beings,” Decker said, “with human frailties.”

“This is true.”

Decker closed the book.

“It’s family, Rabbi,” he said. “It brings out the best and worst in us. Whenever a crime is committed, the first place cops look is the family. Almost always, the perpetrator is a relative or friend. Yoseph was sold by his own brothers. No surprise. If that crime happened today, we could have saved Yaakov years of grief.”

“Chas v’chaleylah.” The rabbi frowned. He sat down and put his arm around Decker. “God forbid! Hashem had a bigger purpose in mind, Peter. Yoseph was supposed to go down to Egypt. Had he not gone, Yaakov and his sons would have been wiped out by famine. Hashem knew what he was doing.”

Schulman took off his oversized kipah to smooth his white hair, then placed it back on his head.

“And of course, the Jews would have never been slaves in Egypt. And that would have been terrible, because then we wouldn’t have had Passover!”

He broke into a broad grin at his own joke, then grew serious.

“Events in Jewish history have a way of coming in through the back door,” he said. “Like the selling of Yoseph. Out of that came the Exodus: Moses, the Revelation, the Torah. It is said that even the messiah will not come to us openly. Why? Whenever good comes openly, the yetzer harah—the evil spirit—is there to destroy it.”

“I don’t subscribe to the concept of an evil spirit, Rabbi.”

Schulman refilled Decker’s cup.

“You don’t come into contact with it daily?” the old man asked.

“I come into contact with a lot of bad people,” Decker answered. “And most of them know darn well what they’re doing is wrong. They just don’t care. Ask them why they robbed or raped or killed and you’d be surprised at how creative their excuses are. It’s a rare criminal who’ll accept responsibility for his own actions. An evil spirit seems to me to be another way to pass the buck. The devil made me do it, et cetera.”

“Judaism sees it as just the opposite of what you’re saying,” Schulman explained. “Evil is in all of us. So is good. Man has free will to choose either. There is a very interesting midrash about that. Before Mount Sinai the angels asked Hashem to give them the Torah instead of mankind. After all who is better equipped to do mitzvot—good deeds—than an angel? Hashem refused. Mankind was the only acceptable recipient of the Torah because only mankind could elect to honor Hashem. The angels were programmed only for good. It’s no challenge to be good if good is the sole component of one’s makeup.”

Decker took a sip of schnapps and said nothing.

Schulman asked, “Did you have a bad day, Peter?”

“A little on the rough side.”

“Let me ask you something? What do policemen do when they have a bad day?”

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