The Ritual Bath
Faye Kellerman

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 1986

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Faye Kellerman 1986

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photography © 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 © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293536

Version: 2018-11-05

Dedication

For Jonathan. Ani l’dodi dodi li.

And for the munchkins:

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

Keep Reading

About the Author

Faye Kellerman booklist

About the Publisher

1

“The key to a good potato kugel is good potatoes,” Sarah Libba shouted over the noise of the blow dryer. “The key to a great potato kugel is the amount of oil. You have to use just enough oil to make the batter moist, plus a little excess to leak out around the cake pan and fry the edges to make the whole thing nice and crisp without being too greasy.”

Rina nodded and folded a towel. If anyone would know how to cook a potato kugel, it was Sarah Libba. The woman could roast a shoe and turn it into a delicacy. But tonight Rina was too fatigued to listen with a full ear. It was already close to ten o’clock, and she still had to clean the mikvah, then grade thirty papers.

It had been a busy evening because of the bride. A lot of to-do, hand-holding, and explaining. The young girl had been very nervous, but who wouldn’t be about marriage? Rivki was barely seventeen with little knowledge of the world around her. Sheltered and exquisitely shy, she’d gotten engaged to Baruch after three dates. But Rina thought it was a good match. Baruch was a good student and kind and very patient. He’d never once lost his temper while teaching Shmuel how to ride a two-wheeler. He’d be calm yet encouraging, Rina decided, and it wouldn’t be long before Rivki knew the ropes just like the rest of them.

Sarah shut off the dryer, and the motor belched a final wheeze. Fluffing up her close-cropped hair, she sighed and placed a wig atop her head. The nylon tresses were ebony and long, falling past Sarah Libba’s slender shoulders. She was a pretty woman with wide brown eyes that lit up a round, friendly face. And short, not more than five feet, with a slim figure that belied the fact that she’d borne four children. Meticulous in dress and habit, she worked methodically, combing and styling the artificial black strands.

“Here,” Rina said. “Let me help you with the back.”

Sarah smiled. “Know what inspired me to buy this shaytel?”

Rina shook her head.

“Your hair, Rina,” said Sarah. “It’s getting so long.”

“I know. Chana’s already mentioned it to me.”

“Are you going to cut it?”

“Probably.”

“Not too short I hope.”

Rina shrugged. Her hair was one of her best features. Her mother had raised a commotion when she’d announced her plans to cover it after marriage. Of all the religious obligations that Rina had decided to take on, the covering of her hair was the one that displeased her mother the most. But she forged ahead over her mother’s protests, clipped her hair short, and hid it under a wig or scarf. Now, of course, the point was moot.

Working quickly and with self-assurance, Rina turned the wig into a fashionable style. Sarah Libba craned her neck to see the back in the mirror, then smiled.

“It’s lovely,” she said, patting Rina’s hand.

“I’ve got a lot to work with,” said Rina. “It’s a good shaytel.”

“It should be,” Sarah said. “It cost nearly three hundred dollars, and that’s for only twenty percent human hair.”

“You’d never know.”

The other woman frowned.

“Don’t cut your hair short, Rina, despite what Chana tells you. She has a load of advice for everyone but herself. We had the family over for Shabbos and her kids were monsters. They broke Chaim’s Transformer, and do you think she offered a word of apology?”

“Nothing, huh.”

“Nothing! The boys are vilde chayas, and the girls aren’t much better. For someone who runs everyone else’s life, she sure doesn’t do too well with her own.”

Rina said nothing. She wasn’t much of a gossip, not only because of the strict prohibitions against it, but because she found it personally distasteful. She preferred to keep her opinions to herself.

Sarah didn’t prolong the one-way conversation. She stood up, walked over to the full-length mirror, and preened.

“This time alone is my only respite,” she said. “It makes me feel human again.”

Rina nodded sympathetically.

“The kids will probably all be up when I get home,” the tiny woman sighed. “And Zvi is learning late tonight … I think I’ll walk home very slowly. Enjoy the fresh air.”

“That’s a good idea,” Rina said, smiling.

Sarah trudged to the door, turned the knob, straightened her stance, and left.

Alone at last, Rina stood up, stretched, and glanced at her watch again. Her own boys were still at the Computer Club. Steve would walk them home to a waiting baby-sitter so there was no need to rush. She could take her time. Removing her shoes, she rubbed her feet, slipped them into knitted socks and shuffled along the gleaming white tile. Loaded down with a bucket full of soapy water, a handful of rags, and a pail of supplies, she entered the hallway leading to the two bathrooms.

The first one had been used by Sarah Libba, who’d left it neat and orderly. The towels and sheet were compulsively folded upon the tiled counter, the bath mat draped over the rim of the bathtub, and care had been taken to remove the hairs from the comb and brush.

Rina quickly went to work, scrubbing the floor, tub, wash basin, and shower. She refilled the soap containers, the Q-tips holder, the cotton ball dispenser, recapped the toothpaste, and placed the comb in a vial of disinfectant. After giving the countertops a thorough going-over, she left the room, taking the garbage and the dirty laundry with her.

The second bathroom was in complete disarray but within a short period of time, it was as spotless as the first.

She dumped the garbage down a chute that emptied into a bin outside and loaded the towels, sheets, and washcloths into a large utility washer in the closet. Now for the mikvot themselves.

The main mikvah—the women’s—was a sunken Roman bath four feet deep and seven feet square, covered with sparkling, deep blue tile. To aid the women in climbing down the eight steps, a handrail had been installed. Religious law prescribed that the water in the bath emanate from a natural source—rain, snow, ice—but the crystalline pool was heated for comfort.

What a beautiful mikvah, Rina thought, so unlike the one she’d used in an emergency six years ago. They’d been visiting Yitzchak’s parents in Brooklyn. It had been wintertime and blizzard warnings were out. The closest mikvah was nothing more than a hole of filthy, freezing water, but she’d held her breath and forced herself to dunk anyway. She’d felt contaminated when she got home. Though bathing wasn’t permissible after the ritual immersion, Yitzchak had looked the other way when she soaked her chilled bones in steaming water to clean off the scummy residue left on her skin.

The wives of the men at the yeshiva had been very vocal about constructing a clean mikvah—one that would make a woman proud to observe the laws of family purity. And they’d gotten their way. The tile used for the mikvah and bathroom countertops was handpicked and imported from Italy. As an extra touch, a beauty area was added, complete with two vanity tables fully equipped with dryers, combs, brushes, curling irons, and make-up mirrors. An architect was hired, the construction progressed rapidly, and now the yeshiva had a mikvah to call its own. No longer would the women have to travel hours to do the mitzvah of Taharat Hamishpacha—spiritual cleansing through dunking in the ritual bath.

Rina mopped the excess water off the floor, then turned off the heat and lights. She padded down the hallway, took out a key and went inside the men’s mikvah. It was comparatively unadorned, layered with plain white tile. The men had refused to heat or filter the water, but the Rosh Yeshiva was very insistent that they keep the place clean. Though she didn’t have to, she mopped the floor as a courtesy.

When that was done, she relocked the door and finished off by cleaning the last pool—a small basin for dunking cooking and eating utensils made out of metal. A frying pan lay at the bottom. Ruthie Zipperstein must have left it when she had dunked her cookware. Rina would drop it off on her way home.

She dried her hands, then went back to the reception room and sat down in an old overstuffed chair. Taking out a stack of papers, she began to grade them to the low hum of the washing machine. She’d gone through half the pile when the cycle finished. As she got up to load the dryer she heard a shriek that startled her.

Cats, she thought. The grounds of the yeshiva were inundated with them. Scrawny felines that made horrible human-like cries, scaring her sons in the middle of the night. She slammed the door to the dryer and was about to turn on the motor when she heard the shriek again. Walking over to the door, she leaned her ear against the soft pine. She could hear something rustling in the brush, but that wasn’t unusual, either. The yeshiva was situated in a rural area and surrounded by forest. The tall trees sheltered a variety of scurrying animals—jackrabbits, deer, squirrels, snakes, lizards, an occasional coyote, and of course, the cats. Still, she began to get spooked.

Turning the knob, Rina opened the door partway and peered into the blackness. A stream of hot air hit her in the face. The sky was star-studded but moonless. She heard nothing at first, then against a background chorus of chirping crickets, the sound of muffled panting. She opened the door a little wider, and a beam of indoor light streaked across the dry, dusty ground.

“Hello?” she called out tentatively.

Silence.

“Is anyone out there?” she tried again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a fleeing figure that disappeared into the thickly wooded hillside. A large animal, she thought at first, but then realized the figure had been upright.

She stood motionless for a brief moment and listened. Did she hear the panting again or was her overactive imagination at work? Shrugging, she was about to close the door when she was seized by panic. On the ground in front of her lay Sarah’s wig, the black tresses tangled and matted.

“Sarah?” she yelled.

The only response was the panting.

She picked up the wig and examined it with shaking hands. Then, very cautiously, she ventured toward the surrounding thickets, moving closer and closer to the sound.

“Sarah, are you out there?” she shouted.

The panting grew louder.

The noise seemed to rise from a bowl-like depression in the heavily wooded area. She went in for a closer look and gasped in horror.

Sarah Libba was sprawled on the ground, caked with dirt. Her dress had been ripped into ribbons. Her small face was wet with ooze that ran down her cheeks and over her naked breast, her legs bare except for the underpants wrapped around her ankles and the sandals on her feet. Sarah’s eyes bulged and convulsed in their sockets, her breaths rapid and shallow. She was on the brink of hyperventilation.

Rina stumbled, caught her balance, then slowly bent down. Sarah cowered, retreating from her approach like a wounded animal. Kneeling down to eye level, Rina saw the fresh bruises on her face.

Sarah balled her hand into a fist and began to pound her breast forcefully. Her eyes entreated the heavens, and she moved her lips in silent supplication. Rina took the woman’s arm and brought her to her feet.

For a small woman, Sarah was surprisingly heavy, and supporting her weight caused Rina to buckle. But somehow she managed to lead the bleating figure inch by inch back into the safe confines of the mikvah. Once inside, she had Sarah lie down. Gently removing the rent clothes, Rina wrapped her bruised and lacerated body in a freshly laundered sheet.

Rina’s first call was to Sarah Libba’s house. She left a message with the baby-sitter to find Sarah’s husband, Zvi, in the study hall and tell him to come to the mikvah immediately. After that she phoned the Rosh Yeshiva. He, of course, was learning also, so she left the same message. Finally, she called the police.

2

Decker picked up the phone, and his mouth fell open as he scratched out the details in a small notebook. He knew the day just had to end up as lousy as it started out. First, it was Jan nagging him for more child support, then the entire day was wasted pursuing a dead-end lead on the Foothill rapist because of that call from the flaky broad. Now, as if things weren’t bad enough, a rape at Jewtown.

Jesus, he thought, looking at the piles of paperwork on his desk. The weather gets hot, and the locals take to the streets. Plus, to beat the heat, the women dress scantier and scantier till some weirdo gets it in his head that “they’re all asking for it anyway.” God, he was sick of this detail. He’d considered transferring back to Homicide, tired of seeing rape survivors hung up to dry by a fucked-up—and misnamed—justice system. At least with Homicide the victims never had to face the perpetrators.

But a rape in Jewtown? Few locals, including himself, had ever set foot in the place. The grounds were gated and walled off, and the Jews kept to themselves, rarely venturing into town except to shop at Safeway or maybe get a car fixed. They were different, but they never caused any trouble. Decker wished he had a city full of ’em. He wondered how God’s chosen were going to deal with a rape and didn’t look forward to getting the answer.

He glanced around and found Marge Dunn at the coffeepot. Walking over to the most popular spot in the room, he touched her lightly on the shoulder.

“I need you, babe.”

She turned around, holding a steaming mug of coffee. Her big-boned frame made people think she was a lot older than her twenty-seven years, but that was okay with her. She liked the respect her height and weight brought her. Her face, in contrast, was soft—large bovine eyes and silky wisps of blond hair. She was an enviable combination of toughness and femininity.

“For you, Peter my love, anything.”

“It’s a dandy. A rape just went down at Jewtown.”

Marge put her cup down. “You’re kidding.”

“No such luck.” Decker frowned, then chewed on his mustache. “Let’s move it.”

“Pete, why don’t you let Hollander take the call?” She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “We’re already working overtime with the Foothill thing, and he’s just come off vacation.”

“I’d love to pass this one over to him, but he’s at Dodger Stadium now.”

“So beep the lazy butt.”

“I don’t believe in interrupting a man at a ball game.”

“How about interrupting a woman with a fresh cup of coffee?”

“Let’s go.”

Decker started for the door. Marge grabbed her purse and followed reluctantly. It was the usual pattern: he hotdogging it, and she trying to slow down the big redhead. One thing about Peter, Marge thought, he was a good cop, smart and dedicated. But it worked against him. The brass constantly saddled him with all the rotten cases.

Together they left the station—a dilapidated stucco building, once white, now washed with grayish grime—and walked to the brightly lit parking lot. Flipping Marge the keys to a faded bronze ’79 Plymouth, Decker scrunched into the passenger side and pushed the bench seat back to the maximum. Like a fucking sardine, he thought as his shin grazed the undersurface of the dashboard. One day the Department would have unmarkeds that accommodated someone over six feet. When I’m ready to retire.

He rolled down the window. Jesus, it was hot. Decker could already feel moist circles under his armpits and rivulets of sweat running down his neck and back. He hiked up his shirt sleeves and leaned a thick, freckled arm out the window.

“Scorcher,” Marge said. “Must be hell with your metabolism.”

“I always know when we’re about to get a heat wave,” Decker moaned. “The air-conditioning goes out in the car a week before.”

“A rape in Jewtown,” Marge muttered. “I’ve always thought of the place as sacrosanct. Sort of like a convent. Who’d rape a nun?”

“Who’d rape, period?” Decker said.

“Good point.”

Marge started the engine and eyed him. “You look exceptionally bad tonight, Peter.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

Marge peeled rubber. “I sure hope this isn’t the first in a string of Jew rapes.”

Decker exhaled audibly, thinking the same thing. Some people had lots of animosity toward the Jews. Their place had been hit several times by vandals, but there hadn’t been any violence against the people themselves. Not until tonight.

“Let’s take it one step at a time, Marge. Maybe there’ll be a logical explanation for the whole thing.”

“I doubt it, Peter,” she said. “There never is.” She drove quickly and competently. “How’re your horses?”

“I just got a pinto filly,” he said, smiling. “A real cutie.”

“How many are you up to now?”

“Lillian makes six.”

“You must shovel lots of shit, Peter.”

“True, but unlike the urban version, it’s biodegradable.” He lit a cigarette. “How’s old Clarence?”

“Speaking of shit,” Marge grumbled.

“Oh?”

“He forgot to tell me about the wife, the two kids, and the dog.”

“The louse.”

“Stop laughing. That’s exactly what he was. As far as I’m concerned he’s dead and buried. You’re not up to date, Pete. My newest is Ernst. He’s a concert violinist for the Glendale Philharmonic. We’ve played some nice flute-violin duets. When I get good enough, I’ll invite you and the lucky date of your choice to a recital.”

“I’d like that.” He smiled at the image of the big woman playing such a delicate instrument. A cello would have seemed more in character. Not that she had any talent. The guy must really be hot for Marge, he thought, to put up with her playing, which Decker had always likened to a horny parrot’s mating call. He couldn’t understand how she could continue with music if her ears heard the same thing that his did. The only logical conclusion was that she was deaf and had maintained the secret all these years by artful lip reading.

Marge turned onto TWO HUNDRED TEN East, and the Plymouth grunted as it picked up speed.

Decker dragged on his cigarette, looked out the window, and surveyed his turf. Los Angeles conjured up all sorts of images, he thought: the tinsel and glitter of the movie industry, the lapping waves and beach bunnies of Malibu, decadent dope parties and extravagant shopping sprees in Beverly Hills. What it didn’t conjure up was the terrain through which they were riding.

The area encompassing Foothill Division was the city’s neglected child. It lacked the glamour of West L.A., the ethnicity of the east side, the funk of Venice beach, the suburban complacency of the Valley.

What it did have was lots of crime.

Bordering and surrounding other cities, each with a separate police department, Foothill’s domain could best be described as a mixture of small, depressed towns segregated from each other by mountains and scrub. Some of the pocket communities housed lower-class whites, biker gangs, and displaced cowboys, others were ghettos for blacks and migrant Hispanics, but most had a common denominator—poverty. People scratching by, people not getting by at all. Even Jewtown. These people weren’t the wealthy Jews portrayed by the media. It was possible that the yeshiva held a secret cache of diamonds, but you’d never know it by looking at its inhabitants. They dressed cheaply, buying most of their clothes at Target or Zody’s, and drove broken-down cars like the rest of the locals.

The station was twenty freeway minutes away from the yeshiva—a quick ride along a serpentine strip of road cut into the San Gabriel mountains. In the dark, the hillside lurked over the asphalt, casting giant shadows. The air in the canyon was hot and stagnant, but as the Plymouth sped along, a cool jet stream churned through the open windows.

“I’m glad you were available,” Decker said. “You do a hell of an interview.”

“Sensitivity, Peter. That’s why I work so well with the kids in Juvey. Being a victim of life myself, I know how to talk to people who have been thoroughly fucked up. Like you, for instance.”

Decker smiled and crushed the cigarette butt in the overflowing ashtray. “Is that an example of your sensitivity?”

“At its finest.” Marge’s face grew stern. “I’m not looking forward to this. The Jews don’t relate well to outsiders.”

“No, they don’t,” he agreed. “But rape survivors experience lots of common feelings. Maybe that’ll supersede the xenophobic inclinations.”

“Yes sir, Professor,” said Marge, saluting. She pulled onto a winding turn-off ramp marked Deep Canyon Thoroughfare, Deep Canyon. The “thoroughfare” was a two-lane road blemished with dips and bumps. The unmarked car bounced along for a mile, until the street turned into a newly paved four-lane stretch.

They cruised slowly for another mile, inspecting the street with cops’ wariness. Scores of local kids were hanging out in front of the 7-Eleven, sitting on the hoods of souped-up cars while smoking and drinking. Their raucous laughter and curses sounded intermittently above ghetto-blasters wailing in the hot night air. While the teenagers filled themselves with Slurpees and Coke, their elders tanked up on Jim Beam or Old Grand Dad at the Goodtimes Tavern. The place was doing a bang-up business judging from the number of cars parked in the lot.

In front of the Adult Love bookstore, a group of bikers congregated, decked out in leather and metal. The ass-kickers leaned lazily against their gleaming choppers and stared at the unmarked as it drove by.

As they headed north the activity began to thin. They passed a scrap metal dealership, a building supply wholesaler, a discount supermarket, and a caravan of churches. Poor people were always attracted to God, Decker mused. The area was a natural for a yeshiva—except for the anti-Semitism.

The street narrowed and worked its way into the hillside, the landscape changing abruptly from urban to rural. Heavy thickets of brush and trees flanked the Plymouth, occasionally scraping its sides as it meandered through the mountains. Two miles farther was another turn-off, then the property line of Yeshivat Ohavei Torah.

Marge pulled the car onto a dirt clearing and parked. Decker stepped outside, took a deep breath, and stretched. The dry air singed his throat.

“Gate should be open,” Marge said. “The place is all walled in, but they always leave the gate open.”

“They’ve been vandalized at least twice and you can’t get them to put a lock on the damn gate.” Decker shook the wire fence. “This is just a psychological barrier, anyway. Wouldn’t stop a serious intruder.”

He pushed open the gate and walked inside. “Let’s get on with it.”

The grounds of the yeshiva were well tended but sparsely planted. A huge, flat expanse of lawn was surrounded by low brush and several flat-roofed buildings. Across the lawn, directly in their field of vision, was the largest—a two-story cube of cement. To its right were a stucco annex off the main building, a nest of tiny tract homes, and a gravel lot speckled with cars, to its left, two smaller bungalow-like structures. Behind the houses and buildings were dense woodlands rising to barren, mountainous terrain.

Decker gave the area a quick once-over. The rapist could have entered the grounds anywhere and exited into the backlands. They’d never be able to find him. Unless, of course, he was someone from the inside.

The two detectives walked on a dimly lit path that ran the length of the lawn.

“Where are we going, Peter?”

Decker looked around and saw two figures approaching. They were dressed in black pants, white long-sleeved shirts, and black hats. They must be dying in the heat, he thought. As they drew closer, he saw that both of the men were young—barely out of their teens—and thin, with short beards and glasses. They walked in a peculiar manner, clasping their hands behind their backs instead of swinging them naturally at their sides.

“Excuse me,” Decker said, taking out his shield.

One of the men, the taller of the two, squinted and read the badge. “Yes, Detective? Is anything wrong?”

“Can you please direct us to the bathhouse?” Decker asked.

Both of the boys broke into laughter.

“I think you’re in the wrong place,” the shorter one said, smiling.

“Try Hollywood,” the taller one suggested.

Decker was annoyed. “We received a report that an incident took place here, at the bathhouse.”

“An incident?” said the short one in a grave voice. “You mean a criminal incident?”

“Do you think they mean the mikvah?” the taller one asked his friend, then turned to Decker: “You mean the mikvah?”

“Maybe you should direct us to this mikvah,” Marge said.

“You can’t go there now,” the tall one said to Decker. “It’s only open to women at this time of night.”

The short one prodded him. “The incident obviously has to do with the mikvah.” He looked at Decker and asked, “Was anyone hurt?”

“Stop asking them questions and answer theirs,” his friend scolded, then said to Decker: “The mikvah is that little building in the corner.”

“Thank you,” Marge answered, walking away.

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” the big one added.

Decker gave them a smile, but not a reassuring one.

They walked a few steps, then Marge said, “Notice how they looked at me?”

“They didn’t.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

They’d arrived before the black-and-whites.

Marge knocked on the door and a young dark-haired woman opened it, allowing them to enter after a flash of badges. Immediately, the murmuring that had filled the room died. The detectives were greeted with icy, suspicious stares from four kerchief-headed women crammed into the reception area. In the corner, an elderly bearded man who looked like a rabbi was whispering into the ear of a younger man who was rapidly rocking back and forth.

The young woman motioned them outside.

“I’m Rina Lazarus, the one who called the police,” she said. “The women inside were here earlier tonight. We’ve called a meeting to find out if anyone heard or saw anything unusual on their way home. Unfortunately, no one did.”

“What happened?” Decker asked.

She hesitated and looked around. “A woman was raped.”

“Where is she?” Marge asked.

“With one of the women in a dressing room. She’s about to take a bath—”

“She can’t do that until she’s been examined,” said Marge sharply.

“I know,” Rina said. “The officer I spoke to over the phone mentioned that, but I don’t know if she’s going to be willing to have herself examined.”

Marge eyed Decker, then said: “I’ll talk to her.” Turning to Rina, she asked: “What’s her name?”

“Sarah Libba Adler.”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Mrs.”

“Is she dressed?” asked Marge.

“I’m not sure. Her husband brought her a change of clothes, but I don’t know if she put them on yet. You’ll have to knock on the door to the bathroom and ask.”

“Where are the original clothes?” Decker asked.

“In a paper sack to the left of the bathhouse door. They’re nothing more than shreds but I thought you might want them.”

“We do,” Marge said. She slapped Peter on the back and disappeared inside.

Rina wasn’t comfortable being alone with a man, even a detective, and suggested they go back inside. That was fine with Decker since the mikvah was air-conditioned. Then seeing two uniforms coming toward the building, Decker motioned them over. He excused himself for a moment, then brought the policemen back to Rina.

“Ma’am, do you know where the rape took place?” Decker asked.

“Over there.” She pointed to an area two hundred feet to the right of the entrance to the bathhouse.

“Could you show us the exact spot so we don’t accidentally trample on evidence?” asked Decker.

She led them to the depression in the brush.

“I don’t know if he actually”—she paused to catch her breath—“if he actually raped her here, but this is where I found her.”

“You found the victim?”

She nodded.

“Was she conscious at the time?”

“Yes. Baruch Hashem.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Mrs. Adler was conscious.”

“That’s fine,” Decker said. He faced the uniforms. “Cordon off this area and call the lab boys. Then poke around and see what you can come up with.”

He turned back to Rina.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Can we go back inside the bathhouse?”

“Certainly.”

Rina led him back into the building and to a quiet corner. He was a big man, she thought, with strong features and, despite the fair skin and ginger hair, dark penetrating eyes. He looked intimidating yet competent, a man who’d know how to hunt an animal like a rapist. Although she knew size had nothing to do with apprehending a criminal, she was still glad he was big.

“You told me your name, but I didn’t catch it,” said Decker.

“Rina Lazarus,” she answered, then quickly added, “Mrs.”

Decker smiled to himself.

“Exactly what happened, Mrs. Lazarus?” he asked.

“I was grading papers right there”—Rina pointed to the armchair—“and I heard a scream. I went outside and saw something take off into the woods. Then, I found her wig lying on the ground and knew something was wrong …” Her voice trailed off, and she shuddered.

“You saw something fleeing into the brush?” he asked, slipping out a pocket pad.

She nodded.

“Where?”

“From the spot I showed you … Maybe a little farther down to the right.”

“Did you see something or someone?”

“I’m not sure. It happened so fast.” Rina sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. You’re doing fine. Let’s try taking it from the beginning. You’re inside this mikvah … What’s a mikvah, by the way? Like a health club?”

“It’s a ritual bathhouse. Women come here to dunk for spiritual purification.”

“Like a baptism?”

Rina nodded. It was close enough.

“Okay, you were inside and you heard a scream outside. What did you do?”

“I opened the door and looked outside. I heard panting.”

“Panting?”

She nodded. “Next thing I knew something fled into the bushes.” Her eyes lit up. “I think it was a person because it was upright.”

“Could you describe any details at all?”

“No. It was nearly pitch black, and his clothing was dark. I only saw him for a second.”

“Tall, short, fat, thin, muscular?”

“Average.”

“Did the figure look shorter or taller than me?”

“Offhand, I’d say shorter than you”—she looked up at him—“but you’re very tall, so I guess that isn’t saying a lot.”

“But you think the figure was human.”

She nodded.

“Could you tell if it was male or female?”

“No.”

Decker began to scrawl some notes on the pad, then looked up: “Okay. After the figure disappeared, what did you do?”

Rina’s eyes darted about. Several of the women were staring at her, Chana in particular. Rina looked back at Decker and lowered her voice. “I saw Mrs. Adler’s wig. Then I found her in the bushes. Her clothes had been ripped off and she’d been …” Her eyes welled up with tears.

Decker liked this one. She had an intangible presence—a quiet elegance. And she didn’t cover her hair with a kerchief like the others, allowing him a view of her thick, black mane. There was something classic about her face—the oval shape, creamy skin, full, soft mouth, startling blue eyes. Doll her up and she’d blend nicely into high society.

“It must have been quite a shock,” he said, offering her a tissue.

She took it and wiped her cheeks. “To say the least. All of us are stunned. We’re so closely identified with one another, and now we feel so vulnerable. It could have been anyone of us, especially me. I happened to run a little late tonight. She was attacked at the time I usually go home.”

“Do you live on the grounds?”

“Of course.”

“How do you usually get home?”

“I walk. It takes me five minutes.”

“And no one has ever approached you?”

“Nobody, Detective. Nobody. We’re isolated out here. I guess that makes us perfect victims for some lunatic, but it never occurred to us before. The mikvah door isn’t even locked.”

“You’ve been hit by vandals—”

“Mostly kids. Both we and the police know who they are. They’re a nuisance, something we wish we didn’t have to deal with, but we’ve never thought of them as … as rapists.”

Decker thought a moment, then resumed the questioning.

“There’s no lock on the door?”

“That’s right.”

“You mean women regularly come here to dunk in holy water in an unlocked building?”

She shrugged sheepishly.

“As I said, we’ve never thought about it.”

“Do you have any security patrol on the grounds?”

Rina shook her head.

“This place is an anachronism, Mrs. Lazarus. You’re sitting ducks. It’s amazing you’ve lasted this long without an assault. Call a locksmith tomorrow, and get a dead bolt on the door. And discuss with your neighbors the possibility of getting a wired fence and gate. Anyone can break through the one you have now and escape into the forest.”

“It wouldn’t work because on the Sabbath—” She stopped herself. He wouldn’t understand.

Decker looked at her, expecting to hear more. Instead she cast a flurry of glances around the room.

A pretty one, he thought, but very jumpy. Then again, she was stressed. He wouldn’t mind talking to her again in a couple of days if the occasion presented itself.

“Is that all?” Rina asked.

“Just about, for the moment. How do you spell your name, Mrs. Lazarus?”

“R-i-n-a L-a-z-a-r-u-s.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Address?”

“Twenty-two Road C.”

Marge interrupted their interview. Decker knew from the disheartened look on her face that it hadn’t gone well.

“I got nowhere, Pete. She refuses to go in for the exam, and says she doesn’t remember anything. She spent almost the entire time praying.” She turned to Rina. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with praying, but it won’t help us find the man who raped her.”

“Maybe she thinks it will,” Rina said defensively.

Marge grimaced and turned to Decker.

“She still hasn’t bathed, but the longer she waits—”

“The woman has been traumatized,” Rina snapped. “You can’t expect her to make split-second decisions.”

Marge said nothing. Rape cases, especially ones with recalcitrant witnesses, got to her, but she was too good a cop to lose her cool. She took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully. Decker liked her control. And he knew that if Marge couldn’t bring out this woman, no one in the division could. They needed help from the inside.

“Mrs. Lazarus, you’ve been very helpful. And you seem like a very reasonable woman. You know we need Mrs. Adler’s cooperation if we want to catch this animal.” Decker paused to let his words sink in. “If you were in our shoes, how’d you go about gaining it?”

Rina looked to her left and into Chana’s scrutinizing eyes. She knew she’d spent too much time gabbing to the police.

“I can’t give you any advice,” she whispered. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t bother trying to enlist Mrs. Adler’s help directly. I’d talk to that man in the corner.”

“Is he the rabbi?” Decker asked.

Rina nodded. “He’s the head rabbi—the Rosh Yeshiva, the director of this place. There are a lot of rabbis here. The man he’s talking to is Mrs. Adler’s husband. Be patient and you might have some luck. I’ve got to go now.”

Decker flipped out a business card and handed it to her. “If you happen to think of anything else, or hear anything interesting, that’s my number.”

Rina slipped it in her skirt pocket.

“How are you going to get home?” Marge asked.

“The women will walk with me.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Marge asked. Part of the offer, Decker knew, was genuine concern for the women’s safety; the other was an attempt to get a little more insight into the yeshiva.

“Thank you very much, but we’ll be okay. Please be easy with Sarah. She’s a lovely person, and a wonderful wife and mother.”

“We’ll handle it as sensitively as we can,” Decker said.

Rina rejoined the women, and they left en masse.

A shame, he thought. He wouldn’t have minded looking at her face for a few more minutes.

3

“Shall we pay a visit to the man of the cloth?” asked Marge.

Decker tapped his foot. “I think the best way to go about this is a division of labor. You wait with Mrs. Adler and make sure she doesn’t wash away evidence, and I’ll have a whirl with the rabbi.”

Marge hadn’t paid all those dues to be a baby-sitter, but she didn’t protest the arrangement. She knew Pete had a better chance of getting somewhere if the two men spoke alone and reminded herself that Decker wasn’t a sexist pig like some of the others.

“How are the uniforms doing in the bushes?” she asked.

“Might be a good idea if you found out.”

Scouring the brush sounded more appealing to Marge than staring at a fanatical rape survivor. She’d pay a quick visit to the lady, then try her luck outside.

After Marge left, Decker eyed the husband and the rabbi. They hadn’t moved since the detective entered the room half an hour ago. The younger man was still rocking, and the rabbi’s mouth was still up against his ear.

He walked over to them. If they were aware of his presence, they gave no physical indication. But Decker was a patient man. He’d bide his time instead of storm-trooping it. It would take longer but was more likely to produce results. Which is what the job was all about.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything to rush home to. He’d fed and groomed the horses and left Ginger some hamburger earlier in the evening. Next to his daughter, the animals and the ranch were the loves of his life. There was no place like home in the daylight: the glow of the sun-drenched living room, the air pungent with the tangy smell of citrus from the groves, exercising the horses, working up a sweat. After the time he spent dealing with human slime, it made him feel clean.

But the nights he found lonely. He knew some women, and that helped, but the relief was short-lived. More and more he found himself coming back to the station after the sun went down. Such had been the case tonight.

Decker parked himself in the overstuffed armchair, the one that the Lazarus woman had sat in while she graded papers. So she was a teacher. Made sense. She dressed like a schoolmarm—collar buttoned up to the chin, long-sleeved blouse and below-the-knee A-line skirt. Of course, so did all the other women in the place. Even primmer.

But there was something about her that was different—more secular. Maybe it was her long, loose hair. He tried to imagine her out of the yeshiva context and dressed in more contemporary fashion. Tight pants and a clingy sweater. Then he shifted gears and visualized her in a string bikini, that thick black hair hanging down a smooth, slender back, skin deeply bronzed, her ass slightly falling out of the panty bottoms as she waded in the water. He’d bet she had a nice ass under all that camouflage.

He reveled in his fantasies, then snapped himself out of it. She was religious and married. Shit. When he’d been married, it had seemed as if the whole world was single, and now that he was single, all the desirables had been snatched up.

Why was he always one step behind, in work as well as romance? Like with the Foothill rapist. Just when Decker thought he’d figured out his next move, the asshole would elude him with a change of technique. He wondered if this case was his handiwork. Unlikely, since the Foothill rapes had always taken place in Sylmar, far west of this area. But you never knew: The prick was clever with twists and turns.

He glanced back to the rabbi, who was still talking. What was he saying to the husband? Life goes on? You’ll survive, she did? Decker felt a great deal of empathy for the young man. He could sense the rage, the frustration and helplessness. (“I wasn’t there to prevent this.”) Buddy, if it’s any consolation, there are plenty of others who have felt the same way you do. Decker had spoken to hundreds of them.

Marge returned from talking with Mrs. Adler, gave him a thumbs up sign, and went outside. Good. The lady still hadn’t bathed.

Finally Decker caught the rabbi’s eye, and the old man gave him a cordial nod. The detective knew he was going to have his chance soon and was determined not to come away empty-handed.

Ten minutes later, the rabbi got up and so did Decker. The husband walked away without a word.

The rabbi was a tall man, not as tall as Decker, but at least six one. Decker put him in his early seventies. Much of his face was covered with a long salt-and-pepper beard, and what wasn’t hidden by hair was a road-map of creases. His eyes were dark brown, clear and alert, the brows white and furry. For a man his age he was straight-backed, slender, and a fastidious dresser. His black pants were razor-pressed, his white shirt starched stiff, and the black Prince Albert coat carefully tailored. Crowning his head was a black felt homburg. It all added up to a stately demeanor. Regal, like an archbishop.

“Thank you for bearing with me,” the rabbi said, offering him a firm, dry hand. “Terrible, terrible thing.”

The old man’s voice was crisp and slightly accented.

“How’s he holding up?”

“Zvi?”

“He’s the husband, isn’t he?”

The rabbi nodded. “He’s in shock, almost as bad as his wife. Numb.”

Decker said nothing, suddenly feeling tired. He was sick of crud.

“What can I do for you?” the old man asked.

“Please sit down, Rabbi.” Decker offered him the armchair.

“Thank you, but I prefer to stand. I sit all day.”

“That’s fine.”

“Would it bother you if I smoked?” the rabbi said.

“On the contrary, it sounds like a fine idea.” Decker took out a pack and offered one to him.

The rabbi shook his head. “Those aren’t cigarettes. The tobacco leaves have been sprayed, watered down, processed, and diluted by a filter.” He pulled out a silver case, opened it, and showed him a dozen hand-rolled cigarettes. “Try a real smoke.”

Decker lit the rabbi’s, then took one for himself and lit up.

Both of them inhaled in silence.

“Nu, so how does it taste?” the rabbi asked.

“It’s wonderful tobacco.”

“My own special blend. Turkish with just a hint of Latakia.” The rabbi blew out a haze of smoke. “Now, how can I be of service?”

Decker ran his fingers through his hair. “We’re having a bit of a compliance problem here, Rabbi. Mrs. Adler isn’t willing to have herself examined for criminal evidence.”

“Internally?”

“Internally and externally. She’s not willing to have her bodily injuries photographed either. Although it’s much easier with pictures, we could get by with detailed notes. But we really need the internal.”

The rabbi stared at him impassively.

“Since you’re the head of this place I was hoping you could persuade her to help us out.”

“I suppose you could demand legally that she come in for the exam,” the rabbi said.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. The poor woman has already gone through enough.”

“You’re a wise boy, Detective. You don’t mind me calling you boy, do you? I call all my bochrim—my pupils—boys. At my age everyone around me looks like a boy.”

Decker smiled.

“I didn’t catch your name, Detective.”

“Decker. Peter Decker.” He handed the rabbi a card.

“Decker,” the rabbi mouthed to himself. “I am Rav Aaron Schulman.”

“Honored, Rabbi Schulman.”

The old man let out a cough.

“Mrs. Adler is a free agent. Despite what the local residents think, this place isn’t a cult and I’m not a guru. People are free to come and go on their own. More important, people are free to think on their own.”

He began to pace. “I can’t go up to her and say, ‘Sarah Libba, cooperate with this man.’ That’s not my function. But if you want some advice, I can give you some.”

The Rosh Yeshiva’s voice had taken on a sing-song cadence.

“Please, Rabbi.”

“If you want to get her to cooperate, you’re going to have to understand a little about her before this ordeal. Psychologically and sociologically. The women here have their own doctor, in Sherman Oaks I believe. A female named Dr. Birnbaum. Phyllis Birnbaum. I don’t think Sarah Libba’s frightened about the exam per se, but she’s not going to allow herself to be touched by a man, especially after what happened.”

Schulman sucked hard on the cigarette, causing the tip to glow bright orange.

“So if I were you, instead of wasting my time trying to talk her into something, I’d call up my captain and see if the Department can’t work something out—an exception—allowing Dr. Birnbaum to act as a medical examiner this once. No doubt there will be bureaucratic problems. But if you want it to get done, it will get done, my boy. Correct?”

Decker smiled and nodded assent.

“After Dr. Birnbaum has been approved by the officials, I’d call her up and request her help. She’s a conscientious woman, and I’m sure she’ll cooperate. Then, I’d have your female partner approach Sarah Libba and say the exam will be with Dr. Birnbaum, the same one who delivered two of your four lovely children. And if you feel it’s necessary, you may say that Rav Schulman says it’s permissible halachically—according to the rules of Judaism—to be examined.”

The old man was a sharpie. Decker liked him. But not as much as the Lazarus girl.

Marge and the two uniforms walked in.

“Nada, Pete,” she said. “I came up dry.”

“Didn’t expect anything really.” Decker made introductions, then turned to the patrolmen—two linebackers. The one named Hunter seemed to be in his middle twenties. The senior partner, Ramirez, was shorter and looked ten years older.

“Find any tracks or hear anything?” Decker asked.

“There are plenty of tracks,” Hunter said. “Deer, rabbit, coyote, lots of cats. But nothing that looks human.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“We’ll file a report of what we found,” Ramirez said, then amended it. “Or rather, didn’t find. It’ll be ready by tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

After they left, Decker turned to Marge. “I’ve got to make a call to headquarters and try to arrange a deal. You’ve got to call a Dr. Phyllis Birnbaum in Sherman Oaks, explain what went on here, and ask her if she’d be willing to open up her office and do a forensic internal on Mrs. Adler now.”

Marge looked skeptical.

“I know it’s irregular, but it seems to be the only thing we’ve got.” Decker turned to Rav Schulman. “Do you think Mrs. Adler would object to a county doctor working side by side with Dr. Birnbaum?”

“If the doctor was a man she’d object. I’d try and keep it as natural as possible. Even then, Mrs. Adler still might not agree.”

Decker reached for a cigarette, but the rabbi was too quick for him, offering him one of the homemades. He took it eagerly.

“Marge, see if you can get Mrs. Adler to agree to see Dr. Birnbaum. I’ll call Morrison.” He faced the rabbi. “That’s the station’s captain. He’s a good guy, eminently reasonable.”

The rabbi spoke up.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back to my duties. On Thursdays I give a midnight lecture to the advanced students. Feel free to use the phone in the mikvah.”

“Thanks for your cooperation, Rabbi. And please call me if you have questions or suspicions.”

Decker held out his hand and the rabbi took it, pumping it several times with surprising strength.

“This is our home, Detective Decker. At least until we all make it to the Holy Land. We were not intimidated by vandals. We will not be intimidated by rapists, thieves, or murderers. If the police can’t adequately protect us, we will use our own means.”

“The police are on your side, Rabbi,” said Marge. “Unfortunately, with budget cuts, there’s not a whole lot of us to go around.”

“Rabbi Schulman,” Decker said, “I’ve already suggested a dead bolt on this door to Mrs. Lazarus. And I also mentioned building a safer fence and gate. But frankly, there are a few misinformed people out there who have something against you people. It mightn’t be the worst idea to obtain a security guard for the place.”

The rabbi nodded. “Especially for Mrs. Lazarus’s safety. She has to walk home from here every night. I was never worried until now.”

“Maybe her husband can pick her up,” Marge suggested.

“She’s a widow.” The rabbi thought out loud: “I could have one of the bochrim walk her, but she’s a religious woman and might object to walking home alone with a man. And I’m too old to offer much protection.”

“There are female security guards,” Marge said.

“Perhaps I am being overly optimistic, but I’m hoping that this is an isolated incident and it won’t come to that. But if something proves me wrong, rest assured that we will do whatever is necessary to protect ourselves. In the meantime, I will call up Rina Miriam and work something out individually with her.”

The rabbi patted Decker on the shoulder.

“I must go to my pupils. Find this monster, Detective.” He nodded good-bye to Marge and left.

“I don’t know about this case,” Marge said when they were alone.

Decker shrugged. “I’d better call the station.”

“You think this is going to be an isolated incident?”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “No. He got away with it once. I’ll lay odds he’ll try again.”

“That Lazarus woman is a perfect target.”

“You’d better believe it.”

“You might want to call the poor widow and tell her,” Marge said, grinning. “All in the name of civic interest, of course.”

“Of course. What kind of cop would I be if I settled for less?”

“Forget it, Pete. She won’t walk with a guy, let alone do anything you’d be interested in.”

He smiled, then his face turned serious. “If the Adler woman doesn’t open up, you know what we’ve got? Nothing. No evidence or M.O., ergo no suspect. A big, cold zilch.”

He thought a moment.

“Let me run this by you, Margie. We’re assuming she’s not talking because she’s traumatized and religious. Maybe she’s hiding something.”

“Think it’s one of the yeshiva men?”

“Or a local punk who has her terrorized. Remember a year ago when they were extorting money out of some of the students here.”

She shrugged.

“I didn’t pick up any of those vibes, Pete. She didn’t seem to be holding back.” Marge pounded her fist into an open palm. “Damn it, she seemed like a nice woman. Even though her lips were zipped, you could tell she was a nice woman.”

“We’d better get a move on. I’ll use the radio to call headquarters, and you can use the phone here to call this Dr. Birnbaum. Hope she knows what she’s doing. Then you’ll have to get it okayed with Mrs. Adler. Let’s see some of that first-rate sensitivity in action.”

“Another long night,” Marge groaned. “But aren’t they all when you’re working in muck.”

4

Rina gave up on sleep. She’d attempted it, but no rest had come. Only distorted holograms of the ghastly event.

Then came the phone call from the detective. Sarah Libba could be persuaded to have herself examined by Dr. Birnbaum, but only if she could reimmerse in the mikvah afterward. Being the mikvah lady, could Rina please help out?

Of course she’d help out. Even if it meant waiting up the rest of the night, trembling with fear, jumping at the slightest sound.

She got up from the couch and made herself another cup of tea in the kitchen. With no air-conditioning and all the windows closed, the house had become a furnace. Her clothes were soaked with sweat. Her tichel—the head covering she wore in the presence of outsiders—was hot and itchy against her scalp. But she couldn’t shake the chills.

She glanced at her watch. It was close to two A.M. How much longer would it take? At least she’d used most of the waiting time wisely by cooking for Shabbos. The room smelled wonderful.

The timer on the stove went off. The bell startled her, causing her heart to pump wildly. She brought her hand to her breast, then went over to the oven and took out the noodle kugel. Despite all her anxiety, the food had turned out perfectly—chicken juicy, roasted to a golden brown, six braided challahs, full and fluffy and topped generously with poppy seeds, the soup brimming with fresh vegetables. She was expecting company for the Friday evening meal. The Kriegers and their three kids, plus two of her tenth-grade students. With her two boys and herself that made ten altogether. By tomorrow, she hoped she’d be calm enough to pull off the role of gracious hostess.

The doorbell rang and she bolted up. Looking through the peephole, she saw the two detectives. She opened the door and invited them inside.

The living room was tiny. Most of the floor space was taken up by the sofa, coffee table, an armchair, and bookcases overflowing with volumes of Hebrew books. The walls were covered with artwork on Jewish themes and family photographs. Though the place was neat, Decker felt cramped and claustrophobic—Gulliver in the land of Lilliput. He loosened his tie and stood at the threshold of the open door.

“Something smells great,” Marge commented.

“Thank you,” answered Rina, nervously. “I had to do something with myself.”

“We appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Lazarus,” said Decker. He noticed that she’d covered her hair.

“If Sarah Libba was willing to help, how could I say no?”

“It’s late. We’d better get on with it,” he said. “One of us will stay here to watch your kids. The other will walk you over.”

She knew he was giving her the choice, and it wasn’t an easy one. According to the halacha, Decker should be the one to stay and the woman should walk with her. But Rina knew that should her kids wake up they’d be more terrified by a strange man than a strange woman.

She made her decision and felt it necessary to explain why.

“Do you mind if I open up a window?” Marge asked.

“No, no. I’m sorry about the heat. But after what happened, I was afraid to keep them open.”

“It’s probably a good idea for the time being to keep them closed at night.” Decker held the door open for her. “Let’s get going.”

Rina stepped outside and basked in the fresh air. The night had cooled a bit. No moon was out, but starlight filtered through the thick branches of the eucalyptus and pines. A lone nightingale sang its aria to the spangled heavens, the crickets provided the chorus. She tried not to look at the detective, but her eyes kept drifting toward his face. He finally caught her glance and smiled. She quickly lowered her gaze and kept it fixed on the ground. Their footsteps seemed abnormally loud. Finally, she spoke just to ease her anxiety.

“I take it Rav Schulman was helpful?”

“Invaluable.” Decker noticed she was walking a good ten feet away from him.

“He’s a brilliant man,” she said.

“I can believe that.”

“He’s a lawyer as well as a rabbi, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.” Decker slowed his pace slightly. “Where’d he go to law school?”

“First in Europe. Then he graduated from Columbia. That’s in New York.”

Decker smiled. “Yes, I know.”

Rina felt embarrassed. “Yes, I’m sure you do know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I—I’m very upset.”

“You have good reason to be.”

She didn’t answer, feeling she’d talked too much.

They walked a few more steps, then Decker spoke: “Well, the rabbi and I have something in common. I was a lawyer once. I even practiced for a whole six months.”

“That’s interesting,” she said politely.

She doesn’t give a damn about you, asshole, so cut the bullshit and do your job.

Decker said nothing.

The silence became tangible.

“Why did you give it up?” she asked to break it, and immediately added, “I don’t mean to get personal.”

“No problem. I became a cop.”

“Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

Now she was sounding intrusive—as big a yenta as Chana. Why was she running off like this with a total stranger …

He let out a small laugh. “Yes, it usually is.”

They walked the rest of the way without speaking.

Sarah Libba was with a policewoman in the backseat of a patrol car. In the front sat the partner—a beefy man with a pencil-line mustache. In the background was radio noise: clipped calls and static. The female officer helped Sarah Libba out of the car, then Rina took her arm and led her inside the mikvah. Decker dismissed the uniforms, saying he’d take it from here.

Rina flicked on the lights.

“It will take about forty-five minutes, Detective,” she said.

“Do what’s necessary.”

Rina took her into the bathroom, went to the tub, and turned the hot water spigot full blast. They waited together and watched the steaming water pour into the bath. Rina felt awkward. She suddenly realized how people must have felt during the shiva, her mourning period for Yitzchak. She’d talked a lot during those seven days, possessed with an overpowering sensation to speak about him and his death. Some people had been extremely uncomfortable as she rambled on about a dead man. But others were relieved that the burden of conversation had been lifted from their shoulders. What would Sarah Libba want now?

She felt she must say something.

“I’m sorry, Sarah.”

The other woman looked at her with tears in her eyes.

“I’m truly lucky,” she said softly. “I thank Hashem that I’m alive. I would be a fool to think otherwise.”

The two of them embraced, then sobbed.

“Of all the people who could have found me, I was glad it was you,” she whispered, still hugging Rina desperately. “You understand pain and know how to deal with it. I don’t think someone else would have been as calm.”

“I’m glad I was helpful to you.”

Sarah Libba broke away. “You were.”

“Was the exam bad?”

“No, it was like a regular exam.”

“That’s good.”

Sarah tried a smile, but her face crumpled. Rina took her in her arms again.

“You’re safe now,” she cooed and rocked her. “It’s all over.”

“It will never be over,” the other woman wailed.

“You’re safe.”

Sarah cried for a while, then reluctantly broke away. “I’m all right, Rina. I’d like to be left alone. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“I’ll go heat the mikvah and wait for you. Just come out when you’re ready.”

Forty minutes later, Sarah came out of the adjoining door, wrapped in a white sheet. Her hair was dripping wet but free of tangles, and on her feet were paper sandals. She took off the slippers, stepped onto the bathmat, and dropped the sheet to reveal her naked body.

Rina immediately saw the ugly bruises on her chest, buttocks, and left thigh—deep red and raised, as if the milky skin had erupted in anger. She was seized with sadness.

Though she didn’t have to, Rina went through all the rituals, just like the first time. She checked the nails on Sarah’s small fingers and toes to make sure they’d been recently clipped and were spotlessly clean, and examined the soles of her feet for specks of dirt. Examining the soft arms gently, she found them gouged and raked.

“You know,” Sarah said, her voice breaking, “I don’t even know if I can use the mikvah with all these fresh scrapes.”

Rina softly moved her fingers over the damaged flesh. “They didn’t soak off the half hour you were in the bath. They don’t come off easily. I think you can go in with them.”

She knew that the brief halachic debate was symbolic, as was the redunking itself. Despite the fact that she’d been raped, Sarah Libba was permitted to have sex with her husband. Her first dip had purified her.

But that wasn’t the relevant issue at all. Sarah wanted to start over; she needed to undo what had been done.

Rina scrutinized Sarah Libba’s back, chest, and arms for loose hairs that might have adhered accidentally to the skin. There were none. She moved on to the routine questions. Had Sarah brushed her teeth? Had she gone to the bathroom? Removed all foreign objects from her body including rings, earrings, dentures, and contact lenses? Sarah answered yes mechanically, and Rina gave her permission to immerse herself.

Sarah walked down the eight steps until the water covered her breasts. At Rina’s nod, she dunked into the water with her eyes and mouth open. When the water covered the top of her head, she popped out and Rina announced that the dip was kosher. Sarah repeated the dunking two more times, then looked up.

Rina handed her a washcloth that Sarah placed on her head. After reciting the prayer out loud, Sarah uttered a few more words to herself and gave the cloth back. She dunked four more times, each one affirmed as kosher, then began her ascent out of the pool. Rina extended her arms and held the sheet open, completely concealing herself from Sarah’s field of vision. When emerging from the mikvah, a woman was honored with complete privacy.

After Sarah reentered the dressing room, Rina cleaned up and shut off the mikvah heater and the lights. Then she had no choice but to wait with Decker in the reception room.

“All done?” he asked.

“We’re just waiting for her to dress.”

“How’s she doing?”

“I’m not sure. Compared to what?”

“Well, is she talking at all?”

“She’s talking. But not about the … the incident, if that’s what you mean.”

“Do you think she might be willing to talk to us sometime later?”

“That’s up to her,” Rina answered.

Decker didn’t pursue the conversation.

“I’m not being deliberately evasive, Detective. I just don’t know.”

“I understand. And I don’t want to put you on the spot. But frankly, without something more concrete, there’s no way we’re going to catch this guy.”

Rina stood up, walked over to the linen closet, and busied herself with rearranging the already neatly folded towels and sheets. A minute later Sarah Libba appeared. Her head was covered with a kerchief—her new shaytel had been confiscated for evidence along with her torn clothing.

Decker rose and held the door open for the women. Rina turned off the waiting room lights, and the three of them walked in silence across the grounds to the residential area, the women in front, he following.

When they reached Sarah’s house, Decker knocked on the door and Zvi answered. He was still dressed in street clothes—white shirt, black slacks, black oxfords and yarmulke. His long, thin face was grim and stoic behind a thick pelt of light brown beard. After helping his wife in, he stepped outside.

“Thank you,” he said politely to Rina.

“If she needs anything, Zvi, call.”

“I will,” he said softly, then focused on Decker. “Are you the detective in charge?”

“Yes, I am.” He gave the young man his card.

Zvi looked at it and placed it in his breast pocket.

“Detective Decker, you find this thing,” he spat out. “You look high and low, and you find this thing. And when you do, you don’t arrest him or put him in jail. You just bring him here and leave me alone with him for an hour. That way justice will be done.”

Decker let the words hang in the air for a moment.

“I’m going to need your wife’s help, Mr. Adler, if I’m going to find him.”

Zvi didn’t seem to hear. He stared into space, finally looked back at Decker. “Just find him and bring him here.” He turned abruptly and walked inside.

Rina knew Sarah wouldn’t talk. The case wasn’t going to go anywhere. She looked at the detective. He knew it too, and she sensed his frustration. They began to walk.

“It’s been a long night,” Rina said.

“Yes, it has.”

“Do you get a lot of long nights?”

“Lately.”

“You’re the detective on the Foothill rapist, aren’t you.”

Decker nodded.

“It didn’t dawn on me before, but now I recall seeing your name in the newspaper.” Rina started to shake. “That nurse who was beaten up, how’s she doing?”

“She’s on the mend.”

“That’s good.” Rina swallowed a dry gulp. “Do you think there’s any connection between this and the other Foothill rapes?”

“Mrs. Lazarus, at this point I honestly don’t know.”

There was so much she now wanted to ask him, but knew she couldn’t. They continued walking, and he stopped suddenly, a few feet from her door.

“You want to help? This is how you can help,” Decker said. “First, get a good, solid dead bolt on the mikvah door in the morning. Second, be very careful, even a little paranoid, for the next couple of weeks. Third, you might try to talk Mrs. Adler into giving us a statement of some kind. If she can’t talk to me, maybe you can convince her to talk to Detective Dunn.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks.” Decker brought out his pad and a pencil. He scribbled a number on it and gave the slip of paper to Rina. “This is my home number. I don’t want you walking alone at night unless there’s some sort of security patrol on the premises. If you can’t get anyone to walk with you, call me. I’m only fifteen minutes away. I’d much rather take a few minutes of my personal time to assure your safety, than to have to come on official business. All right?”

“I’ll be careful,” she said.

“Look, I’m not telling you how to worship. The rabbi said you’re a widow, that you don’t like to walk alone with a man. But in my book, religion comes second to personal safety. I’m sure he can give you dispensation.”

Rina said nothing.

Decker knew he was wasting his breath. She wasn’t listening. Goddam Hollander and his fucking ball game! Decker didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want this case. It was going to dead end, and he’d have another unsolved rape on his hands.

But that was just part of it. Some force was sucking him into this place. He knew he’d be returning here in a professional capacity. And that worried him.

5

Rina sat at her desk in the stuffy basement classroom and looked out at a sea of bobbing yarmulkes. Heads down, her students were busy scratching away at the test. She’d thought the exam would be challenging, but the kids seemed to be whipping through the pages in record time. It was getting harder and harder to challenge them, she realized with delight. It was a pleasure to teach such a bright group of kids. Her only major complaint about the job was the poor facilities. In the summer the room became a sauna, and the two large floor fans did little to mitigate the heat.

Her eyes returned to the open pages of the Chumash. She’d finished studying parsha—the biblical portion of the week—and was on the haftorah. Sunday was the new moon, so the reading would be the story of the friendship between David and Jonathan. It was one of Rina’s favorites—a tale of unswerving love and trust. She’d never had a relationship like that with anyone, including Yitzchak. Theirs had contained some of those elements, but Yitzchak’s first and true love had been the Torah.

The rabbis had regarded his brilliant mind as a gift from God. He was their prize pupil, one of the few young men who was a real talmid chacham. They’d showered him with attention, but it had never gone to his head. He wasn’t interested in adulation, just in the acquisition of knowledge.

Rina had been astonished by Yitzchak’s intellect when they first met. He was a living, breathing genius, and she was willing to put up with his idiosyncracies for the privilege of being around him. He’d turned out to be a warmhearted man and a good father, but their relationship had always been a bit distant.

It was cruelly ironic that his brilliant brain cells eventually led to his demise.

Rina felt melancholia nibbling at her gut. She looked up from the text, and her eyes landed on the sandy-haired boy in the corner. His expression hadn’t changed since he’d entered the room. Usually one of the quickest thinkers, today he gazed at the chalkboard as if it contained some magic words of comfort. Yossie looked just like his father, Zvi, and his face bore the painful, numb expression that his father’s had last night. Rina was sure they hadn’t told him, but he knew. Oldest children always knew when something wasn’t right.

A few of the best students had handed in their exams. Rina would grade them, but really didn’t have to bother. She knew they’d be perfect. Soon the rest of the boys followed, until Yossie was the only one left. He continued to stare blankly, not even moving when Rina was standing right next to him. She looked down at his papers and found them untouched.

“Yossie,” she said gently.

The glassy hazel eyes inched their way upward.

“Yossie, you’re having an off day.”

He nodded.

“Take the test home. I trust you. Finish the exam when you’re in better spirits.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He got up, stuffed the papers in his overloaded briefcase, and left the room.

Rina was the last of the trio to enter the room. She had last-minute chores before Shabbos and hoped the faculty meeting wouldn’t take too long.

Three times a semester she and the two other secular teachers got together to discuss the curriculum. She was the head of the math department—and its sole teacher. The men were the departments of humanities and physical sciences.

Matt Hawthorne taught history and English. He was a jovial man in his mid-twenties, a little on the short side, with a puckish face and dark curly hair. Quick with a joke, he got along extremely well with the rowdier boys.

“Want to close the door, Rina?” he asked her.

“I’d prefer to leave it open,” she replied automatically. Hawthorne had a gleam in his eye. “You don’t want all the students to hear our trade secrets, do you?”

Rina sighed. It was an old story. Matt knew she left the door open for religious reasons, but insisted on teasing her about it anyway. Ordinarily she took it in good humor. Today she wasn’t in the mood, and the expression on her face reflected it.

“What trade secrets?” asked Steven Gilbert, coming to her defense. “Leave the door open. It’s hot enough in here without cutting off the little circulation we do have. Let’s get on with business.”

Of the two of them, Rina preferred Steve. They were both nice enough, but Steve was more subdued. He was older than Matt and her, in his middle thirties, balding and bespectacled, but with facial features that were still youthful. Like Matt, he was a public school teacher who moonlighted by teaching the yeshiva kids in the late afternoon, when the boys learned their secular studies.

They went through the meeting with choreographed efficiency.

“Shall we call it a day?” Rina asked when they were done.

“I’ve got nothing else to add,” said Gilbert.

Matt looked down. His eye suddenly twitched. It was a nervous tic that Rina had noted before.

“What’s the problem?” she asked.

“This has nothing to do with the curriculum, but I heard that something went on here last night.”

Rina hesitated a moment.

“What’d you hear?”

“Did a rape take place at the mikvah last night?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Rina wanted to know.

“Campus rumors,” Gilbert said. “Is it true?”

She nodded.

“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Hawthorne. “They said it was Yossie Adler’s mother.”

“Let’s drop the subject,” Rina said. “Suffice it to say that everyone’s alive and healthy.”

“Well, that’s good,” Hawthorne said. “You know, you can’t pick up a newspaper or turn on the news without hearing about the Foothill rapist. Then this happens—” Hawthorne stopped himself and looked at Rina through a fluttering left eyelid. “I’m doing a lot for your nerves, aren’t I?”

“It’s all right.”

But her voice lacked conviction.

“Listen, Rina,” said Gilbert calmly, “we know your being alone makes you especially vulnerable. If you need anything, feel free to give either one of us a call.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “If there’s nothing else, I’m going to be off.”

Hawthorne stood up and pulled out her chair.

“My, you’re chivalrous,” Gilbert said, his tone cool.

“My mama taught me well, Stevie.”

“Before I forget …” Gilbert searched through his briefcase and pulled out a few loose sheets of computer paper. “Take these home to your boys. They’re the programs they developed yesterday in Computer Club. I ran them this morning.”

“And they came out?” she asked, taking the papers.

“Of course they came out.”

Rina swelled with parental pride.

“Kids are born brighter these days,” she said. “But then again, they have better teachers.”

Gilbert acknowledged the compliment with a nod and stood up. The three of them remained motionless for an awkward moment.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Hawthorne said to Rina.

“Thanks for your concern.”

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Gilbert asked.

“Thank you, but it’s really not necessary. After all, one can’t be overly paranoid, right?”

When neither one responded, she smiled weakly and left.

Though the synagogue had no assigned seating, people tended to sit in the same spot. Rina’s was in the front row of the balcony—the women’s section.

She saw Zvi davening, making him out very clearly though she was peering through a diaphanous curtain that hung in front of the upper level. He was at the podium, leading the service, rocking back and forth as he moved his lips. To his right stood Yossie, looking lost, and his two younger brothers, poking each other mischievously.

Rina wasn’t the only one looking at Zvi. All the women who had used the mikvah last night were gaping at him. The “incident” was the topic of whispered conversation in the balcony. Rina couldn’t stand the gossip and speculation. Though they tried to engage her in conversation, she remained aloof.

She concentrated hard on the Hebrew text in front of her. Tonight, praying seemed especially significant, and she davened with renewed spirit. Truly, fate is in the hands of Hashem, she thought. But to help Him along, she’d take the detective’s advice and be very careful. Usually after services she and her boys rushed home, allowing her to complete preparations for the Shabbos meal. But tonight she waited for her guests, and they all walked together.

The dinner came off without a hitch. The table was set with her finest silver, china, and table linens and spotlighted in the warm glow of candlelight. The food was plentiful and superb. Everyone had a grand time singing and telling stories. Her children and the Kriegers’ each had a chance to relate their amusing incidents of the week, then her students gave a short dvar Torah—a Talmudic lesson. They ended with grace after the meal and more singing.

The festivities lasted until midnight. By the time everyone left, her boys were overwrought with fatigue. Yaakov, the seven-year-old, was running around in circles singing at the top of his lungs. Shmuel, one year his senior, was break-dancing and singing an Uncle Moishy tune. Something about Gedalia Goomber not working on Shabbos Kodesh.

Rina kept her patience and calmed the boys down with a bedtime story and lots of kisses. She tucked them in, then headed for the kitchen. It was one-thirty by the time she’d finished cleaning up.

She crawled under the covers and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

In the wee hours of the morning she was awakened by a piercing scream. She shot up and ran to the boys’ room. They were fast asleep. She rechecked all the locks on the doors but didn’t dare peek out the window. Again, cries followed by scampering atop her roof.

The damn cats!

The house turned quiet—a suffocating quiet.

Rina trudged shakily back to bed. The adrenaline was surging throughout her body. Wide-eyed, she stared at the shadows on her wall until exhaustion overtook her.

6

“Eema could you pin my kipah?” Shmuel asked.

Rina put down the paper and attached the big, black yarmulke to the soft, curly locks with four bobby pins. No matter how many she put in, the kipah would always fall off. Little boys, she thought, smiling.

“There you go, sweetie,” she said, kissing his cheek. It was damp with salty perspiration and as soft as butter.

He thanked her and ran off to play G. I. Joe with his brother. Last she’d heard, the Joe team was beating COBRA, capturing and disposing of the evil forces with no mercy. Rina’d always felt that kids judged much more harshly than adults. If it were up to them, all criminals would receive the death penalty.

She reopened the paper, and the article jumped out at her. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. The Foothill rapist had struck again. Reading the article slowly, she saw Decker’s name in the second paragraph.

She closed the paper and sipped her coffee. It had been nearly two weeks since the rape at the mikvah. The initial fright had abated, and life progressed as usual. The only differences were a dead bolt on the mikvah door and husbands walking their wives home after the ritual immersion.

But Rina was still worried. Oftentimes she’d walk home with the last woman to use the facilities, but that meant either coming in early to clean the mikvah from the previous night or finding someone to wait for her as she scrubbed the tiles. Recently she found herself getting careless, sinking back into the old bad habit of walking home alone. Several times she thought of calling the detective—sure she’d heard things outside—but hadn’t wanted to bother him. Besides, nothing had ever materialized.

Now, seeing his name in print, she wondered about the progress of the case and wanted badly to call him. But the house was too tiny for privacy, and she didn’t want her sons to overhear the conversation. She’d have to wait.

When it was time, she walked the kids to the yeshiva’s day camp. Upon returning home she picked up the receiver and immediately put it down. Perhaps it wasn’t the right time to call. With this new rape, he was probably up to his neck in work.

She fixed herself another cup of coffee and turned on the radio to a news station. It was a half-hour before the story came on. No details were given. Just another rape attributed to him. She flicked the dial to off and thought to herself: Wasn’t she a citizen? Didn’t she pay taxes to support a police force? She had even voted against the tax cut that would have reduced police and fire services. With newly summoned determination, she dialed his extension. Besides, she was sure he wouldn’t be in.

To her shock he picked it up on the second ring.

“Decker,” he answered.

She was momentarily speechless.

“Hello?” he said loudly.

“Uh—yes, this is Rina Lazarus. I don’t know if you remember me—”

“Of course I do. What can I do for you, Mrs. Lazarus?”

“You must be busy.”

“Swamped.”

She felt foolish for calling. “I was wondering how the mikvah case was coming along. I realize it’s not as important as this Foothill rapist, but …”

She thought she heard him groan over the line. There was a pause.

“Frankly, Mrs. Lazarus, we have no mikvah case. Mrs. Adler never gave us any statement, so we have nothing to go on. The only way we’re ever going to find the perpetrator is if we catch him doing something else and he admits the rape as a by-product of the confession.”

Rina said nothing.

“Everything calm over there?” Decker asked.

“I hear a noise now and then. That’s all.”

“Someone walking you home at night?”

“Usually. We did get a lock on the door.”

“That’s good. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not really.” She hedged, then said: “Suppose Mrs. Adler were to come in and give you a statement? Would that help reopen the case?”

“It would be a start.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

“Do that.”

7

Michael Hollander was fiftyish, bald, florid, and the proper weight for a man six inches taller. He, Marge, and Decker made up the juvey and sex detail for the division. They were referred to jokingly as The Three Musketeers—a title that Hollander had redubbed The Three Mouseketeers. He smoked a pipe, which was an inexcusable offense in such close quarters, but laughed off the complaints by demanding to know who’d be the squadroom’s scapegoat if he became civilized. Discussion closed.

He entered the detectives’ quarters, poured himself his ninth cup of coffee of the day, and placed a meaty hand on Decker’s shoulder.

Peter looked up from the phone, excused himself, and covered the mouthpiece with his palm.

“What?”

“A lady from Jewtown is outside.”

Decker finished his call quickly and checked his watch. They were right on time. Then he remembered that Hollander had said a lady not ladies. Damn it! The other one must have chickened out.

He got up from his desk, went out to the reception area, and saw Rina standing in the hallway behind the half door. She looked as good as he remembered, even better. Even though her hair was covered, tucked into a white knitted tam she’d taken a little time to put on some makeup and jewelry. He liked that.

“Come on in,” he said, opening the latch and leading her to his desk.

Headquarters were not as she’d imagined.

She expected the place to be busy and crowded, but not so small. Metal utility desks and chairs were squashed against one another, taking up most of the floor space. What furniture wasn’t metal was scarred, unfinished wood. A lone rust-bitten table in the corner housed a small computer. On the rear wall were wanted posters and floor-to-ceiling prefab shelves full of blue notebooks marked with various colored dots. To her left were two small rooms with the doors open and a map of the division taped carelessly on the wall. To her right were the coffee urn and its accompanying paraphernalia, more desks, and another map studded with multicolored pins. The place was minimally cooled by fans placed at strategic spots and blowing full force.

All the detectives were dressed in light-colored short-sleeved shirts, loosened ties, drab slacks, and scuffed shoes. Only their shoulder holsters suggested they were cops. Some of them were on the phone or doing desk work, others were conferring with one another; all of them looked preoccupied.

“Like the decor?” one of them shouted, a fat man smoking a pipe.

“Lovely,” she said, smiling.

“Take a seat,” Decker said, pulling up a chair that obstructed the aisle. His desktop was covered by piles of papers, a manual typewriter, and a black phone sporting a panel of flashing lights. “What happened to Mrs. Adler?”

Rina lowered her voice. “She refused to come down.”

“I can barely hear you.”

“Can we use one of those rooms over there?”

“They’re as hot as blazes. Great for sweating out confessions.”

Rina said nothing and squirmed.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’ll take my lunch break early. That way we can get a little privacy.”

They got up to leave. The fat detective whistled.

“You have any food preferences?” Decker asked, starting the Plymouth.

“Detective Decker,” she hesitated, “I can’t eat in a restaurant because the food’s not kosher. I brought my own lunch.” She held up a paper bag.

Shit, he thought. Another Big Mac for lunch. “No problem. I’ll just run by McDonald’s and pick something up.”

“I prepared lunch for Mrs. Adler, so I have extra,” she said timidly.

Decker smiled. “Okay.”

“Is there someplace we can eat other than a car?” she asked uncomfortably.

“I think that can be arranged.”

He drove to a bedraggled park. The grass had been burned yellow and the sandbox was nothing more than a pile of gray pebbles, but to one side was a large shade tree with umbrella-like branches and some warped wooden benches. A couple of naked Latino tots ran through a sprinkler jet that was attempting—without visible success—to revive a bed of dead marigolds. The toddlers’ grandmother sat a few feet away, knitting as she watched them from the corner of one eye. Although there was plenty of empty seating in the shade, the old woman had elected to sit in the open sun with a bandana over her head, seemingly impervious to the heat. The temperature was well over a hundred, the air heavy with smog, but a slight breeze filtered through the lacy branches, providing some refuge.

Rina knew it wasn’t right for her to be alone with this man, but she felt compelled to help. She wanted justice to be done and the monster locked up—for society’s welfare and her own peace of mind.

They sat down and the old woman waved to Decker. He returned her greeting, and Rina opened the sack.

“I was in the mood for hamburgers,” she said.

“Great. I love hamburgers.”

“I made some cole slaw also.”

“Great. I love cole slaw.”

Rina laughed. “You’re very agreeable.”

“On certain occasions.”

“I’m glad this is one of them.” She unwrapped an oversized onion roll stuffed with a thick hunk of ground meat and gave it to him.

Decker regarded the sandwich. “This is a hamburger. It’s amazing how quickly you forget what a real one looks like after eating fast foods for years.” He took a chomp. The juices spilled out onto his mustache and chin.

“I brought extra napkins.” She handed him a wad.

“It looks like I’ll need ’em.”

Rina unwrapped several beige cubes. “This is potato kugel.”

“I like potatoes.”

“It’s best described as gelatinous hash browns—”

Decker laughed. “That sounds horrible.”

“It tastes better than it sounds.”

He bit into one of the squares and contemplated.

“You know what it tastes like?” Decker said. “It tastes like a latke. A big, thick latke.”

That took her by surprise.

“That’s exactly what it is.”

“Not too bad for a goy, huh?”

She laughed.

“You’ve picked up an expression or two, Detective.”

“Or three or four. My ex-wife was Jewish. But not like you,” he qualified. “She and her parents were very Americanized. But her paternal grandparents stayed … ethnic. It was her grandmother who used to make me latkes.”

“Were they good?”

“Dynamite.”

Rina opened a thermos of orange juice and poured them each a cup.

“Thanks for sharing your lunch. It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”

Rina lowered her head and said nothing. Decker noticed she hadn’t unwrapped her sandwich.

“You’re not eating?” he asked.

“Uh … In a minute.”

She pulled out a paper cup from the sack and walked over to the sprinkler. She filled the cup up with water, poured it over each hand, then came back to the bench.

“You’re very hygienic,” Decker said, smiling. “I like that in a woman.”

She smiled back but was silent. He wondered if he had offended her.

“That was a joke,” he said.

She nodded, mumbled to herself, and took a bite of her sandwich.

“I know,” she finally said after she swallowed. “I couldn’t answer you because I was in the middle of a blessing. You’re not allowed to talk between hand washing and the breaking of bread.”

Decker stared at her blankly.

“Never mind,” she said quickly. “It isn’t important.”

He shrugged.

“You’re a good cook.”

“Thanks.” She put down her sandwich. “Detective—”

“Why don’t you call me Peter? People I like a lot less call me by my first name. Certainly you can.”

“All right. You can call me Rina.”

“Great. So we’ll be Peter the Detective and Rina the Mikvah Lady.”

“Sounds fine.”

She turned serious.

“I couldn’t talk Mrs. Adler into coming down here. But she wants to help out.”

“What’s the game plan?”

“I managed to get her alone. She told me what happened in very explicit detail.”

Decker stopped eating. “Unless it comes directly from her mouth it’s not admissible as testimony.”

“I understand that. If you catch someone that sounds like this animal, she may even be willing to testify. But she doesn’t want to have to expose herself prematurely.”

“She wouldn’t be exposing herself. She’d just be talking—”

“She just can’t bring herself to talk about it to a total stranger, male or female. Your partner was very nice, but she doesn’t trust her. And if you’d call Mrs. Adler up and tell her that I just told you everything, she’d deny talking to me about it. We’re very private people, Detective.”

Decker thought for a moment. “So what do you have?”

She took a sip of juice. “This isn’t easy.”

“Take your time, Rina.” He pulled out a notepad.

Despite herself she liked the way he said her name.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Sarah … Mrs. Adler had left the mikvah and walked a couple of feet when the person, attacker, whatever you call him …”

“Assailant.”

“The assailant grabbed her from behind. She screamed and he punched her hard on the face. When she screamed again he stuffed something down her throat. A sock or a mitten, something furry. She remembers tasting the nap of the fabric. It nearly choked her.”

“Did she see the man at all?”

“She said he was wearing a ski mask.”

“Did she describe his clothing?”

“Just that it was dark.”

“Go on.”

“He ripped her dress and pulled at her hair. Sarah Libba was wearing a wig that night, as you well know, so it just came off, and for some reason, that made him furious. He hurled it away, and dragged her off and began to punch her again, all over her body.”

“Did he say anything to her?”

“Not directly. But he muttered over and over, ‘What a bitch, what a bitch.’”

“What did his voice sound like?”

“Gravelly.”

“Had she ever heard it before?”

“I didn’t ask her that. I assumed she would have said something if she had.”

“You can’t assume anything. Anyway, go on, you’re doing fine.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. He told her he had a gun.”

“Well, that’s a pretty important detail.”

“She wouldn’t let me take notes. This is all from memory.”

There was defensiveness in her voice. Decker realized he was coming across as critical and softened his tone.

“You’re doing great. A-plus. Did he threaten to shoot her?”

“No. She distinctly said he didn’t threaten to use it. He just said, ‘I have a gun,’ and she felt this cold thing against her temple.”

“Okay.”

“He finally stopped hitting her. He reached up her dress and pulled down her underwear … He … Excuse me.”

“Take your time. Here.” Decker poured her another cup of juice. “Take a gulp.”

“Thank you.” She took a sip. “This is very hard for me.”

“I understand.”

She sighed. “Let’s see. He attempted to … tried to do it to her from behind. First the regular way, then sodomy, but he wasn’t aroused.”

“She saw his penis?”

“Uh, no, well, I don’t know. She couldn’t feel him penetrating her, I guess. She felt a little something anally, but nothing really physically painful.”

Her account was consistent with the exam. It had revealed no sperm or seminal fluid in the vaginal mucosa and a few drops of seminal fluid in the anal region. Enough to get a serum typing, but not a really good one. But he didn’t tell her that.

“Did she recall the man ejaculating?” Decker asked.

“She felt something warm and wet dribble down her leg.”

Damn! If the doctor had looked a little farther down the victim’s leg, she would have found a nice, big sperm sample. It was hell working with amateurs.

“Go on,” he urged, suppressing his irritation.

“After he was done, he told her that he knew who she was, and if she talked, he’d kill her. He started to slap her, but then I came out. She’s sure that scared him. Anyway, he took off as soon as he heard my voice.”

“So the mysterious fleeing figure probably was the bastard.”

She nodded and hugged herself.

“It gives me the chills just to think about it.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Not that I can remember.”

He stopped writing and put the notepad away.

“Detect—”

“Peter,” he reminded her.

“Peter, does any of it sound like the Foothill rapist?”

There were certain similarities—the attempted anal penetration and the failure to achieve a full erection, but other things didn’t fit. The ski mask for one. And Mrs. Adler had been wearing sandals, not high-heeled shoes. But he wasn’t about to commit himself one way or the other.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Please don’t be cryptic. Off the record.”

“Off the record, maybe, maybe not.”

She frowned.

“Listen,” he said, “at this point it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference, because we don’t know much about the Foothill rapist either. Which leaves me sitting in a pile of shit, if you’ll excuse my language.”

“You must be under a lot of pressure.”

“That’s an understatement,” he said, lighting up a cigarette. “But I usually perform well when the heat’s on.” He smiled tightly. “Though I’ve got to admit, the barometer’s been reading pretty high lately.”

“So you’re not close to finding him.”

“Close doesn’t mean a thing. Either you have him or you don’t. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

She watched him walk over to the old lady, who was no longer alone. To her right stood a teenager—an emaciated Hispanic boy of about seventeen. A sickly pallor dulled a complexion that should have glowed bronze. He started backing away as the detective approached.

“Hey, I’m not doin’ nothin’, man!”

“Hey, Ramon, I didn’t say you were doing anything,” replied Decker, towering over the kid. “I just came over to be friendly.”

“Hey, ain’t I got a right to walk in a park?” The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I mean, hey, a park’s a public place!”

“You’ve got rights. Sure, you’ve got rights. Everybody’s got rights. I was just making sure that Mrs. Sanchez gets her rights, too.”

The grandmother gave him a warm smile.

Decker prodded a sunken chest with his index finger. “Why don’t you beat it?”

“Hey, man, I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

The detective watched him cross the street. When the boy had disappeared, he returned to the bench.

“Junkie,” he said, sitting down. “They prey on people like the good little Señora: old women with children who can’t give them chase. Sneak up, grab their purses, and they’re a couple bucks richer with very little effort.”

“What a world,” Rina said. “Until now we’d always felt so insulated from all the outside problems.”

“Unfortunately, you’re not.” He turned to face her. “You know what I’d really like?”

“What?”

“I’d really like to see you again.”

Rina didn’t reply.

“If you don’t go out to eat, how about a couple of drinks, dancing?”

She felt sick.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Decker’s face was impassive.

“Well, we’d better be getting back,” he said, standing up.

“It’s nothing personal, Peter.”

“Forget it.”

“Honestly, it’s not because I don’t want to.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“It’s impossible. You’ve seen the world I live in. You must understand.”

She turned away. Decker stared at her profile and felt the frustration grow.

“What I’d like to understand is why you bothered coming down here in the first place? Feeding me lunch? Dragging me out of the station? Everything you told me could have been easily said over the phone. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d like getting out, escaping from all the tension. I was just trying to be nice.”

“Well, you were very nice. Let’s go.”

“I’ve got to say grace after meals first.”

Decker flipped his wrist and checked his watch.

“Go ahead.”

She bentched rapidly in silence, but her eyes kept glancing at his face. The more she looked at him, the worse she felt.

“Please don’t be mad,” she said when she had finished her prayers.

“I’m not mad,” he answered coldly. “Just disappointed. But I understand. I’m a goy, you’re a Jew. Let’s go.”

He was driving exceptionally fast and still looked irritated, but she didn’t say anything. He was right. She had given him the wrong impression, and now she felt stupid. It was a mistake for her to come down here. It was a mistake to leave the yeshiva.

He shot through the tail end of an amber light, and a black-and-white caught him.

“Shit,” Decker said as he saw the flashing lights. “Who are those jokers? A couple of morons?” He swung the car over until he was side by side with the police car.

“Sorry, Pete,” the policeman said. “My partner’s a rookie and didn’t recognize the car.”

“Okay,” Decker shouted back. “Hey, Doug, if you want to roust someone, I just saw Ramon Gomez, and he needed a fix badly. He was about to pull a 211 purse snatch on little old lady Sanchez.”

“Where was he?” the officer asked.

“Arleta Park. I kicked him out, but he’s probably hanging around.”

“Will do.”

The patrol car sped off.

Five minutes later they were standing in front of her old Volvo.

“I’m really sorry if I led you on.”

Decker shook his head in self-disgust.

“People hear what they want to hear. I’m no exception. It was inappropriate for me—”

“Oh no, it wasn’t. I mean, I’m not offended by anything you did.”

“I’m glad.” He smiled at her, and she seemed relieved. “Just take care of yourself. You still have my numbers?”

“They’re pinned next to my home phone and the one in the mikvah.”

“You’re welcome to use them whenever you want.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope for your sake you don’t have to.”

8

Back at his desk, Decker reviewed the notes from his conversation with Rina, made a few corrections and additional comments, and angrily stuffed it all in the Adler Rape file.

He’d made a first-class ass out of himself. Jesus Christ! He was supposed to be investigating a rape case, not putting the make on a religious skirt twelve years his junior.

He picked up a pencil and twirled it absently.

Stop being so goddam hard on yourself, he chastised himself. Lighten up. But the pep talk didn’t work. He felt sleazy and old.

His phone rang. Inhaling deeply, he stared at the blinking light, then picked up the receiver.

“Decker.”

There was a loud whir on the other end.

“Hello?” said Decker.

“Hi,” the voice responded. It was vaguely familiar. Female. Youthful sounding—possibly adolescent. She was shouting over the buzz.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, tapping the pencil on the desktop.

“Are you the detective on the Foothill rape case?”

Decker sat up in his chair and pulled out a sheet of scrap paper.

“Yes, I am, Ms …?”

“I was wondering about that last girl who was raped … You know, the librarian?”

“Yes,” Decker said encouragingly. He could barely hear her over the background drone. “Could you speak up, please?”

“What was her name? Ball or Bell … It was in the papers …”

“What about her?”

“Um, was she by any chance wearing black-and-white dress pumps?”

“Could be,” Decker answered trying to contain his excitement. “That very well could be. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come down to the station, and the two of us can find out about it together, Ms …?”

The line disconnected.

“Fuck,” he said out loud. “Damn it!” He slammed down the receiver and quickly dialed communications.

“Arnie, it’s Pete Decker.”

“How’s it going, Pete?”

“Just fine. Could you get me a location on my last incoming call? She hung up about a second ago.”

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