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“Great. I’ll give you the bakery’s phone number. Just leave a message that you called and I’ll ring you back.”
Honey gave her the number. Rina wrote it down.
“When exactly are you planning to come out, Honey?”
“Soon. In two days.”
“Two days?” Decker looked at his wife. “She didn’t give you much notice, did she?”
Rina spooned yogurt into Hannah’s mouth. “Not a lot.”
Decker sipped his coffee, then took a bite of his turkey sandwich. Watching Rina feed their daughter, he was grateful for the peaceful interlude. His new assignment at the Devonshire station took him farther from the ranch each morning. But work was still close enough to steal an occasional lunch at home. He sat contentedly, smiling as Hannah smeared coffee-colored goop over her mouth … Rina was trying to keep her tidy but it was a losing battle—baby one, parent zero.
Decker’s eyes swept over the cherrywood dining table. Crafted in his bachelor days, it was too small for the family, the surface scratched and gouged. But Rina could be hopelessly sentimental. She refused to part with his handiwork.
“Who is this Honey lady anyhow?” Decker said. “I never heard you mention her name before.”
“That’s because we weren’t close.”
Decker finished half his sandwich. “So what’s she looking for? A free hotel?”
Rina wiped Hannah’s mouth. “I think there’s more to it than that.”
“Such as?”
“Such as why didn’t she call Evie Miller? She and Evie were as thick as thieves. If I were Evie, I’d be hurt.”
Hannah sprayed a mouthful of yogurt in Rina’s direction. Without pausing, she threw back her head and chortled with delight.
“Very funny,” Rina said. But she was smiling herself. “How come I can’t get angry with you, Channelah?”
“Because I’m too cute, Mommie,” Decker answered.
Once again, Rina tried feeding Hannah, but the baby grabbed the spoon and started to bang it on her high chair tray. Rina leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know why she didn’t call Evie.”
“Maybe she did. Maybe Evie doesn’t want her. The woman sounds a little odd.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say she was odd—”
“She doesn’t own a telephone?”
“It’s part of the ethos of the village.”
“The village?” Decker shook his head. “What’s wrong with living in a city or at least a town? Since when is upstate New York sixteenth-century Poland?”
“It’s a psychological thing, Peter. Blocking out the outside world. Less distraction. Easier to learn Torah.”
“They sure don’t mind asking for money from the outside world.”
“Everyone has to live, including scholars.”
“It’s possible to work and learn. I don’t believe in welfare for able bodies, Jews included.”
“The Leibben Chasidim are extreme,” Rina admitted. “Their Rebbe has some very odd ideas about kabbalah and how it relates to the messiah and afterlife. It’s considered very way out, not at all accepted belief.”
“Was Honey always fanatically religious?”
“Not at all. She grew up like me. Modern Orthodox. She had a big crush on John Travolta. I think she saw Saturday Night Fever ten times.”
Decker finished his sandwich and didn’t say anything. Rina poured a half-dozen Cheerios on Hannah’s high chair tray. The little girl dropped the spoon, stared at the O’s, then carefully pinched one between her forefinger and thumb, successfully navigating it to her mouth.
Rina wiped the baby’s plastic bib. “You’ve got the cop look in your eyes, Peter. What is it?”
“What do you think she’s really after?” Decker asked.
“An escape,” Rina said. “But so what? You know how stultifying the religion can be at times.”
“Really now?”
Decker was impassive. Rina hit his good shoulder—the one without the bullet wound. “Why shouldn’t Honey have an opportunity to cut loose?”
“You up for entertaining her?”
“Actually, Peter, I think it would be nice to have a little company. Someone to reminisce with.”
Decker smiled to himself. Could someone as young as Rina actually reminisce? Because she was young—twelve years younger than he was. Something Decker didn’t like to think about.
Rina liberated Hannah from the high chair and gave her to Decker. “So what should I tell Honey? Should I give her the okay to come out?”
“It’s up to you, darlin’. It’s okay by me.”
Decker bounced Hannah on his knee. She was a good-sized baby—tall and long-limbed with red hair and pale skin just like him. But feature for feature, she looked like Rina, thank God. The baby gave him a drooling grin of six teeth, tiny fingers going straight for the mustache. With little hands on his mouth, Decker rotated his mustache to his daughter’s glee.
He said, “I’m just wondering how you get from John Travolta to no phones.”
“How’d you get from being a Southern Baptist to an Orthodox Jew, Peter—a much bigger transition. Life’s just full of little mysteries.”
“I was running toward something, Rina. Mark my words. This woman’s running away from something.”
“Agreed. So let her run here and I’ll find out what it is.”
2
Nine months later and Decker still couldn’t turn off the autopilot. Whenever he pulled out of his driveway, the unmarked strained to go east instead of west. He’d left behind a decade of memories at the Foothill substation—most of them good, some bad, and one overzealous chase-turned-political nightmare that would haunt the city for years to come. He had made few friends and missed few people. But habit was habit, and at times he felt nostalgic for the old country.
Exiting the 118, he made a quick series of turns until he was riding west on Devonshire. At this point, the wide, pine-lined boulevard was bordered by rows of small wood-sided ranch houses resting on patches of pale winter lawn. The driveways played host to older-model compacts and trucks as well as bikes and trikes. Most of the homes had attached two-car garages, ubiquitous mounted basketball hoops hanging above the parking structures.
Anywhere USA. The only hint of Southern California was the full-sized orange trees towering over the houses they framed. The street even held a couple of citrus groves—remnants of LA’s long-gone agricultural days.
Decker lowered the sun visor in the car, cutting the glare, and slipped on a pair of shades. He thought about his new job.
The transition had been easier than expected because Marge had come with him. Originally, Homicide at Devonshire had only one vacant slot. But with a little savvy, Decker had managed to stretch a single into a double. Given the profound need for LAPD to liberalize, the brass was quick to pick up on his drift. Yes, the carefully calculated decision to place Detective Dunn—i.e., Detective Dunn, the woman—in Homicide detail was politically correct. Still, the promotion had been just. Marge had the requisite experience, a keen mind, and lots of patience—a great combination for a murder investigator.
Cranking open the car window, Decker inhaled clean air, enjoying the smogless blue skies common during the cooler months. As he traveled west, the houses gave way to bigger buildings—apartment houses, factory showrooms, a medical plaza, and the ever-present shopping centers. Traffic was light, the area surrounded by foothills made green and lush from the recent rains. The mountains were the boundaries of LA City—to the north was the Santa Clarita Valley, to the west Simi Valley. Most of the hillside areas were still undeveloped plots or regional parkland, giving the San Fernando Valley plenty of breathing room.
Decker thought about his partner.
It was Marge’s first time in Homicide and she was chomping at the bit for a real case. All they’d gotten so far were two gang-related retaliations, a half dozen Saturday night party-hearty shootings, and some irate spouses with problem ’tudes toward their adulterous mates. Messiness with no brainwork.
But thems what it is.
Even if the cases were “routine,” it didn’t mean the victims were any less dead. Marge had treated each assignment with impeccable sensitivity. But having spent some six professional years with the woman, Decker knew she wanted serious cerebral exercise. She wanted to prove herself.
Marge was around Rina’s age—old enough to know the ropes but still full of the fire of youth. Marge was standing on the threshold of opportunity and was bursting to take a giant step forward.
They had been on Homicide detail for less than a year.
Time was on her side.
Living in California earthquake country, Decker couldn’t figure out why Devonshire, like most of LAPD’s station houses, was made out of bricks. Maybe the architect wanted to impress upon the bad guys that the station was wolf-blowing durable and could double as a jail in a pinch. Or maybe the city had a sweetheart contract with a brickyard. Whatever the reason, Devonshire was like the rest of LA’s station houses—a windowless masonry building adorned by an American flag. Except that this substation had the unique pleasure of being located next to power transmitters. Yes, a policeman’s job was a dangerous one, but up to now, leukemia hadn’t been a real concern.
What the hell. So he’d glow in the dark.
He drove the Plymouth to the back lot restricted to “authorized personnel only,” then saw Marge stalking through the parking area. She wore an olive car coat over khaki slacks, her arms folded across her chest. Her face, normally softened by doelike eyes, was stiff with tension. Decker honked, Marge looked up. Immediately, she shifted direction, tramped over to the Plymouth, and plopped down in the passenger’s seat.
“Know what that Davidson asshole did?”
“What?”
“God, I hate that man. He treats me like a peon. While I realize I am a peon in this upper echelon of the boys’ brigade, you’d at least think he could fake it better.”
“Are we talking in the car for a reason?”
Marge extracted a slip of paper from her purse. “I’ve got to go calm down a hysterical woman who thinks Martians kidnapped her brother and his family. Believe it or not, Davidson has classified this as a possible homicide. You want to come with me?”
“What’s the address?”
Marge handed him the paper. Decker looked at the numbers—Mountain View Estates. He did a three-point turn and pulled out of the lot.
“He gives me nothing but bullshit assignments, Pete,” Marge went on. “He doesn’t even try to hide it. He knows they’re bullshit! He wants me to know they’re bullshit, too! You know how he phrased this little jaunt? ‘Get this lady off our backs, Dunn. If something important comes up, I’ll contact Pete and he’ll fill you in.’ Can you believe that jerk? Not even a pretense.”
“Diplomacy isn’t the Loo’s strong suit.”
“The guy has a hard-on for me.”
“Yes, he does.”
Marge did a double-take. “He does?”
“Yep.” Decker turned west onto Devonshire. “Your appointment was shoved down his throat. He’s resentful. But that’s his problem.”
“But I gotta live with it.”
“So live with it.”
“That’s your answer? Live with it?”
“Yep.” Decker headed toward the foothills. “What’s this assignment all about?”
Marge’s jaw began to ache. She forcibly relaxed her mandible. “Just what I said. We gotta make nice to some woman who’s wondering why she hasn’t heard from her brother.”
“How long has it been?”
“I don’t know. At least twenty-four hours. The blues were out there yesterday. At the brother’s house. No one was home but everything looked fine. Apparently that wasn’t good enough. The lady’s been calling nonstop, demanding some detectives.”
“Has she filed a Missing Persons?”
“I don’t think so. It sounds like she wants reassurance more than anything. Someone to look around the house again and convince her that nothing terrible has happened.”
“What kind of family are we talking about?”
“Uh … wait a sec.” Marge pulled out her notebook. “An Officer Mike Gerard interviewed her. Family consists of a mother, father, and two kids—boys. Teenagers specifically. My first thought was an impulsive vacation. But according to Gerard, the woman said no way.”
“That makes sense,” Decker said. “It’s in the middle of the school year. Weird time to take a vacation.”
“Or a great time,” Marge stated. “Beat the crowds. I haven’t talked to the woman directly. She’s been persistent with the calls, a real pain in the ass.”
“What’s her name?”
“Orit Bar Lulu. Bar Lulu is two words.”
“She’s Israeli?”
“You got it. She’s also a real estate agent.”
Decker said, “Why does she think something happened to her brother and his family?”
“I don’t know,” Marge said. “Davidson dismissed me without many details. What do you mean, I should ‘live with it.’ Don’t you think I should say anything?”
“You can do what you want. It’s a free country.”
“You think I should just shut up and do nothing?”
“Let your work talk for you. You’re a great detective, Marge. Eventually, you’ll get a case that’ll show off your balls. When you earn your stripes with Davidson, eventually he’ll leave you be.”
“So the best I can hope for is a grudging acceptance?”
“I don’t know Davidson any better than you do. Maybe he’ll continue to be an asshole. Maybe he’ll come around and turn out to be okay.”
