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
