coming through Ellis Island had emigrated in late 1937 from Austria. Just in time.
This was the first fire that had been set. The punk or punks doing this had used spray paint, thrown eggs and pitched rocks through the windows of the first couple houses. The third had included a mannequin left sprawled on her back on the lawn with her legs splayed, her head bald and her teeth removed. She’d worn a yellow armband with the Star of David. The implications and the threat were clear. These vandals had done their research.
Ethan still had that mannequin on his mind. No stores had reported a break-in or a display mannequin stolen, but he kept thinking that wasn’t an easy thing to get your hands on, especially if you were a teenager. Order one online? What if Mom is the one home when it arrives? No. In pockets of time, he’d made calls to stores, asking whether they’d had one disappear. If he could find out, it would give him a string to pull.
The few witnesses thought, as he did, that the perpetrators were young. Late teens, maybe early twenties, losers who were desperate for a cause to give meaning to their lives. They were getting bolder, escalating with each exhilarating outing.
Ethan really wanted to get his hands on them before someone was injured or killed.
The fire had been minor and put out quick enough to avoid significant structural damage. A second detective from his unit had been assigned to work with him, Sam Clayton. He’d also now acquired an additional, temporary partner, Lieutenant David Pomeroy of PF & R—Portland Fire & Rescue—a fire investigator.
Right now, they were all in waiting mode, which he particularly disliked. There were a lot of names in the Portland, Oregon, telephone directory that might be construed as Jewish. How the particular victims had been targeted was one of the mysteries, although he suspected the phone book since all four home owners thus far still had landlines and none had unlisted numbers.
The part that had him most uneasy was that all four families hit had last names beginning with the letters E and F. What’s more, the attacks had taken place in alphabetical order. Which meant the assailant/s could spell, too.
He’d scoured police reports and community newspapers in search of any hint that there’d been earlier instances of vandalism. Maybe more minor. Otherwise, damn it, why start with Eckstein? Why not Abrams? There had to be a reason.
He picked up the burger and began eating. His thoughts reverted immediately to Laura and Jake Vennetti, as they’d tended to do since he left their house earlier. He had a bad feeling he’d called up email in a deliberate attempt to distract himself.
What he’d been evading was the knowledge that he’d been instantly and powerfully attracted to Matt Vennetti’s widow. The rational part of him knew he had nothing to be ashamed of; Matt had killed himself over five years ago. Given her looks, he had to wonder why she hadn’t remarried.
Frowning, Ethan took a long swallow of beer. No, she wasn’t a beauty, not exactly—he doubted guys trailed her around with their tongues hanging out, although given half a chance he might do just that. Shoulder-length hair was somewhere in that dark blond, light brown range that meant she’d definitely been blonde as a kid, and probably still would be if she spent any time out in the sun come summer. Sun-streaked or not, her hair was thick, straight and shiny. His fingers had itched to discover the texture. A few freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, giving her that girl-next-door look, belied by blue eyes darkened by pain and anger and fear. He wondered if they’d once been brighter.
She was taller than her son when she’d swept him behind her, which meant she was at least five foot eight or nine, no more than an inch or two shorter than Matt had been. Given that Jake was only eleven, it looked as though he’d gained his tall genes from his mother.
She had some serious curves, too, the kind men loved and women fought with never-ending diets. When she turned her back on him, he’d been riveted by a firm, generous ass and tiny waist. Face-to-face...
He grunted unhappily and took another swig of beer, his hamburger in his other hand.
Face-to-face...well, it wasn’t her face he wanted to look at. Her breasts wouldn’t tickle his palms, they’d fill his hands.
And it wasn’t happening. His mouth twisted as he remembered the scathing way she said, I shouldn’t have let you in. Yeah, safe to say he wasn’t her dream man.
Clearly, he didn’t need to do battle with his qualms about lusting after a—well, not a friend’s—a fellow officer’s widow. She’d made clear she would prefer he not come knocking on her door again. Which was fine; he’d been married to a woman who came to abhor his job. Once around was enough for him.
For the boy’s sake, though, he hoped Laura changed her mind, or at least thought about what he’d said. Ethan couldn’t see Jake as likely to go on a shooting rampage, but if he didn’t untangle his feelings, who knew what would happen? Hormones hadn’t hit yet. Ethan hadn’t liked the dark look on his face in that single moment before he raced for his bedroom.
She might not want a gun in the house, and Ethan could even sympathize. But Jake wanted, real bad, to get his hands on one, and where there was a will, there was a way.
Right now, Ethan doubted even Jake knew what he wanted to do with that gun once he had it. Why would he admire that, she’d asked, given what happened because his father carried a gun?
Who said admiration was what Jake felt? He’d been abandoned by his father in the most devastating way possible, shunned by his father’s family. Self-loathing struck Ethan as a likelier possibility. And teenage suicide was all too common.
Ethan finished his hamburger and started in on the French fries, hardly tasting them. He was frustrated by his inability to get through to Laura, yet painfully aware he had no moral high ground here.
When he’d expressed anger at Matt’s buddies on the job, she’d been polite enough not to say, So where were you? Ethan had almost opened his mouth to defend himself anyway, to say, We weren’t really friends. Damn it, he had friends. But the truth is, at the funeral Ethan had looked at Matt’s widow and small, bewildered son, and resolved to check up on them, be sure they were all right. Half the officers there had probably thought the same thing. He’d also vaguely assumed Matt Vennetti’s closer friends would step in to help her out, but that was no excuse.
She’d have been right to paint him with the same brush.
Pushing his empty plate away, Ethan pictured her face. Not when she blazed with anger, but when she had looked at him with such vulnerability and bewilderment. The expression wasn’t so different from the one he’d seen on her boy’s face when he said with such despair, “Mom is going to be so mad.”
Ethan sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, then reached for his wallet when he saw the waitress bearing down on his table with his tab, a flirtatious smile on her face and a swing to her hips. Okay, he hadn’t misread the tone of voice. She had plenty of curves, and he felt...nothing.
He was pleasant as he signed his credit card slip, then slid out of the booth and walked from the restaurant, noting faces, aware of people in the parking lot, passing vehicles.
Behind the wheel of his Yukon, he inserted the key but, still brooding, didn’t immediately turn it.
He hoped Laura would think twice and call him—but if she didn’t, he’d call her. Just to make sure she and Jake were okay. To let her know he’d meant it. And then he’d
