had no upper lip left. “Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?”
“Probably because I was in the squadroom.” He looked at his partner’s sandwich. “You carryin’ an extra one, Bertie?”
“Oh, sure.” Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. “You didn’t eat lunch?”
“When did I have time?” He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. “Decker cornered me just as I was hangin’ up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.”
“Yeah, it’s personal.”
“It’s personal. It’s also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.”
“Nothing wrong with us bagging a bunch of punks.” Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. “You know anything about these jokers?”
“Just what’s on the printout. They’ve been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.”
Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by a 99 Cents store advertising things in denomination of—you guessed it—ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoe store, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. “I don’t see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”
“The address is a half-number,” Martinez said. “We should try around the side of the building.”
Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door’s visibility blocked by a gathered white curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer.
The intercom spat back in painful static. “We’re closed for lunch.”
“Police,” Martinez barked. “Open up!”
A pause, then a long buzz. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses.
“Police?” She stood and looked to her left—at an interior door left ajar. “What’s going on?”
Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames—Grant Wood’s American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer—affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different-colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby-blue sheet of paper containing an article. The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later.
“A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.” Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. “We were wondering what you knew about it.”
Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s all over the news,” Webster said.
“I don’t watch the news.”
“You’ve got a radio on. I b’lieve it’s tuned to a news station.”
“That’s not me, that’s Darrell. Why are you here?”
“Because we know what this place is all about,” Martinez said. “We’re just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in.”
A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffee-colored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races.
“May I ask who you all are?” he said.
“Police,” Webster said. “We’d like to ask y’all a few questions, if that’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay,” the man said. “Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them. If not, you can show yourself to the door.”
“That’s downright unneighborly of you,” Webster said.
The man turned his wrath toward the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t let anyone in unless you’re sure of who they are!”
“They said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?”
“And since when do you believe everything someone says? You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?” Darrell turned toward them. “Can I see some ID?”
Webster pulled out his badge. “We’re not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we’re not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple that was vandalized this morning. Y’all know anything about that?”
“Absolutely not!” Darrell insisted. “Why should we?”
“Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?” Martinez asked.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Darrell said. “If I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.”
“S’cuse me?” Webster said. “This is being raked over the coals?”
“You barge in—”
“She buzzed us in,” Martinez interrupted. “And you haven’t answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?”
“I was home.” Darrell was smoldering. “In bed. Sleeping.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Alone. Unless you count my cat. Her name is Shockley.”
“And this morning?” Webster inquired.
“Let’s see. I woke up at eight-thirty … or thereabouts. I don’t want to be held to the exact time.”
“Go on,” Webster pushed.
“I exercised on my treadmill … ate breakfast … read the paper. I got here at around ten-fifty, ten-thirty. Erin was already here.” His eyes moved from the cops’ faces to the pitchfork of the Grant Wood classic. “What exactly do you want?”
“How about your complete names for starters.”
“Darrell Holt.”
Martinez
