Chapter One
The call was from the police. Not from Rina's lieutenant
husband, but from the police police. She listened as the
man spoke, and when she heard that it had nothing to do
with Peter or the children, she felt a "Thank you, God"
wave of instant relief. After discovering the reason
behind the contact, Rina wasn't as shocked as she should
have been.
The Jewish population of L.A.'s West Valley had been
rocked by hate crimes in the past, culminating in that
hideous ordeal a couple of years ago when a subspecies of
human life had gotten off the public bus and had shot up
the Jewish Community Center. The center had been and still
was a refuge for all people, offering everything from
toddler day camps to dance movements to exercise classes
for the elderly. Miraculously, no one had been killed --
there. But the monster -- who had later in the day
committed the atrocious act of murder -- had injured
several children and had left the entire area with numbing
fears that maybe it could happen again. Since then, many
of the L.A. Jews took special precautions to safeguard
their people and their institutions. Extra locks were put
on the doors of the centers and synagogues. Rina's shul, a
small rented storefront, had even gone so far as to
padlock the Aron Kodesh -- the Holy Ark that housed the
sacred Torah scrolls.
The police had phoned Rina because her number was the one
left on the shul's answering machine -- for emergencies
only. She was the synagogue's unofficial caretaker -- the
buck-stops-here person who called the contractors when a
pipe burst or when the roof leaked. Because it was a new
congregation, its members could only afford a part-time
rabbi. The congregants often pitched in by delivering a
Shabbos sermon or sponsoring an after-prayer kiddush.
People were always more social when food was served. The
tiny house of worship had lots of mettle, and that made
the dreadful news even harder to digest.
Driving to the destination, Rina was a mass of anxiety and
apprehension. Nine in the morning and her stomach was
knotted and burning. The police hadn't described the
damage, other than use the word vandalize over and over.
From what she could gather, it sounded more like cosmetic
mischief than actual constructional harm, but maybe that
was wishful thinking.
She passed homes, stores, and strip malls, barely glancing
at the scenery. She straightened the black tam perched
atop her head, tucking in a few dangling locks of ebony
hair. Even under ordinary circumstances, she rarely spent
time in front of the mirror. This morning, she had rushed
out as soon as she hung up the phone, wearing the most
basic of clothing -- a black skirt, a white long-sleeved
shirt, slip-on shoes, a head covering. At least her blue
eyes were clear. There had been no time for her makeup;
the cops were going to see the uncensored Rina Decker. The
red traffic lights seemed overly long, because she was so
antsy to get there.
The shul meant so much to her. It had been the motivating
factor behind selling Peter's old ranch and buying their
new house. Because hers was a Sabbath-observant Jewish
home, she had wanted a place of worship that was within
walking distance -- real walking distance, not something
two and a half miles away as Peter's ranch had been. It
wasn't that she minded the walk to her previous shul,
Yeshivat Ohavei Torah, and the boys certainly could make
the jaunt, but Hannah, at the time, had been five. The new
house was perfect for Hannah, a fifteen-minute walk, plus
there were plenty of little children for her to play with.
Not many older children, but that didn't matter, since her
older sons were nearly grown. Shmueli had left for Israel,
and Yonkie, though only in eleventh grade, would probably
spend his senior year back east, finishing yeshiva high
school while simultaneously attending college. Peter's
daughter, Cindy, was now a veteran cop, having survived a
wholly traumatic year. Occasionally, she'd eat Shabbat
dinner with them, visiting her little sister -- a thrill
since Cindy had grown up an only child. Rina was the
mother of a genuine blended family, though sometimes it
felt more like genuine chaos.
Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the storefront.
The tiny house of worship was in a building that also
rented space to a real estate office, a dry cleaners, a
nail salon, and a take-out Thai cafรฉ. Upstairs were a
travel agency and an attorney who advertised on late-night
cable with happy testimonials from former clients. Two
black-and-white cruisers had parked askew, taking up most
of the space in the minuscule lot, their light bars
alternately blinking out red and blue beams. A small crowd
had gathered in front of the synagogue, but through them,
Rina could see hints of a freshly painted black swastika.
Her heart sank.
She inched her Volvo into the lot and parked adjacent to a
cruiser. Before she even got out of the car, a uniform was
waving her off. He was a thick block of a man in his
thirties. Rina didn't recognize him, but that didn't mean
anything because she didn't know most of the uniformed
officers in the Devonshire station. Peter had transferred
there as a detective, not a patrol cop.
The officer was saying, "You can't park here, ma'am."
Rina rolled down the window. "The police called me down. I
have the keys to the synagogue."
The officer waited; she waited.
Rina said, "I'm Rina Decker, Lieutenant Decker's wife..."
Instant recognition. The uniformed officer nodded by way
of an apology, then muttered, "Kids!"
"Then you know who did it?" Rina got out of the car.
The officer's cheeks took on color. "No, not yet. But..."
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