“Aha.”

“‘Honestly, she’s just hopeless! And she could do so much more with herself if she’d just try. God, I’m sounding like Mom. How gross!’”

Decker laughed. “Insight at fifteen.”

“Hey, some never achieve it in a lifetime.”

“That’s true. Did she write about posing for Chris in the nude?”

“Yeah. Let me find the entries…Ah, here’s one. ‘Cris took more nude pictures of me. Like always, we made love afterwards, this time doggie style. Man, he’s big, I like it the best when I’m on top.’” Marge smiled. “Adventurous little thing, wasn’t she.”

“Can’t hold back raging hormones.”

She looked at him. “Is it hard being the father of a teenaged daughter?”

“It has its moments.” He definitely didn’t like the tenor of this conversation. “Is there anything to suggest that Chris coerced her into posing nude?”

“Not that I can tell.”

Decker checked his watch and floored the accelerator. Even at high speeds, he wasn’t going to make it in time for the start of the Sabbath. He wondered if Rabbi Schulman would say anything. Probably not.

“She was sensitive, Pete,” Marge said. “She got her feelings hurt a lot.”

“Such as?”

She skimmed a few of the back pages. “Like Heather didn’t notice her new dress…Chris didn’t call when he said he would… Erin was her usual sharp-tongued witch. I can sure believe that. Here’s another-Brian embarrassed her in front of her English teacher.”

“Brian’s a jerk.”

“Yeah, she knew that too. Wait a minute, let me find…” She turned to the back pages. “Here it is. She writes, ‘Brian got drunk and threw up in his dad’s car again. I know he’s a loser, but I feel sorry for him. His dad is completely disgusting, always trying to put the make on girls Bri brings home. It’s no wonder he scams all the time.’”

“Did she mention the dad coming on to her?”

“Not specifically.”

Marge read further.

“She has her share of catty digs in here. It really pissed her off when someone looked better than her. She was vain.”

“Never met a teenager who wasn’t self-absorbed in some way,” Decker said.

Ten minutes later Decker shot the amber light at the end of the freeway off-ramp and sped toward the station house.

“In a hurry?” Marge asked.

“A little.”

She closed the diary and handed it to him.

“You take a look at it and tell me what you think,” she said. “I don’t find anything unusual in here. Nothing that spells an unhappy kid about to run away. And nothing to suggest that Truscott was weird. She was gaga over him-wrote about following him to the end of the universe.”

Decker felt a burst of anger. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or his growling stomach, or his arm beginning to awaken from its analgesic dormancy. Whatever the reason was, the case suddenly infuriated him. The waste of a young girl’s life.

Through clenched teeth he said, “It’s a damn shame that she fell so short of her destination.”

9

On his plate were thin slices of rare roast beef with horseradish sauce, three steaming hot potato pancakes smothered in applesauce, a scoop of red and white cabbage salad, and a chunk of challah. On the side was a plateful of cholent-a stew chock full of beans and beef and topped with stuffed derma. A crystal goblet full of ice water stood next to a matching wine glass brimming over with semi-dry rosé.

But his stomach churned.

Part of it was fever. He should have made time for the doctor yesterday. He was out of penicillin and infection was worming its way back into his system. But mostly it was Rina. She was sitting across from him and he had never seen such physical perfection. She always looked lovely on Shabbos, but not like this. He was in awe. Her hair was tied in a formal knot, outlining her magnificent bone structure. Two feathers of gold dangled from her earlobes and brushed against her creamy cheeks whenever she turned her head. Her cerulean eyes seemed deeper, more mysterious, her lips full and red. She was dressed modestly-long sleeves and a midcalf hemline, but the rounded neck of her chemise revealed the graceful arch of her throat and the fine architecture underneath. He didn’t dare let his eyes meet hers because if he did, the others at the table would know what he was thinking.

He picked up his knife and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, knowing it would be rude to leave so much food on his plate. Taking a forkful, he began to chew with effort.

Rabbi Marcus was giving a Dvar Torah. This time it was a discourse on the weekly biblical portion. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, black tie, and black Borsalino. From under his shirt hung tzitzis-fringes. The other married men at the table were dressed identically; all had full beards.

Smoothing his mustache, Decker rubbed his naked chin self-consciously. His lack of total facial hair wasn’t the only thing that set him apart from the others. His coloring was a sanguine splash amid a sea of brunettes and his navy suit looked more executive than rabbinical. Even his kipah, smaller and knitted, wasn’t like the large black velvet ones covering the heads of the three unmarried yeshiva students.

The women’s dress was more varied than that of the men, and although they wore no makeup, they sparkled with jewelry.

Marcus began to speak animately, his stern eyes ablaze with passion, as he brought home his point. Decker tried to listen intently, but the mixture of English and Hebrew confused him and his right arm ached. The pain increased when he noticed the cold stare of Marcus’s wife, Chana, drilling into him. She was the biggest busybody he’d ever known, and he disliked her intensely. Her stony eyes marched back and forth between him and Rina-a self-appointed watchdog making sure nothing unholy transpired.

He’d made it through half his roast beef. The meat was delicious, but it sat like a stone in his belly. He sneaked a furtive glance at Rina, who met his eyes questioningly. He knew what she was thinking. Are you okay, Peter?

After Marcus ended his sermon, Decker returned his full attention to the food. Slowly, he cut another piece of beef, and then realized he couldn’t use a knife anymore. His arm had cramped. He speared the morsel with his left hand and felt a rivulet of sweat run down his forehead. Dabbing it quickly, he pushed his plate aside. Chana noticed, but no one else did, because the children had entered the dining room from the kitchen where they’d eaten at a separate table.

Rina’s boys took seats on either side of him and the table broke into zemiros-Sabbath songs. Sarah Libba Adler rose and began to clear dishes, and Rina, Chana, and the older girls got up to help her. Decker could feel Rina standing directly behind him, see her hand reach for his plate.

“You’re not hungry?” she said softly.

He turned to look up at her and shook his head.

She piled the silverware on top of his dish and removed the plate.

“He’s not used to Jewish cooking,” Chana said acerbically to Rina once they were inside the kitchen.

Rina shrugged.

Chana’s icy eyes narrowed. She picked up a three-tiered pastry dish and took it into the dining room.

“He’s not feeling well?” Sarah Libba whispered.

“I guess he’s just tired,” Rina answered. “The meal was superb, as usual.”

Sarah Libba looked at Decker’s half-emptied plate as if it refuted Rina’s compliment, but said nothing.

“Go sit down, Rina,” she urged. “Chana, the girls, and I can handle it.”

“Don’t be silly. I know how much work it takes to prepare something like this. I want to help.”

Holding a candy-dish in one hand and a nut-bowl in the other, Rina went back into the dining room and began to clear the glasses. He looks pale, she thought. But a smile spread across her lips as she noticed her boys singing loudly, curled against him. It had been ages since she’d seen them so happy.