“What do I tell my parents?” she sniffed. “I certainly can’t tell them the truth.”

“How good a liar are you?”

“Not very.”

“Then keep your excuse simple.”

She sighed.

“I guess I could tell them the boys have been asking to visit. It’s not really true, but the kids do like to see them.”

“How much do the boys know?”

“I haven’t said anything and I try to be reassuring, but they know something’s wrong. They’re scared, Peter. I was like this when Yitzchak was dying. Maybe they think I’m going to die.” She sighed heavily. “I’ll talk to them, try to make it clear that this is only temporary. They’re trustworthy. If I tell them not to mention anything to their grandparents, they won’t.”

“Good.” He stroked her hair. “I’d feel a lot better if you went with them.”

She shook her head.

“No. If anything happens next week, at least it will only happen to me.”

“All right. Just promise me you’ll keep in constant touch. Try not to be alone or at least have someone nearby. And call me if you leave the grounds.”

She nodded.

“Even if it’s just a quick errand.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, yes. You’re as bad as my parents.”

“I know I’m a nag. Cindy tells me the same thing.”

Rina snuggled in closer, and they sat embracing in silence. To his surprise, even in his current state of exhaustion, he was becoming aroused. Goddam it, he thought, enjoying the feeling and not knowing what to do with it. He felt awkward breaking away from her when they had fitted together so nicely, but knew he couldn’t go any farther. Back to business.

“Are you up to telling me about the mikvah break-in? If you’re not, just say so.”

“I’m okay. Anything I can do to help find this mamzer, I’ll do.” She gently slid out of his arms and sat next to him. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing much to tell. First, he tried to get in the door. When that didn’t work, he threw that boulder through the window. He struck his arm in-”

“His arm?”

“Yes. One arm.”

“Was it gloved?”

“No. It was an arm sticking out of a shirt sleeve.”

“What color was the skin?”

“White.”

“A Caucasian,” he muttered to himself. “Do you remember the color of the shirt sleeve?”

“Dark. Navy blue or black.”

“Do you recall if the arm was scratched from the window?”

“No. I was too busy protecting my eyes from the flying glass.”

“You did right, Rina. You handled it perfectly.” He took a peach and bit out a chunk. “The lab boys went over the mikvah thoroughly. The prints they lifted from the door handle are useless-incomplete and smudged. They didn’t bother with the window. I’ll send a crime tech back and see if he can’t come up with some blood scraping or prints from the casement.”

“He can come anytime. The mikvah’s shut down anyway.”

“Do the women get some dispensation from their mikvah obligation?”

“It doesn’t work that way. But, Baruch Hashem, there are other mikvot in Los Angeles. They’re using the nearest one from here, which is an hour’s car ride away.”

“I’m sorry. But it’s probably for the best.”

It wasn’t for the best, she thought. But how could she begin to explain the importance of the ritual bath-how integral it was to all of Judaism? The rainwater pool was the symbolic essence of Taharat Hamishpacha-family purity. Its waters were used to cleanse the dead spiritually, and immersion in it was essential before a non-Jew could be converted. Even cooking and eating utensils made of metal were dunked to render them clean. Mikvah was a mainstay of Jewish life-as much a part of Orthodoxy as dietary laws, circumcision, or the Sabbath.

She didn’t try to educate Peter. She was much too weary, and he probably wouldn’t understand. No one would except another of her own kind.

She shrugged.

“Is there anything I can do for you now?” he asked.

“No. Nothing. But thanks for offering.”

“Okay,” Decker said, finishing the last bite of peach. “Rina, we’ve pretty much ruled out Moshe, but it wouldn’t hurt to let people think he’s still under suspicion. Might make the real killer get careless and do something stupid.”

She nodded and patted his hand maternally. “Take care, Peter. Get some sleep.”

“Later,” he said.

After I do my laundry, he thought.

18

Dry cleaner number one was owned by a Korean couple surnamed Park. They barely spoke English and didn’t seem to understand a word Decker was saying. The only other person who worked for them was a black woman of fifty named Lilly. Decker spoke to her. The voice didn’t match. He scratched the place off his list.

Number two was owned jointly by two white couples in their mid-thirties. They worked alone, and neither of the women’s voices matched the anonymous girl on the phone. Onward.

At the Ti-Dee-Rite Launderette he got lucky.

The place was in a small, shabby shopping center with a 7-Eleven on one side and a donut shop on the other. He parked the unmarked between a souped up ’58 Chevy and a Ford flatbed, and took out a sack of dirty laundry. If nothing else panned out, at least he’d have clean undershirts.

The laundromat was large. The central floor space was taken up by sixty Speed Queen machines. On the rear wall were a coin-operated soap dispenser, a laundry bag dispenser, and a bill changer. Directly in front of the machines were three free-standing tables for sorting and folding. The left wall had twenty built-in industrial dryers; the right held ten more dryers, four extra-large washers for bedspreads and rugs, and a pay phone. A couple of women sat on orange plastic chairs and waited for the wash cycle to finish, biding their time by thumbing through out-of-date magazines. A young man with a harelip loaded wet clothes into a dryer. A few other people were busy at the machines. In a corner sat a woman in her mid-twenties. Her face was round, almost pleasant, but marred by tight, thin lips. Her arms looked abnormally short, almost dwarf-like. She was wearing a name tag. Decker couldn’t read the name but could make out the word MANAGER written underneath in bold black letters.

He walked over to an empty washer and loaded the clothes. Closing the lid, he placed some coins into a slot and fed them into the machine. When the washer didn’t kick in, he started banging it furiously. Immediately, the manager got up and came over.

“Take it easy, mister!” she scolded.

Decker grinned inside.

“Stop hammering the thing to death. What’s the problem?”

Her name tag said Rayana Beth Mathers. Hello, Rayana.

“The thing’s broken. It ate my money.”

Slowly, Rayana eased back the slot.

“You put in two quarters and a nickel. You need two quarters and a dime.”

She pronounced “quarters” as “quarters.”

“You’re from Boston?” Decker asked, smiling.

She smiled back.

“You got a good ear for accents, huh?”

He nodded and stared at her. She lowered her head coquettishly, then looked up at him. Her face suddenly blanched, and she tried to take off. Decker grabbed her arm.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Leave me alone. I want a lawyer.”

“Why on earth do you need a lawyer, Rayana? I just want to talk to you.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Well, then just listen.”

“Take your hands off me!”

A few patrons turned around, curious looks on their faces.

“You’re attracting attention,” Decker whispered.

She stopped struggling in his grip.

“That’s better,” Decker said, not releasing her arm. “Now, how’d you know I was a cop?”

“You look like one.”

“Then how come you didn’t make me for one right away? What was it? Did you suddenly recognize my face? My voice?”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s sit down, Rayana.”