The Ritual Bath. Faye Kellerman
index finger. “Why don’t you beat it?”
“Hey, man, I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”
The detective watched him cross the street. When the boy had disappeared, he returned to the bench.
“Junkie,” he said, sitting down. “They prey on people like the good little Señora: old women with children who can’t give them chase. Sneak up, grab their purses, and they’re a couple bucks richer with very little effort.”
“What a world,” Rina said. “Until now we’d always felt so insulated from all the outside problems.”
“Unfortunately, you’re not.” He turned to face her. “You know what I’d really like?”
“What?”
“I’d really like to see you again.”
Rina didn’t reply.
“If you don’t go out to eat, how about a couple of drinks, dancing?”
She felt sick.
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
Decker’s face was impassive.
“Well, we’d better be getting back,” he said, standing up.
“It’s nothing personal, Peter.”
“Forget it.”
“Honestly, it’s not because I don’t want to.”
“Then why don’t you do it?”
“It’s impossible. You’ve seen the world I live in. You must understand.”
She turned away. Decker stared at her profile and felt the frustration grow.
“What I’d like to understand is why you bothered coming down here in the first place? Feeding me lunch? Dragging me out of the station? Everything you told me could have been easily said over the phone. What the hell was I supposed to think?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d like getting out, escaping from all the tension. I was just trying to be nice.”
“Well, you were very nice. Let’s go.”
“I’ve got to say grace after meals first.”
Decker flipped his wrist and checked his watch.
“Go ahead.”
She bentched rapidly in silence, but her eyes kept glancing at his face. The more she looked at him, the worse she felt.
“Please don’t be mad,” she said when she had finished her prayers.
“I’m not mad,” he answered coldly. “Just disappointed. But I understand. I’m a goy, you’re a Jew. Let’s go.”
He was driving exceptionally fast and still looked irritated, but she didn’t say anything. He was right. She had given him the wrong impression, and now she felt stupid. It was a mistake for her to come down here. It was a mistake to leave the yeshiva.
He shot through the tail end of an amber light, and a black-and-white caught him.
“Shit,” Decker said as he saw the flashing lights. “Who are those jokers? A couple of morons?” He swung the car over until he was side by side with the police car.
“Sorry, Pete,” the policeman said. “My partner’s a rookie and didn’t recognize the car.”
“Okay,” Decker shouted back. “Hey, Doug, if you want to roust someone, I just saw Ramon Gomez, and he needed a fix badly. He was about to pull a 211 purse snatch on little old lady Sanchez.”
“Where was he?” the officer asked.
“Arleta Park. I kicked him out, but he’s probably hanging around.”
“Will do.”
The patrol car sped off.
Five minutes later they were standing in front of her old Volvo.
“I’m really sorry if I led you on.”
Decker shook his head in self-disgust.
“People hear what they want to hear. I’m no exception. It was inappropriate for me—”
“Oh no, it wasn’t. I mean, I’m not offended by anything you did.”
“I’m glad.” He smiled at her, and she seemed relieved. “Just take care of yourself. You still have my numbers?”
“They’re pinned next to my home phone and the one in the mikvah.”
“You’re welcome to use them whenever you want.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope for your sake you don’t have to.”
Back at his desk, Decker reviewed the notes from his conversation with Rina, made a few corrections and additional comments, and angrily stuffed it all in the Adler Rape file.
He’d made a first-class ass out of himself. Jesus Christ! He was supposed to be investigating a rape case, not putting the make on a religious skirt twelve years his junior.
He picked up a pencil and twirled it absently.
Stop being so goddam hard on yourself, he chastised himself. Lighten up. But the pep talk didn’t work. He felt sleazy and old.
His phone rang. Inhaling deeply, he stared at the blinking light, then picked up the receiver.
“Decker.”
There was a loud whir on the other end.
“Hello?” said Decker.
“Hi,” the voice responded. It was vaguely familiar. Female. Youthful sounding—possibly adolescent. She was shouting over the buzz.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, tapping the pencil on the desktop.
“Are you the detective on the Foothill rape case?”
Decker sat up in his chair and pulled out a sheet of scrap paper.
“Yes, I am, Ms …?”
“I was wondering about that last girl who was raped … You know, the librarian?”
“Yes,” Decker said encouragingly. He could barely hear her over the background drone. “Could you speak up, please?”
“What was her name? Ball or Bell … It was in the papers …”
“What about her?”
“Um, was she by any chance wearing black-and-white dress pumps?”
“Could be,” Decker answered trying to contain his excitement. “That very well could be. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come down to the station, and the two of us can find out about it together, Ms …?”
The line disconnected.
“Fuck,” he said out loud. “Damn it!” He slammed down the receiver and quickly dialed communications.
“Arnie, it’s Pete Decker.”
“How’s it going, Pete?”
“Just fine. Could you get me a location on my last incoming call? She hung up about a second ago.”
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