She smiled. “And she stopped being afraid.”

Her husband's hands were blanched fists.

She said, “I thought I was successful because Iriti stopped coming to our bed.”

She looked at her husband. He stared at his trousers.

“When Irit got older,” said Milo, “was she afraid of anything?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I thought I'd done a good job with my stories.”

She let out a short, barking laugh, so savage it tightened my spine.

Her husband sat there, then shot to his feet and came back with a box of tissues.

Her eyes were dry but he wiped them.

Liora smiled at him and held his hand. “My brave little girl. She knew she was different… liked being pretty… once, when we lived in Copenhagen, a man grabbed her and tried to kiss her. She was nine, we were shopping for jeans and I was walking in front of her instead of with her because Copenhagen was a safe city. There was a museum, there, on the Stroget- the main shopping street. The Museum of Erotica. We never went in but it was always busy. The Danes are healthy about those things but perhaps the museum attracted sick people because the man-”

“Enough,” said Carmeli.

“- grabbed Iriti and tried to kiss her. An old man, pathetic. She didn't hear him- she had her hearing aid off, as usual, probably singing songs.”

“Songs?” said Milo.

“She sang to herself. Not real songs, her own songs. I could always tell because her head would move, up and down-”

“She stopped doing that a long time ago,” said Carmeli.

“When this man grabbed her,” said Milo, “how did she react?”

“She punched him and broke free and then she laughed at him because he looked so frightened. He was a little old man. I didn't even realize anything was wrong until I heard yelling in Danish and turned around and saw two young men holding the old man and Iriti standing there, laughing. They'd seen the whole thing, said the old man was crazy but harmless. Irit kept laughing and laughing. It was the old man who looked miserable.”

“That was Denmark,” said Carmeli. “This is America.”

Liora's smile vanished and she lowered her head, chastened.

“So you feel,” said Milo, “that Irit wasn't afraid of strangers.”

“She wasn't afraid of anything,” said Liora.

“So if a stranger-”

“I don't know,” she said, suddenly crying. “I don't know anything.”

“Liora-” said Carmeli, taking hold of her wrist.

“I don't know,” she repeated. “Maybe. I don't know!” She broke free of her husband's grasp and faced the wall, staring at the bare plaster. “Maybe I should have told her other stories, where the demons won, so you needed to be careful-”

“Ma'am-”

“Oh, please,” said Carmeli, disgusted. “This is idiotic. I insist you leave.”

He stomped to the door.

Milo and I got up.

“One more thing, Mrs. Carmeli,” he said. “Irit's clothes. Were they sent back to Israel?”

“Her clothes?” said Carmeli.

“No,” said Liora. “We sent only… she- when we- our customs- we use a white robe. Her clothes are here.” She faced her husband. “I asked you to call the police and when you didn't, I had your secretary call. They arrived a month ago and I kept them.”

Carmeli stared at her, bug-eyed.

She said, “In the Plymouth, Zev. So I can have them with me when I drive.”

Milo said, “If you don't mind-”

“Crazy,” said Carmeli.

“I am?” said Liora, smiling again.

“No, no, no, Lili, these questions.” More Hebrew. She listened to him calmly, then turned to us. “Why do you want the clothes?”

“I'd like to do some analyses,” said Milo.

“They've already been analyzed,” said Carmeli. “We waited months to get them back.”

“I know, sir, but when I take on a case I like to make sure.”

“Make sure what?”

“That everything has been done.”

“I see,” said Carmeli. “You're a careful man.”

“I try.”

“And your predecessors?”

“I'm sure they tried, too.”

“Loyal, too,” said Carmeli. “A good soldier. After all this time, the clothes being in my wife's car, what use are analyses?”

“I never touched them,” said Liora. “I never opened the bag. I wanted to, but…”

Carmeli looked ready to sting, said only, “Ah.”

Liora said, “I'll get them for you. May I have them back?”

“Of course, ma'am.”

She got up and went outside.

Unlocking the minivan's rear hatch, she lifted up a section and revealed the spare-tire compartment. Next to the wheel was a plastic bag still bearing an LAPD evidence tag. Inside was something blue- rolled jeans. And a white patch- a single sock.

“My husband already thinks I've gone crazy because I've started talking to myself- like Iriti's singing.”

Carmeli stiffened, then his eyes went soft. “Liora.” He put his arm around her. She patted his hand and moved away from him.

“Take it,” she said, pointing to the bag.

As Milo reached for it, Carmeli returned to the house.

Watching him, Liora said, “Maybe I am sick. Maybe I am primitive… What will you be analyzing? The first police told us there was nothing on it.”

“I'll probably repeat what's been done,” said Milo. He held the bag in both hands, as if it were something precious.

“Well,” she said. “Good-bye. Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I'm sorry we upset your husband.”

“My husband is very… tender. You will return it?”

“Absolutely, ma'am.”

“Can you say when?”

“As soon as possible?”

“Thank you,” she said. “As soon as possible. I would like to have it with me again when I drive.”

She trudged back into her house and closed the door.

Milo and I returned to our cars. “I love my job,” he said. “Those light and airy moments.” The evidence bag was nestled against his barrel chest.

“Poor woman,” I said. “Both of them.”

“Looks like things aren't great between them.”

“Tragedy will do that.”

“Any other insights?”

“About what?” I said.

“Her, them.”

“He's protecting her and she doesn't want to be protected. Pretty standard male-female pattern. Why?”

“I don't know… the way she talked about being crazy, primitive. She's… something about her made me wonder if she has a psychiatric history.”

I stared at him.

“Like I said, light and airy, Alex.”

“Stalking her own child in the park and strangling her?”

“Strangling gently… could be a boyfriend, I've seen that plenty of times, guy develops a relationship, sees the kids as impediments- but no, she's not a suspect. I just think ugly by reflex.”

His arm dropped and the bag dangled. “I've seen too many kids killed by mama. Can't be effective if I avoid the shadows.”

“True,” I said. “My guess is that she might have been wound up pretty tight- a diplomat's wife- and has unraveled. She probably used to put on a happy face, suppress things, now she says to hell with it.”

He looked down at the bag. “What do you think about her keeping this in her car all this time?”

“A shrine. There are all sorts of them. She knew her husband would be offended so she created a private one but she's willing to risk his disapproval in order to cooperate.”

“Offended,” he said. “She talked about her culture. As opposed to his? Moroccan as opposed to wherever he comes from?”

“Probably. He looks European. When I was in private practice, I had a few Israeli patients and the East versus West thing came up. When Israel was created it became a melting pot for Jews and sometimes there was conflict. I remember one family with just the opposite situation. The husband was from Iraq and the wife was Polish or Austrian. He thought she was cold, she thought he was superstitious. Maybe Mrs. Carmeli didn't want Mr. to think she was engaging in primitive rituals. Maybe she just knew he'd be grossed out by the clothes. Whatever the reason, she had no hesitation telling you she had the bag.”