“Whole families just don’t disappear,” Marge said.

“Sure they do, Dunn,” Davidson said. “It’s called the Witness Protection Program. Did you get a good look at this guy’s passport?” He thumbed through Yalom’s official document. “If the Feds have them stashed somewhere, you ain’t going to find them.”

Marge said, “Then why would the boys’ passports be missing and the parents’ passports be left behind?”

Davidson said, “Parents had to stick around for the Feds to testify for something or other. But they shipped the kids off to Israel. How does that sound?”

“The sister has spoken to her parents in Israel,” Decker said. “The boys aren’t there.”

“If she’s telling the truth,” Davidson said. “You notice she’s not bugging us like she was.”

“That’s because we’re doing something,” Decker said.

Davidson was quiet for a moment. “Look, we all know something isn’t right. I vote spy.” He plopped Yalom’s passport on the desk. “Yalom’s something covert. If the family’s in hiding, we’re not going to find any of them. Nor am I interested in finding them.”

“So you’re saying we should fold our tents?” Marge said.

Davidson was quiet. Then he said, “You can keep this in the active files for a few more weeks. But don’t spend all day on it.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Take a couple hours a day, but no more. Unless, of course, something new pops up.”

Marge said, “Sir, that sounds reasonable. But if it’s all the same to you, if you could just give me another whole day-”

“And what do you think you’ll accomplish in another day, Dunn?”

Marge fidgeted. “I’d like another day to scour the house for possible crime evidence.”

“You already scoured the house. Another full day would just be a waste of department’s time and money. It’s time to move on to current affairs.”

Marge clenched her jaw, but said nothing. In vain, she waited for Decker to say something but he remained quiet. Did he actually agree with Davidson’s assessment or was he just keeping his mouth shut? Damn, he was unreadable.

Davidson turned to Decker. “You got a court appearance or something this afternoon?”

“The Williams shooting.”

“That was the Saturday-night bar thing?”

“Yep.”

“Then I’ll give this to Dunn.” Davidson took out a note and handed it to Marge. “This came through dispatch ’bout fifteen minutes ago. You literally got the smoking gun.”

Marge unfolded the note and read the details. A shooting at a local college-a lovers’ quarrel in the science lab. The boyfriend knocked off his woman in front of twenty students. Blues already at the scene. A rookie could have taken this call. All she had to do was fill out the forms.

Marge pocketed the information and stood. “I’ll get right to it, sir.”

“Right attitude,” Davidson said. “I like that. You’re learning. I know you want the Big One, Dunn. And you was hoping this Yalom thing was it. No harm in that. And maybe it taught you something in the process. You can’t eat steak before you cut your teeth.”

Decker allowed himself a fleeting smile before his expression turned flat. But Davidson caught it. “Did I say something funny, Decker?”

“Are you saying a more experienced person could have come up with more evidence in this case?”

“Yeah, maybe that’s what I’m saying.”

“I’m experienced.”

“Obviously not as much as you think.”

Decker said nothing, his eyes still on Davidson. They were locked in an old-fashioned staring contest. G-rated wienie wagging. Decker had an almost irresistible urge to make a funny face.

Finally, Davidson said, “I’m pissing you off, Decker?”

“Nope. You’re daring me. I like that even better.”

“I’m glad I’m making you happy. And if it motivates you to go out and solve this case…find some bodies, more power to you. But no more sucking on the department’s tit, you hear? A couple of hours a day on it, the rest is your own time.”

Decker stood. “Fair enough.” He held out his hand. Davidson stared at it for a moment, then took it.

Despite what was printed, Decker knew the LAPD wasn’t vilified by all. Still, both he and Marge were pleasantly surprised by the amount of support given to Devonshire by the people it served. The squad room was made up almost entirely of community-donated items, from the furnishings to the high-tech hardware. Not to mention the push-button phones. Decker had used a rotary for years at Foothill.

The work space itself was generic LAPD squad room. The desks were grouped according to detail with Homicide located in the back adjacent to CAPS-Crimes Against Persons. The walls held the requisite blue file notebooks, the lockers, the division maps, and the emergency mobilization plans. But the Dees had done a little of their own homespun decorating. Decker’s favorites were a poster of David Mamet’s movie Homicide, and a large colored drawing of pigs wearing police hats as they snuffled for truffles.

Bending a gooseneck lamp over his notes, Decker sat at his desk, reviewing his court case, waiting to see if the analytical office in CAD-Crime Analysis Detail-could pull from the computer any prior family disappearances. He knew computer information could take a while. It depended on how the questions were phrased and entered, on who else was on-line. He probably wouldn’t have answers before he left for court.

Not that Decker had to appear in court. Since the passage of prop 115, it was now permissible for uniformed officers to present the detectives’ evidence to the grand jury, thus freeing up Dees to work in the field. But Decker preferred to state his own case if time permitted. Years of law school die hard.

Marge walked in and sat down at her desk across from Decker. He looked up and placed his briefs on his desk.

“How’d it go?”

Marge grimaced. “What a waste! And I don’t mean a waste of my time. I mean a waste of human life. Guy got pissed at his girlfriend so he shot her. Now he’s all remorseful, bawling like a baby, hovering over the body. He was actually giving her CPR when the blues arrived, do you believe that? Like that’s the treatment of choice for a thirty-two slug in the brain.”

“He was packing a thirty-two?”

“Pulled it out of his satchel.” Marge shook her head. “They never learn.” She paused. “Well, I did my job, made Tug happy. Can you believe him? Aren’t you outraged about his blatant anti-Semitism?”

“Nah.”

Marge stared at her partner. “How can you not be? Jews as spies. The way he says your people.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“Just what does it take to rile you up?”

Decker thought a beat. “If you were anti-Semitic, then I’d be outraged. We need to talk about Yalom.”

Marge stared at her wristwatch. “Okay…go!”

“What are you doing?”

“We’ve got one hour, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-six seconds left.”

Decker smiled. “I’m leaving for court in a few minutes. Though I don’t expect anything, I’ve spoken to CAD. See if they can come up with any past abductions that resemble the Yalom case.”

“What an idea. I’m sure there must be a slew of open files on family kidnappings.”

“You got a better approach, I’m all ears, Marge.”

Marge was quiet. “Sorry. I’m just angry. Angry at what I just saw, angry at Davidson.” She turned to him. “Aren’t you pissed at him? He dared you.”

“I don’t get pissed, I get even,” Decker said. “Guy’s going to eat his words with shit on top. What say you and I get together here around four o’clock and go over Yalom, bit by bit.”

“We’ve done that.”

“We might have missed something. Let’s do it again.”

The notes and charts covered both desks. It had taken them over an hour to review, classify, sort, and resort. At five, most of the other thirty-odd Devonshire detectives were calling it a day. At six-thirty, Davidson walked out of his office and over to their table. Old Tug had on his jacket and was carrying his briefcase. He looked embarrassed to be leaving before them.