“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.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

Decker hung up.

Was she wearing two-tone pumps? You bet your sweet ass she was wearing two-tone pumps, and only the police were supposed to know it. The fact that that perp was a foot fetishist had been held back from the press. The lady knew something, and she’d slipped out of his hands.

Typical!

Fuck!

He knew he’d spoken to her before. She must have been one of the hundreds of anonymous tips that had floated through the station since the rapes began. But her voice stuck in his memory bank. He noted the date, time, and contents of the call, including the background noise, on a tip list and stuck it back in the file. A half-empty aspirin bottle lay on his desk. Opening it up, he popped two tablets in his mouth and washed them down with a cold sip of leftover coffee. He sat thinking. After a few minutes he got up, walked over to the central files and looked up the yeshiva vandalism episodes.

Nothing particularly illuminating. Broken windows, garbage strewn over the grounds, swastikas and obscene messages spray-painted on the walls: Kikes, Cocksuckers, Baby Killers, Flesh Eaters, Christ Killers. Maybe it should have bothered him more than it did, but he had passed it off as the same old stuff. Nothing new. Nothing that hadn’t ever been said before. A few of the local punks were questioned, no arrests were made. Case closed. Kaput.

Decker put the file away, closed the drawer, and went back to his desk.

Anti-Semitism was nothing new to him. He’d grown up a good ole boy in Gainesville, where there was little direct contact with Jews but still a lot of prejudice. The locals regarded decadent Miami as a pinko watering hole for kikes, spics, and niggers. His first personal experience with a Jew came when he was fourteen. One of his buddies had been bumped off the first string of the local junior high football team by a Jew-a big strong boy who defied the stereotype. Later on in the day Decker and his friends ran into the Jew off campus. His buddy was pissed and baited the boy into a fight by calling him a Christ Killer. Decker did nothing as the two boys started duking it out, standing on the sidelines even when the rest of the gang jumped into the melee. It wasn’t until he clearly saw that the Jewish boy was hopelessly outmuscled that he’d intervened and stopped the fighting. At fourteen, he was five ten, 170, with a developing pad of musculature that made grown men jealous. The boys listened to him, but weren’t happy about it.

That evening at dinnertime he told his parents about the Jew and what had happened. After an initial silence, his father-a large, taciturn man with broad shoulders-spoke first. Gotta fight, he had said, when you’re threatened. Gotta protect yourself, protect your family and country. But it’s no damn good to fight someone just because of the way he was born. It’s wrong, and it’s stupid.