Decker winced at the reference, which now seemed like a racial slur.

“Yeah.”

“Was she involved in the rape case over there?”

“As a witness, not as the victim.”

“You think there might be a connection?” Folstrom asked.

“Who knows?”

Decker related Rina’s version of the incident to the officers. When he was done, he asked: “You boys have any details to add?”

“Her side of the story jibes with the good Samaritan’s,” said Doug.

“Poor guy,” said Folstrom. “He saw the boys rousting the girl and tried to help out. All he got for his efforts was a bloody nose.”

“He’s fucking lucky that is all he got,” Walsh said.

“And the kid pulled a knife on her?” Decker asked.

Walsh nodded. “By the time our unit arrived, the other three punks had fled the scene, but this little prick had a knife at the girl’s throat.”

“Why didn’t he split with the others?” Decker asked.

“Seems the little gal from Jewtown had the presence of mind to kick him in the balls. It held him back, delaying his escape time considerably.”

Decker broke into full laughter. Good for Rina, he thought.

“She didn’t tell you that?” Folstrom asked.

“Must have slipped her mind,” Decker replied. He stared at the prone figure on the ground until he placed a name with the face. Cory Schmidt. A bad apple. He’d had a few minor dealings with the kid in the past-disturbing the peace, loitering, malicious mischief. The punk was preordained to fuck up big, and this time he had. He walked over to the boy and gently poked the kid’s side with the tip of his shoe.

“Hey, Cory,” Decker said. “What’s happening? Looks like you pissed in your pants.”

“Fuck off, Decker. I wanna lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer.”

“I mean a real lawyer. Not some goddam pig.”

“You’ll get a lawyer. You’ll get a lawyer and your parents, too. We’re going to make sure you’re well protected. Then all of us are going to sit in a little tiny room that’s hotter than hell and talk for a long time. Doesn’t that sound like a shit load of fun, Cory? Almost as good as getting blasted on snowflake.”

“Fuck you, dick.”

Decker resisted a very strong urge to kick him and went back to Walsh.

“I have an appointment with the phone company right now,” he said. “Some girl out there knows something about the Foothill rapes, and I’m going to catch her if she calls me again. Have Marge Dunn do the first relay without a lawyer and without the parents. See if we can wear the kid down. Break his confidence. Just delay the whole thing for an hour at the most. I don’t want to trample on Miranda, just lightly step on its toes.”

He took out a pocket-sized notebook and began to scribble furiously.

“I should be back around one. Make sure he has counsel by then, and try to get a parent down there. His parents are both unemployed alkies, so it may be hard to get them off their butts, but at least make an attempt to contact one of them. Don’t let the little prick slip out of out hands until I’ve talked with him.”

“Think he’s involved with the rape at Jewtown, Pete?” Walsh asked.

“I’m sure he’s one of the vandals. Don’t know about the rape.” He folded the top cover over his note pad and looked up. “But I’m going to find out.”

Lionel Richie was crooning on the portable cassette deck. Last night it had been the Pointer sisters, the week before, Smokey Robinson. It was nice to hear popular songs, Rina thought, mopping the mikvah floor. She liked the woman’s taste in music, but not as much as she liked the woman. The six-foot, two-hundred-pound security guard not only made her feel well protected, but provided interesting company.

Florence Marley was thirty, with coffee-colored skin, a wide smile, a friendly disposition, and a slew of recipes. Good ones. Rina had tried out a few herself, making the appropriate substitutions to keep the dishes kosher. Food-the universal language. It nicely bridged the gap between the big black woman from Watts and the ladies of the yeshiva.

She finished the floors, glad that she’d made herself stick to her routines despite the shock of this morning’s assault. Dragging a sloshing bucket, she went outside to the reception area.

“Let me help you with that, Rina,” Florence offered.

The guard hefted the bucket as if it were a tin can, tossed the dirty water down the sink, and handed the pail back to Rina.

“There’s really no need for you to stick around for me tonight, Florence,” Rina said, checking the time. “Detective Decker should be here any minute.”

“I’ll wait,” said the guard. “I’m not going to leave you alone in this place.”

Rina knew it was useless to argue.

Florence twirled her nightstick and hiked-up her beige uniform pants.

“I’m gonna have a look around outside,” she said, patting her gun. “Be back in five minutes, Rina. You hear anything, remember I’m right outside.”

Rina nodded. She bolted the door shut and gathered up the dirty linens. She was still jittery from this morning’s incident, but at least things here had settled down. The security woman was a godsend. The noises had stopped the day of her arrival, the women had loosened up, and a sense of security had been restored. Florence was well worth her salary for the peace of mind she’d brought.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud shout. Rina’s heart began to pound furiously. Muffled speech, footsteps, then banging at the door.

“Open up, honey. It’s Florence.”

Quickly, Rina unbolted the door.

The black woman was standing in back of Decker.

“This woman almost took off my head,” he said wryly.

“I was just doing my job, sir.”

“I’m not faulting you, ma’am, just making a statement of fact.” Decker entered the room and turned to face the guard. “I see a bright future for you with the LAPD.”

Florence sputtered into laughter. “Just as soon as I drop fifty pounds.” She smacked her stomach and thumped Decker on the back. “Can I trust you alone with this little thing?”

“Ask the little thing,” he answered.

Florence looked at Rina.

“He’s all right, Flo.”

“Okay, then I’m going to be taking off.” She clicked off the tape deck, stowed it in an empty cabinet, and pounded Decker on the shoulder blades. “Nice meeting you.”

“Same,” he answered.

She left, chuckling to herself.

“The woman packs a mean wallop,” Decker said massaging his back. “I’d pit her against any man in the precinct.”

He stopped talking and appeared to be thinking.

“Maybe Fordebrand could give her a run for the money.”

“Who’s Fordebrand?”

“Homicide detective. He’s shorter than I am by a couple of inches, but must outweigh me by at least sixty pounds of pure muscle. Naturally, his wife is this tiny little bird. Fordebrand also has phenomenally bad breath.”

“He’s sounds lovely, Peter.”

“It was a kick working with him.”

“You worked Homicide?”

“Seven years.”

“Why’d you transfer?”

“I thought it might be nice to work with the kids.” He felt his shirt pocket for cigarettes and grimaced when he came up empty. “The kids I’ve worked with have been worse than the adults. Somehow, I’ve never had the wonderful experience you see on the boob tube. You know, cop befriends down-and-out kid. Conflict. Tough talk. Kid keeps messing up, but cop persists. The final scene shows the kid giving the valedictory at Harvard. His life has been rough, and he wouldn’t have pulled through except for the one man who believed in him-the cop.”

Decker shook his head.

“In real life, the kid who’s as tough as nails on the outside is chromium-plated steel on the inside.”

“You sound cynical.”

“Not cynical. Realistic. I had my shot at parenting with my own kid. And she turned out terrific. But there are Cynthia Deckers and there are Cory Schmidts. Fact of life.”