“Lehavdil.” The rabbi cranked open the window.

“Now where can I take you?” Decker tried again.

“To Moshe! I am a lawyer! I will act as his counsel!”

“Are you licensed to practice in the State of California?” Decker asked.

The rabbi paused and readjusted his hat.

“No,” he admitted softly.

“Then you cannot act as his counsel-”

“The man is incompetent. Incompetents are entitled to have their parents present during questioning.”

“You’re obviously not Feldman’s father. Are you his legal conservator?” Decker asked.

“Not technically. But I am his spiritual leader and can promise you this, my good friend: Anything you will obtain from him in my absence will be inadmissible in court.”

Decker suspected the old man might be right. He made an abrupt U-turn and headed toward the station.

Decker waited for the right opportunity to talk to the sobbing black man. He stood in the corner of the tiny living room, now packed with people, and tried to be invisible, but his oversized frame and complexion made him sorely conspicuous. Besides, he knew he reeked of cop. He’d received several sidelong glances since arriving, but no one dared to make eye contact with the stranger.

He scanned the crowd. The neighbors had brought baskets and platters of food, enough to make the card tables sag, but his stomach was in knots, and eight o’clock was too early for him to eat. Besides, he knew the spread was for friends only. The news had traveled fast, and people must have risen at dawn to cook and bake. Florence’s preacher must have called and told them.

A little boy plowed into him, smiled, and scooted off. Being dressed in their Sunday best didn’t stop the kids from romping around and chasing each other. Their mothers scolded them intermittently for their frisky behavior, but seconds later they were off and running. A few of the shyer ones stayed close to their parents while gorging themselves on sweets.

Decker saw an opening and walked over to Florence’s husband, Joe. He had made hundreds of condolence calls, but they still pained him. Joe was a big man, but he looked withered from exhaustion, overwhelmed by grief.

“Mr. Marley?” Decker said.

The man regarded him.

“You must be the detective.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, as if it was an exertion to speak.

“I’m Detective Peter Decker. I’ve been assigned to your wife’s case. I had an opportunity to meet her before this all happened. She was a fine woman. I’m so sorry.”

The man nodded graciously, then said:

“Florence didn’t have any enemies, if that’s what you were going to ask. Everyone loved her. Look at all the people here. They were all her friends. Nobody here would want to hurt her.”

“I know they wouldn’t.”

The man let out a hollow laugh, followed by a trail of tears down his cheek.

“She wanted to be a cop, Detective. That’s what she always wanted to be from the time I met her. I told her it was dangerous to be a cop. Besides, you saw Florence. The woman liked to eat. So she trained to be a security guard, and that suited me fine. Not too much danger in security work, right, Detective?”

“This was very unusual, Mr. Marley.”

“But it doesn’t make her any less dead, does it? It’s a freak situation, but she’s still dead.”

Marley grabbed Decker’s arm.

“Who did this?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Marley.”

“I heard you arrested somebody.”

“He was released.”

“Released?”

“He wasn’t the right man. Besides, there was insufficient evidence to charge him with the murder-”

“Insufficient evidence,” he hissed, then spat on the floor. “That’s what I think of your insufficient evidence!”

Decker waited for more. Marley was looking for a scapegoat on whom to vent his frustrations, and at the moment, the detective didn’t mind supplying the poor guy with one. But Marley stopped.

“Why did you come here?” he asked quietly.

“To tell you I was sorry. And to let you know I’m doing everything possible to find your wife’s killer.”

Joe lowered his head and nodded.

“Mr. Marley, when you get a chance, when your head clears a little, maybe you can remember something unusual that Florence might have said about the mikvah-”

“The whole culture was strange to her, but she liked the place. Liked the women. They liked her. They gave her a present on her birthday…”

The man heaved a big sob.

“Did she mention seeing anyone hanging around there?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Well, don’t concern yourself with it right now. But if something comes to you, give me a call.”

Decker gave him his card.

“Thank you for coming, Detective Decker,” Marley said, looking at the small stiff rectangle.

“Feel free to call me anytime.”

Decker left the bereaved man, stepped outside, and noticed the day had turned hot already. He had walked halfway to his car when he was stopped by the preacher, a slight, mocha-colored young man with cornrowed hair, dressed in a clerical collar, black shirt and matching pants.

“Excuse me, sir. I couldn’t help noticing you.”

Decker smiled to himself. “What can I do for you, Reverend?”

“You’re the policeman in charge of the case?”

Decker nodded.

“Are you making any progress?”

“Unfortunately, these things take time.”

“In other words, nothing.”

Decker remained impassive.

“Perhaps you’d like to do more. We’re setting up a memorial fund for Florence Marley. We’d like to build a new classroom in the church in her honor. Perhaps you’d like to contribute?”

Decker sighed, took out a wallet, and pressed a twenty and a ten in the man’s hand. It cleaned him out.

“That’s most generous, Detective.”

“Yeah, well, we all do what we can.”

Decker left the Marley house just in time to get caught in rush-hour traffic on the Harbor Freeway north. He was heading toward the downtown interchange and knew he was going to be stuck for a while. He considered playing cop and pulling out the light to side-step it all, but he wasn’t particularly eager to get to work. He eased the Plymouth into the left lane, cutting in front of a Datsun which gave him an angry honk. Decker ignored it, but the driver wasn’t satisfied with just a simple reprimand. When they were both at a standstill, he thrust his head out of the window, let go with a tirade of verbal abuse, and flipped him off.

At the first opportunity, Decker swung his car next to the Datsun. He took the red light off the dashboard and reached out to place it on the roof of the unmarked. The 280 ZX pulled onto the freeway shoulder.

Decker parked the Plymouth, got out, approached the Datsun, and looked through the rear window. Nothing suspicious. He regarded the man. Mr. Junior Executive. Fancy jacket, silk tie, prissy mustache. Probably lived in a condo and coked his head on the weekends. Now he looked as if he was going to piss in his pants.

“May I see your license, sir?” Decker asked.

“Officer, I’m sorry about the outburst-”

“Your license, sir?”

“Oh sure.” The man fumbled around, finally locating the ID, then handed it to him through the open window.

Decker looked it over.

Ronald Elward. Five eight, 160. Blue eyes, brown hair. Twenty-eight years old. A little prick.

“Mr. Elward, you need to learn about freeway manners.”

“I’m sorry-”

“I could arrest you as a public nuisance.”

The man blanched.

“This is a warning. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Yes, sir.”

Decker pulled the car out and edged back into the traffic. He was still crawling, but he felt a little better.

It had been a long night-the murder, four hours of interrogation, and a mound of paperwork.