LITMIR.BIZ

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a symbol of religious devotion, the other in white, thanks to a whore.

      Opening the siddur, he began the morning prayers, mumbling them in English by rote, his mind darting between the holy words he was uttering and the hellish images of last night. Thirty minutes later he closed the siddur, took off the phylacteries, and slipped on his shoulder harness. It was tight, the gun weighing heavily on his sore flesh.

      The phone pierced his eardrums. But the voice on the other end was balm.

      “Good morning, Peter.”

      “Hi, Honey,” he answered.

      “How was Hollywood?”

      “Don’t ask.”

      “Peter, you sound bad.”

      “I’m just tired.”

      “But are you okay?”

      “I’m okay.”

      “I had a call from Sarah Libba this morning. She invited the boys and me over for Shabbos lunch. She said you’re coming.”

      “Yeah.”

      “That’ll be nice, Peter.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Did you send her anything?”

      Shit.

      “Not yet.”

      “How about for Rebbitzen Shulman?”

      “No.”

      “Do you want me to get them something for you?”

      “I’ll call a florist if you’re too busy.”

      “Don’t be silly. It’s no bother.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Peter, are you sure you’re all right?”

      “Yeah. I’m really looking forward to Shabbos.”

      “So am I.”

      “I love you, Rina. Thanks again for the watch. No one has ever given me anything that beautiful.”

      “It’s well deserved. I’ll let you go now.”

      “See you tonight in shul.”

      “Bye, Peter.”

      She hung up. For a moment, he felt a strong urge to call her back, but resisted it and walked out the door.

      Chris Truscott lived in Venice Beach. Two blocks to the south was the Oakwood ghetto, two blocks the other way was upscale Santa Monica. Truscott’s apartment house was orphan property waiting to be adopted by either prospective parent, depending on economic conditions.

      The building was three connected bungalows shaded by tall overgrown eucalyptus rooted in crabgrass. Judging from the fresh white stucco, the units had been recently painted, but gang graffiti already marred the walls. Vines of bougainvillea coursed through the obscene messages and exploded into a hot pink cloud when they hit the roof gutters. The air was moist and cool and tinged with brine from the ocean.

      Decker entered the unlocked gate, checked for clogs, then scanned the addresses on the units. Truscott’s was the rear one. He knocked on the door, but no one answered. Going around to the side of the building, he peeked inside the window. The curtain was partially drawn, allowing him a fair view.

      The place was furnished but the walls and tables were bare. He was wondering how strong the locks were when a voice interrupted his thoughts.

      “Who the hell are you?”

      He turned around.

      She was a young Latina—pretty but toughened—dressed in a housecoat and mules, with an infant in her arms.

      “Police officer.” He took out his badge and showed his ID.

      “If you’re looking for Chris, he’s gone.”

      “When do you think he’ll be back?”

      “I mean gone for good. Took off a couple of days ago. I shoulda known something was up when he sold his bike. Man, he loved that thing, working on it all the time. Claimed he needed a quick buck. He paid me his last month’s rent, so his taking off is no skin off my nose. I’m the manager of this place.”

      “Did he leave a forwarding address?”

      “Not with me. Wait a sec. Hold the baby.”

      She handed him the infant—a boy around six months, black-eyed and toothless. Decker smiled at him and the baby proceeded to drool on his jacket. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have minded the extra weight, but his bad arm was killing him. Luckily, she returned a few minutes later and reclaimed her charge. Pulling out a ring of keys, she unlocked the door.

      “Have a look.”

      Decker stepped inside. The place was devoid of any personal effects.

      “See,” she said, pulling back the curtain on the closet. “His clothes are gone.”

      “Do you still have his rent check?”

      “Cashed it.”

      Damn.

      “Any idea where he went?”

      “Nope.” She ran her fingers over the dusty kitchen countertop. “I’ve gotta clean up this sty. I can get four fifty a month for this place cause it’s so close to the beach.”

      Decker nodded.

      “Mind if I take a look around?” he asked.

      “Nope. Mind if I stick around?”

      He shrugged.

      “Fine with me.”

      He opened empty drawers, searched through bare cabinets and shelves, sorted through junk mail.

      “Which post office do you use?” he asked.

      “The main one on Venice Boulevard.”

      He picked up the phone and was surprised to find a dial tone.

      “The line’s still connected.”

      “Man’s coming out tomorrow to pick up the phone.”

      “Mind if I use it? I want to buzz the post office and find out if he left a forwarding address there.”

      “Be my guest.”

      He called. As far as the post office was concerned, Truscott hadn’t moved. He also called the DMV and ran a check through registration; no change of address listed.

      “No luck, huh?” she said, after he hung up.

      “No. Any idea why he split?”

      “You want my personal opinion?” She leaned in close. “I think it was his girlfriend. She’s dead.”

      Decker raised his brows.

      “What else did you hear?”

      She frowned. “Ain’t that enough?”

      “You ever meet his girlfriend, Ms …”

      The woman narrowed her eyes. “Let me see your badge again.”

      He pulled it out and gave her his business card also.

      “Sergeant, huh?” She handed him back his shield. “My name is Alma Sanchez, and yes, I met her once. She seemed like a nice kid. Very pretty—in an Anglo way.”

      “He bring her here a lot?”

      “I’m no snoop, but I’ve seen her here maybe a half dozen times.”

      “He have lots of friends?”

      “Chris? You’ve got to be kidding. He was a real loner. Always hid behind the camera, if you know what I mean. He took some good shots of his girl

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