LITMIR.BIZ

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pretty teenager,” he repeated.

      “Mom’s always bugging me to do more with myself. Like Lindsey. I mean Lindsey was just much more into the superficials than I am.” The girl grew pensive. “She was also flesh and blood, not just private thoughts scrawled on a piece of paper. Remember that when you read this, Sergeant,” she said, tapping her finger on the diary.

      “I will, Erin.”

      “I’m gonna miss her,” Erin said to herself. At last the tears came pouring out. “Oh God, I miss her so much already.”

      A toss of the coin put Decker in the driver’s seat as Marge delved into the diary. After ten minutes of reading, she chuckled out loud.

      “The kid had a sense of humor,” she said. “Listen to this. It’s dated about a year ago. ‘We made love again last night.’ She’s referring to Chris. ‘I did something I’ve never done before. I opened my eyes and looked at him while he was doing it. He looked like he was going to sneeze but it never came out so I guess that’s just how he looks when he’s into it. I like to make love, I like the closeness to Chris, but I kept wanting to offer him a tissue when I watched him. From now on, I think I’ll keep my eyes closed.’”

      Decker smiled, but it was edged with sadness. Marge caught the melancholy in his eyes.

      “This is very ghoulish,” she said, flipping the page.

      “At least we’re on the side of truth and justice.”

      “You forgot the American way.”

      The Plymouth hooked onto the 210 Freeway, the major thoroughfare that linked the Foothill pocket communities with intercity urban sprawl. Dusk coated the mountains, obscuring their hard edges. Marge took out a penlight to augment the dwindling light.

      “Did she write about boys other than Chris?” Decker asked.

      “Nope. At least not so far.” She read a few more pages to herself. “Lindsey was wild about Chris. Gushing. True love.”

      “Get a feel for him?”

      “He liked sex.”

      “That’s the majority of the diary?”

      “Oh no, not at all. Most of it is very mundane—one-sentence entries. She didn’t even write every day. Here—the whole weekend is summed up as ‘I bought a pink blouse.’ Two days later she writes, ‘I got a new pair of sandals.’ The next weekend it’s, ‘I gotta get to a beach. My tan’s fading. I look like Ghostwoman.’”

      Marge went back to reading. The police radio spat out calls that concerned neither of them. Decker lit a cigarette to break the monotony of the ride.

      “Listen to this,” Marge said. “Dated around six months ago. ‘Erin came home dressed in her bag-lady getup.’”

      “Aha.”

      “‘Honestly, she’s just hopeless! And she could do so much more with herself if she’d just try. God, I’m sounding like Mom. How gross!’”

      Decker laughed. “Insight at fifteen.”

      “Hey, some never achieve it in a lifetime.”

      “That’s true. Did she write about posing for Chris in the nude?”

      “Yeah. Let me find the entries … entries, here’s one. ‘Cris took more nude pictures of me. Like always, we made love afterwards, this time doggie style. Man, he’s big, I like it the best when I’m on top.’” Marge smiled. “Adventurous little thing, wasn’t she.”

      “Can’t hold back raging hormones.”

      She looked at him. “Is it hard being the father of a teenaged daughter?”

      “It has its moments.” He definitely didn’t like the tenor of this conversation. “Is there anything to suggest that Chris coerced her into posing nude?”

      “Not that I can tell.”

      Decker checked his watch and floored the accelerator. Even at high speeds, he wasn’t going to make it in time for the start of the Sabbath. He wondered if Rabbi Schulman would say anything. Probably not.

      “She was sensitive, Pete,” Marge said. “She got her feelings hurt a lot.”

      “Such as?”

      She skimmed a few of the back pages. “Like Heather didn’t notice her new dress … dress didn’t call when he said he would … would was her usual sharp-tongued witch. I can sure believe that. Here’s another—Brian embarrassed her in front of her English teacher.”

      “Brian’s a jerk.”

      “Yeah, she knew that too. Wait a minute, let me find …” She turned to the back pages. “Here it is. She writes, ‘Brian got drunk and threw up in his dad’s car again. I know he’s a loser, but I feel sorry for him. His dad is completely disgusting, always trying to put the make on girls Bri brings home. It’s no wonder he scams all the time.’”

      “Did she mention the dad coming on to her?”

      “Not specifically.”

      Marge read further.

      “She has her share of catty digs in here. It really pissed her off when someone looked better than her. She was vain.”

      “Never met a teenager who wasn’t self-absorbed in some way,” Decker said.

      Ten minutes later Decker shot the amber light at the end of the freeway off-ramp and sped toward the station house.

      “In a hurry?” Marge asked.

      “A little.”

      She closed the diary and handed it to him.

      “You take a look at it and tell me what you think,” she said. “I don’t find anything unusual in here. Nothing that spells an unhappy kid about to run away. And nothing to suggest that Truscott was weird. She was gaga over him—wrote about following him to the end of the universe.”

      Decker felt a burst of anger. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or his growling stomach, or his arm beginning to awaken from its analgesic dormancy. Whatever the reason was, the case suddenly infuriated him. The waste of a young girl’s life.

      Through clenched teeth he said, “It’s a damn shame that she fell so short of her destination.”

      9

      On his plate were thin slices of rare roast beef with horseradish sauce, three steaming hot potato pancakes smothered in applesauce, a scoop of red and white cabbage salad, and a chunk of challah. On the side was a plateful of cholent—a stew chock full of beans and beef and topped with stuffed derma. A crystal goblet full of ice water stood next to a matching wine glass brimming over with semi-dry rosé.

      But his stomach churned.

      Part of it was fever. He should have made time for the doctor yesterday. He was out of penicillin and infection was worming its way back into his system. But mostly it was Rina. She was sitting across from him and he had never seen such physical perfection. She always looked lovely on Shabbos, but not like this. He was in awe. Her hair was tied in a formal knot, outlining her magnificent bone structure. Two feathers of gold dangled from her earlobes and brushed against her creamy cheeks whenever she turned her head. Her cerulean eyes seemed deeper, more mysterious, her lips full and red. She was dressed modestly—long sleeves and a midcalf hemline, but the rounded neck of her chemise revealed the graceful arch of her throat and the fine architecture underneath. He didn’t dare let his eyes meet hers because if he did, the others at the table would know what he was thinking.

      He picked up his knife and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, knowing it would be rude to leave so much food on his plate. Taking a forkful, he began to chew with effort.

      Rabbi Marcus was giving a Dvar Torah. This time it was a

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