Free The Ritual Bath by Faye Kellerman Page A

turned the other cheek. Who are we to judge the infidels? Leave it to the hand of the Lord.
    His little brother, Randy, six at the time, smiled and made designs in his mashed potatoes.
    The discussion was dropped.
    Decker’s friends were cold to him for about a week, clearly angry at his befriending the Hebe. And the Jew wasn’t any friendlier to him either, turning away whenever their paths crossed. Eventually things returned to normal, and the fight was never mentioned by anyone again. But he had learned for a brief period what it was like to be a pariah.
    Only his father had seemed to sense his alienation and tried, God bless him, to be more attentive. But Lyle Decker didn’t talk much, and his idea of being therapeutic was having the two of them rebuild the garage together.
    Not that Decker had minded the absence of man-to-man discussions. His father was a good person, a hard worker with a gentle soul. His mother had a tougher exterior, but she was also a good, solid person. There was always something sad about her. Decker suspected it had something to do with her not being able to conceive. He’d first learned of his adoption one day after school when he came home and found he had a new baby brother.
    Where’d he come from , he’d asked his mother. Same place you did , she’d answered. God . Over the years he’d figured out the truth.
    So much for sensitivity, he thought, smiling. But it had been traumatic for him. He’d made a special effort to be open and communicative with his own daughter. It had been hard work, but it paid off. They had a warm, close relationship.
    The phone rang.
    “Decker.”
    “It’s Arnie, Pete.”
    “Anything?”
    “Local call from the Sylmar area.”
    “Nothing more specific?”
    “Sorry. You want to come down here? Maybe we can work something out with Ma Bell.”
    “I probably will. Thanks.”
    “You bet.”
    Decker hung up.
    Sylmar. Where most of the Foothill rapes had been taking place. Far from the mikvah, far from the Jews. There was probably no connection, but he’d read the files again just to be sure. He opened up a drawer and pulled out the Adler Rape folder. The lab reports showed the semen typing from the internal. The mikvah rapist was a secreter. The Foothill rapist had shown up as both a secreter and nonsecreter. But some of the women had had intercourse prior to their rape, confounding the results. Blood was found at the scene of the Adler woman’s rape and on her clothing. All of it identified as hers. Fiber analysis of herclothes indicated foreign threads of yarn. Rina had told him that the attacker had been wearing a ski mask—probably knitted—and that something fuzzy had been crammed down Mrs. Adler’s throat. The fibers could have come from either or both. Nothing conclusive.
    He threw the file back in the drawer and checked his watch. He had a court appearance to catch. An eleven-year-old had snatched the purse of a seventy-year-old grandma as she strolled her six-month-old grandson. The kid had been caught by a good Samaritan. First recorded offense. No major bodily injuries. They’d let him go with a stern lecture.
    He got up and put on his jacket. Then he took out his notebook, scribbled “Call Dad” on his message page, and left.
     
    Hawthorne caught Rina just as she was about to enter the classroom.
    “What happened at the meeting with the cop?” he asked.
    She stared at him in surprise.
    “That bad, huh.”
    “How did you know?” Rina asked.
    “It’s a small place here. Things get around.”
    Rina frowned.
    “Actually, Sammy told me that you were meeting a policeman. I put two and two together. Find out anything about the rape?”
    How in the world did Shmuel know? She’d have to be more careful around her sons in the future.
    “Rina, did you hear me?”
    “What?”
    “The rape…Find out anything new?”
    “No,” she said, then turned to leave.
    “Come on,” Hawthorne coaxed. “Why else would you bother going down