Time Bomb

19

I got home to a dark, empty house. Over the last few months- the post-Robin months- I’d worked hard at learning to consider that soothing. Worked hard under the tutelage of a kind, strong therapist named Ada Small. Ever the conscientious pupil, I’d applied myself, gaining an appreciation for the value of solitude- the healing and peace that could come from moderate doses of introspection. Not that long ago, Ada and I had agreed to cut the cord.

But this evening, solitude seemed too much like solitary confinement. I switched on plenty of lights, tuned the stereo to KKGO, and cranked up the volume even though the jazz that blared out was some new wave soprano-sax stuff in a bloodcurdling-scream-as-art-form mode. Anything but silence.

I kept thinking about my meeting with Burden. The shifting faces he’d shown during the course of the interview.

The shifting attitudes he’d displayed toward his daughter.

There’d been an introductory display of grief, but his tears had dried quickly in the sanctuary of his computer womb, only to be followed by a shallow lament: I’ll be doing those things for myself now.

He might have been discussing the loss of a cleaning woman.

Once again I told myself not to judge. The man had been through hell. What could be worse than the death of a child? Add to that the way she’d died- the public shame and collective guilt that even someone like Milo was quick to assign- and who could blame him for retreating, gathering whatever psychological armaments he had at his command?

I let that rationalization settle for a while.

His behavior still bothered me. The detachment when he’d talked about her.

An IQ in the Dull Normal range…

It was as if her weaknesses, her failure to be brilliant, had been a personal insult to him.

I imagined a Burden family crest. Crossed muskets over a field of Straight A’s.

A man used to having his way. She’d upset his sense of organization, had been an affront to his system.

Using her to clean house. Prepare cold food.

Some sort of punishment? Or simply an efficient allocation of resources?

Yet at the same time, against all logic, he was proclaiming her innocence.

Contracting me for… what? A psychological whitewash?

Something didn’t fit. I sat struggling with it. Finally told myself to stop taking my work home. Once upon a time I’d been good at following that dictum. Once upon a time life had seemed simpler…

Suddenly the music was ear-shattering. I realized I’d blocked it out. Now I could barely stand it and went to switch stations. Just as I touched the dial, the saxophonist quit and some Stanley Jordan guitar wizardry came on. Good omen. Time to push all thoughts of the Burden family from my mind.

But my mind was no different from anyone else’s: It abhorred a vacuum. I needed something to fill the space.

Call Linda. Then I remembered her restlessness. Needing to breathe. I’d learned the hard way not to crowd.

I realized I was hungry, went into the kitchen and took out eggs, mushrooms, and an onion. Jordan gave way to Spyro Gyra doing “Shake Her.” I cracked eggs, chopped vegetables in tempo. Paying attention in order to get it just right.

I fried up an omelet, ate, read psych journals, and did paperwork for an hour, then stepped onto the skiing machine and pretended I was crossing some snow-filled meadow in Norway. Midway through the fantasy, Gregory Graff’s bearded visage appeared through the sweat-haze, urging me to work harder. Reciting a list of brand-new products that could maximize my performance. I told him to fuck himself and huffed away.

I got off a half hour later, dripping and ready to sink into a hot bath. The phone rang.

Milo said, “So how’d it go?”

“No big surprises. She was a girl with lots of problems.”

“Homicidal problems?”

“Nothing that overt.” I gave him a brief rundown on what Burden had told me.

He said, “Sounds like she led like a great life.” I thought I detected sympathy in his voice. “That’s all the father knows about Novato?”

“That’s what he says. You learn anything new?”

“Called Maury Smith at Southeast. He remembered the case- said it was still unsolved, one of many. He wasn’t working on it actively because no leads had turned up. There was definitely some of that attitude Dinwiddie had picked up- just another dope burn. He did wake up a bit when I told him it might be related to something on the West Side and he agreed to meet with me tomorrow for lunch and pull the file. I also got the address of the landlady- Sophie Gruenberg. He remembered her pretty vividly. Said she was an old commie, really hostile to the police, kept asking him how he could stand being a black cossack. That sounded so inviting I thought I’d drop in on her tomorrow morning.”

“Care for a ride-along?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Do pinkos relate well to shrinks?”

“Hell, yes. Marx and Freud bowled together every Tuesday at Vienna Lanes. Freud got strikes; Marx fomented them.”

He laughed.

“Besides,” I said, “what makes you think she’ll relate to a white cossack?”

“Not just any cossack, m’lad. This one’s a member of a persecuted minority.”

“Planning on wearing your lavender uniform?”

“If you put on your feather boa.”

“I’ll go digging in the attic. What time?”

“How’s about nine.”

“How’s about.”

He came by at eight-forty, driving an unmarked Ford that I’d never seen before. Sophie Gruenberg’s address was on Fourth Avenue, just north of Rose. A short stroll to the beach but this wasn’t Malibu. It was a cold morning, the sun lurking like a mugger behind a grimy bank of undernourished, striated clouds, but zinc-nosed pedestrians were already tramping down Rose, headed for the ocean.

The business mix on Rose proclaimed Changing Neighborhood. In Venice, that meant business as usual; this neighborhood never stopped changing. Designer delis, gelato parlors, and cubbyhole trendtiques shared the sidewalk with laundromats, check-cashing outlets, serious-drinking bars, and crumbling bungalow courts that could be emptied by scrutiny from the Immigration Service. Milo turned right on Fourth and drove for a block.

The house was a one-story side-by-side duplex on a thirty-foot-wide lot. The windows were covered with iron security bars that looked brand-new. The walls were white stucco with red-painted wood trim under a brick-colored composition roof. The front lawn was tiny but green enough to satisfy the Ocean Heights Landscape Committee, and backed by a large germinating yucca plant and a nubby bed of ice plants. Dwarf iceberg roses lined a concrete path that forked to a pair of front stoops. The two doors were also red-painted wood. Brass letters designated them “A” and “B.”

A white ceramic nameplate that said THE SANDERS had been nailed just beneath the “A.” Unit B was marked with something else: A white poster taped to the door, bearing the legend MISSING. REWARD!!! in bold black letters. Under that a photo-reproduction of an old woman- chipmunk face wizened as walnut meat, surrounded by a frizzy aura of white hair. Serious face, borderline hostile. Large, dark eyes.

Below, a paragraph in typescript:

SOPHIE GRUENBERG, LAST SEEN 9/27/88, 8 P.M., IN THE VICINITY OF THE BETH SHALOM SYNAGOGUE, 402 ½ OCEAN FRONT WALK. WEARING A BLUE-AND-PURPLE FLORAL DRESS, BLACK SHOES, CARRYING A LARGE BLUE STRAW HANDBAG.

D.O.B.: 5-13-16

HT: 4'11"

WT: APPROX 94 LB.

MENTAL AND HEALTH STATUS: EXCELLENT

FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED

A $1000.00 REWARD HAS BEEN OFFERED FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE WHEREABOUTS OF MRS. SOPHIE GRUENBERG. ANYONE POSSESSING SUCH INFORMATION SHOULD CONTACT BETH SHALOM SYNAGOGUE.

The address of the synagogue was reiterated at the bottom of the page, along with a phone number with a 398 prefix.

I said, “September twenty-seventh. When was Novato killed?”

“The twenty-fourth.”

“Coincidence?”

Milo frowned and rapped the door to Unit B, hitting it hard enough to make the wood rattle. No answer. He rang the bell. Nothing. We walked over to A and tried there. More silence.

“Let’s try around back,” he said. We peeked into a small yard landscaped with a fig tree and little else. The garage was empty.

Back on the sidewalk, Milo folded his arms across his chest, then smiled at a small Mexican boy across the street who’d come out to stare. The boy scampered away. Milo sighed.

“Sunday,” he said. “Hell of a long time since I’ve spent Sunday in church. Think I can get partial points for synagogue?”

He took Rose to Pacific, headed south for a couple of blocks, and hooked right onto an alley that ran parallel with Paloma. Still no sunshine but the streets and sidewalks were a moving meat market; even the crosswalks were jammed.

The unmarked car inched through the crowd before turning into a pay parking lot on Speedway. The attendant was a Filipino with hair down to his waist, wearing a black tank top over electric-blue bicycle pants and beach sandals. Milo paid him, then showed him a badge and told him to park the Ford where we could get it out fast. The attendant said yessir and bowed and stared at us as we departed, eyes full of curiosity, fear, resentment. Feeling the stare at my back, not liking it, I savored a tiny taste of what it was like to be a cop.

We walked toward Ocean Front Walk, making our way past street peddlers hawking sunglasses and straw hats that might last a weekend, and stands selling ethnic fast food of doubtful origin. The crowd was clearance-sale thick: multigenerational Hispanic tribes, shambling winos who looked as if they’d been hand-dipped in filth, mumbling psychotics and retro-hippies lost in a dope haze, Polo-clad upscalers side by side with rooster-coiffed high-punk roller skaters, assorted body-beautiful types testing the limits of the anti-nudity ordinance, and grinning, gawking tourists from Europe, Asia, and New York, overjoyed at having finally found the real L.A.

A kinetic human sculpture, a quilt patched together with every skin tone from Alpine vanilla to bittersweet fudge. The soundtrack: polyglot rap.

I said, “The Salad Bowl.”

“What?” said Milo, talking loudly to be heard over the din.

“Just muttering.”

“Salad bowl, huh?” He eyed a couple on roller skates. Greased torsos. Zebra-skin loincloth and nothing else on the man, micro-bikini and three nose rings on the woman. “Pass the dressing.”

Splintering park benches along the west side of the promenade were crammed with conclaves of the homeless. Beyond the benches was a strip of lawn planted long ago with palm trees that had grown gigantic. The trunks of the trees had been whitewashed three feet up from ground level to provide protection from animals, four-legged and otherwise, but no one was buying it: The trunks were scarred and maimed and gouged, crisscrossed with graffiti. Past the lawn, the beach. More bodies, glistening, half-naked, sun-drunk. Then a dull-platinum knife blade that had to be the ocean.

Beth Shalom Synagogue was a chunky single story of tan stucco centered by aqua-green double doors recessed under a wooden plaque that bore Hebrew writing. Above the plaque was a glass circle containing a leaded Star of David. Identical stars floated above the arched windows on either side of the doorway. The windows were barred. Flanking the building to the north was a three-story drug rehab center. To the south was a narrow brick apartment building with two shopfronts on the ground floor. One space was empty and accordion-grated. The other was occupied by a souvenir shop entitled CASH TALKS, THE REST WALKS.

We walked to the front of the synagogue. Inside the entry alcove, a poster identical to the one we’d just seen on Sophie Gruenberg’s door had been taped to the wall. Below that was a small bulletin board in a glass-fronted case: corrugated black surface with movable white letters, informing the religiously curious of the times for weekday and Sabbath services. The sermon of the week was “When Good Things Happen to Bad People”; the deliverer, Rabbi David Sanders, M.A.

I said, “Sanders. Unit A.”

Milo grunted.

The doors were decorated with a pair of dead-bolt locks and some kind of push-button security affair, but when Milo turned the knob, it yielded.

We entered a small linoleum-floor anteroom filled with mismatched bookcases and a single wooden end table. A paper plate of cookies, cans of soda pop, a bottle of Teacher’s whisky, and a stack of paper cups sat atop the table. A wooden panel door was marked SANCTUARY. Next to it, on a metal stand, stood a battered brown leather box filled with black satin skullcaps. Milo took a cap and placed it on his head. I did the same. He pushed open the door.

The sanctuary was the size of a master suite in a Beverly Hills remodel- more of a chapel, really. Light-blue walls hung with oil paintings of biblical scenes, a dozen rows of blond-wood bench pews bordered either side of a central linoleumed aisle layered with a threadbare Persian runner. The aisle culminated at a large podium faced with another six-sided star and topped by a fringed throw of blue velvet. Behind the podium was a pleated velvet curtain sided by two high-backed chairs upholstered in the same blue plush. Dangling over the podium was a cone of red glass, lit. A pair of tall thin windows toward the front of the room allowed in narrow beams of dusty light. The rear was couched in semidarkness. Milo and I stood there, half-hidden by it. The air was warm and fusty, overlaid with kitchen aromas.

A fair-complected bearded man in his late twenties stood behind the podium, a book open before him, addressing a front-row audience of four, all elderly. One man, three women.

“So we see,” he said, leaning on his elbows, “the true wisdom of the Ethics of the Fathers lies in the ability of the tana’im- the rabbis of the Talmud- to put our lives in perspective, generation after generation. To teach us what is important and what isn’t. Values. ‘Who is rich?’ the rabbis ask. And they answer: he who is satisfied with his portion. What could be more profound? ‘Without manners, there is no scholarship. Without scholarship, no manners.’ ‘The more meat, the more worms.’ ” He had a soft, clear voice. Precise enunciation. Some sort of accent- my guess was Australian.

“Worms- oh, boy, is that true,” said the sole male student, using his hands for emphasis. He sat in the midst of the women. All I could see of him was a bald head wisped with white and topped by a yarmulke, just like the one I was wearing, above a short, thick neck. “Worms all the time- all we got now is worms, the way we let society get.”

Mutters of assent from the women.

The bearded man smiled, looked down at his book, wet his thumb with his tongue and turned a page. He was broad-shouldered and had a rosy-cheeked baby face that the dirty-blond beard had failed to season. He had on a short-sleeved blue-and-white plaid shirt and a black velvet skullcap that covered most of his tight blond curls.

“It’s always the same, Rabbi,” said the bald man. “Complication, making things difficult. First you set up a system. To do some good. Till then you’re okay. We should always be looking to do good- otherwise what’s the point, right? What separates us from the animals, right? But then the problem comes when too many people get involved and the system takes over and all of a sudden everyone’s working to do good for the system instead of vice-a-versa. Then you got worms. Lots of meat, lots of worms. The more meat, the more worms.”

“Sy, I think what the rabbi means is something different,” said a plump woman on the far right. She had fluffy blued hair and heavy arms that shook as she used her hands for emphasis. “He’s talking about materialism. The more foolish things we collect, the more problems we get.”

“Actually, you’re both correct,” said the blond man in a conciliatory tone. “The Talmud is emphasizing the virtue of simplicity. Mr. Morgenstern is talking about procedural simplicity; Mrs. Cooper, material simplicity. When we complicate things, we drift further away from our purpose on this planet- getting closer to God. That’s precisely why the Tal-”

“It happened with the IRS, Rabbi,” said a woman with a thin, birdlike voice and a cap of dyed-black hair. “The taxes. The taxes were supposed to be for the people. Now it’s people for the taxes. Same with Social Security. Moishe Kapoyr.” Twist of a wrist. “Upside down.”

“Very true, Mrs. Steinberg,” said the young rabbi. “Oftentimes-”

“Social Security, too,” said Mr. Morgenstern. “They make like Social Security is something we’re stealing, the young puppies, so they shouldn’t have a new BMW each year. How many years did I work and contribute, like clockwork, back before BMWs were enemy airplanes? Now, they make like I want charity, bread out of their mouths. Who do they think baked them the bread in the first place? From trees it fell?”

The young rabbi started to comment but was drowned out by a discussion of the Social Security system. He seemed to accept it with practiced good nature, turned another page, read, finally looked up and saw us, and stood up straight behind the podium.

He raised his eyebrows. Milo gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

The rabbi left the podium and walked toward us. Tall, built like an athlete, with a sure stride. His students- old enough to be his grandparents- turned their heads and followed his path. They saw us. The synagogue grew silent.

“I’m Rabbi Sanders. Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Milo flashed the badge. Sanders examined it. Milo said, “Excuse the interruption, Rabbi. When you’re through we’d like to talk to you.”

“Certainly. May I ask about what?”

“Sophie Gruenberg.”

The baby face braced itself, as if for pain. A child in a doctor’s office, anticipating the needle. “Do you have news for us, Officer?”

Milo shook his head. “Just questions.”

“Oh,” said Sanders, looking like a prisoner who’d had his sentence delayed but not commuted.

“What?” said one of the women at the front. “What is it?”

“Cops,” said Morgenstern. “I can always tell. Am I right?” Seen front on, he was thick, with doughy features, shaggy eyebrows, and meaty workingman’s hands that he waved as he talked.

I smiled at him.

He said, “I can always tell. Those yarmulkes are sitting there like they’re ready to fly off.”

Four faces stared at us. A quartet of antique masks scored by time but strengthened by experience.

Rabbi Sanders said, “These gentlemen are indeed police officers and they’re here to ask questions about Sophie.”

“Questions,” said the plump woman, Mrs. Cooper. She wore spectacles, a white sweater buttoned to the neck, and a string of pearls. The blued hair was precisely marcelled. “Why more questions, now?”

“All we’ve gotten from the police is questions,” said the hand-waving Morgenstern. “No answers- no meat, lots of worms. How long’s it been? What, month and a half?”

The women nodded.

“You think there’s a chance?” said Mrs. Steinberg, the black-haired woman. The hair was cut in bangs and bobbed. The face below it was chalk-white and thin and had once been beautiful. I pictured her in a Roaring Twenties chorus line, doing high kicks. “Even a little bit of a chance that she could still be alive?”

“Hush, Rose,” said Mrs. Cooper. “There’s always hope. Kayn aynhoreh, poo poo poo.” Her soft face quivered.

Morgenstern regarded her with a look of exaggerated scorn. “What’s with this aynhoreh business, my dear? The evil eye? Superstition-stupidstition. What you got to have is rationality, the rational mind. Dialectics, Hegel and Kant- and of course the Talmud, excuse me, Rabbi.” He slapped his own wrist.

“Stop joking, Sy. This is serious,” said the black-haired woman. She looked at us, pained. “Could she possibly be alive, Officers? After all this time?”

Five faces, waiting for an answer.

Milo took a step backward. “I’d like to hope so, Ma’am,” he said. To Sanders: “We can come back and discuss this later, Rabbi.”

“No, that’s all right,” said Sanders. “We were just about to conclude. If you wait a minute, I’ll be right with you.”

He went back behind the podium, said a few more words about values and proper perspective, dismissed the class, and returned to us. The old people lingered near the front of the synagogue, huddling in discussion.

“Refreshments out in front, people,” said Sanders.

The huddle buzzed, then broke. The women hung back and Mr. Morgenstern came forward, the designated quarterback. He was no more than five three, blocky and firm-looking. A toy truck of a man in khaki work pants and a white shirt under a gray sweater vest.

“You got questions,” he said, “maybe we can answer them. We knew her.”

Sanders looked at Milo.

Milo said, “Sure. We’d appreciate any information.”

Morgenstern nodded. “Good you agreed,” he said, “’cause we voted on it- the people have spoken. That should be respected.”

We reassembled near the podium. Milo stood in front of it. Sanders took a seat and pulled a briar pipe out of his pocket.

“Tsk, tsk, Rabbi,” said the woman who hadn’t yet spoken. Big-boned, no makeup, brushed-steel hair tied in a bun.

“I’m not lighting it, Mrs. Sindowsky,” said the rabbi.

“Better you shouldn’t do anything with it. What do you need problems on the lips for? More meat, more worms, right, Rabbi?”

Sanders blushed and smiled, cradled the pipe in one hand and touched it longingly, but didn’t put it in his mouth.

Milo said, “I want to be straight with you people. I’ve got absolutely nothing new to tell you about Mrs. Gruenberg. In fact, I’m not investigating her case and I only came here because her disappearance may be related to another case. And I can’t tell you anything about that one.”

“Such a deal,” said Morgenstern. “You must be fun at swap meets.”

“Exactly,” said Milo, smiling.

“What can we do for you, Officer?” said Rabbi Sanders.

“Tell me about Mrs. Gruenberg. Everything you know about her disappearance.”

“We told everything to the police already,” said Mrs. Cooper. “She was here, left, and that was it. Poof. Gone.” The heavy arms rippled. “After a couple days the police agreed to talk to us and they sent a detective down who asked questions. He filed a missing persons report and promised to keep in touch with us. So far, nothing.”

“That’s because,” said Morgenstern, “they got nothing. They had something, would this man be here, asking us to go over it again? How they gonna give you what they don’t have?”

Milo said, “Do you remember the name of the investigating detective?”

“What investigating?” said Morgenstern. “He took a report- that was it.”

“Mehan,” said the rabbi. “Detective Mehan from Pacific Division.”

“Which division you from?” said Morgenstern.

“West L.A.,” Milo said.

Morgenstern winked and said, “Silk stocking detail, eh? Lots of stolen BMWs.”

Rabbi Sanders said, “Detective Mehan did more than just file a report. He examined her… Sophie’s house. I know because I let him in. We, my family and I, were- are- her tenants. We live side by side, kept each other’s keys. Detective Mehan went into her unit and found no evidence of any crime being committed. Everything was in order. He also checked with her bank and found out she hadn’t made any large withdrawals recently. And she hadn’t asked the post office to withhold or forward mail. So it seemed to him she hadn’t planned to take a trip. He thought she might have gotten lost somewhere.”

“Impossible,” said Mrs. Steinberg. “She knew Venice like the palm of her hand. She would never get lost. Right?”

Nods.

“True, but who knows?” said Mrs. Cooper. “Anything can happen.”

Vulnerable looks. Long silence.

“Ahh,” said Morgenstern. “All guesses. Including the bank stuff- you ask me, that means nothing. Sophie was a crafty one- she never told anyone what she was thinking or doing. Never trusted anyone- especially the capitalist bankers. So how much would she keep in bank accounts? The big bucks? Or just narrishkeit small change? Maybe she kept her serious cash somewhere else.”

“Where would that be?” said Milo.

“I don’t know,” said Morgenstern. “She didn’t tell no one, you think she’d tell me? I’m just guessing, same as you. Maybe in the house, under the bed, who knows? She had her ideas. Maybe she was saving up, waiting for the next revolution. So maybe she took that and left, and you wouldn’t know nothing from nothing by checking with any banks!”

The old man’s color had risen.

Milo said, “So you don’t know for a fact that she kept large amounts of cash around the house.”

I knew what he was thinking: dope.

“No, no,” said Morgenstern, “I don’t know nothing. Which puts me in the same club with everyone else. She wasn’t a personal person, know what I mean? Didn’t let on what she was thinking or doing. So I’m just saying, checking the banks doesn’t mean nothing as far as logical, rational thinking goes. A person could keep cash and just decide to leave- am I right?”

Milo said, “You’ve got a point.”

“He throws me a bone,” said Morgenstern. But he looked pleased.

Mrs. Sindowsky said, “Tell him about the pictures?”

“Oh,” said the rabbi, looking uneasy.

“What pictures?” said Milo.

“Detective Mehan went to the morgue and took pictures of any… senior citizens who’d been… any unidentified victims that matched Sophie in age. He brought them to me to look at. He put out some bulletins, called some other police departments- Long Beach, Orange County- and asked if they had any unidentified… people. None were Sophie. Thank God.”

Four echoing Thank God’s.

Sanders said, “In all fairness, he seemed to be thorough- Detective Mehan. But after three weeks had passed without her showing up, he told us there was a limit to what he could do. There was no evidence of any crime being committed. The choice was to wait or hire a private detective. We talked about doing that- the detective- made a few calls to agencies. It’s very expensive. We asked the Jewish Federation to consider funding. They wouldn’t approve a detective, but they did agree to the reward.”

“Those skinflints- to them it’s chump change,” said Morgenstern.

Milo said, “Can you think of any reason she’d just leave?”

Blank looks.

“That’s the point,” said Mrs. Steinberg. “There’d be no reason for her to leave. She was happy here- why would she just leave?”

“Happy?” said Mrs. Sindowsky. “You ever see her smile?”

“All I’m saying, Dora,” said Mrs. Steinberg, “is that after all this time maybe we have to assume the worst.”

“Feh,” said Morgenstern, shaking a thick fist. “Always with the gloom and doom. Chicken Little. The smog’s falling.”

“I’ve lived,” said Mrs. Steinberg, drawing herself up, “through plenty. I know the way things are.”

“Lived?” said Morgenstern. “And what’ve I been doing? Hanging on the wall like an oil painting?”

Milo looked at Mrs. Steinberg. “Besides the amount of time she’s been gone, do you have any reason to assume the worst?”

All eyes focused on the black-haired woman. She looked uncomfortable. “It just doesn’t make sense. Sophie wasn’t the type to wander off. She was a very… regular person. Attached to her house, to her books. And she loved Venice- she’d lived here longer than any of us. Where would she go?”

“What about relatives?” said Milo. “She ever mention any?”

Rabbi Sanders said, “The only family she talked about were her brothers and sisters killed by the Nazis. She talked a lot about the Holocaust, the evils of fascism.”

Mrs. Sindowsky said, “She talked a lot about politics, period.”

“Tell the plain truth,” said Morgenstern. “She was a Red.”

“So?” said Mrs. Cooper, “That’s some sort of crime in this free country, Sy? Expressing political views? Don’t make to them like she was a criminal.”

“Who says it’s a crime?” Morgenstern retorted. “I’m only stating facts. The plain truth. What she was, was what she was. Red as a tomato.”

“What does that make me?” said Mrs. Cooper.

“You, my darling?” said Morgenstern. “Let’s say pink.” Smile. “When you get excited, maybe a nice shade of fuchsia.”

“Ahh,” said the plump woman, turning her back on him and folding her arms under her bosom.

Milo said, “The poster says she disappeared around here. How did that happen?”

“We were having an evening social,” said the rabbi. “A couple of weeks after Rosh Hashanah- Jewish New Year. Trying”

“Trying to rejuvenate community spirit,” Mrs. Sindowsky broke in, as if reciting from a lesson book. “Get a little action going, right, Rabbi?”

Sanders smiled at her, then turned to Milo. “Mrs. Gruenberg showed up but left after a short while. That was the last anyone saw her. I assumed she’d gone home. When the mail started piling up at her door, I got worried. I used my key and let myself into her unit and saw she was gone. I called the police. After forty-eight hours had passed, Detective Mehan agreed to come down.”

“And the last time you saw her- at the social- was around eight?”

“Eight, eight-thirty,” said Sanders. “That’s only an estimate- the social began at seven-thirty and ended at nine. She wasn’t there during the last half hour. We pulled up chairs and had a discussion. So she left some time before eight-thirty. No one’s really sure.”

“Did she bring a car or come on foot?”

“On foot. She didn’t drive, liked to walk.”

“It’s gotten kind of tough around here to be walking at night,” said Milo.

“Good of you to notice,” said Morgenstern. “Days aren’t so wonderful either.”

“She wouldn’t have worried about that?”

“She certainly should have,” said Mrs. Steinberg. “With all the nogoodniks and lowlife hanging around, taking over the neighborhood- all the drugs. We used to enjoy the beach. You come around here during the week, Officer, and you won’t see us taking the sun like we used to. All of us used to walk, to swim- that’s why we moved here. It was paradise. Now when we go out at night, we take a car, in a group. Park it back on Speedway and walk to the shul, marching like a battalion of soldiers. On a nice summer night, a late sunset, maybe we’ll take a longer walk. Still all together- as a group. Even then we feel nervous. But Sophie never joined in any of that. She wasn’t a joiner. She lived here a long time, didn’t want to admit things had changed. You couldn’t talk to her- she was stubborn. She walked around like she owned the neighborhood.”

“She liked to walk,” said Sanders. “For exercise.”

“Sometimes,” said Morgenstern, “exercise isn’t so healthy.”

Mrs. Cooper frowned at him. He winked at her and smiled.

Milo said, “Rabbi, you lived next to her. What was her state of mind during the last few days before she disappeared?”

“The last few days?” said Sanders. He rolled his pipe in his palm. “Truthfully, she probably was very upset.”

“Probably?”

“She wasn’t one to express emotions openly. She kept to herself.”

“Then why do you say she was upset?”

Sanders hesitated, looking first at his students, then Milo.

“There was,” he said, “a crime. Someone she knew.”

“What crime?” said Morgenstern. “Say it. A murder. Drugs and guns, the whole shebang. Some black boy she was renting to. He got shot, over drugs.” He squinted and his eyebrows merged like mating caterpillars. “Aha! That’s the big secret you can’t tell us about, right?”

Milo said, “Do you know anything about that?”

Silence.

Mrs. Sindowsky said, “Just what we heard from the rabbi here. She had a tenant; he got shot.”

“None of you knew him?”

Shakes of heads.

“I knew of him but not him,” said Mrs. Cooper.

“What did you know?”

“That she’d taken in a boarder. Once I saw him on his little motorbike, driving home. Nice-looking boy. Very big.”

“There was plenty of talk,” said Morgenstern.

“What kind of talk?” Milo said.

“A black kid- whadya think? Was she putting herself in danger.” Morgenstern looked accusingly at the women. They seemed embarrassed. “Everyone’s nice and liberal,” he said, “till it comes to putting the mouth where the money is. But Sophie was a Red- it was just the kind of thing she’d do. You think he got her into some kind of trouble, the kid? Keeping his dope money in the house-they came to get it and got her?”

Milo said, “No. There’s no evidence of that.”

Morgenstern gave him a conspiratorial wink. “No evidence, but you’re coming around asking questions. The plot thickens, eh, Mr. Policeman? More meat, more worms.”

Milo asked a few more questions, determined they had nothing else to offer, and thanked them. We left, replacing our skullcaps in the leather box on the way out, walked a ways up Ocean Front, and had a cup of coffee at a teriyaki stand. Milo glared at the winos hanging around the stand and they drifted away, like sloughing dead skin. He sipped, running his gaze up and down the walk-street, letting it settle on the synagogue.

After a few moments all four old people came out of the building and walked off together, Morgenstern in the lead. An elderly battalion. When they were out of view, Milo tossed his coffee cup in the trash and said, “Come on.”

The dead bolts on the synagogue’s doors were locked. Milo’s knock brought Sanders to the door.

The rabbi had put a gray suit jacket over his shirt, had his pipe in his mouth, still unlit, and was holding an oversized maroon book with marbled page-ends.

“A little more of your time, Rabbi?”

Sanders held the door open and we stepped into the anteroom. Most of the cookies were gone and only two cans of soda remained.

“Can I offer you anything?” said Sanders. He slid the book into one of the cases.

“No thanks, Rabbi.”

“Shall we go back in the sanctuary?”

“This is fine, thanks. I was just wondering if there was anything you hadn’t felt comfortable discussing in front of your students.”

“Students.” Sanders smiled. “They’ve taught me a good deal more than I’ve taught them. This is only a part-time job. Weekdays I teach at an elementary school in the Fairfax district. I conduct services here on weekends, give classes Sundays, run an occasional social evening.”

“Sounds like a full schedule.”

Sanders shrugged and adjusted his yarmulke. “Five children. Los Angeles is an expensive city. That’s how I came to know Sophie- Mrs. Gruenberg. Finding affordable housing’s impossible, especially with children. People in this city don’t seem to like children. Mrs. Gruenberg didn’t mind at all, even though she wasn’t very… grandmotherly. And she was very reasonable about the rent. She said it was because we- my wife and I- had ideals, she respected us for them. Even though she herself had no use for religion. Marxism was her faith. She really was an unregenerate communist.”

“She generally pretty vocal about her political views?”

“If one asked her, she’d speak her mind. But she didn’t go about volunteering them- she wasn’t a gregarious woman. Quite the opposite. Kept to herself.”

“Not a joiner?”

Sanders nodded. “I tried to get her more involved in the synagogue, but she had no interest in religion, wasn’t at all sociable. Truthfully, she wasn’t the most popular person. But the others do care about her. They all look out for one another. Wanted to dip into their own pockets in order to hire the private detective. But none of them can afford it- they’re all on pension. Detective Mehan told me it would probably be a waste of money, so I discouraged it, promised to bring it to the Federation again. Her vanishing has really frightened them- they’re slapped in the face by their own helplessness. That’s why I’m glad you returned when they were gone. Talking about Ike could only upset them more. That is what you want to talk about, isn’t it?”

“Why’d Detective Mehan feel it was a waste of time?”

Sanders lowered his gaze and bit his lip. “He told me- and this is something I haven’t told them- that it didn’t look good. The fact that she hadn’t made plans to leave meant there was a good chance she’d met up with foul play. The fact that her apartment was in order meant it had taken place on the street- as she walked home. He said that if she’d gotten lost and wandered away or had a stroke, she would have turned up by three weeks. One way or the other. He said private detectives could find people, but weren’t much use discovering bodies.”

He looked up. Blue eyes still. Jamming the pipe in his mouth, he bit down so hard his jaws bunched and the board bristled.

Milo said, “She’s your landlady. Is there a mortgage on the building?”

Sanders shook his head. “No, she owns it free and clear- has for several years. Detective Mehan found that out when he checked into her finances.”

“What about other bills that come in? Who pays them?”

“I do. It doesn’t come out to much- just utilities. I’ve also been collecting all her mail. What looks like a bill, I open and pay. I know it’s not perfectly legal to do that, but Detective Mehan assured me it would be all right.”

“What about your rent cheek?”

“I’ve opened an interest-earning account, deposited the October and November checks in there. It seemed the best thing to do until we learn… something.”

“Where do you keep her mail, Rabbi?”

“Right here, in the synagogue, under lock and key.”

“I’d like to see it.”

He said, “Certainly,” put his pipe in his jacket pocket, and went into the sanctuary. We watched him unlock a cabinet in back of the podium and draw out two manila envelopes, which he brought back and handed to Milo. One was marked SEPT/OCT.; the other, NOV.

Milo said, “This is all of it?”

“This is it.” Sad look.

Milo opened the envelopes, removed the contents, and spread them out on the ledge of the bookcase. He inspected each piece of mail. Mostly flyers and computer-addressed bulk mail. Occupant appearing more frequently than her name. A few utility bills that had been opened and marked Paid, followed by dates of payments.

Sanders said, “I was hoping there’d be something personal, to give us a clue. But she wasn’t very… connected to the outside world.” His baby face had grown sad. Stuffing one hand in his pocket, he groped until he found his pipe.

Milo slid the mail back in the manila envelopes. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Rabbi?”

Sanders rubbed the bowl of the pipe against his nose.

“Just one thing,” he said. “And Detective Mehan filed a report on it, so you should have a record of it somewhere. The old people don’t know this either- I didn’t see any point in telling them. A few days after she disappeared- that was a Tuesday; this happened sometime over the weekend- burglars broke into the house. Into both our places. My family and I were out of town, at a school retreat in the city. Detective Mehan said it was probably a drug addict looking for things to sell. A coward: he’d watched the house- staked us out- waited until we were gone, and moved in.”

“What was taken?”

“As far as I could tell, what he took from Sophie was a television, a radio, a silver-plated samovar, and some inexpensive jewelry. From us, even less- we don’t have a television. All he got from us was some flatware, a ritual spice box and candleholder, and a tape recorder I use for teaching Hebrew. But he made a mess. Both units were in a shambles- food taken out of the refrigerator and thrown around, drawers opened, papers scattered. Detective Mehan said it showed signs of a disorganized mind. Immaturity- teenagers, or someone on drugs.”

“What was the point of entry?”

“Through the back doors. I’ve since had new locks put on and bars on the windows. Now my children look out through bars.”

He shook his head.

“The material loss was trivial,” he said, “but the feeling of violation- and hatred. The way the food was strewn about seemed so spiteful. And something else… that made it seem… personal.”

“What’s that, Rabbi?”

“He- the addict or whoever- wrote on the walls. In red paint that he took from the garage- the same red paint I’d just used a week before to paint the windows. It resembled blood. Hateful stuff- anti-Semitism. Profanities- I had to cover my children’s eyes. And something else that I found very strange: Remember John Kennedy! Several exclamation points after the word Kennedy. Which doesn’t make any logical sense, does it? Kennedy was anti-racist. But Detective Mehan said if he’d been crazy on drugs, he couldn’t be expected to make sense. So I suppose that would explain it.”

He frowned, chewed on the pipe some more.

Milo said, “You don’t like that explanation?”

“It’s not that,” said Sanders. “It’s… nothing tangible. Just a feeling my wife and I have had. Since Ike. Since Sophie. As if we’re in jeopardy- someone’s out there, intending to harm us. Despite the locks and the bars. Not that there ever is anyone, when I actually look, so I suppose it’s nerves. I tell myself this is simply the way America is- learn to get used to it. But my wife wants us to move back to Auckland. That’s New Zealand. Things were different there.”

“How long have you been in L.A.?”

“Just since July. Before that, we lived in Lakewood, New Jersey. I studied at a seminary there, did have occasion to visit New York City, so I guess I should have been prepared for urban life. But in California I expected things to be more… relaxed.”

“The term is laid back, Rabbi. Unfortunately, for the most part it’s a facade.”

“Seems to be.”

“Since the break-in, have you and your family had any other problems?”

“Nothing, thank God.”

Milo reached into a coat pocket, drew out the photo he’d taken from Dinwiddie, and held it in front of the rabbi’s baby face.

“Yes, that’s Ike,” said Sanders. “Did his death have anything to do with Sophie?”

“Nothing as far as we know, Rabbi. What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much at all. I barely knew him. We passed each other a few times- that was all.”

“How long had he been living here before he was killed?”

Sanders shook his head. “I don’t know. My feeling was it had been for a while.”

“Why’s that?”

“They- he and Sophie- had a… comfortable relationship. As if they’d settled in with each other.”

“They get along pretty well?”

“Seemed to.” Sanders put his pipe in his mouth, then removed it. “Actually, they debated quite a bit. We could hear it through the walls. To be frank, she was a cantankerous old lady. But she and Ike did seem to have a certain… not rapport- I’d call it ease. He did chores for her, gardening, brought her groceries- I believe he worked at a grocery store. And the fact that she had him living with her, right in the apartment, would imply a great deal of trust, wouldn’t it?”

“Any reason for her not to trust him?”

Sanders shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean that at all. The racial thing has no personal relevance for me. But it is unusual. The old people have had bad experiences with black men- they tend to fear them. Not that there was any reason to fear Ike. From the few contacts I had with him he seemed a very good chap. Polite, pleasant. The only thing I did find unusual about him was his interest in the Holocaust.”

“Unusual in what way?”

“The fact that he was interested in it at all. Someone his age, not Jewish- it’s not a common interest, don’t you agree? Though I suppose living with Sophie made it not that unusual. It was a favorite topic of hers- she may have passed it along to Ike.”

“How do you know he was interested in it?”

“Because of an occurrence, last summer, about a week after we’d moved in. I ran into him in the garage. I was unpacking boxes and he’d just driven in on his motor scooter. He was carrying a huge armful of books and he dropped them. I helped him pick them up. I noticed a title- something about the origins of the Nazi party. I opened it and saw from the bookplate that it had come from the Holocaust Center- over on Pico, in West L.A. So had the others I picked up. I asked him if he was doing a school paper and he smiled and said no, it was a personal research project. I offered to help him if he needed it, but he just smiled again and said he had everything he needed. I thought it unusual, but I was pleased. That someone his age would take an interest. Most people his age have no idea what happened fifty years ago.”

“What did he and Mrs. Gruenberg used to argue about?”

“Not arguments, in the sense of quarreling. When I said debates, I meant discussions.”

“Loud discussions?”

“Lively discussions, but we couldn’t make out the words- we weren’t listening. Knowing Sophie, though, my assumption would be politics.”

“Any idea what Novato’s political views were?”

“None whatsoever.” Sanders thought for a moment. “Officer, do you suspect a political connection to… what happened?”

“No evidence of that either, Rabbi. How was Mrs. Gruenberg affected by Novato’s death?”

“As I said before, I assumed she was upset. But I didn’t see much of her reaction, because she stayed in her unit and didn’t come out much after it happened. In retrospect, I realize that was odd- she used to be out in the yard hanging laundry, or taking her walks around the neighborhood. I only found out about the murder because another policeman- a black man whose name I don’t remember- came by the house and asked me a few questions. About Ike. Did he use drugs? I told him, not to my knowledge. Who did he hang around with? I’d never seen anyone. Then he asked me about Sophie. Did she use drugs? Did she buy expensive things that she couldn’t seem to afford? That, I laughed at. But when he- the black detective- told me why he’d come, I stopped laughing. After he left, I went over to Sophie’s unit and knocked on the door. She didn’t answer. I didn’t want to violate her privacy, so I left her alone. I tried the next day, but she still didn’t answer. I started to worry- with an old person, anything can happen- but I decided to wait a while before using my key. Shortly after, I saw her come out, walking toward Rose Avenue. Looking angry. Very grim. I went after her, tried to talk to her, but she just shook her head and kept walking. The next time I saw her was here at the synagogue. She came to the social. Given her state of mind, that surprised me. But she kept to herself, avoiding people. Walking around the room, looking all around, touching the walls, the seats. Almost as if she were seeing it all for the first time.”

“Or the last,” said Milo.

Sanders’s eyes widened. He held the pipe with two hands, as if it had suddenly grown heavy.

“Yes, you’re right,” he said. “That could have been it. Seeing it for the last time. Saying goodbye.”