The Fifth Commandment deemed Sabbath a day of rest, an obligation that Decker chose to take literally. He spent most of Saturday afternoon in bed, sleeping or otherwise, depending on Rina’s mood, and didn’t think about work or Abel. Instead, he concentrated on renewing his bedraggled spirit and reached moderate success. He and Rina were all sweetness and light, stargazing lovers. They went out Saturday night, saw a terrible play at the Music Center, then indulged in triple-scoop ice-cream sundaes. Sunday morning, Decker called the boys in New York and sent them his love directly. Then Rina packed a lunch and they went on a three-hour horseback ride. By Sunday evening, Decker felt good about himself, good about Rina. His relaxed manner had a great effect on her. Her face radiated good cheer.

But Sunday night he slept restlessly, had disturbing dreams about Abel. Not Nam dreams, thank God, but nightmares nonetheless—Abel falling down a cliff, drowning in an ocean, sinking in sand. And Decker was always a minute too late.

He got up at five Monday morning, realizing he didn’t have to be Freud to know what was going on. At six, he called County Hospital. The general operator wasn’t on duty, so he phoned a special police line and found out that Myra Steele was still in the County Complex—Women’s Hospital.

He dressed, showered, and said his morning prayers in a record twenty minutes. Right before he left, he gently shook Rina and told her he was going to work, his spare key ring was on the kitchen table. She could take the Jeep or the Porsche. She gave him a sleep-laced kiss, and pulled the covers over her head.

The sun had just risen, bad timing since he was heading eastward. Hot white light poured through the windshield, and Decker’s eyes began to water. He slipped on his shades, yanked down the unmarked’s sun visor, and sped down the Golden State Freeway and exited on Brooklyn Avenue in Boyle Heights.

East Los Angeles—Hollenbeck substation—had been Decker’s first assignment after he’d joined the LAPD. He’d been directed there because at the time he’d been one of the few white boys whose Spanish had been fluent. After having worked with the Cubans in Miami, Decker had found the Hispanics in Boyle Heights a soft-spoken and compliant group. A long time ago, the area had been Jewish, but since Decker had moved to L.A. the only Jewish remnants he’d seen were a few languishing delis and the Breed Street Shul—a synagogue still gloriously beautiful, but falling apart because of lack of money and worshipers.