He turned on the light and stared at the siddur resting on his nightstand. He shouldn’t leave it out like that. He should put it away on a shelf so he wouldn’t spill coffee on it. For no reason, he picked it up and began reading the praises of God. Without his realizing it, he had said maariv—the evening prayers. He turned off the light and stared at the blackness that surrounded him. He had been moved by the words. Solitude always brought out his religious nature. Strange that the only time Marge thought about God was when she was alone in bed. Perhaps God was best seen in the dark. He closed his eyes and scrunched up the pillow.

Wisps of conversation kept drifting into his consciousness.

It’s family, Rabbi. Cops always look in the family.

All you white boys look alike.

Just a white boy.

How’s your son, Cecil?

Which one?

WHICH ONE?

He bolted up in the darkness.

There had been no personal photos in Cecil Pode’s house. It was time to construct a family portrait.

22

“I need all of his tax forms, not just the 1040s,” Decker said to the voice on the other end. “Yes, ma’am, state as well as federal for the last thirty years—”

The voice grew shrill.

“I realize it’s a hell of a lot of information,” he said, peeved, “so instead of arguing about it, why don’t you program it into the computer and quit wasting time? This is a homicide investigation…Oh, and any army records you can dig up.”

A curt reply, then a click.

“Fuck you,” he said, slamming down the receiver. He picked it up again and dialed the county assessor’s office.

“This is Detective Sergeant Peter Decker of LAPD Homicide. Has Ms. Crandell returned from her morning break?”

He sipped his coffee as the woman put him on hold.

“This is Ms. Crandell,” a birdlike voice tweeted.

“This is Detective Sergeant Decker of LAPD—”

“Yes, Sergeant. I have the information you asked about.”

God bless the competent few. They may not inherit the earth, but they make it an easier place in which to live.

“Great,” he said, grabbing a pencil.

“Mr. Cecil Pode acquired the house on Beethoven Street twenty-two years ago in joint tenancy with his wife, Ida. Ten years ago—let’s see, that was 1977—it was reevaluated for tax purposes after major capital improvements were made and…” she paused “…and the ownership was changed from joint tenancy to sole ownership.”

“What kind of capital improvements?” Decker asked.

“I don’t know.”

“So Cecil Pode’s lived in that residence for the past twenty-two years?”

“I don’t know where he actually lived. But he did pay his property tax for those years.”

“Thank you.”

Decker hung up and Marge walked over. “Rina called again,” she said to him.

“I’ll get back to her.”

“You’re not being nice.”