Decker stood. “Fair enough.” He held out his hand. Davidson stared at it for a moment, then took it.

13

Despite what was printed, Decker knew the LAPD wasn’t vilified by all. Still, both he and Marge were pleasantly surprised by the amount of support given to Devonshire by the people it served. The squad room was made up almost entirely of community-donated items, from the furnishings to the high-tech hardware. Not to mention the push-button phones. Decker had used a rotary for years at Foothill.

The work space itself was generic LAPD squad room. The desks were grouped according to detail with Homicide located in the back adjacent to CAPS—Crimes Against Persons. The walls held the requisite blue file notebooks, the lockers, the division maps, and the emergency mobilization plans. But the Dees had done a little of their own homespun decorating. Decker’s favorites were a poster of David Mamet’s movie Homicide, and a large colored drawing of pigs wearing police hats as they snuffled for truffles.

Bending a gooseneck lamp over his notes, Decker sat at his desk, reviewing his court case, waiting to see if the analytical office in CAD—Crime Analysis Detail—could pull from the computer any prior family disappearances. He knew computer information could take a while. It depended on how the questions were phrased and entered, on who else was on-line. He probably wouldn’t have answers before he left for court.

Not that Decker had to appear in court. Since the passage of prop 115, it was now permissible for uniformed officers to present the detectives’ evidence to the grand jury, thus freeing up Dees to work in the field. But Decker preferred to state his own case if time permitted. Years of law school die hard.

Marge walked in and sat down at her desk across from Decker. He looked up and placed his briefs on his desk.

“How’d it go?”

Marge grimaced. “What a waste! And I don’t mean a waste of my time. I mean a waste of human life. Guy got pissed at his girlfriend so he shot her. Now he’s all remorseful, bawling like a baby, hovering over the body. He was actually giving her CPR when the blues arrived, do you believe that? Like that’s the treatment of choice for a thirty-two slug in the brain.”

“He was packing a thirty-two?”

“Pulled it out of his satchel.” Marge shook her head. “They never learn.” She paused. “Well, I did my job, made Tug happy. Can you believe him? Aren’t you outraged about his blatant anti-Semitism?”

“Nah.”

Marge stared at her partner. “How can you not be? Jews as spies. The way he says your people.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“Just what does it take to rile you up?”

Decker thought a beat. “If you were anti-Semitic, then I’d be outraged. We need to talk about Yalom.”

Marge stared at her wristwatch. “Okay…go!”

“What are you doing?”