The publicity was probably why he’d been targeted.

And what a cruel attack it was.

On the side of his beautiful Victorian house was a swastika in bright red paint and below it: DIE JEW.

The paint dripped from the symbol and words like blood from deep wounds.

They were surrounded by a foggy dusk, the air fragrant with mulch from the Goldschmidts’ beautiful garden.

“In all my years,” he muttered.

“Did you catch a glimpse of anybody?”

“No, I didn’t know about it until I heard the shout from across the street—ah, here.”

A woman, mid-fifties, in jeans and a leather jacket, approached. “Dave, I’m so sorry.” Then to the officers: “Hello.”

O’Neil and Dance introduced themselves.

“I’m Sara Peabody. I saw them. I’m the one called the police. I shouted. I guess I shouldn’t have. I should’ve just called you first. Maybe they’d be in jail now. But I just, you know, lost it.”

“Them?” O’Neil asked.

“Two, that’s right. I was looking through the trees there, see. I didn’t have a good view. So young, old? Male, female? I couldn’t say. I’d guess male, wouldn’t you think?”

O’Neil said, “Generally that’s the case in hate crimes. But not always.”

“One stood guard, I guess, and the other jumped over the fence and sprayed those terrible things. The other one, the guard—he took pictures or a video of the other one. Like a souvenir. Disgusting.”

Goldschmidt sighed.

Dance asked, “Have you been threatened by anyone recently?”

“No, no. I don’t think it’s personal. This’s got to be part of what’s going on, don’t you think? The black churches, that gay center?”

O’Neil: “I’d say so, yes. The handwriting looks similar to the other attacks, spray paint in red. Looks like the same color.”

“Well, I want it gone. Can you take pictures and samples of the paint or whatever you want to do? I’m painting over it tonight. My wife’s back from Seattle tomorrow morning. I will not let her see this.”

“Sure,” O’Neil told him. “We’ll get our crime scene people here in the next hour. They’ll be fast.” He looked around. “I’ll canvass the neighbors now.”

“Brother. After all these years,” Goldschmidt muttered angrily. “Sometimes I think we’re not making any progress at all.” Dance looked him over, his body language of defiance, determination, his still eyes as he took in the obscene symbol and words.

O’Neil asked Dance if she’d take his and the neighbor’s statements.

“Sure.”

He wandered up the street to interview other neighbors who might have seen the vandalism.

Dance looked over the yard. No footsteps in the grass, of course. Maybe the CS team could pull a print from the fence the perps had vaulted but that would be a long shot.

Ah, but a moment of hope. Nestled under the eaves was a video security camera.

But Goldschmidt shook his head. “It’s on but it doesn’t record. The monitor’s in the bedroom and I was in the den when they were here. We only use it after we’re in bed. In case there’s a noise.”