“I am so sorry!”

For the first time, Decker heard the pain in his brother’s voice. “God, I’m taking it out on you.”

“You have every right to be angry.”

Decker smiled. “Spoken like a true pastor.” He checked his watch. “Well, the good news is we’ll have time to visit the Quinton Police.”

Suburban police departments had a distinct advantage over their city rivals—a large homeowner tax base. A case could be made that the richer WASPs on the north side were supporting the poorer Jews on the south side because their houses were bigger and the lots were expansive. But an equal case could be made in the opposite direction—that the Jews were contributing more than their fair share because for every one Gentile manse, there were three Jewish houses. What the Jews lacked in quality, they made up in quantity.

The primary police station was located in Liberty Park, with a half-dozen drop-in station storefronts—manned by two officers—scattered among the three or four commercial areas. The station’s construction was new: a square edifice of steel and one-way mirrored glass that was well lit and well ventilated. The detectives’ squad room was spacious with approximately the same square footage as Decker’s squad room back in L.A. The difference was that Devonshire hosted seating for forty-three gold-shield carriers, whereas Quinton had twelve full-time detectives, each with his or her own phone, answering machine, voice mail, and computer.

The Homicide/Robbery division was 99.9 percent robbery, and .1 percent homicide. Of the three homicides that Quinton had last year, one was a suicide—a ninety-six-year-old man with late-stage prostate cancer—and two were reckless homicides—Man I—from the same vehicular accident. For a fleeting moment, Decker entertained thoughts about retiring to a pastoral suburb like Quinton. The idea left his cerebral cortex as soon as it entered.

Because he was a lieutenant from a big city, Decker was awarded a meeting with Virgil Merrin, the chief of the Quinton Police. Merrin was six-one, one step shy of fat, with that wet-shave pink skin, and hair so blond and thin that his scalp showed through. He had light blue eyes that sparkled when Decker told him he was originally from Gainesville, Florida. Merrin was from West Virginia, so that meant they were both good old boys. After several minutes of batting around bass-fishing trivia, Merrin got down to substance.

“A cryin’ shame about the girl.” Merrin wore a blue suit with a light blue shirt, the buttons stretched by the man’s gut. He gave a soulful glance to Jonathan. “A damn shame! We went house to house—all of the girl’s friends. Nothing!”

They were in Merrin’s office on the third floor. It had a generous view of the park—of the wind-bent tulips shimmering like waves of colored banners. The lake was also visible from the window, the surface steely with tiny whitecap ripples. From where Merrin sat, he could see it all. In another context, it could be considered cozy. All that was lacking was a fireplace, a newspaper, and a cup of coffee.