A pause, then a long buzz. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses.

“Police?” She stood and looked to her left—at an interior door left ajar. “What’s going on?”

Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames—Grant Wood’s American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer—affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different-colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby-blue sheet of paper containing an article. The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later.

“A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.” Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. “We were wondering what you knew about it.”

Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s all over the news,” Webster said.

“I don’t watch the news.”

“You’ve got a radio on. I b’lieve it’s tuned to a news station.”

“That’s not me, that’s Darrell. Why are you here?”

“Because we know what this place is all about,” Martinez said. “We’re just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in.”

A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffee-colored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races.

“May I ask who you all are?” he said.

“Police,” Webster said. “We’d like to ask y’all a few questions, if that’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay,” the man said. “Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them. If not, you can show yourself to the door.”

“That’s downright unneighborly of you,” Webster said.

The man turned his wrath toward the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t let anyone in unless you’re sure of who they are!”

“They said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?”