“And since when do you believe everything someone says? You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?” Darrell turned toward them. “Can I see some ID?”

Webster pulled out his badge. “We’re not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we’re not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple that was vandalized this morning. Y’all know anything about that?”

“Absolutely not!” Darrell insisted. “Why should we?”

“Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?” Martinez asked.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Darrell said. “If I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.”

“S’cuse me?” Webster said. “This is being raked over the coals?”

“You barge in—”

“She buzzed us in,” Martinez interrupted. “And you haven’t answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?”

“I was home.” Darrell was smoldering. “In bed. Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Alone. Unless you count my cat. Her name is Shockley.”

“And this morning?” Webster inquired.

“Let’s see. I woke up at eight-thirty…or thereabouts. I don’t want to be held to the exact time.”

“Go on,” Webster pushed.

“I exercised on my treadmill…ate breakfast…read the paper. I got here at around ten-fifty, ten-thirty. Erin was already here.” His eyes moved from the cops’ faces to the pitchfork of the Grant Wood classic. “What exactly do you want?”

“How about your complete names for starters.”

“Darrell Holt.”

Martinez looked at the woman. “You’re next, ma’am.”

“Erin Kershan.”

Holt tapped his foot, then released a storage cell of aggression. “I had nothing to do with the vandalism of a synagogue! That isn’t what this group is all about! We don’t hate! We don’t persecute! And if you were told that, you’ve been misinformed. We do just the opposite of persecute. We encourage ethnic integrity. I applaud Jews who wish to congregate with one another. Jews should be with other Jews. African-Americans should be with African-Americans, Hispanics with Hispanics, and Caucasians with Caucasians—”

“And what exact ethnicity are you?” Webster asked Holt.

“I’m Acadian, if you must know.”

“You don’t sound like any Cajun I ever met,” Webster said.

“The original Acadians came from Canada—Nova Scotia specifically.” Holt gave off a practiced smile. It was condescending and ugly. “I am proud of my heritage, which is why I feel so strong about preserving cultural purity. And it has nothing to do with racism, because as you can see for yourself…” He pointed to his hair and nose. “I have black blood in me.”

“So you admit to being a mutt,” Webster said.