It had been almost two decades since she had lived in her old neighborhood. The area had become so Jewish that, except for the palm trees, it felt as regional as Brooklyn. Not that she didn’t have occasion to go back to the city, but she rarely went beyond her parents’ house in North Beverly Hills. The valley’s frum community was self-contained—from cheap pizza joints for the kids, to family restaurants with booths and wine. Kosher butchers and bakeries weren’t problematic, so why should she bother to travel? Still, the area felt nostalgic, passing all the kosher establishments, the fruit and vegetable storefronts, as well as the Jewish bookstores that sold sepharim as well as religious articles. Even the independent food market, Morry’s—which was actually owned by Irv—catered to the neighborhood inhabitants, carrying hard to get items such as kosher cheeses and kosher flour tortillas.

So many religious schools and yeshivas in the area, they overflowed with children, spitting in the face of Hitler. So it was only natural that a Holocaust memorial would find its permanent home among those who had lived through the inferno firsthand.

Rina’s own parents—both of them camp survivors—were getting on in years. Her father now walked with a cane, and her mother was slower in gait as well as in speech. They were still sharp mentally, but sometimes the pain of old age crimped their smiles. They loved Hannah, but oftentimes Rina could sense that the little girl was just too much for them. She didn’t bring her as often as she had brought the boys, and that saddened her.

She glanced at Tom Webster, seated beside her, hands in his lap, eyes staring out the windshield. She had gotten the Volvo washed before she picked him up, but it still smelled a little stale. But perhaps that was due to L.A. smog rather than the condition of her station wagon. The detective hadn’t said much since she picked him up from the station house. No doubt he was little nervous being around the boss’s wife, a strange Jewish lady who wore kerchiefs on her head and long sleeves rolled up to her elbows even in the summer. Tom was about as gentile as it got with his blond hair, blue eyes, and sharp features, as well as that thick Southern accent. Perhaps he was antsy about visiting the Tolerance Center as well. Webster was as out of his element as she was in. She knew she should make an effort to talk to him. He sat stiffly in a blue suit, white shirt, and blue tie. Since both of them were dressed in hot clothing, she blasted the air-conditioning in the car.

“Anything you want to ask me?”