She inched her Volvo into the lot and parked adjacent to a cruiser. Before she even got out of the car, a uniform was waving her off. He was a thick block of a man in his thirties. Rina didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything because she didn’t know most of the uniformed officers in the Devonshire station. Peter had transferred there as a detective, not a patrol cop.

The officer was saying, “You can’t park here, ma’am.”

Rina rolled down the window. “The police called me down. I have the keys to the synagogue.”

The officer waited; she waited.

Rina said, “I’m Rina Decker, Lieutenant Decker’s wife…”

Instant recognition. The uniformed officer nodded by way of an apology, then muttered, “Kids!”

“Then you know who did it?” Rina got out of the car.

The officer’s cheeks took on color. “No, not yet. But we’ll find whoever did this.”

Another cop walked up to her, this one a sergeant by his uniform stripes, with Shearing printed on his nametag. He was stocky with wavy, dishwater-colored hair and a ruddy complexion. Older: mid to late fifties. She had a vague sense of having met him at a picnic or some social gathering. The name Mike came to mind.

He held out his hand. “Mickey Shearing, Mrs. Decker. I’m awfully sorry to bring you down like this.” He led her through the small gathering of onlookers, irritated by the interference. “Everybody…a couple of steps back…Better yet, go home.” Shouting to his men, “Someone rope off the area, now!”

As the lookie-loos thinned, Rina could see the exterior wall—one big swastika, a couple of baby ones on either side. Someone had spray-painted Death to the Inferior, Gutter Races. Angry moisture filled her eyes. “Is the door lock broken?” she asked the sergeant.

“’Fraid so.”

“You’ve been inside?”

“Unfortunately, I have. It’s…” He shook his head. “It’s pretty strong.”

“My parents were concentration-camp survivors. I know this kind of thing.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Watch your step. We don’t want to mess up anything for the detectives.”

“Who’s being brought in?” Rina said. “Who investigates hate crimes?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. As she stepped across the threshold, she felt her muscles tighten, and her jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder that her teeth didn’t crack.