The Ritual Bath. Faye Kellerman

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      He drove to a bedraggled park. The grass had been burned yellow and the sandbox was nothing more than a pile of gray pebbles, but to one side was a large shade tree with umbrella-like branches and some warped wooden benches. A couple of naked Latino tots ran through a sprinkler jet that was attempting—without visible success—to revive a bed of dead marigolds. The toddlers’ grandmother sat a few feet away, knitting as she watched them from the corner of one eye. Although there was plenty of empty seating in the shade, the old woman had elected to sit in the open sun with a bandana over her head, seemingly impervious to the heat. The temperature was well over a hundred, the air heavy with smog, but a slight breeze filtered through the lacy branches, providing some refuge.

      Rina knew it wasn’t right for her to be alone with this man, but she felt compelled to help. She wanted justice to be done and the monster locked up—for society’s welfare and her own peace of mind.

      They sat down and the old woman waved to Decker. He returned her greeting, and Rina opened the sack.

      “I was in the mood for hamburgers,” she said.

      “Great. I love hamburgers.”

      “I made some cole slaw also.”

      “Great. I love cole slaw.”

      Rina laughed. “You’re very agreeable.”

      “On certain occasions.”

      “I’m glad this is one of them.” She unwrapped an oversized onion roll stuffed with a thick hunk of ground meat and gave it to him.

      Decker regarded the sandwich. “This is a hamburger. It’s amazing how quickly you forget what a real one looks like after eating fast foods for years.” He took a chomp. The juices spilled out onto his mustache and chin.

      “I brought extra napkins.” She handed him a wad.

      “It looks like I’ll need ’em.”

      Rina unwrapped several beige cubes. “This is potato kugel.”

      “I like potatoes.”

      “It’s best described as gelatinous hash browns—”

      Decker laughed. “That sounds horrible.”

      “It tastes better than it sounds.”

      He bit into one of the squares and contemplated.

      “You know what it tastes like?” Decker said. “It tastes like a latke. A big, thick latke.”

      That took her by surprise.

      “That’s exactly what it is.”

      “Not too bad for a goy, huh?”

      She laughed.

      “You’ve picked up an expression or two, Detective.”

      “Or three or four. My ex-wife was Jewish. But not like you,” he qualified. “She and her parents were very Americanized. But her paternal grandparents stayed … ethnic. It was her grandmother who used to make me latkes.”

      “Were they good?”

      “Dynamite.”

      Rina opened a thermos of orange juice and poured them each a cup.

      “Thanks for sharing your lunch. It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”

      Rina lowered her head and said nothing. Decker noticed she hadn’t unwrapped her sandwich.

      “You’re not eating?” he asked.

      “Uh … In a minute.”

      She pulled out a paper cup from the sack and walked over to the sprinkler. She filled the cup up with water, poured it over each hand, then came back to the bench.

      “You’re very hygienic,” Decker said, smiling. “I like that in a woman.”

      She smiled back but was silent. He wondered if he had offended her.

      “That was a joke,” he said.

      She nodded, mumbled to herself, and took a bite of her sandwich.

      “I know,” she finally said after she swallowed. “I couldn’t answer you because I was in the middle of a blessing. You’re not allowed to talk between hand washing and the breaking of bread.”

      Decker stared at her blankly.

      “Never mind,” she said quickly. “It isn’t important.”

      He shrugged.

      “You’re a good cook.”

      “Thanks.” She put down her sandwich. “Detective—”

      “Why don’t you call me Peter? People I like a lot less call me by my first name. Certainly you can.”

      “All right. You can call me Rina.”

      “Great. So we’ll be Peter the Detective and Rina the Mikvah Lady.”

      “Sounds fine.”

      She turned serious.

      “I couldn’t talk Mrs. Adler into coming down here. But she wants to help out.”

      “What’s the game plan?”

      “I managed to get her alone. She told me what happened in very explicit detail.”

      Decker stopped eating. “Unless it comes directly from her mouth it’s not admissible as testimony.”

      “I understand that. If you catch someone that sounds like this animal, she may even be willing to testify. But she doesn’t want to have to expose herself prematurely.”

      “She wouldn’t be exposing herself. She’d just be talking—”

      “She just can’t bring herself to talk about it to a total stranger, male or female. Your partner was very nice, but she doesn’t trust her. And if you’d call Mrs. Adler up and tell her that I just told you everything, she’d deny talking to me about it. We’re very private people, Detective.”

      Decker thought for a moment. “So what do you have?”

      She took a sip of juice. “This isn’t easy.”

      “Take your time, Rina.” He pulled out a notepad.

      Despite herself she liked the way he said her name.

      “Okay.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

      “Sarah … Mrs. Adler had left the mikvah and walked a couple of feet when the person, attacker, whatever you call him …”

      “Assailant.”

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