The Burnt House

“How about Monday at three?”

It was Marlowe, no introduction necessary. Oliver said, “Sounds great. Thanks for setting it up so fast.”

“I’ll come out to the police station to meet you. But no monkey business or I’ll have your badge.”

“You’re welcome to it,” Oliver whispered.

“What?”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Marlowe, you’ve been a big help.”

11 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)

THE KINDLING OF the candles signified the onset of the holy day of rest, welcoming the Shabbat bride with song and food. Showered and shaved, Decker felt clean and renewed. Since he’d decided not to go to synagogue, he dressed casually—a pair of khaki pants, a black polo shirt, and sandals. His stomach rumbled from the aromas emanating from the kitchen, and his mouth was watering by the time he sat down at the table. Seven place settings of china and crystal: Rina had done the centerpiece herself, the arrangements courtesy of her new hobby. She had turned their backyard into an English garden. The colors and the bouquets were dizzying. Insects and birds abounded. She called it their personal Eden.

Tonight, Rina had elected to wear an emerald-green A-line dress and silver flats. Her hair had been tied up in a knot, covered by a lacy mantilla that fell gracefully down her back. Hannah had two girlfriends over for the weekend, and Cindy and Koby rounded out the guest list. Whenever she had company, Rina and her cooking gene went haywire. Dinner started out with fresh-cured gravlax with a mustard dill sauce. The fish course was followed by a puree of squash-and-carrot soup spiced with cinnamon and ginger, on its heels an arugula salad with grapefruit and orange segments. By the time the entrée was served—turkey breast stuffed with wild rice, with green beans amandine and baby carrots for sides—no one was really hungry. But that didn’t stop anyone at the table from eating. Nor did it dissuade the guests from polishing off the plum cobbler and a bowl of the season’s first cherries.

After they’d stuffed themselves silly, Rina tried to make everyone feel more virtuous. “It’s mostly fruit except for the crumble topping.”

“That’s the best part,” Koby told her. “I’ll have another piece.”

“I can always count on you, Yaakov,” Rina told him, spooning another scoop of the streusel-topped concoction onto his plate.

“That’s because I have no stop button when it comes to food.”

“Lucky you,” Decker muttered.

Rina tossed her husband a “behave yourself ” look, even though she knew what he meant. At six two, one-fifty, Koby was as thin as grass. A wiry man, but deceptively strong. Like Decker, he was also handy around the house. In honor of Shabbat, he wore a white shirt and black slacks and loafers without socks. Cindy wore a black knit skirt and a turquoise sweater that set off her red hair, courtesy of her father’s DNA. Hannah and Cindy had nearly identical coloring, red hair, red eyebrows and eyelids, and clear alabaster skin that freckled in the summertime. The difference was only in the eye color: Cindy’s eyes were brown whereas Hannah’s were green. The sisters resembled each other even though they had clearly come from different mothers.

“Are you two getting any vacation time?” Decker asked his older daughter.

Cindy said, “Nothing definite yet.”

Koby said, “We’re trying for a weekend in Santa Barbara.”

“Do you need help clearing?” Hannah asked her mother. She and her two friends had finished dessert ten minutes ago. They were itching to leave and talk about important issues—school, poetry, alternative rock, Gossip Girl books, and boys, boys, boys.

Rina said, “Just bring in your plates and load them in the dishwasher. I’ll do the rest and call you when it’s time to bench.”

“Are you sure?” Hannah asked. But it was clear the girl was grateful to be dismissed.

“Positive.” Rina turned to Cindy. “Your father installed a new Shabbat dishwasher that has been an absolute godsend. I don’t know what in the world took us so long to buy it.”

“Those built-in dish drawers?” Koby asked.

“Yes, from the same company. We bought the full-size dishwasher for meat and a dish drawer for dairy. I lost a bit of cabinet space, but what we save on time spent doing dishes more than makes up for it.”

“We’re thinking of pushing out the kitchen,” Cindy said. “That’s why we’re asking.” When she noticed her father’s face, she smiled. “No, I’m not pregnant, but we do want a family. And it would be nice to have a genuine room for our future progeny.”

Koby added, “With home prices so expensive, we both think it is better to remodel.”

“Who’s going to do the work?” Decker asked.

“I am … and whoever else wants to help,” Koby answered.

Three pairs of eyes focused on Decker’s face. “Like I don’t have enough to do?” But he knew he’d cave in. That’s the way it was with children.

Cindy said, “We’re a ways off from lugging around two-by-fours, Dad. We’re still gathering information.” She turned to Rina. “The food was delicious. I’m stuffed.”

“Thank you. Can I make you a care package?”

“I was hoping you’d offer.” Cindy stood up and began to clear.

“You sit,” Decker told his daughter. “I’ll help.”

“Age before beauty,” she replied. “Actually, Dad, I am so full that it feels good to move.”

Decker said, “You know what? Why don’t you and I clear together and let Koby and Rina relax?”

Koby said, “It is an offer I won’t refuse.”

Rina smiled. He was trying to get time alone with his girl. “Great. I haven’t read the paper yet.”

“Neither have I.”

“Then we’ll share,” Rina said. “I’ll even pour you a scotch, Yaakov.”

The two of them retreated to the living room while father and daughter cleared the dining-room table of dishes and brought them into the kitchen.

“I wash and you dry?” Cindy offered.

“All you have to do is rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. Why don’t you let me do that?”

“You put away the food. I don’t know where it goes.”

“Deal.”

Cindy turned on the tap. “This is nice. Doing dishes together. Like old times but better.”

“Yeah, the old times were pretty good, too.” He gave her a brief smile as he scraped food into the garbage. “How’s GTA?”

“Busy. You know how it is. The weather starts getting warmer, it’s open season on cars.”

“Crime in general. When it’s wet and nasty outside, no one wants to work—even the psychos. How do you like teaming with Joe?”

Joe Papquick was her partner. “He’s fine. Not exactly loquacious, but he tells me what I need to know. It’s pretty routine, actually. You wind up investigating the same shops, the same junkyards, the same people. It seems the thieves rotate through twenty or so auto yards and it’s just a matter of the choppers getting caught with their pants down.”

“Be careful,” he warned her. “Routine doesn’t exclude bad surprises.”