Milk and Honey. Faye Kellerman

You hear?”

      The toddler smiled at him, then burrowed her brow in Sophi’s inviting bosom.

      Decker walked back to the car.

      “When are you meeting your scumbag friend?” Marge asked Decker.

      “Around three.”

      She switched into the left lane of the freeway and floored the accelerator. The 210 was empty today, the mountains flanking the asphalt abloom with flowers and shimmering in the heat. It was already late June; summer had overslept this year, but the high temperatures this week had finally marked its awakening. The mercury was already past 90. Decker turned up the air-conditioning.

      “And this scumbag was an army buddy of yours,” Marge said.

      “Yep. Stop calling him a scumbag.”

      “Hey, that’s what we’ve always called rapists.”

      “Alleged rapist.”

      “Shit.” Marge passed a big rig and rode the tail wind. “Now you’re playing lawyer on me. What was his excuse? ‘She asked for it,’ or ‘You’ve got the wrong guy’?”

      “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

      “Figures.” Marge shook her head. “He’s a scumbag, Pete. Don’t get sucked up by him because he once saved your life or something.”

      “He never saved my life.” Decker took out a cigarette.

      “You’re smoking. I hit a nerve.”

      “Did you bring a map of the Manfred development?” Decker asked.

      “It’s in my purse. About two hundred and fifty houses. Hope you brought a comfortable pair of shoes.”

      “I’m starving,” Decker said.

      “Want to stop at a Seven-Eleven?”

      “Not enough time,” Decker said. “And that’s why I’m smoking. Not because you hit any nerve, lady.”

      “Peace, bro.”

      Decker laughed.

      The car exited at Deep Canyon Road—a main thoroughfare that traversed the mountain-pocket communities of the Foothill Division of the LAPD. The road was narrow and winding, but as it hit the business district, it spread into six lanes. The unmarked passed through the shopping district—discount dress outlets, fast-food drive-ins, a Suzuki dealership, Mexican cantinas, and bars built for drinking, not mating. The retail stores soon yielded to the wholesalers—lumberyards and brickyards, roofing supplies, warehouses. Beyond the warehouses was residential land—small wood-framed houses, and larger ranches. Churches stood like watchtowers every few miles.

      Decker had bought empty acreage in the district years ago, right after his divorce. The land had appreciated, but not as much as property in the affluent parts of L.A. But he liked the open space—his ranch was zoned for horses—liked the mountains and the convenience of being fifteen minutes from work.

      They passed the turnoff for Yeshivas Ohavei Torah, a religious college for Jewish men—Jewtown, the other cops called it. Women also lived on the premises, with their husbands or fathers. Rina Lazarus had been an anomaly—the sole widow. The first time Decker had ever stepped foot in the place had been two years ago. He’d been the cop assigned to a nasty rape case, Rina had been his star witness.

      Two years ago, and such significant change had overtaken his life.

      Rina. She was the kind of woman men would murder for. And there she’d been, locked up in that protective, religious environment, oblivious to her bewitching powers. Her lack of guile made her even more appealing to Decker, and he moved in where others had feared to tread. But there were trade-offs. Rina wanted not only a Jewish man, but a religious one.

      Baptist-bred Decker, now a frummie—a religious Jew. He’d had lots of second thoughts about becoming Jewish, let alone Orthodox. The extent of his observance had been a major source of conflict between them. How committed was he? Rina had decided to find out. She left the yeshiva—left him—and moved to New York a year ago, claiming he needed to be alone to make his own personal choices.

      Six months later, away from her, away from the pressure, Decker arrived at a decision. He liked Judaism—his own modified version. He’d be observant most of the time, but would bend the letter of the law when it seemed right to do so. He explained his convictions to Rina one night in a three-hour phone conversation. She said it was something she could live with.

      Now all he needed to do was convince her to move back and pick up where they had left off.

      Two days to go.

      Decker stared out the window. Marge had turned left, cutting northeast. They passed a pit of huge boulders and sand deposits—rocks stripped of ore, leaving only dusty wasteland. A half-mile north was the Manfred development, two square miles of land cut from mountainside. Fifty yards down, workers were framing a convenience center. Marge parked the car on the first street, and they both got out.

      “This is really the boonies, isn’t it?” Marge said.

      Decker said, “The land won’t be empty forever. Much to the conservationists’ displeasure.”

      “Well, I’ve got to agree with them on one account. These houses certainly don’t blend in with the landscape. Kind of reminds me of the lost colony of Roanoke.”

      Decker smiled and said, “How do you want to divide up?”

      Marge said, “Maple runs down the middle. I’ll take the houses north of it between Louisiana and Washington.”

      “Roger,” Decker said. “Keep a look out for unusual tire marks or tiny footprints. Maybe we can trace little Sally’s late-night trek through the neighborhood.”

      “Ground’s dry,” Marge said kicking up dust.

      “In the early morning, the air was full of dew. You never can tell.”

      “All right,” Marge said. “Here’s one of the sexy Polaroids I took this morning.”

      The snapshot showed the blond, curly-haired toddler grinning, her nose wrinkling.

      “What a little doll,” Decker said.

      “Yeah,” Marge agreed. “Meet you back here … when?”

      “Two hours from now?”

      “Two hours sounds about right.”

      “Good.”

      They split up.

      Nada.

      Two and a quarter hours of searching, and nothing but a pair of sore dogs. Decker radioed to Marge.

      “The hour’s getting late,” he said. “How many houses do you have left?”

      “About twenty,” she said. “Why don’t we call it quits? I’ll get the ones I missed and pick up the ones that weren’t home tomorrow or the next day.”

      “Meet you at the car,” Decker said.

      He walked back nursing a giant headache. Maybe it was the lack of food and sleep, but some of it was caused by a sinking feeling that there was a corpse out there collecting flies.

      He leaned against the Plymouth, waved to Marge as she approached.

      “You’ve got a knowing gleam in your eye,” Decker told her. “What did you find out?”

      “That a lady on Pennsylvania is boffing a repairman from ABC Refrigeration.” Marge consulted her notes. “There was this one woman, a Mrs. Patty Bingham on 1605 Oak Street. She denied ever seeing Sally, had no idea who she was, etc., etc. But something about her didn’t feel right. Nothing I can put my finger on, but I suspect she’s holding back.”

      Decker asked, “Why wouldn’t she want to