Sacred and Profane. Faye Kellerman

you think a gun will take care of you?”

      “Are you being sarcastic?” she asked innocently.

      Decker paused, then said, “Sort of.”

      “Please don’t be. I’m not careless, Peter. I’m not impulsive. I’ve thought about it a long time. I really think it’s what I need.”

      “Then why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

      “Peter, I broached the subject with you a dozen times and you kept putting me off.”

      Decker pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He had put her off. He was worried about her keeping firearms with small children around the house. He was worried it would misfire and she’d get hurt. Or maybe it was just a macho thing, feeling she should have trusted him to take care of her. Jan had never wanted a gun: she’d hated guns. But Jan had grown up in the sixties; Rina was from a different generation. Peace, love, and Woodstock had been replaced by terrorism and Rambo.

      “If you’re serious and you learn how to shoot properly, I’ll see what I can do about getting you a permit.”

      “Thanks.”

      “But that’s going to take months, Rina.”

      “That’s okay.”

      “That means you can’t hide the gun in your purse in the meantime.”

      “I won’t.”

      “Or under a car seat—”

      “The gun will be kept at home. Relax, sweetie. You sound wired.”

      He was wired.

      “The other line is ringing,” he said. “Hold on a moment.”

      He punched down the flashing white phone light.

      “Decker,” he yelled.

      “Take it easy, Pete. It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning.”

      Decker recognized the voice.

      “H’lo, Annie.”

      “We got lucky, Sergeant. Can you make it down here by noon?”

      “I’ll be there. I’ll even bring my own lunch.”

      “What a guy!” She hung up.

      He connected back to Rina’s line.

      “Look, I’ve got to head on out to Beverly Hills. I’ll drop by tonight. We can discuss this further then.”

      “I should be done with the mikvah around ten.”

      “Ten it is.”

      “What’s in Beverly Hills, Peter?”

      “A dentist who may have identified the bones we found.”

      “What’s his name? I can use a good dentist. My old one retired and I don’t like the guy who took over his practice.”

      “He’s a she. Her name is Annie.”

      “Does Annie have a last name?”

      Decker smiled.

      “Hennon,” he said.

      “Does Annie also have a red afro and a dog named Sandy?”

      “Not quite. She’s actually pretty. Not in your category, Rina, but her face wouldn’t cause your mouth to pucker. She has nice eyes.”

      “Really now.”

      “Yes. They’re green.”

      “Noticed the color, did you?”

      “I’m a cop, Rina. I pride myself on a keen eye for detail.”

      “That’s just fine so long as you keep your keen eye above Annie’s neck.”

      Decker arrived a few minutes early and was escorted into Hennon’s office by the office girl, dressed in a white uniform that barely covered her ass. Chewing on bubble gum, she cracked it in her mouth, then offered Decker a stick, which he politely refused. A second later he heard Hennon yell for the girl’s assistance.

      The girl rolled her eyes backward. “That woman is a terror,” she said. Her lower lip was in a sultry pout. “Dr. MacGrady is so much nicer.”

      I’ll bet he is, thought Decker.

      “You’d better go see what she wants,” he said.

      She left him alone with his baloney sandwich, carrot sticks, potato chips, and chocolate cupcake. He’d been over at Rina’s house last night while she was making lunches for the boys and she’d offered to pack him something. He had agreed under the condition that she’d go to no extra bother—give him exactly what she was making for the boys.

      Are you sure, Peter?

      Positive.

      Hence, the kiddie lunch.

      He unwrapped the sandwich. At least, it was on rye. He took a bite and in walked Hennon.

      “Don’t bother to get up,” she said motioning him back down. “Finish swallowing.”

      He did and put down the sandwich.

      “Want some coffee?” she asked.

      “Sure.”

      “Kelly,” she called out. “Two black coffees, one with sugar.”

      The receptionist ambled into the office, sulking. “It’s my lunch hour, Dr. Hennon.”

      Hennon stared her down and a moment later Kelly brought in two styrofoam cups.

      “Have a good lunch,” said Hennon.

      The girl mumbled and slammed the door as she left.

      “I would have fired her a long time ago, but my partner has a soft spot in his heart and a hard spot somewhere else for her. Speaking of true love, how’s your ‘sort of’ girlfriend, Pete?”

      “She’s fine. She just bought a gun. You own a gun, Annie?”

      “No. I’d probably maim myself. Why’d she buy one? Just feeling vulnerable?”

      “About six months ago, a psycho almost raped her. She’s still nervous about it. Claims she hears noises outside.”

      She whistled. “If I were her, I’d buy a gun, also.”

      “I thought you’d say that.”

      “You carry a picture of her?”

      “Who? Rina?”

      “If that’s her name.”

      Decker dug out his wallet and showed the dentist a snapshot. Hennon frowned.

      “Is this an exceptionally good photo of her?”

      “Neither exceptionally good nor bad. It’s what she looks like.”

      The dentist handed him back his wallet.

      “Shall we get down to business?” she asked.

      Decker said, “What do you have?”

      She flipped on the viewing monitor.

      “I went down to the morgue this weekend. Dr. Marvin Rothstein sent me a set of X rays that looked promising as one of our Jane Does. This is the original full mouth set I took on Jean—twenty shots. Compare these to Dr. Rothstein’s set.”

      She let Decker look for a minute.

      “There are similarities,” she said, “Same number of teeth, same teeth in the mouth have been restored, same interdental spacing, except that everything looks a little off kilter—like looking in a mirror at a funhouse. For instance, this right bitewing molar shot that I took on Jean shows the amalgam—the silver filling—covering