The Forgotten. Faye Kellerman

were going to see the uncensored Rina Decker. The red traffic lights seemed overly long, because she was so antsy to get there.

      The shul meant so much to her. It had been the motivating factor behind selling Peter’s old ranch and buying their new house. Because hers was a Sabbath-observant Jewish home, she had wanted a place of worship that was within walking distance—real walking distance, not something two and a half miles away as Peter’s ranch had been. It wasn’t that she minded the walk to her previous shul, Yeshivat Ohavei Torah, and the boys certainly could make the jaunt, but Hannah, at the time, had been five. The new house was perfect for Hannah, a fifteen-minute walk, plus there were plenty of little children for her to play with. Not many older children, but that didn’t matter, since her older sons were nearly grown. Shmueli had left for Israel, and Yonkie, though only in eleventh grade, would probably spend his senior year back east, finishing yeshiva high school while simultaneously attending college. Peter’s daughter, Cindy, was now a veteran cop, having survived a wholly traumatic year. Occasionally, she’d eat Shabbat dinner with them, visiting her little sister—a thrill since Cindy had grown up an only child. Rina was the mother of a genuine blended family, though sometimes it felt more like genuine chaos.

      Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the storefront. The tiny house of worship was in a building that also rented space to a real estate office, a dry cleaners, a nail salon, and a take-out Thai café. Upstairs were a travel agency and an attorney who advertised on late-night cable with happy testimonials from former clients. Two black-and-white cruisers had parked askew, taking up most of the space in the minuscule lot, their light bars alternately blinking out red and blue beams. A small crowd had gathered in front of the synagogue, but through them, Rina could see hints of a freshly painted black swastika.

      Her heart sank.

      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.

      All the walls had been tattooed with one vicious slogan after another, each derogatory, each advocating different ways to exterminate Jews. So many swastikas, it could have been a wallpaper pattern. Eggs and ketchup had been thrown against the plaster, leaving behind vitreous splotches. But the walls weren’t the worst part, minor compared to the holy books that had been torn and shredded and strewn across the floor. And even the sacrilege of the religious tomes and prayer books wasn’t as bad as the horrific photographs of concentration-camp victims that lay atop the ruined Hebrew texts. She averted her eyes but had already seen too much—ghastly black-and-white snapshots depicting individual bodies with tortured faces and gaping mouths. Some were clothed, some nude.

      Shearing was staring, too, shaking his head back and forth, while uttering “Oh man, oh man” under his breath. He seemed to have forgotten about her. Rina cleared her throat, partially to break Mickey’s trance, but also to stave back tears. “I suppose I should look around to see if anything valuable is missing.”

      Mickey looked at Rina’s face. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Did the place have anything valuable …? I mean, I know the books are valuable, but like flashy valuable things. Like silver ecumenical things … is ‘ecumenical’ the right word?”

      “I know what you mean.”

      “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Decker.”

      The apology was stated with such clear sincerity that it brought down the tears. “No one died, no one got hurt. It helps to get perspective.” Rina wiped her eyes. “Most of our silver and gold objects are locked up in that cabinet … the one with the grates. That’s our Holy Ark.”

      “Lucky that you had the grates installed.”

      “We did that after the Jewish Community Center shootings.” She walked over to the Aron Kodesh.

      Shearing said, “Don’t touch the lock, Mrs. Decker.”

      Rina stopped.

      He tried out a tired smile. “Fingerprints.”

      Rina regarded the lock with her hands behind her back. “Someone tried to break inside. There are fresh scratch marks.”

      “Yeah, I noticed. Because you have the lock, they musta figured that’s where you keep all your valuables.”

      “They would have been right.” A pause. “You said ‘they.’ More than one?”

      “With this much damage, I’d say yeah, but I’m not a detective. I leave that up to pros like your husband.”

      Abruptly, she was seized with vertigo and leaned against the grate for support. Mickey was at her side.

      “Are you all right, Mrs. Decker?”

      Her voice came out a whisper. “Fine.” She straightened up, surveying the room like a contractor. “Most of the damage seems superficial. Nothing a good bucket of soapy water and a paintbrush could take care of. The books, of course, are another story.” Replacing them would put them back at least a thousand dollars, money that they had been saving for a part-time youth director. Like most labors of love, the shul operated on a shoestring budget. A tear leaked down her cheek.

      “At least no one tried to burn it down.” She bit her lip. “We have to be positive, right?”

      “Absolutely!” Mickey joined in. “You’re a real trooper.”

      Again, Rina’s eyes skittered across the floor. Among the photos were Xeroxed ink drawings of Jews sporting exaggerated hooked noses. They probably had been copied out of the old Der Stuermer