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"Another one?"
"Not our unsub. A hate crime again." He sighed, shaking his head.
"Anybody in custody?"
"No, the homeowner found his wall graffiti'd. I'm going to swing by and poke around the neighborhood. It's in Pacific Grove, not far from you. I'll take you home first."
"No, I'll go with you."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He hit the flasher lights and sped up, though minding the slippery road.
She asked, "You think there's a chance you'll find the perp there?"
"He can't be too far away. The graffiti? The paint's still wet."
Chapter 49
Well, there you have it. Welcome to Berlin, nineteen thirty-eight."
Dance and O'Neil were standing next to David Goldschmidt, who ran one of the nicer furniture stores downtown. The slim, balding man was bundled in a navy watch coat and wore jeans. His sockless feet were in Top-Siders. They were in his side yard.
Goldschmidt was a bit of a celebrity in the area; the Monterey Herald had run an article on him last week. When Hamas began firing missiles from Gaza into Israel not long ago he'd volunteered to help. At forty, he was too old to serve in the Israeli army--the age limit was twenty-three--but he spent several months helping with medical and provisions support. She recalled that, according to the article, years before, when on a kibbutz outside Tel Aviv, Goldschmidt had, however, served in combat.
The publicity was probably why he'd been targeted.
And what a cruel attack it was.
On the side of his beautiful Victorian house was a swastika in bright red paint and below it: DIE JEW.
The paint dripped from the symbol and words like blood from deep wounds.
They were surrounded by a foggy dusk, the air fragrant with mulch from the Goldschmidts' beautiful garden.
"In all my years," he muttered.
"Did you catch a glimpse of anybody?"
"No, I didn't know about it until I heard the shout from across the street--ah, here."
A woman, mid-fifties, in jeans and a leather jacket, approached. "Dave, I'm so sorry." Then to the officers: "Hello."
O'Neil and Dance introduced themselves.
"I'm Sara Peabody. I saw them. I'm the one called the police. I shouted. I guess I shouldn't have. I should've just called you first. Maybe they'd be in jail now. But I just, you know, lost it."
"Them?" O'Neil asked.
"Two, that's right. I was looking through the trees there, see. I didn't have a good view. So young, old? Male, female? I couldn't say. I'd guess male, wouldn't you think?"
O'Neil said, "Generally that's the case in hate crimes. But not always."
"One stood guard, I guess, and the other jumped over the fence and sprayed those terrible things. The other one, the guard--he took pictures or a video of the other one. Like a souvenir. Disgusting."
Goldschmidt sighed.
