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Closing the laptop, I stuffed the hard-copy file into my purse, and bolted.
Rabbi Zev Abrams and his wife, Leah, lived at Caribbean Chabad House of Provo. I knew that from Monday’s conversation with Adeera Stribbe.
I used Google Maps to navigate, keeping a close eye on the suggested directions. I was still clueless about what had gone so wrong the previous Tuesday.
Ten minutes after leaving Villa Renaissance, I pulled to the curb outside the building I’d noticed from the Stribbe condo. Killing the engine, I took a moment to assess.
The place was a one-story contemporary with an angled roof and an addition that didn’t come close to honoring the original architect’s vision. A large, covered patio stretched across the back. A swing set, plastic sandbox, and vegetable garden shared space on the far side.
Other, smaller homes lined the street. I saw no signs of activity at any.
The Abramses’ front door was offset to one side. I got out and crossed to it. A glass-encased sign listed details about services in terms I didn’t fully understand:kabbalat shabbat, shabbat, kiddush, kaddish, minyan, mincha/maariv.
I rang the bell. A muted bonging sounded deep in the interior.
Already the day was warm and muggy. Not the faintest hint of a breeze stirred the palm fronds overhead.
In less than a minute, a tiny woman opened the door. I figured she couldn’t have topped five feet. The woman’s eyes were large and almond-shaped, with irises the pale green of Riesling grapes.
Though decades younger than Adeera Stribbe, this woman’s style of dress was similar. She wore an ankle-skimming navy skirt,loose white blouse, and a heather cardigan that, in her case, hung all the way to her knees.
Unlike her uphill neighbor, this woman did not cover her head. Her chestnut hair was center-parted and cascading down around her shoulders.
The Riesling eyes widened on seeing a stranger, dropped to my sandals, ran up my jeans and tee, and settled on my face.
“Yes?”
“Leah Abrams?” I asked.
“And you are?” Not unfriendly, but cautious.
“Temperance Brennan. I called to request a translation of a Hebrew inscription.”
“You’re with the police.”
“I’m a forensic consultant.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Brennan. I did ask my husband, and he agrees with my initial response. It’s better we remain aloof.”
“The lettering is quite short. It would take only a mom—”
“It’s not the time. We’re happy to give that.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Suppose our input were to implicate a member of this congregation? A member of our community? What then? What if that person was hurting? Would he or she feel comfortable coming to Zev for counsel?”
“Are you thinking of someone in particular?” I asked.
A beat. Then, “Surely we’re not the only Jews you know.”
“Of course not. But I trust your—”
“The government must have us all on some database.”
“It’s not like that.” I suspected it was.
“Isn’t it?”
