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“I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m simply trying to get to the bottom—”
“Shabbat Shalom.”
Leah Abrams gently but firmly closed the door.
Returning to the car, I again kicked into self-castigation mode.
Good job, Brennan. You picked the exact wrong thing to say.
Iwheep-wheepedthe Honda’s locks.
And Friday? Really? You came on a Friday? The eve of Sabbath?
I slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Waited a minute for the AC to emit a hint of coolness.
Abrams was right. I had to know other Jewish people in Provo.
Think, Tempe, think.
Suddenly, a notion occurred to me.
The man was friendly enough. Had probably studied Hebrew. Wasn’t likely to be a congregant.
I shifted into gear.
One last try.
29
The landscaping hadn’t improved since Monck and I visited on Monday. The morning was inching from warm to hot and, if anything, the lawn looked even more pitiful than it had. The shed was still there. The doghouse. The motorcycle.
This time I hadn’t called ahead. My target was either home or he wasn’t.
I parked at the head of the drive and crunched along the path. Felt the irritating grit of crushed oyster shells invading my sandals.
Arriving at the front entrance, I could hear music blasting inside the house. Above the music, what sounded like quarreling. Perhaps a TV?
I thumbed the bell.
Betty went bonkers.
The voices went still.
The music cut off.
A period of homicidal barking, then Joe Benjamin opened the chartreuse door. The hooded eyes narrowed, suggesting that their owner was either confused or unhappy to see me.
I spoke through the screen. Loudly, to be heard over the yapping.
“I don’t know if you remember Detect—”
“Where’s the cop?” Benjamin peered past me, scanning down the drive.
“Detective Monck is busy with another matter.”
“Did you talk to Uri Stribbe?”
“We did, sir.”
