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Adeera nodded.
“How long have you lived in Provo?”
“Why do you need to know these things?” Dovid snapped.
“Just curious,” I said. “I’m sorry if that question was too personal.”
“Where is Uri employed?” Monck asked, tone indicating he wasnotinquiring merely out of curiosity.
“Greenberg’s Farm.”
“Out near Pidgeon Pond?”
“Yes.”
A few beats, then I asked Dovid, “Do you work in the building down the hill?”
Tight nod.
“What happens there?”
“Shabbat services and meals. Passover seders. It’s the residence of the rabbi and his wife.”
“You’re a doctor of what?”
Adeera’s abrupt segue threw me a bit. “Forensic anthropology.”
“That involves bones.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not local.”
“I’m here on business. Billeted at the Villa Renaissance, so it’s not tough duty.” Flashing what I hoped was an endearing grin.
Adeera did not smile back. “What business?”
“I’m consulting on a police matter.”
The squared shoulders went even more rigid. “Why are the police pestering my son?”
“Detective Monck simply wants to ask—”
“What are you accusing Uri of?”
“Mrs. Stribbe, we’re not accusing—”
Footsteps sounded, this time behind us. Heavy boots.
The watery eyes lifted toward a spot over my head.
Monck and I swiveled.
Monck’s good hand jumped toward the holster underhanging his arm.
20
My brain registered a single flashbulb image.
