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the end of the conference table, looking up at the two men who had entered, was Albert Timms. Albert was very black and very old and remembered being hired by the Old Rabbi Wass when the old temple in the converted grade school had opened. The present Rabbi Wass had been a toddler when the Old Rabbi hired Albert Timms.
    Albert always wore clean, sturdy blue slacks, a crisp, clean denim shirt—except on Jewish holidays when he dressed up and on Sundays when he went to the same Baptist church he had gone to on Harrison Street since long before his wife died more than twenty years ago. Albert had suffered at least two heart attacks, but Dr. Ira Shulman, cardiologist at Rush-St. Luke’s and member of the Temple Mir Shavot congregation, had said that retiring Albert Timms would probably kill him faster than letting him continue to work.
    â€œI didn’t do that,” Albert said as soon as he saw Lieberman come through the door. “Had nothing to do with it, Mr. Lieberman. You know that.”
    â€œThat, Mr. Timms, I am very sure of,” said Lieberman.
    Albert looked relieved. Lieberman moved behind Albert Timms to the rabbi’s desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number he got out of the small address book in his pocket. The custodian and the rabbi exchanged looks of confusion and fear as Lieberman dialed.
    â€œDetective Benishay,” Lieberman said. “Thanks.” Lieberman put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “We’re in luck. He’s there. If … ,” and then he removed his hand from the mouthpiece and said, “Leo, Abe Lieberman. I’m over at Mir Shavot. We’ve had some overnight vandalism. You think you can take the call yourself? … Good … I’m here with Bill. A favor: no sirens, no lights, no marked car. Good.”
    He hung up and looked at the two men. “He’ll be right over. You and Mr. Timms just sit down, don’t come out and touch anything. Detective Benishay will be here soon to have a look.”
    â€œAbraham, there have been threats,” said the rabbi softly, hands folded before him.
    â€œThreats?” asked Lieberman.
    â€œSince the madman in Israel murdered those praying Arabs. I’ve had calls, against me, against the congregation, against the temple.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t tell me? Didn’t call the police?” Lieberman asked with a weary sigh.
    â€œMany rabbis, many congregations have received such threats over the years. Even Jewish schools and community centers. There have just been more since the shameless massacre. And until this … Should I call Mrs. Lieberman?” asked the rabbi.
    â€œYes,” said Lieberman.
    Bess Lieberman, Abe’s wife, was the president of Mir Shavot, a job Abe had deftly maneuvered to her when it looked as if he were going to be backed into the position. Bess had proved, as Abe knew would be the case, that she was a much better president than he would have been. Thin, well groomed, and looking fifteen years younger than her fifty-eight, she had been a rallying dynamo, attending meetings, pushing the building committee that Abe had been tricked onto, mediating disputes, raising funds, and taking care of their own two grandchildren.
    Lieberman returned to the chapel and looked across the aisles at his partner who shook his head. Hanrahan had not found the missing Torah.
    â€œI’m going to find whoever did this,” said Lieberman, turning his eyes to an unfurled Torah, the sacred first five books of the Jewish Testament, the holy word.
    â€œ We’re going to find him,” Hanrahan corrected.
    Lieberman nodded. There was nothing to say. Mir Shavot was a Conservative congregation and Lieberman had really only become an active member a decade ago when he was fifty. His grandfather had been a stern Orthodox Jew, complete with long black coat, hat, and beard. His grandfather, his mother’s father, had refused to speak the language