Simple by Kathleen George

Colleen had guessed it would be, all gold and icons and stained glass. “Orthodox. See, they put that cross with the little bar at a slant, and they’re very big on pictures of the saints.”
    â€œI see that,” Potocki said. He was studying her hair, which he often did. She had one of those looks like, should it be combed or did she mean it this way? He knew her well enough to be sure it was purposeful. He’d seen her fluff up the blond tufts so they looked casual, quirky. Cheerful hair.
    The cleaning women pointed the way to the church office, which could be accessed through several doorways leading to the rear of the property. They said the priest was in.
    The priest was a tall, good-looking man with a beard and a bit of weight on him. He wore black pants and a black shirt and his clerical collar, but on his feet were white running shoes. He was going over something that looked like a spreadsheet and probably was.
    â€œDetective Potocki, Detective Greer,” Potocki said. “May we have a word with you?”
    â€œI didn’t do it.” The priest smiled.
    â€œWe’ll be the judges of that!”
    Everybody had a nice laugh. Then they got down to business. When the priest, Father Charles Mansour, heard that it was about the murder of the law student, he sobered. “You know, the boy you arrested worked for us,” he said.
    â€œThat’s why we’re here. Anything you can tell us?”
    â€œI knew so little about him. He was very likable. Very … humble.”
    â€œDid you ever see him lose his temper?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid you ever know him to black out or have memory problems?”
    â€œNo,” he said, disheartened. “He’s in jail?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’ll make inquiry. If he doesn’t have a priest, I’ll visit him.”
    â€œWhat’s giving you the headache?” Potocki asked, pointing to the spreadsheets.
    â€œWe got roofing problems. We got flooring problems. And our parishioners don’t have extra to give in a lot of cases.”
    Potocki nodded sympathetically. At least the priest didn’t seem to think the Lord took care of everything.
    â€œThanks for including me,” the priest said.
    And that was that.
    They learned on Swinburne and Child streets that Cal could also build a deck and replace a window sash. They examined the work. It looked good and it had continued to be cheap.
    Child Street was where Cal’s own house was. His next-door neighbor was a man sporting a wife-beater and suspenders.
    â€œI didn’t talk to him,” the man said proudly. “He minded his business, I minded mine.”
    â€œHow long have you lived here?”
    â€œTen, twelve years.”
    â€œDid you purchase through Own Oakland?”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œNever mind, then. It’s connected to a realty company.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know about that.”
    The man reminded Potocki of a fellow he’d seen on TV who feared anything labeled liberal. “It’s all gittin’ like comm’nism,” the man said. This man was his brother under the skin.
    â€œHow long did he live here?”
    â€œI think almost two years.”
    â€œNot so long. Police ever been to this house before last Thursday? I know last Thursday they came to search the place—ever before that?”
    â€œNope. We don’t like that kind of thing going on.”
    â€œWhat kind of thing?”
    â€œSearching. Questions. Trouble.”
    â€œNobody does.”
    â€œSo fry him and let’s be done with it.”
    â€œWe know you’re kidding, sir,” Potocki said. “Take care now.”
    Colleen poked him appreciatively as they walked away.
    They walked to their fleet car, which, for this canvassing job, they kept parking and reparking.
    She fluffed up her hair. Potocki smiled at the gesture. They were going to have to land on a decision