“Yes, can I help you?”

An American accent. Decker was elated. The man spoke English. “You’re from the States.”

The man nodded.

“Whereabouts?”

“Omaha, believe it or not. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact there is. I’m Detective Sergeant Peter Decker from the Los Angeles Police Department.” Decker took out his badge and showed it to the Nebraskan. “I’m here on official business. I’m looking for two teenaged brothers-Gil and Dov Yalom. Their parents were murdered about a week ago in Los Angeles and they’ve disappeared. We’re trying to find them-just to talk to them.”

The young man studied Decker’s badge, then lifted his eyes. “And you think they’re here?”

“I know they’re in Israel. I have reason to suspect that the younger boy-Dov-might be hiding out in a yeshiva.”

“In Or Torah specifically?”

Decker said, “A frightened, young kid alone in a foreign country. A yeshiva is a perfect sanctuary.”

“What does that mean?” The man was offended.

“All my husband meant was that the boy may be in trouble. He’s probably seeking Hashem for guidance.”

“Do you know Dov Yalom?” Decker said.

“Not at all.”

Too fast a response? Decker studied the young man. “Dov Yalom’s parents were murdered. He ran away because someone scared him away. It’s imperative that we find him before someone else does.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think the boy’s in danger. And frankly, anyone who’s keeping him might be in danger as well.”

The man stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “Who exactly are you two?”

Decker peered into the face. “Has someone else been asking for Dov Yalom, sir?”

“No.” Again, he spoke too quickly. “I think I should call the police.”

Decker called his bluff. “Go ahead. We’ll search the place together.”

The man said nothing. He rocked back and forth on his heels. Rina broke into Hebrew. The man answered her back angrily. Decker bit his tongue, as the two of them went at it for a while. In the end, Rina seemed to have won out. The man dropped his arms at his sides and stared at Decker.

“You two are married?”

Decker nodded.

“She isn’t your partner?”

Decker didn’t answer right away. Now he was positive that someone had been here before him. Someone who told this young man that a cop and his female partner were out looking for Dov Yalom. Who? Gold? Milligan? Both knew Marge was Decker’s partner.

“No, she isn’t my partner. She’s translating for me.” Decker rolled his tongue in his cheeks. “Do you have a name, sir?”

“Moti.” He held out his hand. “Moti Bernstein.”

“Moti Bernstein from Omaha.” Decker took the hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Moti. Now who told you that I might come over here and poke around.”

“No one told me anything.”

“Then why did you think that this charming young woman who covers her hair was my partner?”

Bernstein didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Look, I’d like to help you. But there’s no Dov Yalom here. Sorry.”

“He might be using an alias.” Decker handed Bernstein a stack of Dov’s high school pictures. “Does this boy look familiar?”

The religious man flipped through the pictures, then handed them back. “I’ve never seen this boy.”

“I’d like to look around anyway.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you, Moti,” Decker said. “But sometimes I see things that no one else sees.”

“You know, parents are really nervous about letting their kids stay here. Israel gets a real bad rap because the foreign newspapers depict it as a much more dangerous place than it is. If I let you poke around, it’s going to raise a lot of dander.”

Decker didn’t speak right away. “You’re willing to risk a kid’s life to keep up an image?”

The tops of Bernstein’s cheeks took on a rosy hue. “I’m just saying I don’t recognize the boy in the picture. So what excuse do I have to let you poke around and invade people’s privacy?”

Again Decker paused before he spoke, his eyes boring into Bernstein’s. “I thought Judaism has a concept called pikuach nefesh. That the saving of a life takes precedence over everything!”

Bernstein stared at Decker. “You learn, Sergeant?”

Decker stared back. “What?”

“You know about pikuach nefesh, you must have done some learning.” Bernstein dragged his toe over the stone floor. “See, if you were learning, then maybe you’d want to go inside the bais midrash to look up something.”

Decker knew the bais midrash was the study hall which held the library of reference tomes for the yeshiva students. Most of the students congregated there for classes, lessons, and studying. In effect, Bernstein was giving him an excuse to look over the majority of the boys at the yeshiva.

Decker said, “I’m studying B’rachos. I could use some reference material.”

“Fine, I’ll take you to the bais midrash. Who am I to deny a scholar?” Bernstein glanced at Rina, then averted his eyes. “It would be better if you waited here. You might be kind of distracting-”

“I know, I know. I’ll wait here.”

Bernstein’s eyes fell on Decker’s face. “You don’t have a black hat, do you?”

“No. Do I look too goyishe?”

“More like a secular Jew, and that’s just as noticeable. You’re going to draw attention. Do you want that?”

Decker said, “It would be better if I blended in.”

Bernstein studied Decker and gave a hopeless shrug. “You won’t blend in. But maybe I can help so you won’t stand out so much. Wait here. I’ll find you a hat.”

Again, Rina checked her watch, amazed to discover that only ten minutes had passed. She now knew the secret of Einstein’s theory of relativity. Endless time had nothing to do with the speed of light or the mass of the object. It had everything to do with standing in a cold room on a bone-chilling floor with nothing to do. Ten minutes translated into ten hours in Comfortable Earth Time.

Nobody had passed through the portals. It was as if the entry was the weigh station of purgatory. Suddenly, the concept of indulgences made sense.

The solitude did give her an unwelcome chance to reflect upon Peter’s assessment of Honey Klein and her village, to think about Jewish divorce.

It wasn’t that Judaism had an innate antifemale bias. As a matter of fact, the original laws of marriage and divorce were laws of protection for both parties. While it was true that men could file for divorce for reasons as trivial as bad cooking, it was equally true that women could file for many reasons-if the man was unattractive to her, if he didn’t fulfill her sexually. Wasn’t that the case with Gershon?

The law was on Honey’s side. Gershon should have granted her a divorce. And when he didn’t, the rabbis did what was in their Jewish legal right to do.

Yet, no matter how she thought about it, Peter was right. It was still murder. She wondered how far Peter would pursue what he suspected.

A little old man walked through the open doors, his overcoat dragging on the floor, his black hat too large and slightly askew. His demeanor suggested disorganization. He had a long white beard and spoke to Rina in a high-pitched voice. His Hebrew was thick with a Moroccan accent.

“No one is here?”

Rina shrugged.

The old man rubbed his hands together. “You haven’t seen anyone?”

Again, Rina shrugged innocence.

“You are waiting for someone?”

“Yes.”

“Your son?”

“My husband.”

The old man took out a card. “Maybe he would like to give us a small donation.”

The card told Rina he was working for Yeshiva Rev Yosef Caro. He was a meshulach-someone who goes around collecting money for an institution or a poor family, then takes a cut of whatever he collects. Most Jews called them shnorrers.

The man said, “You can make a donation, too.”

Rina smiled wearily. “I have your card. Thank you.”