“Peter, maybe she really didn’t know what was going on. Maybe she left without knowing any details.”

“I don’t think she knew details, but she knew what was going on. Otherwise, why would she bother with the false passports? And, Rina, she admitted that, in her absence, she knew that some people were going to try to convince Gershon to give her a get. What does that sound like to you?”

Rina didn’t answer.

“Then when you add the fact that the Rebbe didn’t want me looking into Honey’s disappearance…it doesn’t look good for her. But that doesn’t mean they’ll get an indictment.”

Rina followed Hannah around the living room. “Nobody meant for him to die.”

Decker tailed after his wife and daughter. He picked Hannah up by her waist and swung her under his knees.

“This is all too sad to contemplate,” Rina said.

“Yes, it is. Sometimes life is very sad.” He smiled softly and placed Hannah on top of his shoulders. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

Rina sighed and sat down. “So what should Honey have done?”

“You’re asking for my opinion?” Decker said.

“Yes.”

“She should have gotten a civil divorce and gone on with her life.”

“What kind of life would she have had without a Jewish divorce?”

“So she’s better off now, knowing that in some way she’s responsible for murdering her husband?”

“No, you’re right. She’s not better off.” Rina was quiet. “Sometimes you simply make the wrong decision.”

“I feel sorry for Honey,” Decker said. “From the bottom of my heart, I feel very bad for her. But Rina, she didn’t make the wrong decision. Unfortunately, she made a bad decision.” He lowered Hannah to the ground. “I think she needs to be changed. My shoulders feel a little too warm and a little too moist. You want me to do it?”

“I’ll do it.” Rina scooped up the toddler. “Thank God for babies. They keep you honest.”

Decker pressed the button; Yochie buzzed him into the anteroom. She seemed happy to be back at work, her eyes bright, her smile genuine. In gross contrast to Shaul Gold, who appeared a moment later. It had been over a month since Decker had seen the dealer. Gold’s face was worn and drawn. He looked like he had dropped ten pounds.

“I would have thought you had lost your taste for diamonds, Sergeant,” he said.

“Just goes to show you,” Decker said.

“Come,” Gold said. “We’ll talk in my office.”

They walked down the hallway into the once shared office, now taken over completely by Gold. It was sunny and bright, the walls having been newly painted, the windows recently washed of LA’s smog and soot. Gold’s desk was almost entirely devoid of frills, holding mostly the tools of the trade-a microscope, a loupe, a pincer, and a scale. The exception was a sterling-silver double frame holding two pictures-an old one of Dalia Yalom, and a recent one of him sided by the two Yalom boys, hands around each other’s shoulders and waists. Gil looked the same, but Decker noticed that Dov was wearing a yarmulke.

Decker picked the picture up. “Who took this?”

“Orit. At a backyard barbecue. It lacked joy, but life goes on.”

“So you still see the boys?”

“They work here once a week,” Gold said. “After the day is done, I take them to dinner if they want. It’s nice.” Gold pursed his lips. “When the time’s right, I teach them how to cut stones. It’s too bad Arik never did it. He was a top cutter. I’m just a peasant. But I do what I can to keep on the tradition. For Dalia’s sake.”

“How are they doing?”

“They cope.” Gold shrugged. “They like living with their aunt and uncle. Dov is close to his cousin, Sharona. I suppose they do as nicely as can be expected.” He paused. “I’ll show you stones if that’s really why you came.”

“It isn’t really why I came.”

Gold sat behind his desk and clasped his hands. “So what do you want from me now?”

Decker reached in his pocket and pulled out a week-old news item from the overseas edition of the Jerusalem Examiner. Rina subscribed to the paper. Only way he would ever have found it. He handed it to Gold.

The bald man took it, studied it, then read aloud. “‘Two single shots to the head…motive was robbery.’” He clucked his tongue, then handed the article back to Decker. “The diamond business can be very dangerous. All cash and stones. You are asking for trouble if you carry such goods in a corrupt country like Syria. They are all cutthroats. A woman as smart as Milligan…” Again he clucked his tongue. “She should know better.”

“I think she did know better,” Decker said. “Milligan’s death was a professional hit. Two shots to the head, right next to one another. The guy must have been trained as a sniper-a tzalaf.”

Gold’s expression was flat. “I’m surprised it didn’t make the papers here. Milligan was quite well known. But then again, in Syria, it isn’t easy to get information.”

The room fell silent.

“Where were you a week ago, Mr. Gold?”

“I was in Israel.”

“Business?”

“No. My heart is too heavy to do business. I visit the families-the Yaloms and the Menkovitzes. I give them words of comfort.” He hung his head. “It is big tragedy.”

Decker said, “I pulled out my notes from when I first interviewed you in your apartment, Mr. Gold. Didn’t you say you fought on the Golan Heights?”

“In ’67 and ’73. Seventy-three was very tough-a hard-fought victory because of the lateness of the Israeli air force. But we made it. Stick together in times of crisis.”

“You’re familiar with Syrian territory.”

“I know the Golan. I fought wars there. But I’ve never been in Syrian territory. It is suicide for any Israeli-any Jew-to be in Syria. Too bad. I would like to go to Damascus. Did you know it is the oldest city in the world?”

Decker stared at him. “Yes, Syria is a dangerous place for Jews. All I can say is you must have really liked Dalia to take a chance like that.”

“I don’t take chances, Sergeant,” Gold said. “Arik was the risk taker. I’m the stick-in-the-mud, remember?”

Decker didn’t answer.

“No, I don’t take risks,” Gold said. “But I do what I have to do.”

Again, nobody spoke.

“You are a religious man, Sergeant?” Gold asked.

“At times.”

Gold smiled. “I like that answer. Me too. At times, I am very religious. Do you learn at all?”

“When I get the chance.”

“You have heard about the arey miklat, maybe?”

“The city of refuge,” Decker said.

“The city of refuge,” Gold repeated. “If an offender murders one of your own-”

“A relative, Mr. Gold. And it has to be a murder by accident.”

Gold paused. “Yes, you are the scholar. It is a relative and it is by accident. But anyway, if the offender takes one of your own, and you are so angry, so full of rage that you get revenge, the law makes exception and you do not get capital punishment for this offense of his murder.”

“You do get punished,” Decker said.

“Maybe you get whipped, I don’t remember. But you don’t get capital punishment.”

“Unless the offender makes it into one of the cities of refuge. Then you’re not allowed to kill him.”

“This is true.” Gold stared at Decker. “Sometimes people think they make it to a city of refuge. Sometimes they think they do, but they don’t. Because there is no city of refuge if the crime is purposeful. Nowhere on earth. Nowhere under God’s heaven. The person may think he-or she-is safe. But this is a falsehood.”

“Especially if the chaser is an expert sniper who can hit the head of a nail from five kilometers.”

Gold smiled. “You take good notes.”

“Not so hard to do,” Decker said. “Sneak into Syria using his expert knowledge of the Golan Heights and do a couple of pops.”

Gold said, “You think it would be easy, you do it.”

Decker said, “You must have loved Dalia very much. You spoke of her as one of your own just a moment ago.”