Cork eyed him. “What are you going to do, Decker? Go over and ask him about it? If you want to go after Donatti, you don’t just pop in and announce yourself. You go over there with warrants. Otherwise, he don’t talk to you.”

“I don’t have time for subtlety,” Decker said. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions.”

“Want me to come with you?” Novack offered.

Decker’s heart sank. He wanted to talk to Donatti alone. “Sure.”

“You gonna be a party to this nonsense, Mick?” Cork made a face.

Decker said breezily, “You know, Novack, he’s probably not even in. I’ve got your cell. If I get anywhere, I’ll call you. Unless you want to come.”

Novack shook his head. “Not with the Knicks playing this afternoon. I promised the missus I’d clean out the garage. I’d like to get it done so I can watch the game in peace.”

“Go home, Mick. I’ll be fine.” To Cork, Decker said, “The address?”

“You really want to do this?”

Decker nodded.

“I’ll look it up for you,” Cork said. “My notebook’s in my car. Hold on.”

Cork disappeared. Novack regarded Decker, staring at him before he spoke. “Where are you going with this, Pete?”

“Beats me. But I’m not having luck going the traditional route.”

“It’s not wise to get too involved in other people’s business.”

Don’t tread on me. Decker said, “Hey, if you object, I won’t go.”

“Just don’t mess up anything, all right? Vice don’t like to look stupid.”

“I hear you.”

But the tension held fast. Neither spoke until Cork came back several minutes later holding a piece of paper. “It’s not too far from here, ’bout fifteen blocks uptown. I forget if it’s between Riverside Drive and Broadway or just east of Broadway.”

“I’ll find it.”

Cork handed Decker the slip of paper. “Something’s not computing. You know more about Donatti than you’re letting on.”

“C.D. spent some time in California. We crossed paths.”

“Ah!” Cork said. “History or no history, you’re wasting your time. Even if he’s there, he won’t talk to you.”

That very well could be the case. Except that Decker had a weapon that obviously the cops didn’t know about. “Maybe one of his girls will talk.”

“Pshhh.” The detective waved him off. “Nah, they don’t talk. I know ’cause I’ve tried. Whatever hold Donatti’s got on ’em is a choke hold.”

11

Rina would have killed him; Novack-if he had known the entire story-would have blasted him for going it solo. It was irresponsible; it was dangerous; it was just plain stupid. It was all those things because C.D. was a stone-cold psycho, C.D. was a killer, and C.D. hated his guts. Yet Decker gave himself a pat on the back for being a trusting soul, facing the kid without so much as a nail file for defense. But it was more than trust. After seven years of serving as a lieutenant, directing his charges, and pushing paper rather than solving crimes, Decker was buzzed with the thrill of action. Except for several exceptional cases, he had been a prisoner of his own success, trapped behind a desk, his reflexes slowed with age and atrophy.

What kind of reception he would get, Decker didn’t bother to contemplate. As long as Chris didn’t shoot him on the spot, anything else would be okay.

Going by foot, he discovered that the area looked closer on the map than it did in person. By the time he found the place, it was ten-thirty in the morning. C.D.’s building was uptown, six stories of dilapidated brick material several blocks away from potentially lovely brownstones. But it had a lobby with the entrance door locked tight. There were buttons that corresponded to the various units-twenty in all. The fifth and sixth floors were taken up by one tenant: MMO Enterprises. Since C.D. supposedly owned the building and used it as his studio, Decker tried that button first. It rang several times; then to his surprise, a woman responded over the intercom, “MMO.”

“Police,” Decker said.

A momentary delay, and then a loud buzz, one that allowed him to come into the building. He took the stairs up five flights and stepped out into the corridor. There was a single door to the left, marked with the number 13. He pushed another button, and again was buzzed in. He immediately stepped through a metal detector. Of course he set it off.

In front of him was a girl who couldn’t have been over fifteen.

“There’s a bucket for your keys and wallet and anything else you might have that would cause it to go off. Could you please step back and try it again?”

Decker followed her instructions, picking up his personal effects on the other side. There was a lad sitting by the girl’s side, reading a magazine. He was of slight build, but maybe he only appeared that way because he was wearing an oversize Hawaiian shirt. Decker couldn’t see the outline of a gun, but he was sure it was there. The boy/man’s eyes traveled to Decker’s.

The girl said, “Can I help you, Officer?”

She was dressed for efficiency-a black suit, with her hair tied back in a ponytail. No makeup. Her hands were as smooth as a baby’s, nails clipped short and no polish.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Donatti, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Her eyes never wavered from his.

“No, but it’s important.” He showed her his gold shield and ID.

The guard put down the magazine and gave Decker a hard stare. Decker answered him back with a smile. The girl exchanged glances with the guard. He nodded.

She said, “Hold on a moment, sir.” She picked up a phone and punched in several numbers.

“Mr. Donatti, I’m very sorry to disturb you, but there’s a policeman here.”

She stopped talking. Decker couldn’t hear Donatti’s response.

The girl said, “May I see your identification and badge again?”

“Certainly.”

“It’s Lieutenant Peter Deck-”

“Son of a bitch!”

That, Decker heard. He staved off a smile. The girl hung up the phone, with a slightly bemused look on her face. “He’s in the middle of a shoot. You must really rate.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Decker smiled, realizing that there wasn’t as much as a stool for him to sit on. Not much space for excess furniture anyway. It was a nondescript area with cream-colored blank walls and barely enough room for the receptionist and guard. Chris probably didn’t get much company.

With Donatti, a few minutes actually meant a few minutes. The interior door opened, and there he was. No longer the lanky heartthrob of a teen, Christopher Whitman Donatti, at twenty-six, now cut a big swath. He was broad across the chest, with massive arms and developed biceps. His left hand gripped a Hasselblad that looked like a toy in his fingers. He was clean shaven, his abundant blond locks shorn just a step away from a buzz cut. A lean, long face contained high cheekbones and a wide forehead, with ruddy skin that wasn’t weathered but did hold some seams. He had a strong jawline, not chiseled but more manly than boyish. Generous lips that protected straight white teeth. Noticeable large blue eyes: ice-colored with no reflective quality whatsoever. What was the opposite of luminous?

Decker and his six-foot-four frame had always faced Chris eye-to-eye. For the first time, he sensed his line of vision moving upward.

“You grew.”

“I always was a late bloomer.” Donatti wore loose clothing-a black T-shirt over khaki cargo pants, the pockets bulging-probably filled with photographic paraphernalia and, no doubt, a state-of-the-art piece. His feet were housed in black suede running shoes. He was still blocking the door, staring at Decker. “I need to pat you down.”

“I made it through security.”

“I need to pat you down,” Donatti repeated.

The child/guard was on his feet, his right hand on his hip. His face may have looked young, but his eyes reflected pure business. “Can I be of assistance, Mr. Donatti?”