“Assuming he’d show up,” Chaim said.

“Chaim!” Raisie chastised. “Please!”

Chaim rubbed his face. “I’m sorry.”

Jonathan returned with the tea. He handed a glass to his father, then one to Decker. “Thanks, Jon.”

Chaim said, “I’m going upstairs for a moment, Papa. I’ll be back.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jonathan said.

“Sure. Come on.”

The two men trudged through the crowds, standing close to each other, an unspoken message between them.

Sitting on something.

Did the girl bolt? Had she made contact with them? Last night, she had been petrified to have anything to do with any of her kinsmen, but a new dawn often brought a new perspective. Maybe she had decided that the safest place was home.

Or maybe he was reading too much into the camaraderie. Maybe they both wanted to get away from the crowd-which was certainly understandable.

Mr. Lieber sipped his tea. “I thought things were working out.”

Decker returned his concentration to the old man. “I’m sure they were working out.”

“Then why? Why?” Watery, rainbow-colored eyes took in Decker’s face. “The police said that it was drugs. Why was he with the drugs?”

Decker didn’t answer, masking his silence by drinking the diluted brew.

Mr. Lieber shook his head. “The flesh is weak.”

“Mr. Lieber,” Decker whispered, “maybe it wasn’t drugs. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt him?”

“No! No one!”

“I hate to ask you this, sir. But maybe you or your son have made someone angry?”

“Me?” The old man shrugged. “I make all my customers angry. Jews are impossible people to work with. Everyone wants a bargain. You don’t give them what they want, they complain. But no one would get mad enough to hurt me.”

“Can I ask you another personal-”

“Ask, ask.” Lieber put the tea glass down on the floor and took Decker’s free hand. “Ask.”

“Did you owe anyone money?”

“Just the bank… business loans. Nothing that would require Citibank to strong-arm me or my sons.”

“No individual loans?”

“None. I have money in a business account, money in a savings account. Nothing too big: Business hasn’t been so hot lately. My suppliers go under, lots of theft… always happens when times are tough. But not tough enough that I have to borrow from the loan sharks, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yes.” Decker placed his empty glass by his chair. “That’s what I was asking.” He formulated his thoughts. “What about employees? Any problems with any specific individual?”

“Not that I know of. Most have been with me forever. The part-timers… that’s Chaim’s job. Hiring and firing. We get some turnover with the shleppers, the men who load and unload the heavy boxes at the warehouse. You hire who you can get at minimum wage. Sometimes it’s recent aliens with green cards, sometimes it’s high-school dropouts, sometimes students looking for a summer job.”

“Whoever’s available.”

“Yes. If you have some questions about them, ask Chaim.”

“I would if he’d talk to me. And if he doesn’t want to, it’s understandable.”

“Yes, it is,” the old man agreed. “Maybe another time.”

“Maybe.”

Decker could see that others wanted to draw close to Mr. Lieber, to participate in the mitzvah of comforting the mourner-menachem avel. He got up and uttered the customary Hebrew words of comfort to Raisie and her sisters, then to Mr. Lieber. He nudged his way through the crowd to the back of the room.

Chaim and Jonathan weren’t visible anywhere. So be it. Without fanfare, Decker left. As soon as he was outside, he let go with a deep exhalation. It had been so stifling in there, he hadn’t realized how much his chest had been hurting. Walking down the pathway, breathing a bit easier, he heard a car screech as it pulled up to the curb.

Minda Lieber rushed out of the dented van, slamming the door behind her. Completely disheveled, she had improperly paired the buttons of her dress with the corresponding buttonholes. Her wig was messy and askew. She was flapping her hands and weeping hysterically. Decker grabbed her.

“What’s wrong?”

She tried to break free of his hold, screaming how dare he touch her-a married woman. But Decker only held on tighter.

“Minda. What… is… wrong?”

The woman broke into high-pitched screams. “They found her! She’s dead! Oh God, she’s dead. She’s dead-”

“What!” Decker’s heart was hammering against his chest.

“She’s dead! Can’t you hear! She’s dead! She’s dead! She’s dead!”

The woman’s knees buckled. Decker caught her as she passed out.

21

He was operating on overdrive, pure speed and adrenaline tearing out of upstate, hitting the city by eleven, and getting off the parkway at 132nd. He found parking a block away, then ran over to the building. Punching the button. This time, it was Donatti’s voice from the intercom, annoyance in the bastard’s voice. Breathing hard, Decker announced his name and was buzzed in. The reception area was empty-no guard, no secretary-and that made sense because it was lunchtime. Decker marched through the metal detector, setting it off with his keys. He didn’t bother to retrace his steps because Donatti had opened the inner door. The kid was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt over jeans. Decker stomped past him, into the studio.

Donatti’s irritation turned to anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Dozens of pornographic photos were spread out over a large conference table-snapshots of teenage girls with pursed lips and bedroom eyes doing things to gray-haired, potbellied men. Obscene pictures made even more outrageous because Donatti was a hell of a photographer. Rage boiled over in Decker’s gut, turning his face into something feral. Donatti caught the look, his eyes equally furious.

“Who the fuck are you to judge me?! Get the fuck out-”

Decker caught him by the throat and threw him against the wall. Using his body weight, he leaned his knee hard against Donatti’s groin, tightening his fingers around the son of a bitch’s throat, trying to pin his hands with his shoulders. The harder Donatti struggled, the more pressure Decker applied to the windpipe. He pressed his kneecap harder against the kid’s crotch.

“What did you do to her?” Decker growled out.

Red-faced and flushed, Chris managed to shake his head.

“Talk to me, dammit!” He gripped harder and spoke louder. “What did you do to her?”

“Who?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Shayndie! She’s dead! What did you do-”

“Noth-”

“STOP LYING, YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?”

“I can’t talk…”

His eyes rolled back in his head. Decker loosened his fingers, giving him enough air to breathe and speak. “Answer my question, or I’ll kill you.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I just saw her six hours ago,” he choked out in a whisper. “She was fine. Let me go!”

Decker gave a final squeeze, then abruptly pushed him away. Donatti fell down to his knees, holding his throat, gasping for breath. Decker paced with hard clomps against the wooden floor.

“You said she was safe with you! You said she’d be okay! You told me you’d take care of it, and I trusted you, Donatti. Either you were lying or you fucked up. And by fucked up, I mean fucked up big time!”

Still red from oxygen buildup, Donatti could only stare at him. He panted like an overworked bulldog, then abruptly broke out in a ripe, rich sweat, drenching his face, shirt, and pants. His mouth began to spew froth, and for a brief moment, Decker thought he was going to have a seizure. Instead, Donatti got wide-eyed, stood up, and kicked the underside of a conference table so hard that the pictures flew up, wafted in the air, then rained down. Another kick and the table fell over.