From that moment on, every item in the room became a projectile-articles from his prop box, his tripod, stands, chairs, lamps, the coffeemaker, the mugs, his booze, his glasses, whatever Chris could lay his hands on-except his cello. Objects whizzed by at Mach speed-the kid had an arm-and although nothing was deliberately directed toward Decker, it didn’t matter. So many things were flying rapidly and with such force. Solid objects hurtled across the room, crashing and smashing, splattering shards and blades of ceramic and glass. Decker couldn’t step or move anywhere. He balled himself up in a corner.

“Donatti, stop!” he ordered.

But Donatti didn’t stop. A decanter was pitched in Decker’s direction, missing his head by inches. A quick sidestep had saved his skull from massive injury.

“Donatti-”

CRASH!

“Chris…” Decker inched his way over to him, using his arms and jacket for protection. “Stop it, dammit! Chris!”

He touched Donatti’s shoulder. He should have known better. Even so, he would have successfully evaded the blow.

Except he had forgotten that Chris was left-handed.

Decker took the clip full-faced, staggering three steps backward before he hit the wall and collapsed. His vision was starry; his head felt as if broken into a million pieces. When he could see again, he realized-with some minor satisfaction-that his jaw was whole. His nose might be another story. It was bleeding profusely, as was his lip. He could see and hear, at least well enough to realize that Donatti had moved on-from throwing to ranting.

“… know what this is going to do to my reputation? Do you know what this is going to do to my bitches? If I don’t find this motherfucker and fast, you might as well put a fucking bullet through my fucking head because I’m as good as fucking dead!”

Donatti was frothing at the mouth. He was shaking so hard his teeth were clattering. His face was dripping like a window in a rainstorm, sweat just pouring off his forehead. He was stomping back and forth, the heels of his boots stamping dents into the floor. Muttering, swearing, sweating, spewing. Then he punched the wall, knocking a hole in the drywall.

Still winded from the slam in the face, Decker continued to sit, hunched up on the floor. He wiped his nose on his shirt. “Help me up.”

Donatti whipped around and glowered in the direction of the voice, his eyes searching the room. When they found Decker, they regarded him as if he were a stranger.

“I said, help me up, dammit!” Decker ordered.

Donatti stopped pacing, still staring at Decker’s face. But he extended a hand and hoisted Decker back on his feet. Then he took two giant steps backward, shaking with rage and neurotransmitters. “Are you going to coldcock me if I turn my back?”

“Don’t tempt me!” Decker growled. He smoothed out his clothing and gingerly touched his face. “You need a drink. I’m going to get you some booze. Keep your friggin’ hands in your pockets!”

Donatti’s voice was still hoarse from being choked. He cleared his throat. “Get your face some ice while you’re at it.”

Pulling out a single bottle of scotch that had managed to survive the onslaught, Decker gave it to the kid. Then he took out an ice tray and liberated the frozen cubes. He wrapped them up in a paper towel and placed it against his rapidly swelling face.

Donatti offered the bottle to Decker, who grabbed it and took a healthy swig. Then he returned it. Chris took another drink.

Passing the bottle back and forth for another fifteen minutes, neither talking, but both of them snorting and swearing. The room was a disaster area-hot and stale and reeking of male stink. Decker felt his stomach lurch, but refused to show weakness by sitting down.

Minutes passed-five of them, then ten. Finally, Donatti took out his keys and opened the door to his private, bug-free office. As soon as they were both inside-the door locked and the switches on-they both collapsed into chairs. Donatti draped his upper body down on the table, cradling his head in his arms. His eyes were closed. He was still breathing hard, still sweating, although not nearly as copiously.

“I gotta think.”

“You didn’t clean her-”

“No, I didn’t clean her. Why would I clean her?”

“Money.”

“If I wanted money, I would have sold her.”

Silence. Decker nursed his very sore face. The ice had turned to cold water, the towel clammy in his hands. “Any ideas?”

“Shut up and let me think.”

“Is it possible that someone found out-”

“No.” Donatti lifted his head, then sat up. “No! I’ve got people watching-”

“They were bought off.”

“It’s impossible. They would know what I’d do.” He shook his head with despair. “She must have left on her own.”

“After last night, I find that hard to believe.”

“After this morning, I find it impossible to believe!” Donatti reached into his file cabinet and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I gave it up for Terry.” He liberated a smoke. “Filthy habit.” He lit one up and exhaled a gush of tar and nicotine. “But right now, my nerves are shot.”

“Give me one.”

Donatti lit another smoke and passed it to Decker. Within moments, the room took on a chemical haze. “When I left this morning, that little girl was so clingy, I had nicknamed her Saran Wrap.”

“So what happened?” Decker took in deep puffs. He’d forgotten how wonderful a nicotine rush was.

“I don’t know.”

“Someone took her-”

“Impossible!”

“No, Chris. Nothing’s impossible!”

Donatti exhaled a plume of sour, booze-laden breath. “She left on her own.” He stubbed out his cigarette and pulled out two water bottles, tossing one to Decker. “Something changed her mind.”

Decker drank greedily. “Any ideas what?”

“No.” Donatti looked at him. “I told you she was unstable. She was even more freaked after she met with you. You probably scared her away.”

“Me?” Decker answered.

“Yeah, you! You freaked her out.”

“Then it was up to you to calm her back down-”

“Fuck you, Decker!”

Neither one spoke as they gulped down water. Decker touched his nose. It was throbbing with pain. “Assuming she left on her own, where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know. There’s no place as safe as mine.” Donatti gritted his teeth. “I can’t imagine why she bolted! It doesn’t make sense. You gotta leave now. I gotta make some calls.”

Decker said, “You want to do me a big favor?”

“No. Get the fuck out of here!”

“Stop being so vile!” Decker finished the smoke and the water. “You want to make some headway, do yourself a favor and stay out of it. At least, for now.”

Donatti jerked his head up. “I think my fist scrambled your brains. Get out of here!” He pulled out a gun. “OUT!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Decker felt his lip. That throbbed, too. “What is that? A Walther double automatic? Twenty-four rounds, right? It’s a nice one.”

Donatti squinted at him, then erupted into laughter. “I’m glad you approve.”

“Put it down, Chris… please.”

“Since you said please.” He placed it on the table and picked up the booze.

“Donatti, let’s think this out logically,” Decker began. “I came to New York as this big-cop lieutenant to help out with a homicide. What happened? I fanned, kiddo. Zilch as far as Lieber’s murder, and now Shayndie’s dead. The local heat have got to be thinking that I’m a bust-this big, dumb lug from hick town L.A. who couldn’t detect his way out of a paper bag.”

He dabbed his face and nose with the wet towel.

“It’s not far from the truth.”

Donatti regarded the lieutenant’s face, then passed him the bottle.

Decker took a drink. “Right now, I’m a washout. No one’s afraid of me. Not the Liebers, not the cops, not you, and not the bastards who whacked Shaynda and Ephraim. I’m a steaming turd, my man. No one wants to get near me. But you… you’re different, Donatti. You’ve got the rep as a real nasty dude. If you start nosing around and the perps get wind of your involvement, they’re going to rabbit. Even worse, if you screw up, you’re dead meat. Me, on the other hand, I screw up, it’s par for the course. For the time being, it’s in both of our best interests to keep you a guarded secret.”