“Nope.”

“It’s like a raunchy Hooters.”

“This is where you want to meet?”

“I’ve never been there, Akiva. It’s the sole place I can think of where it’s unlikely we’ll meet anyone from the community. And if by chance we do see someone there, believe me, he’ll pretend we don’t exist.”

Dividing Quinton and Bainberry were six miles of untamed woods holding hundreds of bare trees and scores of tangled brush. The border between the two townships was demarcated by the Bainberry mall, a series of connected brick buildings sitting in a slick pool of asphalt parking. Like an errant child, Tattlers sat by itself, unattached and off to the left. Jonathan was waiting for him, his eyes jumping behind his glasses when he saw Decker’s face.

The hostess, whose nametag said BUFFY, offered them a wide smile of capped teeth and a chest of cleavage and silicone. After seeing Donatti’s pieces of work, Decker delighted in seeing a healthy, clothed-albeit scantily-woman who was clearly out of her teens. Because the uniforms lacked a lot of fabric, the temperature inside “the gentlemen’s club” was turned up to sauna level, encouraging the patrons to remove jackets and ties. Someone wanted the guys to feel comfortable. It probably made for better tips.

Decker slipped the hostess a twenty. “A private booth in back.”

She averted her eyes-probably because he looked so disheveled-but still managed a sly smile. “Anyone in particular, sir?”

While he had out his wallet, he showed her his gold shield. “Anyone who can bring me a large pot of strong coffee and make herself scarce.”

Immediately, the woman was all business. “I think we can help you out, Detective. This way.”

She led them past the stage spectacle: three topless women in thongs gyrating under multicolored klieg lights. Men were hooting and catcalling, egging the girls to do lewder and lewder things. They were prevented from doing even ruder things by a sign that stated ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY NO TOUCHING!

Jonathan looked away, but Decker took them in, his eyes moving up and down their perfect bodies. They were young, beautiful, and energetic. They probably made good money, more bucks than working on circuit boards or changing hospital bedpans. Not to mention all the attention they got. The scene was pure circus, lacking only the big top.

Not that Decker was offended or surprised. In a Donatti society that emphasized outcome rather than process, and stardom was worshiped above all, in a country where porn stars were trophies for rock stars, and people confessed to adultery and incest on national TV, well, then, why the hell not?

Except that Rina still ascribed to this outmoded concept of modesty as dated as Mayberry, USA. Over the last ten years, he guessed he had become an old-fashioned guy, and outmoded was just fine by him.

As requested, Buffy gave them a hidden booth in the corner, away from the flesh display, more like a peep show from where they were sitting.

“I’ll get you the coffee, Detective.”

And she did… right away. “Anything else?”

“Jon?”

The rabbi shook his head, keeping his eyes off Buffy’s ample bosom.

“A bagel if you have it,” Decker answered.

“We have a bagel, lox, and cream cheese platter.”

“That’s fine. And I’d also like a cup of ice and a napkin.”

Buffy nodded. “Does it hurt?”

“Not too bad.”

“I’ll place the order and get you the ice,” Buffy said. “Ambrosia will be your server.”

“Thank you.” When she was gone, Decker said, “Where do they come up with these names?”

Jonathan attempted a smile, but his eyes were glued to Decker’s bruises.

Decker ignored the unstated question mark. “When I worked Sex Crimes, I used to come to places like this all the time. Sleazier places, actually. Real down-and-dirty stuff. The girls were older, much more shopworn, perfect fodder for psycho bullies who liked to punch and rape. It was very sad.”

Jonathan nodded.

“These girls look healthier.”

“But for how long?” Jonathan asked. “They’re all under twenty-five, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

“It’s only a matter of time before their looks go. Then what?”

“Well, if they haven’t sucked it up their veins or blown it up their noses, they might be okay. There’s money to be made here. It’s not as if they lost their opportunities to become rocket scientists.”

Buffy came back with the ice and napkin. “I have some aspirin.”

Decker reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of Advil. “Thank you, but I’m fine.” He poured the cubes into the napkin and placed them on his face.

“What happened?” Jonathan finally asked.

“Some street psycho took an instant dislike to me.”

“That’s awful!” A hesitation. “He just punched you?”

“I probably shouldn’t have made eye contact. At least, he didn’t jab any lethal bacteria up my veins.”

“Good Lord, don’t say that!” Jonathan shook his head, rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “I am so sorry. Are you in pain? I could probably get you a prescription for something stronger.”

“I’m fine. How bad is it?”

“You haven’t looked in a mirror?”

“I’ve avoided it.”

“The entire right side of your face is reddish purple.”

“I’ll just tell people I got hit in the face with a blueberry pie.”

“This is all so horribly depressing!”

“We’ve both had better days… better years.” Decker poured two cups of coffee. “Anyone say how she died?”

“She was shot.” Tears in his eyes.

“Where?”

He shuddered. “Why?”

“I’m just curious to see if there are any similarities to Ephraim’s murder.”

“I would think it’s a given-the same people who murdered Ephraim murdered Shayndie.”

“That’s logical, but you can’t assume anything.” The ice felt soothing. “Are you ready to tell me what you were holding back this morning?”

The rabbi fiddled with his napkin and doused his coffee with cream and sugar.

Decker said, “Just start talking, Jon. It’s easier after you get the first few words out.”

“Chaim called me around seven, seven-thirty. He told me he needed to talk to me in person.”

“You came out to Quinton?”

“Immediately,” Jonathan answered. “His voice sounded agitated, but at least it was animated. As soon as I got there, he brought me into the basement so we could talk alone. He swore me to confidence. And that is why I didn’t tell you, why I couldn’t tell you.”

“I understand.”

“I’m only telling you now because you’ve threatened to go to the police. Not that I’d tell them anything-I’m entitled to claim pastoral confidentiality-but it would open up wounds. I thought it might be easier to deal with you than the police.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Maybe not.”

“Believe it or not, my purpose is not to give people a hard time.”

“I know that.” Jonathan sighed. “Now that she’s gone, I suppose it’s all irrelevant anyway.”

“Talk to me, Rabbi.”

“Chaim told me he had reason to believe that Shaynda was still alive. He said he had heard from certain people that she was okay.” He blinked back tears. “Obviously, someone was mistaken. Perhaps Chaim misunderstood or it was wishful thinking on his part.”

“Or whoever Chaim talked to was lying. Who are these people?”

“At the time, Chaim couldn’t or wouldn’t say. He said he only confided in me because he knew I’d keep a secret. And secrecy was very important. If word got out, bad things could happen.”

“Did word get out?”

“I don’t know, Akiva. I know that Chaim told me, but I don’t know who else he told. At some point, when things are quieter, I’ll ask him.”

“And that’s all Chaim told you. That he had reason to believe that Shaynda was alive.”

“No. He also hinted that maybe there was some kind of ransom demand in the works. And if things went as planned, and someone needed to do an actual exchange of money for Shaynda, would I be willing to help?”