Sam's own face when, in the dead of winter, he found a piece of broken glass in the snow, used it for a mirror, saw what he'd become.

This boy looked exactly like that.

“It's okay,” he said.

The boy shivered. Hugging himself like he was cold, and even though this was June, Venice, California, a beautiful sunny day, Sam felt a Ukrainian freeze pass over his own body.

“It's okay,” he repeated. “Come on out, I don't bite.”

The boy didn't budge.

“Come on, you can't stay in there all day- still hungry? Crackers aren't enough, let's get you some real food.”

It took a long time to coax the boy out, standing far back so the kid could crawl free. When he was finally out, he looked like he wanted to run.

Sam held him by the arm- skin and bones. More memories.

The boy struggled, tried to kick. Sam, knowing what it felt like to be restrained, let go and the boy dashed toward the front of the shul.

Rattling the door, but locked in.

Returning to the sanctuary, he gave Sam a wide berth. Wild-eyed, looking from side to side, trying to figure out how to escape.

Sam was sitting in a front pew holding a box of doughnuts the boy had missed. Real chazerei. Entenmann's chocolate-covered cake doughnuts, still unopened, hidden behind some old prayer books. Kravitz's secret lode- who did he think he was kidding? Next to the doughnuts was also a sealed jar of gefilte-fish balls in jelly. Sam couldn't imagine the boy going for it.

“Here,” he said, holding up the doughnuts. “Take it with you.”

The boy stood there and stared. Despite being dirty and ragged and skinny, with a scratched-up face, he was a nice-looking kid. Maybe eleven, twelve. What was he doing out here so young? There were plenty of runaways in Venice, but they were mostly teenagers, bigshot rebels, with needles and rings stuck into their bodies all over, crazy haircuts, tattoos, a bad attitude. This one just looked like a kid, undernourished and scared.

Definitely goyische-look at that upturned nose, that dirty-blond hair. Sometimes the goyim beat their kids, abused them, God knows what else. Maybe this one had run away. Jews, too, he supposed, though he'd never encountered that personally.

What did he know about kids, anyway?

Emil had one son, a lawyer, lived in Encino- drove a German car!- never talked to his parents or Sam.

“Here,” he said, shaking the doughnut box. “Take it.”

No response. The kid, distrustful, thinking Sam was up to something. Dirt stains all over his jeans and that T-shirt was full of holes. He was making fists, a tough little pisher.

Sam put the doughnuts on the floor, got up, said, “Fine, I'll open the door for you, you don't have to crawl out the window. But if you ask me, you should get some clean clothes, eat some real food with vitamins.”

Dipping into his trouser pocket, he took some bills out of his wallet. Two twenties- way too generous for someone he didn't know, but what the hell.

He placed the money on the floor next to the doughnuts, walked to the back of the shul, and unlocked the rear door. Then he went into the gents' lav, to give the kid a chance to make a graceful exit, and because his bladder was killing him.

40

Petra stared at the doorway through which Stu had just passed, then she went after him.

He reappeared in the doorway before she got there. Cocking his head.

C'mere.

Oh yeah, faithful little junior partner will jump up on cue.

They locked eyes. His face was stone; no apologies. Deciding to maintain her dignity, she followed him down the stairs and out of the building to the rear lot, where his Suburban was parked. The truck, usually spotless, had dirty windows. Crusted bird droppings freckled the white hood.

She said, “What the hell's going on, Stu?”

He unlocked the passenger door, motioned for her to get in, came around and sat behind the wheel.

“We're not going anywhere,” she said, remaining outside. “Some of us have work to do.”

He stared through the windshield. Sun from the east traced the contours of his profile in orange. A paperback-book model couldn't have posed for greater effect. Everyone a goddamn actor.

Petra got in and slammed the door so hard the truck shook.

Stu said, “I owe you an explanation.”

“Okay.”

“Kathy has cancer.”

Petra's throat seized and closed, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. “Oh, Stu-”

He held up a finger. “She's going in for surgery tomorrow. She's been having tests done; we weren't sure. Now we are.”

“I'm so sorry, Stu.” Why didn't you tell me? Obviously, not close enough. Eight months of chasing bad guys doth not a deep relationship make.

“One breast,” he said. “Her doctor found it on routine checkup. They think it's just a single tumor.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing, thanks, we're covered. Mother's taking the kids and Father's dealing with the hospital.”

His right arm rested on the center console. Petra put her hand on his sleeve. “Go home, Stu. Wil and I will handle everything.”

“No, that's the thing, I was going to take a leave of absence, but Kathy insisted I shouldn't. She wants me home tonight to take her to the hospital, told me I can stay until she falls asleep. And tomorrow, when she comes out of surgery, I'll be there. But in between she insists I keep working. Even when she gets radiation… maybe they can do just a lumpectomy, they're not sure.”

“You're planning to stay on the job?” said Petra.

“Kathy wants it. You know Kathy.”

Petra knew very little about Kathy. Gracious, pretty, efficient, supermom, never without makeup. High school prom queen, with a teaching credential she'd never used. During the family outings, Petra had observed a superorganizer.

A bit reserved- let's be honest, more than reserved. Despite superficial friendliness, the woman had always maintained distance, and Petra had thought of her as an ice queen.

Thirty-six years old. Six kids.

Petra thought of her own father, raising five children by himself. And all the while, Stu'd been fighting to maintain.

“She's so strong,” Stu said. “I've never slept with anyone else.”

Saying it with wonderment. Petra patted his arm.

“Most guys get tired of being with the same woman. All I ever wanted was Kathy. I really love her, Petra.”

“I know you do.”

“You try to do the right thing, live a certain way- I know there are no deals with God, He's got His own plan, but still…”

“She'll be fine,” said Petra. “It'll work out, you'll see.”

“Look at Ramsey,” he went on. “Has a healthy wife, does that to her. The Eggermann woman. All the things we see.”

He put his head down on the steering wheel, broke into startling, phlegmy sobs.

Vivian Boehlinger, now this.

This was different. This was part of her.

Petra reached over and held him.