Decker thanked her and hung up.

“I am out of here,” he announced to Mahoney. “If you ever get out my way, you’ve got a free trip to Disneyland for you, the wife, and the kids.”

Mahoney smiled broadly. “No shit? Hey, that’s real nice of you.”

“M’pleasure,” Decker said, thinking: Tickets to Disneyland were twenty-one fifty per adult, not much cheaper for kids. At this rate, he’d spend a week’s worth of salary making good on his promises.

Hersh Schaltz lived in a ten-story tenement house off Flatbush Avenue. It was a square brick thing, tattooed with graffiti, its front walkway overrun with papers, broken glass, and beer cans.

Decker parked in front. He turned to Rina and said, “I don’t want you to come in with me, but I don’t want to leave you alone outside. Maybe I should take you home.”

“I don’t want you going inside by yourself,” Rina said. “I’ll be your backup.”

“With an unloaded gun?”

“Give me some bullets.”

“I don’t have any thirty-eight shells. All I have are clips.”

“Well, nobody’s going to know if the gun’s loaded or not,” Rina said. “It’s all in the appearances.”

Decker stared at her. She’d removed the old kerchief and looked about as threatening as a Playboy Bunny. “You don’t strike a mean pose, Rina.”

“Well, I’m not going to wait out here by myself. And you’ll waste a lot of time if you go back and forth. Let me come with you.”

Against his better judgment, Decker agreed.

When they got to the front door, they found out it was a security building. Directly to the left was a long column of numbered buttons with no names to identify the people living inside. Decker peered through the glass doors. A dimly lit hallway, old linoleum on the floor, paper peeling from the walls. A bank of mailboxes was visible to the right.

“Your eyes are better than mine,” he said. “Look at the mailboxes and see if you can find me the building manager’s number.”

Rina squinted. “I can’t make out anything.”

“Damn,” Decker said.

Rina pressed a random button.

“What are you doing?” Decker asked.

A speaker-slurred voice said a muffled “Who’s there?” through the intercom.

“Waterworks,” Rina said. “Which unit is the super’s?”

“One-oh-four,” the voice answered back.

“Thank you,” Rina said. She looked at Decker and smiled.

“Clever,” Decker said.

“You can take it from here,” Rina said.

Decker smiled sarcastically and pressed 104. He identified himself, and a second later they were buzzed in.

The super met them in the hallway wearing a torn sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants a size too small. He was a rotund man with coarse black hair and matching mustache. He said his name—something Slavic and unpronounceable.

The super knew it and said, “You can call me Jerz.” He eyed Rina. “What can I do for the police?”

His voice was a foghorn, thickly accented.

“I’m looking for a tenant named Hersh Schaltz.”