“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.”

“Hersh Schaltz?” Jerz thought a moment, then shook his head.

“How about Tony Sacaretti?”

Again, Jerz said no.

Decker showed Jerz the printout. “Who lives in unit six-eighteen?”

“Six-eighteen?” Jerz scratched his head. “That is the German…Heinrich Stremmer.”

“Heinrich Stremmer?” Rina said.

Jerz nodded. “Kid ’bout twenty-one, skinny body but big shoulder muscles. Dark hair. He don’t look German.”

“I think he’s the one,” Decker said. “Can you open his place for us?”

“Why don’t you knock on door?”

“I don’t think he’s in,” Decker said.

“I don’t know,” Jerz said. “Two people snooping around.”

Decker said, “You do us this small favor, and I’ll mail you back bus fare plus free passes to Disneyland for you and the family.”

Jerz’s eyes lit up. “You not joking?”

“I’m not joking.”

“For me, my wife, and my son?”

Thank God, he only had one kid.

“For all three of you,” Decker said.

Jerz shrugged. “I do it for you. But you don’t make no mess.”

“No mess,” Rina said.

“I believe you, young lady,” Jerz said. “Follow me.”

They climbed the stairs. Jerz was winded and wheezing when they reached the sixth-floor landing. Heinrich Stremmer lived in a flat in the middle of a dark, musty hallway redolent of urine. Muted sounds could be heard from the other units, greasy smells leaked under doorways. The passageway was cold and Rina let out a small shiver. Jerz first knocked on the door. When that didn’t produce a response, he pulled out a ring of keys.

Decker said, “Do you know if Mr. Stemmer—”

“Stremmer, Str—emmer.”

“Mr. Stremmer,” Decker corrected himself, “was behind on his rent?”

“I don’t know,” Jerz said. He sorted through his keys. “You have to ask owners.”

“Who owns the building?” Decker said.

“Corporation with letters,” Jerz said. “ICMB, IBMC, BCIM—ah, here’s key.”

Jerz inserted the key in the lock, the door opened.

Rina said, “Uh-oh.”

Mentally, Decker echoed the sentiment. But the first words out of his mouth were, “Don’t touch anything!” Jerz started to enter the flat, but Decker gently held him back.

“Wait,” he said.

Then he did what he always did when about to enter a crime scene. He used his eyes as cameras.