“I suppose you don’t want to hear about—”

“You suppose right, Mike,” Decker said.

“I don’t blame you,” Hollander said. “I’m out of here day after tomorrow. Mary’s niece is getting married.”

“Who’s going to cover for you?” Decker asked.

“Beats me,” Hollander said. “Somebody’s gonna be in the shop. Let him…or her take it up with the Watch Commander.”

Decker knew “her” was Marge. He felt bad, but not bad enough to cut short his so-called vacation. Besides, Noam needed him more than Marge did.

A moment later, a pair of strong hands pushed his legs off the desk.

“I work and he sleeps? What a deal!”

“I’ve been thinking about you.” Decker smiled.

“How long have you had those nightmares, Rabbi?”

“I’ve missed your lilting tones, Detective Dunn.”

“You missed someone kicking your butt,” Marge said.

“Rina kicks my butt,” Decker said.

“But I pack a bigger wallop.”

“True.” Decker opened his eyes. A looming mass of female flesh was staring down at him. But the eyes—soft and brown—they sparkled. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her wispy blond hair stuffed into her coat collar. Her face was even-featured. She was a good-looking gal, especially when she bothered to put on makeup. Decker usually didn’t think of Marge in sexual terms. But Shimon’s questions about her made him aware of her femininity.

“What do you have for me?” Marge asked.

Decker sat up. “You don’t have to do overtime, Marjorie.”

Marge smiled, held herself back from tousling his hair. She didn’t bother to remind him of the extra hours he’d spent with her at the academy shooting range. All those long nights over coffee, Pete bolstering her ego, keeping her spirits up after an asshole blunted her forehead with an iron. If it hadn’t been for Pete, she would have folded, probably been reassigned to some ass-spreading desk job meant to baby-sit those lost to combat fatigue.

“I don’t mind,” she said. “Come over to my place, honey, and I’ll give you what I got.”

“Best invitation I’ve had all day.” Decker stood and pulled some snapshots out of his desk drawer. “Our boy, Hersh Schaltz, captured on film.”

Marge took the pictures. Class photos from the seventh grade in a Williamsburg school. A group picture—all the boys dressed in black coats, slouch hats, white shirts, and ties. None had any visible hair but all of them had those funny long earlocks. Hersh seemed grim but nothing unusual in the sea of serious faces. What was noticeable were his sunken cheeks—not a molecule of fat on the gaunt face.