He was dozing when he heard a knock on the door. He checked his watch, knew it wasn’t time for Rina’s visit.

Can’t get any peace even in a friggin hospital. He’d transferred himself to a small, private place about an hour away from Brooklyn, having given Rina firm instructions that only she, Cindy, and the boys were permitted to visit. But he knew it was only a matter of time before one of the Levines would make overtures despite his request. Guess that was human nature. And being a civilized person, he’d probably talk to whoever it was. But deep inside he wished they’d all disappear.

Might as well get it over with. Hadn’t that been the reason for his rush to New York in the first place? And didn’t Yom Kippur start tonight? They probably wanted to ask him for forgiveness.

There really wasn’t anything to forgive. Wasn’t their fault he’d been shot up by a maniac. Wasn’t anyone’s fault. Wasn’t even God’s fault. Bad things just happen sometimes.

And sometimes good things happen for no particular reason. Like how he met Rina, fielding a routine rape call.

Win some, lose some. No sense getting all bent out of shape. As soon as his body healed completely, as soon as the nightmares faded, he’d be just fine. So maybe there’d be a little twinge of pain now and then. He could live with that. Goddamn doctors trying to pump him up with pain-killers. What’d they think he was? A goddamn girl?

Again, the rapping at the door.

Persistent bugger.

He adjusted the tilt of his bed, trying to get himself comfortable. Truth be told, he felt as if he’d been flattened by a runaway John Deere. But hell, mending takes time. He told the caller to come in, his eyes widening when his brother opened the door and walked across the threshold.

Randy Decker was six one, his large frame pumped up to massive proportions by years of weight lifting. He was dark-complexioned, with black piercing eyes and shiny black hair, which he wore long and tied in a ponytail. His black and gray beard covered most of the keloid patch on the right side of his throat, the scar caused by a .38 slug through the neck. His left ear sported an iron-cross earring, his right forearm was tattooed with a naked lady. His universal sleazebag look—combined with his fluency in Spanish and Portuguese—allowed him to switch to any undercover detail at a moment’s notice. But his primary bailiwick was Narcotics.

Randy had dressed for the occasion. His jeans were whole and he wore sleeves—a camouflage T-shirt to be exact. On his feet were canvas loafers without socks.

“I specifically told Rina not to tell you,” Decker said.