The place smelled old and tired. Decker thought about a policeman’s lot in life, then felt something nuzzle his leg—the mangiest golden retriever he’d ever seen. He thought of his own dog, an Irish setter. On her worst days, Ginger never looked so disheveled. The dog’s breath was noticeable even though Decker’s nose was a good six feet above the animal.

“Our mascot,” said a male voice. “Gertrude.”

The man was sitting behind the reception desk, doing some paperwork, eyes focused downward. He had a broad face made wider by a crushed nose, and a square jawline. His eyes were deep-set, his brows heavy and continuous. His lips were full, and a cigarette was dangling from his mouth.

Decker said, “That dog’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Ugly doesn’t bother me,” the man said. He looped his hand over his shoulder and scratched his back. “It’s the fleas that are the real killers.” He looked up from his desk. “You waiting for someone or what?”

“I need to file a missing-persons report,” Decker said. “You Sergeant Weiczorek?”

“I was last time I checked my birth certificate,” Weiczorek said. “Which precinct are you from?”

“I’m not with NYPD,” Decker said. “It’s a local kid. I’m doing a favor for the family.”

“But you’re definitely a cop,” Weiczorek said. “You got the look.”

“Los Angeles,” Decker said.

“Can spot ’em a mile away,” Weiczorek said. He stubbed out his cigarette. “Hop over the fence. Tell me about the kid.”

Decker stepped over the wooden barrier. The precinct was having a quiet night—a few uniforms wandering in and out, muffled voices dispatching calls from behind the one-way mirrored cubicle, not a perp in sight. He gave Weiczorek Noam’s vitals, then showed him the picture. Weiczorek punched the data into the computer.

The desk sergeant said, “Sometimes another precinct will pick the kid up without ID. Computer will spit out anything that seems like a match. Takes a few minutes.”

Decker nodded, stared over Weiczorek’s shoulders, hypnotized by a flashing waiting that blinked on the computer screen.

Weiczorek seemed hypnotized too. Without looking up, he said, “You do a door-to-door?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

“Street search?”

“Five hours.”

A sudden scream echoed through the walls.

I know de law, man! I wan’my fuckin’ phone call!

Weiczorek looked up and called, “Melino, take care of Mr. Torrentes.”

Melino disappeared behind the mirrored cubicle.

“You’ve got your holding cells pretty close to the desk,” Decker said.

“That’s cell in the singular,” Weiczorek said. “And yes, it is close to the front desk cause we ain’t got no room anywhere else. If we run outta room in the cell, we chain ’em to the pipes. Once, a perp took offense to this and gave himself a shower with thirty-degree water. Goddamn place oughta be condemned.”