“It’s a wig—a shaytel.” Rina fluffed up the curls. “I wouldn’t go out with my hair uncovered. Do you like it?”

Decker said, “When did you get it?”

“I bought it in Los Angeles for Rosh Hashanah. Only so much had happened, I didn’t feel right wearing it.”

“Oh, that’s what that furry thing in the suitcase was.”

“Do you like it, Peter?”

“It’s sexy. It doesn’t match your boots.”

“My feet got so cold in this weather.”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

Rina said, “Maybe I’ll bring you better luck than you had last night.”

Last night, Decker thought. A few of the men he’d spoken to on Empire thought they might have met a kid like Hersh, but no one was sure of anything. Noam’s picture was met with empty stares, shakes of heads.

“What do I do?” Rina asked.

Decker started the motor. Jonathan and his Matador had gone back to Manhattan, so Rina’s mother-in-law had immediately volunteered her car for his use—a Plymouth Volare. It had a bench seat and even though he’d pushed it all the way back, his knees were still slightly bent. Here he was, three thousand miles from L.A., doing police work driving Volares and Matadors—typical unmarkeds. He might as well be home getting paid for it. Rina repeated her question.

“What do you do?” Decker said. “You sit in the car and keep me company. I’ll holler if I need you.”

“Okay.”

Decker floored the pedal and peeled off. He flipped on the radio, couldn’t find a station he liked, then, without thinking, pushed a waiting tape inside the tape deck. The speakers projected a gravelly male voice emoting in Yiddish. Decker pushed the eject button.

“What is this?” he said, pulling out the tape.

Rina took it from him and read the label. “Oh.”

“What’s oh?”

“It’s number five in a series of lectures given by Rav Pearlman on Midos—manners.”

Decker said, “That’s what these people listen to when driving?”

“I wish you wouldn’t refer to them as ‘these people.’”

Decker smiled. “Music isn’t allowed?”

“Of course music is allowed.” Rina flipped open the glove compartment. “She has a ton of tapes in here.”

“Such as?”

Rina started reading the labels. “For your listening enjoyment, we have Rav Chaverstein singing cantorial classics—”

“Put a bullet in that one.”

“We have the Lubavich Boys Choir singing Shabbos Zmirot and other favorites.”

“The Lubavich Boys Choir,” Decker said. “Anything like the Castrati Choir in Italy?”

“No, Peter,” Rina said. “These boys grow into men.”

“Notta gooda for business,” Decker said. “Too mucha turnover.”

“Do you know how to get to Crown Heights?” Rina said.

“I got there last night, didn’t I?”

“You seem to be taking the long route,” Rina said. “At this rate, it will take us an hour to get there.”