Rina had struck out as well. Noam was a cipher to all of the housewives she’d talked to.

“We’re back to square one,” Rina said.

“Not just yet,” Decker said. “And for what’s next, I think I’ll need your help.”

“Whatever you want.”

Her voice was full of excitement and he hoped he hadn’t started her on something.

Decker said, “I want to talk to the teenage boys in this community. Maybe they—like Noam and Yossie—have met with Houdini Hersh. The easiest place to find them is at their schools. Now, the rabbis aren’t going to be cooperative with me. I just look and act too goyish. But you know Yiddish and you’re beautiful.”

“I don’t think my looks are an asset in this case.”

“That’s what you think. Men are men, and if these guys have eyes, they’ll be sneaking looks at you. If you act modest and sincere and move your hips a little, I think you could talk your way in for us.”

“How do I move my hips and act modest at the same time?”

“Nobody ever said detective work is easy.” Decker winked at her. “I have the names of three local high school yeshivas. You want to break for lunch or do you want to work straight through?”

“Who can eat at a time like this?”

Decker said, “Then let’s do it.”

The first academy on the list was the Ner Tamid Yeshiva of Crown Heights. Its address was on Eastern Parkway—a wide boulevard graced by immaculately kept townhouses, structures erected long ago when labor was cheap and architects could afford to pay attention to detail. Doric columns flanked stately entrances; the spans above the doorways were crowned with intricately cast keystones. Front bay windows were framed with fluted moldings. Old-fashioned streetlights sat at the foot of each stone walkway; well-planted patches of front lawn were fenced by wrought-iron railings. The district held the elegance of a bygone era.

The yeshiva was a four-story building, the first floor fronted by limestone blocks, the remaining three stories masoned in brick. Zigzagging across a center column of windows were the metal rungs of a fire-escape ladder. The entrance doors were large and darkened by smoked glass. Three Chasidic boys were conversing outside. They wore black suits, black slouch hats, buttoned-to-the-neck white shirts, and no ties.

Decker parked the car at the front curb and hopped out. But Rina began searching through her purse. She pulled out a tattered scarf, folded it in half along the bias, placed it on top of her wig and tied the ends under her chin.

He looked at her. “But your head’s covered. You’re wearing a wig.”

“I don’t think this wig is appropriate.”

Decker frowned. “Now your head matches your boots. Please may I have a pound of halibut, Molly Malone?”