“Cynthia, parents are supposed to console kids, not the other way around.”

“But we’re both adults now, Daddy.”

He laughed.

“Never. You’ll always be my baby whether you like it or not. When you’re seventy and I’m ninety-three you’ll still be my princess. I shouldn’t have dragged you out of class. I’ve been doing a lot of impulsive things lately…This time, it turned out nice.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, Cynthia. Go back.”

“Are you sure—”

“I’m fine, honey. Go back to class.”

He watched her leave. Dear God, he thought. It was hard to let go.

“For a photographer, he sure didn’t have many personal snapshots,” Marge said to Decker as they finished combing Pode’s bedroom. “No baby or graduation pictures of Dustin, no hidden pictures of his wife. You’d think a widower would have one honored picture of his dead wife.”

“Maybe he wasn’t a sentimentalist,” Decker said, closing the last bureau drawer.

“But it’s weird.” Marge scanned the room then said, “Look at the walls. Those square white patches. Pete, there were pictures hanging up there.”

“So someone cleared them away. Maybe they were valuable. Besides, we’re not interested in family photos, and I don’t think Pode hung his porn on his bedroom walls.”

Marge thought about that and said nothing. She sat down on an empty double bed. “We’ve been through this place twice and haven’t come up with anything,” she said. “Want to move on to the studio?”

“Yeah,” Decker said, resigning himself to finding nothing.

“Hungry, Pete?”

“A little. We’ll stop by McDonalds on the way over.”

“Hey, I know you by now, Rabbi. I brought my lunch. Just stop by a 7-Eleven and let me pick up something to drink.”

“I didn’t bring my lunch, Marge,” he said quickly. “Let’s pick me up a Big Mac.”

She gave him a funny look.

“You’ve been bringing kosher lunches for the last four months and now it’s McDonalds?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Marge,” he said brusquely. “Let’s just do the job so we can go home.”

The back room of Pode’s studio was a mess—cramped and packed with props. In the center was a professional camera perched atop a tripod. On the north side was the sitting area—a bench, a few chairs, and boxes of photographic accoutrements. Strewn on the floor were parasols, fake flower bouquets, neckties, jackets, false collars, and yards of velvet. The dressing stalls were open, the curtains crumpled heaps on the floor. He didn’t see any file cabinet. Not here, not at the house.

“Either someone tossed the place or Cecil was an unbelievable slob,” Decker said.

“Move the tripod over to the side,” Marge said as she began kicking junk into a corner. “We need a little elbow room.”