“Schulman suggested Pinchas. I guess that was as close an approximation to Peter that he could find. Then I discovered that Pinchas is Phineas in English—as in Phineas Fogg. I vetoed that one.”

“It doesn’t suit you, either,” she said. “Pinchas was a religious zealot.”

“No, that’s not me,” he said. “I like Akiva. What do you think?”

“I love it!”

The loudspeaker announced the final flight call.

“I’ve got to go.” She kissed his lips softly. “Take care of yourself.”

The tears had come back, but that didn’t stop her. She pivoted and walked toward the gate. She had a lovely sway, a graceful step.

“I love you, Rina,” he called out.

“I love you too, Akiva,” she shouted, turning her head to look at him as she strode toward her family.

By the time Decker got back to the car, he noticed his cheeks were wet. Goddam smog, he thought, rubbing his stinging eyes. Even at night, it doesn’t leave you alone.

25

Decker revved the Porsche up to ninety and flew on the empty stretch of freeway. The speed and wind gave him an illusion of infinite freedom, youth, and immortality. It had been months since he’d last burned rubber, and after seeing Rina off, he needed to rid himself of the emotion that had swelled inside and cut loose. The abandon lasted only a few minutes; his beeper went off, and his rearview mirror reflected a cruiser flashing him its blues. Pulling the Porsche onto the shoulder, he took out his badge disgustedly, got out of the car, and handed it to the uniform. The officer examined it carefully, then handed it back to him.

“What’d you clock me at?” Decker asked.

“Ninety-two.” The officer eyed the car. “Nice set of wheels.”

“Thanks. Put her together myself from bits and pieces over the years,” said Decker. “She sure can race.”

“I’ve got a ’68 ’Vette myself. Blown and supercharged. It’s one hell of a fast motherfucker.”

“A land jet.”

“You’ve got it, Sarge.” He smiled at Decker. “Take it easy.”

“I just got beeped,” Decker said. “I’m working Homicide. Mind if I use your radio?” He gave the cop his unit number and a moment later was patched through to Foothill.

“A break?” the patrolman asked after Decker hung up.

“Not sure, but I can hope,” Decker said. He got into his car and left behind a cloud of exhaust.

Marge was waiting for him at his desk.

“What’s so urgent at…” Decker checked his watch, “11:36 P.M.?”

“Did you take your No-Doz tonight?”

“What do you have?”

She slapped some papers into his hands—warrants.

“That was fast,” he said.

“Arlington’s statement carries clout with a certain judge. Morrison called up and voilà!”

Decker read the documents—search warrants for Executive First and Cameron Smithson’s condo, and an arrest warrant for Smithson Junior himself.

“Nothing for Dustin?” he asked.