“We don’t have anything on him. Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got.” Marge put on her coat. “A couple of West L.A. detectives are searching Junior’s house. We’ll take Executive First.”

Decker pocketed the papers.

“Let’s go catch a bastard,” he said.

Forty minutes later, the detectives turned onto Avenue of the Stars. The Century City thoroughfare was an empty ribbon of glistening blacktop bordered by steel-griddle buildings that shimmered in the cool, overcast air. Marge pulled the unmarked into a loading zone in front of a postmodern edifice of chrome and glass—no doubt someone’s architectural statement, she thought. Cold cold cold!

They walked up the black brick pathway to double glass doors. The entrance hall was brightly lit by a ceiling of fluorescent tubing and a security guard sat reading Sports Illustrated in a booth to the right of a bank of six elevators.

Decker knocked and the guard looked up—a middle-aged man with thick, fleshy features and a cue-ball head. Placing his hand on his gun, the guard swaggered over to them. They showed him their badges through the glass.

“What is it?” he asked them, opening the locked door.

“We have a search warrant for suite 581 of this building,” Marge informed him. “Your superior should have notified you of our arrival.”

“No one called me,” said the bald man, shrugging.

“Why don’t you call in?” suggested Decker.

As the watchman phoned, they waited on a bench in front of the elevators. Decker placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his palms. Until now he hadn’t fully realized how much of his life Rina, the boys, and the yeshiva had taken up. Now, with long stretches of time suddenly at his disposal, he felt aimless instead of liberated. Sudden anger welled up inside his chest. Rina had no right to desert him. Or maybe it was the other way around. Hadn’t he suggested they take a breather from each other? But a breather didn’t mean her leaving him and moving away.

Fuck it all! Well, better hostility than depression. At least anger pumped him up for work. Depression left him a zombie.

“What do you think we’ll find?” Marge asked.

“I’m not naive enough to think that the asshole left his books out in plain view, but maybe we can locate something incriminating against the whole shitload of scum.”

“You okay, Pete?”

“Fine.”

The guard put down the receiver and motioned them over.

“Yep,” he said to them, “you’re all cleared. Someone should have called, but you know how messages get screwed up. I think half our operators are on something.” The man scrunched his eyes and rubbed his egghead. “They talk kind of slurred and giggle all the time.”

“Can you take us up now?” Marge asked impatiently.

“Oh yeah. Sure, Detective. Right away.”