“That’s a departure,” said Decker, discarding another photo.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t done too well with the musicians in my life. I figured it was time for a change. The only trouble is now I don’t have anyone to play my flute with.”

“What a shame!” Hollander said, holding back a smile. Marge was a terrible musician, but that didn’t stop her from performing in public, usually with her musician boyfriends. No one had the heart to tell her the truth.

“But it’s good for me,” she continued. “I’ll work on some solo pieces and let you guys know when I’m ready.”

Decker stifled a groan.

“Great, Marge,” he said.

“How’s Rina?” Marge asked.

“Fine.”

“You two going to do something soon?” Mike asked. “You’re obviously smitten by the lass. Or is it smote? You should know about that, Rabbi. Didn’t the Jews smote the Egyptians or something like that?”

Decker shrugged. The digs were good-natured and he let them pass. After all, his transformation over the past months had to seem strange to his colleagues. No doubt they attributed his metamorphosis to Rina; he loved her and was changing to please her.

But Decker knew it was deeper than that. Religion had given him a spark of renewed faith, and though it hadn’t blossomed into fire—maybe he was too cynical for it to ever get that bright—it was still better than complete darkness.

His thoughts were interrupted when a young detective with a pencil-line mustache stuck his head in the room.

“You’ve got a call, Pete.”

“Okay, George.”

The mustache turned upward into a grin.

“Want me to take over for a while, Rabbi?” George asked. “All those immoral photographs must be very unsettling to the spirit.”

“That won’t be necessary,” answered Decker. He picked up a receiver on an empty desk. A shrill young voice broke through.

“Ya know, you guys have a lot of nerve. I musta called this number a hundred times over the weekend and nobody answered. What if I had something important to tell you? I don’t think you give a shit who gets ripped off just as long as it don’t happen on your precious weekend—”

“Who is this?” Decker yelled into the receiver.

“It’s your informant, Decker.”

“Got something you want to tell me, Kiki?”

“Not over the phone.”

“I’m not meeting with you unless you tell me what this is about.”

There was a pause.

“Well…” she teased.

Decker checked his watch. “I’ve got a shitload of work, Kiki, so either put up or shut up.”

“I didn’t find out anything about the girl, but I’m still trying.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Yeah, that and ten cents—excuse me—twenty cents won’t get me a fucking phone call. I do have a name for you. A photographer who shoots porno. Lots of young ones and runaways.”