Decker tried LA information. Nothing for VerHauten. He tried three other directories, the results equally frustrating. Then he tried New York City for a listing in Manhattan.

Zip.

He slammed down the phone. “What’s going on here! A multibillion-dollar company and I can’t find a fucking listing for them.”

“They probably have some weird subsidiary name.”

Decker rubbed his face. “Now what?”

Marge shrugged helplessly. “Anything new on the Yalom boys?”

“They’re still checking out terminals. Thank God for computers. Without them, the task would be unthinkable. You want to call up some airports ourselves?”

“No, I’m still curious about VerHauten,” Marge said. “Why don’t we go back down to the diamond center and grab ourselves a random dealer. Someone over there has got to know something about VerHauten.”

Decker thought a moment, then started the motor, pointing the unmarked for downtown LA.

22

Unsure how to start, Decker took out his shield and flashed it to the first Chasid he saw. The man was five ten, his face hidden behind a thick pelt of beard and side-curls. He wore the requisite uniform—black suit, white shirt, and black hat. His tzitzit—prayer fringes—were peeking out from under his shirt. He fingered them vigorously as he eyed the gold badge.

Decker said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for the offices of VerHauten Corporation. I was told they are located around here, but I can’t seem to find them in any building directory.”

The religious man was confused. “VerHauten corporate headquarters is in South Africa.”

“How about their local subsidiary offices?” Marge said.

Again, the man squinted. “They don’t have any offices here.”

“Maybe they’re not listed under the name VerHauten. Some sort of satellite office, perhaps.”

The Chasid shrugged. “Nothing I’m aware of.” He turned and spoke to another of his ilk, the two men dressed identically. “Eli, do you know if VerHauten has a local office here?”

“In LA?” Eli shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

A thirtysomething blond man in a black suit and tie interjected himself into the conversation. “You’re looking for VerHauten?”

“Yes,” Marge answered.

“The actual corporation?”

“Try South Africa,” another businessman shouted out.

Decker noticed they were attracting a crowd. The blond man stuck out his hand and said, “Ronnie Guttenberg. Why don’t you come up to my office?”

Decker eyed Marge, then said thanks. Guttenberg led them into the express elevator that took them up thirty-five flights in fifteen seconds. They got out and went with Guttenburg into a small office, not unlike Yalom’s place. The layout was almost identical—an anteroom, a hallway, then the office. Guttenburg’s lair was furnished in warm woods and oiled leather, but it wasn’t overdone. He pointed to two plush chairs and Decker and Marge sat. Guttenburg took a seat behind his desk.

“You’re the police?”

Marge and Decker nodded.

“Can you tell me anything about Arik Yalom’s murder?”