But Moshe Yalom still opted for the floor. He was a thin man, perhaps in his early seventies, clean-shaven with curly, gray hair atop a long saggy face. A man beaten by life, but not defeated by it. There was still obstinacy in his milky blue eyes. His wife, Tziril, seemed younger. Proportionately, she was heavier than her husband, more meat on the bones, but her doughy flesh was pale. She wore a loose smock and her hair was covered by a scarf.

Rina had made the appointment with Tziril. She had commented that Mrs. Yalom had sounded amazed by the request, as if it had never occurred to her that America—a foreign country ten thousand miles away—was actually pursuing an investigation of her son’s murder.

Decker studied the woman as she spoke to Rina. Rina reported that she and Peter should sit in the chairs, they weren’t in mourning. Tziril talked some more. Rina translated: They had started the process of shiva—the seven days of intense mourning—earlier than Jewish law required. Technically, shiva should take place only after burial. But both Tziril and her husband had felt it was ridiculous to hold off. Who knew when their son would be brought home?

Tziril spoke once more, then disappeared inside a cubby off the living room. Her husband stood up slowly and padded down a long hallway.

“Where’s everybody going?” Decker whispered.

“I don’t know where Mr. Yalom’s going,” Rina said. “Mrs. Yalom went to get us some tea. She asked and I didn’t want to refuse her hospitality. It seemed important to her.”

“Absolutely.” He looked around the living room. “If it helps her relax…”

The apartment was small, the living room paced off around ten by thirteen. But it seemed larger because it had double glass doors that led to a generous wraparound porch. It was screened and held all-weather furniture—a dining-room table and chairs, an outdoor sofa and coffee table, a rocker in the corner. There were two potted citrus trees that were starting to bloom, the flowers emitting a lemony smell. The porch doors were open and allowed a fair amount of circulation. Otherwise, a room this compact would get stuffy in no time.

Decker looked down. The floors were made out of some kind of crushed rock tile, like nothing he’d seen in America. Rina sat in one of the many folding chairs that had been crammed into the room. Decker had counted twenty of them. He sat beside his wife.

“Did they hold a meeting here or something?”

“The chairs are for the morning and evening minyans,” Rina explained. “The father isn’t allowed to leave the house. So the men come to him and say services here. So he can say kaddish…for his son.” She looked down, her eyes moist. “This isn’t the natural order of things.”

“No, it’s not.”