“Say someone knows I’m here looking for Gil and Dov. So they bomb Gil’s yeshiva to draw my attention to Gil. But they don’t really care if they kill Gil or not. What they want is me locked up in Jerusalem. For good measure, they bomb the open square and bring all the bomb experts to Jerusalem as well. It’s to throw me off track.”

“Throw you off track from what? What are they diverting you from?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a bit of a rub in your theory,” Rina stated.

Decker smiled. “Look, I’m just talking conjecture. But that’s the way Marge and I solve cases. Throw out this theory or that theory. Hopefully, something clicks. Turn on the news, Rina. The more we learn, the better.”

She turned on the radio. News about the bombings, Rina announced. She listened intently and translated. At first, Decker focused on her words. Then his mind began to wander, his attention drawn elsewhere.

He needed to think this out. He needed to talk this out.

He missed Marge.

34

Digital clocks were a pisser when you were stricken with insomnia. The one on Decker’s nightstand had a malevolent red face that laughed at him in the dark.

Only five more hours until daylight, sucker. Boy, are you going to feel crappy in the morning.

He began to play games with the LCD dial, guessing how the little illuminated lines would configurate in order to form the next numeral. Soon came some mental calculations. Two-twenty-seven A.M. in Israel would translate into three-twenty-seven yesterday afternoon LA time. Although his body ached with fatigue, his brain simply refused to shut down.

At two-fifty-two A.M., he gave up. Quietly, he climbed out of bed and slipped on a robe. Checking through his jacket, he found his notepad and pen, then went into the bathroom. After shutting the door, he turned on the lights, then lowered the toilet seat. He picked up the phone receiver. The ignominy of it all. Conducting business in the john.

Luck hadn’t left him. Marge was in.

“This is weird,” she said. “I was thinking about you.”

“My vibes are very strong.”

“You sound terrible.”

“I had a tough day. You got a minute?”

“Even two.”

Slowly, he related his ordeal, trying to keep the facts straight while looking at his notebook with bleary eyes. He tried to keep his voice even. Nothing clouded an investigation like emotion. Marge gave him the requisite number of uh-huhs, letting him know she was following his train of thought, which was good. Sitting on the can in his bathrobe, his ears ringing, his mind half dead, he wasn’t sure if he was making sense.

When he was done, Marge didn’t speak right away. Then she said, “You sound battle-scarred, Rabbi. Maybe you should take a couple of days off.”

“It’s not on Davidson’s timetable.”