“I’ll need your phone bill. I’m going to have to tell your eema why I need it. Do you want to tell your eema about the conversation or should I?”

The girl blew out air, lifting bangs off her forehead. “I’ll tell her. We have to do this right away, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do. I know Dov told you to keep this quiet. But I think he was really begging for help.”

“I sure hope you’re right.” She looked upward. “Because I’m going to get grounded. I don’t care. It’s worth it if it’ll help Dov.”

“It’ll more than help, Sharona. Who knows? It could even save a life.”

7

At least the jerk was listening, Marge was forced to admit. She and Decker were sitting across from the Loo in his office. Old Thomas “Tug” Davidson—once a Marine, always a Marine—still wore his hair in a crew cut. The fifty-five-year-old geezer didn’t realize that crew cuts had come full circle and were considered a statement by white boys with ’tudes. Fashion didn’t interest Davidson. He wore black suits, white shirts, black ties, and oxfords as oversized as the same-named dictionary. Tug was built like a barn—wide and strong. Marge felt he had probably declared holy war on fat many years ago.

“Go over this one more time,” Davidson said.

Marge repeated the pertinent information. The family had disappeared two days ago, the only hints of foul play—a one-minute phone call and an empty silver case that should have held a prayer parchment. The Yaloms’ sister had called the police in a panic. When interviewed, she had seemed on the level, but who knew?

“This guy, Yalom, is a diamond dealer?” Davidson said.

“Yep,” Decker said. “Does very well for himself judging by the house. But to hear his niece talk, Yalom’s a tightwad. I was wondering why he didn’t send his kids to private school. Maybe he’s too cheap.”

“Or maybe the niece is your average bimbo teenaged girl with a big mouth.” Davidson said, “The school doesn’t know shit about the boys’ whereabouts?”

“Not a thing,” Decker said. “I interviewed quite a few of their chums. They seem in the dark as well.”

“Except for the niece who got a phone call,” Davidson said. “Where was the booth?”

Decker said, “About two miles from the house. It’s a three-block shopping center. I have nothing definitive at this point. Tomorrow, I’d like to interview the store owners. It’ll take time, but something might pan out.”

Davidson nodded, folding sausage-shaped fingers into fists. “Tell me about this silver case.”

“It’s a standard Jewish talisman, for lack of a better word,” Decker said. “The one for the front door is always posted on the outside frame. The Yaloms had theirs posted on the inside—”

“Could be an oversight,” Davidson said.