Rina smiled. “A semantic misinterpretation. Not black as in Afro-American, black as in black hat—the ultra-religious area. The Black Hatters—the Charedim—must make up at least a third of Jerusalem—Sanhedria. The Ramot. Har Nof. Sha’arey Chesid. Mea Sháarim…now that’s a good place to hide. The name literally means a hundred gates. It’s a labyrinth. Like a lot of Jerusalem, it’s filled with passageways and walls and gates that lead nowhere. The entire city was built on top of a dozen previous civilizations. So there’s a lot of underground structures—tunnels, viaducts, passageways. It’s a perfect place to take refuge.”

Decker gave Rina’s words pause for thought. And here he was, searching for not one, but two separate groups of people who might have desired sanctuary in the Holy Land. His brain was scrambled. Man, he was tired.

“I’ve got to get back to work. I just wanted to check in on you, tell you I love you. Hug the boys and kiss Hannah for me.” His smile widened. “And even kiss your mom for me.”

Rina hit his shoulder—the one without the bullet wound. “You take care of yourself. I love you, too.”

Decker started for the door, then turned around. “Rina, how many years is an Israeli required to serve in the army?”

“That’s a non sequitur.”

“Detectives are full of them. It’s part of our clever interviewing technique. Do you know the answer to my question?”

“Active duty is three years for men, two for women. Then there’s meluim—reserved duties—a month or two out of the year.”

“For how long?”

“Until you stop breathing.” Rina smiled. “I’m not sure. Once you’re too old for meluim, you do civil duty—haggah. Does that help?”

“Yes, it helps a great deal. I have come to the conclusion that though I’ve studied a great deal of Judaism, I know nothing about Israelis—or Israel. Maybe you can show me the ropes one day.”

“You mean go to Israel?” Rina brightened. “Peter, what a wonderful thought!”

Decker smiled but felt uncomfortable. Rina was thinking vacation. Unfortunately, he was thinking work. He wondered if one day wasn’t close at hand.

Marge ducked under the yellow crime-scene ribbon that fronted the Yaloms’ mock Tudor estate. With a gloved hand, she opened the front door and stepped inside the enormous entry hall.

“Yo!” she called out. “Anyone here?”

“Upstairs,” Decker answered.

She walked a few steps, peered into the living room, and halted in her tracks.

A hurricane had come through. Furniture had been overturned, cushions slashed and ripped apart. Glass cabinets had been knocked over, glittering shards sprayed over the floor, creating an obstacle course. Some of the display pieces had been broken, others were still whole, resting on their bases on the floor. Marge figured Pete must have uprighted them.

She called out again. “You want me to come up?”