“I said, help me up, dammit!” Decker ordered.

Donatti stopped pacing, still staring at Decker’s face. But he extended a hand and hoisted Decker back on his feet. Then he took two giant steps backward, shaking with rage and neurotransmitters. “Are you going to coldcock me if I turn my back?”

“Don’t tempt me!” Decker growled. He smoothed out his clothing and gingerly touched his face. “You need a drink. I’m going to get you some booze. Keep your friggin’ hands in your pockets!”

Donatti’s voice was still hoarse from being choked. He cleared his throat. “Get your face some ice while you’re at it.”

Pulling out a single bottle of scotch that had managed to survive the onslaught, Decker gave it to the kid. Then he took out an ice tray and liberated the frozen cubes. He wrapped them up in a paper towel and placed it against his rapidly swelling face.

Donatti offered the bottle to Decker, who grabbed it and took a healthy swig. Then he returned it. Chris took another drink.

Passing the bottle back and forth for another fifteen minutes, neither talking, but both of them snorting and swearing. The room was a disaster area—hot and stale and reeking of male stink. Decker felt his stomach lurch, but refused to show weakness by sitting down.

Minutes passed—five of them, then ten. Finally, Donatti took out his keys and opened the door to his private, bug-free office. As soon as they were both inside—the door locked and the switches on—they both collapsed into chairs. Donatti draped his upper body down on the table, cradling his head in his arms. His eyes were closed. He was still breathing hard, still sweating, although not nearly as copiously.

“I gotta think.”

“You didn’t clean her—”

“No, I didn’t clean her. Why would I clean her?”

“Money.”

“If I wanted money, I would have sold her.”

Silence. Decker nursed his very sore face. The ice had turned to cold water, the towel clammy in his hands. “Any ideas?”

“Shut up and let me think.”

“Is it possible that someone found out—”

“No.” Donatti lifted his head, then sat up. “No! I’ve got people watching—”

“They were bought off.”

“It’s impossible. They would know what I’d do.” He shook his head with despair. “She must have left on her own.”

“After last night, I find that hard to believe.”

“After this morning, I find it impossible to believe!” Donatti reached into his file cabinet and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I gave it up for Terry.” He liberated a smoke. “Filthy habit.” He lit one up and exhaled a gush of tar and nicotine. “But right now, my nerves are shot.”

“Give me one.”

Donatti lit another smoke and passed it to Decker. Within moments, the room took on a chemical haze. “When I left this morning, that little girl was so clingy, I had nicknamed her Saran Wrap.”

“So what happened?” Decker took in deep puffs. He’d forgotten how wonderful a nicotine rush was.