“Well, isn’t Haifa a major port stop from Asia? Rotterdam too? I mean, how easy would it be to take off the backs of the computers or stereos or VCRs or portable phones or CD players and slip in a dozen bags of ecstasy pills. It wouldn’t have to be even that much. Say you bring in ten thousand pills a load, which is not very much to hide in big electronic equipment. At twenty-bucks-a-pop street value, you’re talking around a quarter of a million dollars a shipment. And how many shipments does Chaim get in a year?”

It was a rhetorical question. Jonathan didn’t respond.

Decker said, “It’s much easier to stuff the contraband into merchandise than to bring it across with people. And way more practical. Even if customs were to check for drugs, maybe they’d check one or two pallets. They’re not going to go through the entire shipment unless they’re suspicious, right?”

Decker was becoming animated.

“Ephraim’s doing inventory one day, checking numbers on a list with numbers of the actual wares, and a back falls off a VCR. He suddenly discovers a bag of pills that was accidentally left behind. He knows instantly what’s going on because he was a former drug addict. He goes to confront his brother but—”

“Forget it,” Jonathan said quietly.

“What?”

“I said, forget it!” Jonathan’s face turned hard. “Screwing Chaim isn’t going to bring either Ephraim or Shayndie back to life. The family has already been destroyed, Akiva, do you hear me! Destroyed. My wife has been destroyed! I will not be a part of this. I will not bring any more misery to my family!”

“Even if there’s evidence Chaim set up Ephraim?”

“But you don’t have that evidence, do you?”

“Well, no, not yet—”

“I don’t believe that for a minute!” Abruptly, the rabbi’s face broke, tears rolling down his cheeks, blotted up by his beard. “If you want to come after someone—if you need to come after someone—then damn it, come after me!”

“What are you talking about, Jon?” Decker studied his brother. “What’s wrong?”

Without warning, Jonathan jerked the van sideways, swinging it onto the shoulder of the expressway. He almost skidded out as the van bounced on wet dirt and gravel and small patches of ice. He killed the motor, slumped over the steering wheel, and sobbed. When he spoke, Decker could hardly understand him.

“I messed up, Akiva,” Jonathan choked out.

“What? How?” Decker touched his shoulder, then slipped his arm around him. “C’mon, buddy, it can’t be that bad. Talk to me.”

“It is that bad!”

“Talk to me anyway.”

He lifted his head, his eyes wet and red. “I messed up… with Shaynda. I lied to you. I… lied.”

Vehicles were zipping past them, narrowly missing the van’s tail-lights. Heart hammering in his chest, Decker waited.

“She called me—Shayndie called me.”

Decker held his breath. “When?”

“The morning she was murdered! That’s why it was such a shock! I had just spoken to her about three hours earlier.”