“Chaim?” Jonathan turned to Decker. “Come in. They’re expecting us. Chaim?”

“Yonasan?” The voice was coming from upstairs.

“Yeah, it’s me. I have Akiva.”

“I’ll be right down.”

The living room was deceptively spacious. Or maybe it was just the lack of furniture. There was a small grouping around a fireplace— an upholstered couch facing a couple of chairs. But the rest had been formed into a dining room—a square table covered with a white cloth and surrounded by twelve chairs. The floor was tiled with limestone squares, no rug to soften the hard surface. There was a piano in the corner, sheet music on the stand. Decker wondered if Shaynda played.

The walls were painted off-white, freshly done, and bare except for several framed pictures of wizened, bearded rabbis. One was Menachem Mendel Schneerson—the Lubavitcher rebbe. Another was the Chofetz Chaim—a great Jewish scholar of the nineteenth century. Decker didn’t recognize any of the other remaining portraits. Maybe the Liebers had other art and hadn’t gotten around to hanging it up. Somehow Decker doubted that.

A gray-bearded man scrambled down the staircase. Around fiveten and lean, he appeared to be in his forties. He wore the usual Chasidic uniform—black suit, white shirt. No hat on his head; instead, he wore a big black velvet yarmulke. The hair that showed was very thin. Underneath the kippah, he was probably bald. He shook hands with Decker: the palms were calloused. Clearly, a man who did more than learn all day.

“Chaim Lieber.” He dropped Decker’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what to say.”

“Please.”

His eyes watered. “Please sit, Lieutenant.”

“Akiva’s fine. Or Peter.” Decker sat down. “I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

“Actually, we met at happier times.”

“At my wedding,” Jonathan said.

“Oh yes, of course.”

“Auf simchas,” Lieber muttered. His hazel eyes were red rimmed. Then he rubbed his forehead. “We’ve looked for her everywhere. So there’s no need for you to…”

“I’m sure you have. Still, sometimes in a panic we overlook—”

“What I really need is for someone to talk to the police,” Lieber blurted out. “Maybe they know something that can help us find her… find Shay—” His voice choked. “Find Shayndie. If you could find out what the police know, that would help.”

“I agree.”

Lieber leaned forward. “Do you think they’ll talk to you?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Lieber—”

“Chaim, please! It’s important that they talk to you. You know what questions to ask. We don’t.” He rubbed his forehead. “I want…” He broke into tears. “I want my daughter back!”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry! Instead, do something!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry—”

“Please,” Decker said. “It’s fine. Can I ask you a few questions, Chaim?”

“Anything at all.”

“I know your daughter was doing some… experimenting—”

“That’s a dead end!” Lieber stated. “We checked with those kids. The police checked with those kids. Nothing!”

“Do you have some names?”

“I don’t remember… goyish names. Ryan, Brian, Ian, Evan… You’ll have to talk to the Quinton Police. But that’s a dead end. You need to talk to the Manhattan Police. That’s where she disappeared.”