No, it wasn’t his brother Jonathan who bestowed upon Decker the ability to pick up his head and face another day. It was Randy. Sixteen days after Decker had witnessed slaughter and destruction, he had packed up his bags for Florida: to find peace in his childhood home, to mend his wounds both physical and emotional. The first weekend of his arrival, Randy came down to visit. At six-two, 270 pounds of muscle and fat, his brother had a kick-ass attitude ideal for an undercover cop. His formidable face was slathered by a matted black beard hanging over his chin. His dark piercing eyes demanded to be told the truth.

It started out as small talk: It always worked that way, gradually segueing into Decker’s buried guilt. Randy listened without interruption. Then he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“What’re you sweating it for, Peter? You know as well as I do, even if you had killed the scumbag, another one would have come along to take his place.”

Decker wiped his forehead. He was soaked with perspiration, even though he was wearing a lightweight, short-sleeved cotton shirt and jeans. It was in the low seventies with blue skies and clear air. “I don’t know, Randy….”

“Course you do. No shortage of pissbuckets, Peter. Don’t give it a second thought.”

“I should have done something. At the very least, I should have told the cops the truth.”

“And made everyone miserable—the old man Lieber, the widowed wife, the remaining children, your entire half brother’s family, you, Rina, your family, even me…” He shook his head. “Truth is a flexible concept, bro. Didn’t you tell me that Jewish-wise, truth means peace?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you did. You told me it was okay to lie to keep peace in the family.”

“Oh, that. Shalom bayit. It means fibbing, Randy, not letting murderers go free.”

“Donatti will get his, just like his old man did. In the meantime, you’re living to see another day. As they say in the Family, ‘fuhgeddaboutit.’” Randy leaned back in his wicker chaise lounger. The brothers were resting on the outside porch, drinking lemonade. Damn near idyllic. “You’re a friggin’ hero, Peter. You risked your life to save Chaim.”

“It didn’t work—”

“So what if it worked or not? It still happened. And you got shot in the process. That makes you a hero. Furthermore, you made me a hero. You know how long we’ve been after Weiss, Harabi, and Ibn Dod? You flushed them out for us. You broke up a major ecstasy-import ring. They’re being transported down here for arraignment next week.”

“Like you said, there’ll just be more to take their places.”

“Yeah, sure, but it’s important for us to succeed once in a while. To say to the public, we care about you. We care about your kids and your neighborhoods. And we do care.” He lightly punched Decker’s shoulder. “You made us look good here in Miami, bro. You made Novack in New York look good—all the nice things you said in the press about NYPD detectives. Everyone loves you. If you were the political type, you could parlay what you did into chief of police in one of the major cities.”