“I could use a picture.”

“The police have one. Go talk to the police.” Chaim stood up and extended his hand. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Decker rose from the chair and shook the limp fingers. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Yes, you have. You’re here and that’s something.” He held up a finger. “Like Moshe Rabainu and Avraham Avenu, you came when you heard the call.”

5

The number left on Decker’s cell phone belonged to Detective Mick Novack of the two-eight—the 28th Precinct. The conversation consisted of a five-minute recap, Decker explaining who he was and why he was here.

Novack said, “I just got all the paperwork I needed for searchin’ the vic’s apartment. Super’s gonna meet me there with the key, along with someone from the six-three. Betcha they’ll send Stan Gindi. The apartment’s in Flatbush. Wanna meet me there?”

“Sounds good. Where’s Flatbush?”

Dead space over the phone. Then Novack said, “It’s in Brooklyn. You heard of Brooklyn?”

“We have Brooklyn Bagel Company in Los Angeles.”

“Great. I’m working with a greener. Where are you calling from?”

“Quinton.”

“Quinton? What the hell you doing in Quinton?”

“I’ve just come from a visit with the vic’s family—his brother.”

“That’s right. So you’re upstate. You’ll still probably get there faster than me. I’m all the way uptown—Amsterdam and one sixty-two. Traffic’s a killer. Freaky Friday.” He gave Decker the address. “I don’t suppose you know how to get there… to Flatbush.”

“Nope. But my brother’s driving. He knows the place. He’s the vic’s brother-in-law.”

“The rabbi. Yeah, we talked to him yesterday. Seems like a nice guy. Except I heard he just hired a mouthpiece—Hershfield of all people.”

“That was on my advice. I told my brother to hire the best defense attorney around.”

“Your advice? What? You don’t trust us out here? C’mon. All of America loves New York’s finest.”

“Indeed they do. It’s nothing like that. I don’t know what’s going on. The family needs to be protected.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“The side of truth, justice, and the American way.”

“Another one from L.A.who thinks he’s Superman. I’ll give you the address. Got pencil and paper?”

“Yep.”

“A real pencil and paper?”

Decker paused. There was hostility in the man’s voice, but that was to be expected. They weren’t exactly adversaries, but right now, they weren’t colleagues, either. “Last time I checked they weren’t figments of my imagination.”

“It’s not a stupid question even though it seems like a stupid question. All you jokers from L.A. got these PalmPilots. One day, you’re gonna be caught in a thunderstorm and all your data’s gonna be fried to a crisp.”

The first detective whom Decker met was five-ten, stick-skinny, and bald with round brown eyes and a big red mustache. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt and a black tie. That was Gindi. Novack was a bit taller—around six feet and completely square. He had a broken boxer’s nose, wide, thick cheeks, and thick lips. His shoe polish–black hair was combed straight back revealing a dune’s worth of forehead, a deep brow, and hooded midnight blue eyes. His suit was dark blue, his shirt was white, and his tie was a dizzy pattern of thin red and blue stripes.