“I’m the resident Jewish detective for uptown,” Novack explained. “Anytime one of the Chasids or Israelis or Jews gets whacked in Manhattanville or its environs, it’s either me, or Marc Greenbaum, or Alan Josephs. They like a Jew for the Jews, just like they like a black to deal with the blacks, or a Puerto Rican with Puerto Ricans. Sometimes they might assign a Cuban to the Doms uptown. We have several Koreans with Koreans, and a couple of Taiwanese. We got a separate guy for Haitians. Over in Brooklyn, if it’s a Jew, it’s Steve Gold, or Ken Geraldnick, or Stan here. Am I right about this?”

“You are right,” Gindi concurred. “Not that I think that’s bad.”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

Gindi said, “We got quite a few Jewish cops in Brooklyn. I think more in Brooklyn than in the city. Course we got a high concentration of Jews in Brooklyn. Not so many where you are, Mick.”

“No, not so many, although all the West Side Jews keep on pushing the limits farther north. Then you go all the way north, you got the ones in Wash Heights. That’s why I was there this morning.”

“What happened this morning?” Gindi asked.

“Some discount jewelry store in my area was hit. The owner was a Chasid—took some lead in the ass of all places. Guy lives in Wash Heights. He won’t be making it to minyan tonight, but it coulda been lots worse.”

They were standing in front of a six-story flat-faced brick building that had been overlaid with soot. The sky’s cloud cover had thinned, but the air was still cold and acrid. The side street that Ephraim had called home was narrow and filled with potholes. The sidewalks were cracked with a red, gritty slush leaking from the crevices. Next to the building was a small dirt lot containing lots of garbage and several bare-branched saplings.

“What kind of area is this?” Decker asked. “Working class?”

“This particular area, yeah. Very Jewish, very religious. Not where his people live.” Novack cocked a finger in Gindi’s direction. “This guy here is Syrian. Flatbush has lots of Syrian Jews. They all got these strange names—Zolta, Dweck, Pardo, Bada, Adjini.”

“Flatbush has all sorts of Jews.”

“Yeah, but the Syrians… they know how to live, right?”

“You said it, Micky!”

Novack looked at his watch. “Jeez. Twelve-thirty. Where’s the super?”

“I have a key,” Jonathan announced.

“You’ve got a key?” Novack repeated.

“Yes, I have a key.”

“You mind opening up?” Gindi asked.

“Is that okay?” he asked Decker.

Decker said, “He has all the paperwork, Jon. You’re just speeding things along.”

“Then I’ll open up.”

Jonathan brought them to the building’s elevator, which barely contained the body mass let alone the weight. It moved in jerks and jumps, as slow as a slug. Ephraim lived down a dimly lit hallway, wafting with the faint odor of garbage and urine. His unit was number four, and the doorjamb had the requisite mezuzah. As the detectives pulled out their gloves, so did Decker, his still in the protective wrapping with the official LAPD seal.