Novack shrugged. “You’re gloved.”

Decker thumbed through the stapled papers.

“What is it?” Novack asked. “Some homemade porno job?”

“Not with the words ‘Emek Refa’im’ on it,” Gindi said.

Decker perused the printed words. “What does it mean?”

“Emek Refa’im? ‘Emek’ is a valley. I think ‘refa’im’ is from ‘refuah’—”

“To heal,” Decker said.

“Yeah,” Gindi said. “Valley of healing.”

“That would make sense,” Decker said. “This looks like a handout for Jewish drug addicts.”

“Let me see that,” Novack said.

Decker gave him the packet. “Looks to me like the organization has several chapters with their own kind of twelve-step programs. There are addresses in the back.”

Novack thumbed through the pages. “I should pay these guys a visit. Wonder when they meet?”

“Today’s Friday, so it’s a safe bet they’re not meeting tonight,” Decker said.

“That is true,” Novack said.

“How about tomorrow night?” Gindi said. “Motzei Shabbos? Everyone filled with spirituality from the holy day.”

“Or stress,” Decker said. “When you’re an addict and forced to interact with family, I bet you’re pretty tense.”

“Now, that’s a very good point.” Novack placed the magazine in an evidence bag. “I’ll give these jokers a call, see if Ephraim was associated with any of these chapters. If they meet tomorrow night, you want to come with me and pay them a visit?”

“That would be great,” Decker answered.

“Wanna see the X-rated stuff?” Novack called out.

“Twist my arm,” Gindi answered.

Decker’s toolshed was bigger than the bedroom. The trio could barely fit without bodily contact. There was an unmade twin bed crammed against the wall and a single nightstand on which rested a phone, an alarm clock, and one framed picture—a Chasidic man standing next to, but not touching, a young girl of about fourteen. Decker stared at the picture.

“May I?”

Novack shrugged.

Decker picked up the framed picture, studying the faces. The girl was far from beautiful. Her nose was large and drooping, her cheeks still holding some baby fat. But her eyes—dark and round—shone with a mischievous gleam. She wore a long-sleeved pink shirt and a long denim skirt. Her hair was pulled back, probably braided. Her lips were shaped in a small, mysterious smile. The man seemed to be around forty, dressed in typical black-suited Chasidic garb. He was bearded with side locks, his head covered with the ubiquitous black hat. His smile was wide, the folds at the corners of his eyes crinkling with happiness. He showed the picture to Novack. “Is that Shayndie?”

“Hard to tell from such a small image, but I think so.”

“They gave you a bigger image?”

“Yeah, a bat mitzvah photo. I had it photocopied yesterday evening, and this morning we’ve been passing it around the crime-scene area. That’s what I was doing when you called. She was wearing this pink fluffy dress. She looked like a tuft of cotton candy. She also looked way younger than thirteen.”

“She was probably twelve,” Decker said. “Orthodox girls have their bat mitzvah ceremony at twelve, not thirteen.”