“Absolutely,” Decker said.

“Still, it made me feel bad, you know. Got my ass in gear, and that’s not a bad thing. So I started calling some of the phone numbers on the pamphlet on the dead guy’s coffee table. The Emek Refa’im handout. Except no one was answering the phone. And then it dawns on me…” He knocked his head with his fist. “It’s Shabbos. They’re not using the phone. So I tried the good old-fashioned phone book… looked up the names.”

“That’s a lot of legwork.”

“Damn right! But the Knicks are playing again Sunday, so what the hell. I’ll watch tomorrow’s game. Now, it was very confusing because the chapters meet in the city, but none of the names have city listings. Then it hits me. They’re Chasids, probably live in Brooklyn like Ephraim did, but they meet in the city, because they don’t want anyone from home base knowing that they have a problem. Anonymity, you know. So I start looking them up in the Brooklyn directory, and I got lucky. Since they’re not answering the phones, I figured I’d take a drive south.”

Decker nodded. “What happened when you showed up at their doors?”

“They weren’t pleased, but I was discreet. I musta visited three, four men…one woman also. When this guy Ari told me he knew Ephraim, you coulda knocked me over with a spoon.”

“Did he know that Ephraim had been murdered?”

“Yeah, he knew. He was agitated about it. I don’t know who was asking more questions, him or me. Anyway, he was talking to me on the sly—can’t let the nice little Jewish wife know what’s going on— so he asked if I could meet him at some kosher restaurant around here.”

“He’s not afraid of being recognized at a kosher restaurant?”

“He says it’s not a problem. Nobody’ll know him because he’ll be wearing civilian garb. I take that to mean not Chasidic dress.”

“Civilian garb?” Decker asked. “He said that?”

“He did indeed. This whole thing about them being in the army of Hashem…I guess these guys take it literally.”

Marvad Haksamim meant Magic Carpet in Hebrew. The place had carpets all over the walls, carpets on the floor, and a big carpet tacked onto the ceiling, draping the eatery like a tent. Tivoli lights twinkled from the windows, and a couple of pictures of Jerusalem framed the doorway. But the restaurant did have linen napkins and tablecloths, and candles and a vase with a fresh flower decorated every tabletop. There was also a pretty decent wine list. Decker treated himself to a glass of Cabernet. Novack opted for a beer.

Ari Schnitman—whose civilian dress consisted of a black polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers—played with a glass of soda water. On his head was a knitted kippah instead of the usual velvet yarmulke or black hat. But because his hair was so short, the kippah could not be bobby-pinned on. It kept threatening to topple over any moment. Schnitman was in his early thirties, with a well-trimmed beard, an ashen pallor, and pale green eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. His features were small, as were his hands. Decker had met him while he was seated. He knew he was going to tower over Schnitman when they both stood up to say good-bye.