“Just don’t mess up anything, all right? Vice don’t like to look stupid.”

“I hear you.”

But the tension held fast. Neither spoke until Cork came back several minutes later holding a piece of paper. “It’s not too far from here, ’bout fifteen blocks uptown. I forget if it’s between Riverside Drive and Broadway or just east of Broadway.”

“I’ll find it.”

Cork handed Decker the slip of paper. “Something’s not computing. You know more about Donatti than you’re letting on.”

“C.D. spent some time in California. We crossed paths.”

“Ah!” Cork said. “History or no history, you’re wasting your time. Even if he’s there, he won’t talk to you.”

That very well could be the case. Except that Decker had a weapon that obviously the cops didn’t know about. “Maybe one of his girls will talk.”

“Pshhh.” The detective waved him off. “Nah, they don’t talk. I know ’cause I’ve tried. Whatever hold Donatti’s got on ’em is a choke hold.”

11

Rina would have killed him; Novack—if he had known the entire story—would have blasted him for going it solo. It was irresponsible; it was dangerous; it was just plain stupid. It was all those things because C.D. was a stone-cold psycho, C.D. was a killer, and C.D. hated his guts. Yet Decker gave himself a pat on the back for being a trusting soul, facing the kid without so much as a nail file for defense. But it was more than trust. After seven years of serving as a lieutenant, directing his charges, and pushing paper rather than solving crimes, Decker was buzzed with the thrill of action. Except for several exceptional cases, he had been a prisoner of his own success, trapped behind a desk, his reflexes slowed with age and atrophy.

What kind of reception he would get, Decker didn’t bother to contemplate. As long as Chris didn’t shoot him on the spot, anything else would be okay.

Going by foot, he discovered that the area looked closer on the map than it did in person. By the time he found the place, it was ten-thirty in the morning. C.D.’s building was uptown, six stories of dilapidated brick material several blocks away from potentially lovely brownstones. But it had a lobby with the entrance door locked tight. There were buttons that corresponded to the various units—twenty in all. The fifth and sixth floors were taken up by one tenant: MMO Enterprises. Since C.D. supposedly owned the building and used it as his studio, Decker tried that button first. It rang several times; then to his surprise, a woman responded over the intercom, “MMO.”

“Police,” Decker said.

A momentary delay, and then a loud buzz, one that allowed him to come into the building. He took the stairs up five flights and stepped out into the corridor. There was a single door to the left, marked with the number 13. He pushed another button, and again was buzzed in. He immediately stepped through a metal detector. Of course he set it off.