In front of him was a girl who couldn’t have been over fifteen.

“There’s a bucket for your keys and wallet and anything else you might have that would cause it to go off. Could you please step back and try it again?”

Decker followed her instructions, picking up his personal effects on the other side. There was a lad sitting by the girl’s side, reading a magazine. He was of slight build, but maybe he only appeared that way because he was wearing an oversize Hawaiian shirt. Decker couldn’t see the outline of a gun, but he was sure it was there. The boy/man’s eyes traveled to Decker’s.

The girl said, “Can I help you, Officer?”

She was dressed for efficiency—a black suit, with her hair tied back in a ponytail. No makeup. Her hands were as smooth as a baby’s, nails clipped short and no polish.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Donatti, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Her eyes never wavered from his.

“No, but it’s important.” He showed her his gold shield and ID.

The guard put down the magazine and gave Decker a hard stare. Decker answered him back with a smile. The girl exchanged glances with the guard. He nodded.

She said, “Hold on a moment, sir.” She picked up a phone and punched in several numbers.

“Mr. Donatti, I’m very sorry to disturb you, but there’s a policeman here.”

She stopped talking. Decker couldn’t hear Donatti’s response.

The girl said, “May I see your identification and badge again?”

“Certainly.”

“It’s Lieutenant Peter Deck—”

“Son of a bitch!”

That, Decker heard. He staved off a smile. The girl hung up the phone, with a slightly bemused look on her face. “He’s in the middle of a shoot. You must really rate.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Decker smiled, realizing that there wasn’t as much as a stool for him to sit on. Not much space for excess furniture anyway. It was a nondescript area with cream-colored blank walls and barely enough room for the receptionist and guard. Chris probably didn’t get much company.

With Donatti, a few minutes actually meant a few minutes. The interior door opened, and there he was. No longer the lanky heartthrob of a teen, Christopher Whitman Donatti, at twenty-six, now cut a big swath. He was broad across the chest, with massive arms and developed biceps. His left hand gripped a Hasselblad that looked like a toy in his fingers. He was clean shaven, his abundant blond locks shorn just a step away from a buzz cut. A lean, long face contained high cheekbones and a wide forehead, with ruddy skin that wasn’t weathered but did hold some seams. He had a strong jawline, not chiseled but more manly than boyish. Generous lips that protected straight white teeth. Noticeable large blue eyes: ice-colored with no reflective quality whatsoever. What was the opposite of luminous?

Decker and his six-foot-four frame had always faced Chris eye-toeye. For the first time, he sensed his line of vision moving upward.