“You grew.”

“I always was a late bloomer.” Donatti wore loose clothing—a black T-shirt over khaki cargo pants, the pockets bulging—probably filled with photographic paraphernalia and, no doubt, a state-of-theart piece. His feet were housed in black suede running shoes. He was still blocking the door, staring at Decker. “I need to pat you down.”

“I made it through security.”

“I need to pat you down,” Donatti repeated.

The child/guard was on his feet, his right hand on his hip. His face may have looked young, but his eyes reflected pure business. “Can I be of assistance, Mr. Donatti?”

“Thanks, Justin, but this one’s mine.” Donatti gave the girl his camera, then turned to Decker. “The position?”

Without protest, Decker faced the wall, leaning forward on his arms. It was natural for Donatti to assume that Decker was wearing a wire or carrying a gun—something for defense. As it was, Decker was putty, nothing but his brain for protection. Donatti was thorough with the frisk—front and back, up and down, inside and out. He went through Decker’s pockets, sorted through his credit cards and personal identification. From his wallet, the kid pulled out the one lone photograph Decker was carrying—the recent snapshot of Jacob.

Donatti showed him the photo. “This is the only picture you carry?”

“My son gave it to me a couple of days ago. Normally, I don’t carry any pictures of my family.”

“Protective?”

“A lot of people resent me.” Decker smiled.

Donatti’s face was flat. He stared at the snapshot. “He’s the image of your wife.”

Decker’s stomach did a little dance. He didn’t respond and tried to look unimpressed.

“Am I wrong?” Donatti said.

“No, not at all.”

Donatti returned the picture to Decker’s wallet, placed it back into the jacket pocket. He rummaged through the rest of Decker’s jacket, fishing out the envelope that held the crime-scene photos.

It gave him pause.

Carefully, he scrutinized them, studying them one by one. Again he stopped when he got to the photo of Ephraim with Shaynda. Though his eyes were fixed on the faces, his expression was completely blank. Abruptly, he placed the snapshots back in the envelope and slipped the whole package back into Decker’s pocket. Then he stepped away from the door. “Okay. You can come in.”

The loft was enormous, with vaulted ceilings, and large, dusty windows letting in filtered light. Each window had a shade on it—some were rolled up, some drawn. The floor was made from old planks of cherry wood, scuffed but still intact. Most of the studio was empty space, except for a bank of built-in cabinets underneath the windows, a weight rack, a cello case next to a backless chair, and the actual shooting area. Here was the place of action: a jumble of prop boxes, numerous hanging backdrops, several differently colored carpets, chairs, tables, and lighting accessories. There were umbrellas, tripods, reflectors, and spots—all of them positioned around the main stage.

There was music in the background—something classical but atonal and avant-garde which Decker didn’t recognize. It was very low-pitched like whispered conversation. Two young boys—probably teenagers—were rearranging props and photographic equipment, pulling things in and out of boxes and bags. They were flitting around the center stage and its main occupant—a naked girl wearing spiked heels on her feet and a boa around her neck. Her blond hair was pinned, but in disarray. She wore little makeup—lipstick, a spot of blush. Big blue eyes were taking him in.