Decker averted his gaze, electing to look at his shoes.

All his girls are legit.

She was probably eighteen, but she was made up to look around fourteen.

Wordlessly, Donatti started fiddling with the background tripod that held an electronic flash. “Go on.”

“Are you talking to me?” Decker asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you mind if we talk in private?”

“Getting distracted, Lieutenant?”

“Distracted is a good word.”

“Hey, you said it was important. I figured we can talk while I work.” He regarded Decker’s eyes, his face cold and expressionless. “But if you want to talk to me alone, you’ll have to wait.”

“How long?”

“Beats me. But you can sit if you want. You can even take a cup of coffee.”

Decker’s eyes swept across the room. There was a coffeepot resting on top of one of the cabinets. He walked over, poured himself a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, and looked around for a chair.

Donatti said, “Matt, get the lieutenant a box to sit on.”

One of the young boys snapped to it, bringing Decker a wooden crate. Decker thanked him, then watched Donatti pose the girl while trying not to stare too hard. Donatti positioned her, head back and legs apart. Then he nudged a reflector upward with his toe. “Up… up. Like this, okay?”

Matt nodded, gripping the silver surface.

Donatti took a lens out of his pants pocket and switched it with the one in his camera. “Keep the damn thing up!” Again he kicked the reflector. “Like that! Jesus! Reading?”

The other young boy held up an exposure meter. A flash went off and the boy gave Donatti some numbers.

The two assistants appeared almost prepubescent—narrow-hipped and narrow-shouldered, without any signs of facial hair. One was of dark skin—Latino or Puerto Rican—the other was Anglo. Both had long, silken hair—perfect chicken-hawk material. Decker wondered if Chris was swinging both ways, or at the very least pimping both ways. The boys were all work and showed no interest in the young girl, who was the center of attention—licking her lips provocatively as she parted her legs, her eyes on Decker.

Again Decker looked at his feet. “Nice place,” he said absently.

“Like it? I own the building.”

“Very entrepreneurial, Chris.”

“I like business. It suits me.” Donatti did a slow turn and faced Decker with lightless eyes. “By the way, I called you Lieutenant. That means you call me Mr. Donatti.”

“I stand corrected.”

Donatti went over to the center and peered through the camera. “Matt, you got to lift up the reflector around an inch… yeah, there. Richie, you want to kick up that back light, I’m getting a nasty shadow… to the left. That’s good. Hold out the meter.”

A flash went off.

“Reading?”

Richie gave him the numbers. Donatti was not happy. He played with the lights, the umbrella, and the reflectors. As his frustration increased, Donatti’s assistants seemed to grow more and more anxious, exhibiting nervous twitches. There was no attempt at camaraderie. It was Mr. Donatti this, and Mr. Donatti that. Finally, the conditions met with Chris’s approval, and Donatti started snapping, talking the girl through it as he worked. He was fast and furious, dripping with sweat under the hot lights. The model was also sweating profusely. He worked continually for about five minutes; then without warning, Donatti stopped, swore, picked up a spray bottle of ice water, and blasted it over the young girl’s chest and vagina.