The anonymous complainer could have been anyone from Chaim to the cops, even Donatti, who used Hershfield as his lawyer. And if it were Chris, maybe Hershfield was using the Liebers to deflect the heat off him. Decker said nothing.

“Anything else?” Hershfield asked.

“Yes, actually there is something else. First time we met, you asked my brother about Mr. Lieber’s stores as a pass-through for money-laundering drug dollars. Do you know something that I don’t?”

“Lieutenant, if you want to work from that angle, it’s fine with me.”

“I don’t need your permission.”

“No, Decker, you don’t.” Hershfield’s face had tightened, the skin over his bony cheeks taut and dry. “Look, murder is a terrible thing. And I’m devastated about the young girl. Really, I am. But until she’s found—one way or another—the Lieber family has to be protected. That’s why you hired me. And that’s what I’m trying to do. Which is why I’ve instructed the family members not to talk to you until we know what’s going on.”

Decker stared at him.

“It’s for their own good,” Hershfield went on. “I know that you’ve got a job to do, Lieutenant, but so do I.”

“You’re shutting me down.”

“No, Lieutenant, I’m being a very good defense attorney.” Another flick of the wrist.

Decker stood. “Don’t bother. I’m going.”

“Lieutenant, don’t be so bitter. I heard that you had a very nice Shabbos. That your sons came in to visit you for the weekend and your family was together. Think of that as the purpose of your trip.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He smiled. “Thanks for your time, Counselor.”

“It’s no problem.”

Decker closed the door behind him, thinking there were only a select number of people who knew the specifics of his Shabbos, but only two of them who would have a reason to contact Hershfield. It was unlikely that Jonathan would have shut him down, so it was down to Raisie. The question was, did she call Hershfield on her own, or was she her brother’s agent?

The larger question was, what did it matter?

He shouldn’t be here. He should be where he was wanted, in Gainesville, doing something meaningful, like helping his old man rebuild the toolshed and fixing the plumbing for his aged mother. Instead, he was doing favors that no one appreciated.

No more Mr. Nice Guy.

To hell with Quinton.

To hell with all of them.

13

His stomach was growling, matching his feral mood, but Decker had no one to blame but himself. If anything, Hershfield had been forthcoming. He was doing what he’d been hired to do. Getting representation had been Decker’s idea. He’d been hoist on his own petard.

Outside the building, he called the Lazaruses’ number to speak with Rina, but she had gone out shopping. Just as well. He was too angry to be good company. Still, he missed her. He began to walk aimlessly, looking for a simple place to fight off hunger pangs. That was easier said than done. Lots of the restaurants in the area weren’t open for lunch on Sunday, and those that were looked too ritzy for his blood. He finally settled on a small café on Third Avenue squashed between a flower shop and a Korean fruit vendor. The salad was mediocre—saturated with a garlicky dressing that had wilted the lettuce. Decker took a few bites, then gave up. There was a pastry shop a few doors down that looked pretty good. He tamed his groaning belly with an apple croissant and a double espresso.