The outside air held imminent frost, the ground beneath Decker’s feet cold and hard. The skies were a lighter gray than yesterday, the tufts of clay-colored cotton drifting through the ether, muting glare from the sun. All day, blue was on the verge of breaking through but never made it past the cloudy barrier. He rocked on his toes, trying to get circulation into his bones. His shoes had worn soles, and his dress socks were California thin. Hands crammed into his pockets, he gave a quick glimpse to his surroundings.

In the distance was a playground with toddlers climbing on gym equipment or running in bulky sweaters and coats, frantic nannies and housekeepers jogging to keep pace with the rambunctious youngsters. There were more nannies and housekeepers pushing strollers along the undulating paths that cut through the park. Children were trekking through the park on their way home from school. The baseball field was empty. The basketball courts held a couple of lively games.

Idyllic in a way, except Decker knew teenagers: For them, peace and quiet were code names for mind-numbingly boring. Adolescents needed action, excitement, and stimulation. When the hometown didn’t provide it, kids went elsewhere. Even a parochial kid like Shayndie found herself sneaking out at night to attend “forbidden” parties.

Not that it was relevant now. From the closed religious community of Quinton to the predatory claws of Donatti, it had been one hell of a downhill ride for the young girl.

Decker’s chest was still tight from last night’s confrontation with the Young Turk. But even the gun to the head was easier to deal with than Jacob on a bad day. His stepson, several months shy of eighteen, had given him excellent training in self-control. All Decker wanted was to bring the girl back and get the hell out of here. What started out as excitement had quickly turned to a gladiator fight of wits and wiles with a psycho. It would be round three tonight…another round or two before he could secure the girl.

What would he have to give Donatti to get Shaynda?

Standing fifty feet to his left was a trio of Hispanics. There were two somber, dark-eyed women, their faces slathered with makeup, their hair coiffed with lots of air and teasing. Both of them were garbed in black pantsuits and overcoats. With the two ladies was a mustachioed man with slicked-back hair. The gent was about fifty and had donned an out-of-date black suit, a white shirt, and a narrow black tie. Clearly, they had come for Ephraim’s funeral, but who were they?

Decker went over to find out. As he approached, the buzz of under-tone Spanish disappeared until he was left with intruded-upon silence. He thought about speaking in their native tongue, but nixed the idea. He didn’t want to appear like the know-it-all, condescending Anglo.

“I’m from out of town,” Decker tried out. “Are you friends of Mr. Lieber?”

“I work for him,” answered the older man. He was heavyset, his black hair streaked with gray. His accent was thick.