“I hide behind her skirt,” he whispered. “It’s emasculating!”

“Fuck that!” Decker told him. “You helped my little girl! To me, you’ve got a fine set of baytzim in your jeans, and right now I’m the only one you have to impress. The rest is bullshit!”

Koby looked at him. “You know Hebrew.”

“Selected words.”

“I should be talking to the detectives, not her.”

“Koby, she’d still be talking to them because she’s the cop.” Patience, Decker told himself. “She did the right thing. But even if she was wrong—and she’s not—but even if she was, it’s too late. So let’s move on, okay?”

He rubbed his forehead. “What next?”

“First let me ask you a couple of questions,” Decker said. “Why was she driving your car?”

“We switched places after she noticed the tail. She said she knew how to pop the clutch to get maximum pickup if we have to make a quick exit. I think she wanted to drive, so I don’t argue.” Koby ran a finger across the hammered metal dash. “Over the years, I’ve found it is not so good to argue with women you like.”

“I’ll second that.”

“I really, really like”—he regarded Decker—“I love her, Lieutenant. I cannot tell her no.”

Decker smiled. “You’re in trouble, guy.”

“I know. It is not good to feel so strong about a woman.” Koby leaned forward onto the dash and regarded the empty street scene. “Ye-isat gize. What can I do? I am weak.”

To be in love was to be weak. … Cultural differences … or maybe not. Decker gave him a pat on the back. “Had you ever fired a handgun before?”

“I was in the army.”

“Ah, right. They might paraffin you.”

“I washed my hands with soap up to the elbows.” He sat back in the seat and stared upward. “Cindy told me to do it.”

“She’s my daughter, all right.” Decker organized his thoughts. “Now that I know what went on, I can help her. You did the right thing.”

Koby blew out air. “She will be mad that I told you.”

“She’ll get over it. You did what was best for her.”

“I hope you are right.”

“I know I’m right. I don’t tell you how to administer CPR, you don’t tell me about LAPD.” Decker paused. “Actually, I could tell you how to administer CPR. I was a medic in Vietnam.”

Koby turned to him. “I was a medic, too.”

“How old were you when you went in?”

“Seventeen.”

“A youngster. I was nineteen. Two years?”

“In Israel, the service is three years for boys, two for girls. It was bad over there in Vietnam, no?”

“Yes, it was very bad.”

“You were in combat?”

“Yes. My tour ended right before the Easter offensive. I wasn’t in the front lines, although they usually sent us with the infantry in teams of six to eight men. I did dustoffs—rode the chopper in, then evacuated the wounded after the raids. It could have been worse.”