“For me as well. I was in Lebanon toward the end, so the fighting wasn’t as fierce. Still, it was right after the Berlin Wall fell and the Soviet Union was still a presence. Between the USSR and Syria and Iran, Hezbollah was very well armed. Lots of border skirmishes. They kept me up north for a while … near Ma’alot, where Arafat—yemach sh’mo—and his Fatah thugs shot up a busload of schoolchildren on a field trip. So tension was high but not nearly as bad as Gaza. I was there for six months, dodging booby traps from Hamas and the PLO, trying to prevent them from blowing up civilians. It wasn’t as bad as today—for some stupid reason, the world thinks it wise to arm the PLO—but it had its moments.”

He paused, then gave a half smile to Decker.

“Upon reflection, with all that’s going on in the world, this is not so terrible.”

“It’s all perspective, my man.” Decker shook his head. What crazy times! “Your car’s going to be impounded. I’ll make sure a cruiser takes you home. You have any other source of transportation for getting to work?”

“A bike. I’m fine down the hill. Up is not so good.”

Decker smiled. “Call a cab and go rent a car tomorrow. I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed one way or the other. Wait outside. I’ll go in and send around a black-and-white for you.”

“I’d like to wait for Cindy.”

“She really is going to be tied up for hours. I’ll take care of her.” Decker clenched his jaw. “Believe me, Koby, I’ll take good care of her—of both of you.”

Koby eyed him. “You’re not a man to cross.”

“I’m very protective of my children.”

“I’m sure that is true, Lieutenant Decker. Still, I wait for Cindy.”

Decker regarded the face—the determined eyes, the stubborn mouth. He wasn’t going to budge until he saw her. Decker had thought Koby was decent. Seeing how he reacted in a crisis improved the impression considerably.

“How about this? How about if I get her so she can say goodbye to you?”

“I will wait all night for her. But I go when she says okay. How does that sound?”

Decker nodded. “Fair enough. I’m cold. Let’s go back inside.”

The coffee sat in my stomach like battery acid—a combination of fatigue and neurotransmitters racing through my system. I had gone over the events about a dozen times. By the look on Justice Brill’s face, he still wasn’t satisfied. Both he and Lieutenant Stone were being gentlemanly, but I had the distinct feeling they were sick of my face.

Brill said, “So it was what? An ’80s Nova … ’90s?”

“Around 1990,” I answered. “Bronze paint but peeling. Primer around the driver’s door. Illegally darkened windows. I seem to recall a dented front bumper and grille.”

“You shot out the hood?”

“I’m pretty sure I hit it. It was smoking pretty bad when the car finally peeled off.”