“There could be more than one,” Decker said.

“True,” Golding answered. “Either way, I want to find out who Isaac Golding really was. So I’ve come to you.”

It was Rina—the daughter of concentration-camp survivors—who offered him absolution. “It’s past history. Does it really matter, Mr. Golding?”

He looked up. “Please call me Carter…and yes, it does matter. In a few days, I will bury my…my boy…”

He threw his palms over his face and wept, heart-wrenching sobs that were painful to witness. Rina and Decker had no choice but to wait him out.

Finally, Golding said, “Nothing…no pain can compare to that. There is nothing you can do or say or tell me that will hurt worse than that. You cannot even hope to understand my pain, but as parents, you can…maybe imagine it.”

Decker noticed that Rina was silently crying. What was she thinking about? The unimaginable horror of losing a child? Her own set of baggage that included the death of a husband to cancer, the murder of a dear friend, and an untimely hysterectomy?

“So nothing you could tell me could be worse,” Golding said. “My father’s past is a mystery to me, and was a mystery to my son. I’d like to find out about it…to honor Ernesto. It was of interest to him, and I shut him down. Now I owe it to him to find out the truth.”

Decker was impassive.

Golding said, “You don’t think I should do it?”

“You’re whipping yourself,” Decker said. “You don’t have to do that. You were a wonderful, caring father. I know that because Ernesto told me that.”

Water streamed down his cheeks. “I was a good father.” He nodded vigorously. “I was. I spent time with my children. I did my best. I wasn’t perfect, but I tried.” Again, Golding blew his nose. “But I owe this to my son’s memory. And…I’d be lying if I didn’t say…it would…complete something inside of me.” His eyes met Decker’s. “I don’t know how to do it, though. You’re a detective. I thought that maybe you could help. Maybe you know someone who specializes in that kind of thing.”

Decker ran fingers through his mussed hair. “I know a few private detectives, but they’re not genealogists. Plus, they’re expensive—”

“Money isn’t an issue.”

“There are no guarantees,” Decker said.

“There never are. I know that better than anyone.”

Rina said, “Where was your father born?”

Golding regarded her. “Somewhere in Eastern Europe. He never mentioned a specific place. You cannot believe how closemouthed he was.”

Decker took a moment to digest that. “Does he have any living relatives?”

“All gone,” Golding said. “My grandparents died when I was quite young. There was also a sister…my aunt. She never married. She died when I was about ten.”