The number left on Decker’s cell phone belonged to Detective Mick Novack of the two-eight-the 28th Precinct. The conversation consisted of a five-minute recap, Decker explaining who he was and why he was here.

Novack said, “I just got all the paperwork I needed for searchin’ the vic’s apartment. Super’s gonna meet me there with the key, along with someone from the six-three. Betcha they’ll send Stan Gindi. The apartment’s in Flatbush. Wanna meet me there?”

“Sounds good. Where’s Flatbush?”

Dead space over the phone. Then Novack said, “It’s in Brooklyn. You heard of Brooklyn?”

“We have Brooklyn Bagel Company in Los Angeles.”

“Great. I’m working with a greener. Where are you calling from?”

“Quinton.”

“Quinton? What the hell you doing in Quinton?”

“I’ve just come from a visit with the vic’s family-his brother.”

“That’s right. So you’re upstate. You’ll still probably get there faster than me. I’m all the way uptown-Amsterdam and one sixty-two. Traffic’s a killer. Freaky Friday.” He gave Decker the address. “I don’t suppose you know how to get there… to Flatbush.”

“Nope. But my brother’s driving. He knows the place. He’s the vic’s brother-in-law.”

“The rabbi. Yeah, we talked to him yesterday. Seems like a nice guy. Except I heard he just hired a mouthpiece-Hershfield of all people.”

“That was on my advice. I told my brother to hire the best defense attorney around.”

“Your advice? What? You don’t trust us out here? C’mon. All of America loves New York’s finest.”

“Indeed they do. It’s nothing like that. I don’t know what’s going on. The family needs to be protected.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“The side of truth, justice, and the American way.”

“Another one from L.A. who thinks he’s Superman. I’ll give you the address. Got pencil and paper?”

“Yep.”

“A real pencil and paper?”

Decker paused. There was hostility in the man’s voice, but that was to be expected. They weren’t exactly adversaries, but right now, they weren’t colleagues, either. “Last time I checked they weren’t figments of my imagination.”

“It’s not a stupid question even though it seems like a stupid question. All you jokers from L.A. got these PalmPilots. One day, you’re gonna be caught in a thunderstorm and all your data’s gonna be fried to a crisp.”

The first detective whom Decker met was five-ten, stick-skinny, and bald with round brown eyes and a big red mustache. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt and a black tie. That was Gindi. Novack was a bit taller-around six feet and completely square. He had a broken boxer’s nose, wide, thick cheeks, and thick lips. His shoe polish-black hair was combed straight back revealing a dune’s worth of forehead, a deep brow, and hooded midnight blue eyes. His suit was dark blue, his shirt was white, and his tie was a dizzy pattern of thin red and blue stripes.

“I’m the resident Jewish detective for uptown,” Novack explained. “Anytime one of the Chasids or Israelis or Jews gets whacked in Manhattanville or its environs, it’s either me, or Marc Greenbaum, or Alan Josephs. They like a Jew for the Jews, just like they like a black to deal with the blacks, or a Puerto Rican with Puerto Ricans. Sometimes they might assign a Cuban to the Doms uptown. We have several Koreans with Koreans, and a couple of Taiwanese. We got a separate guy for Haitians. Over in Brooklyn, if it’s a Jew, it’s Steve Gold, or Ken Geraldnick, or Stan here. Am I right about this?”

“You are right,” Gindi concurred. “Not that I think that’s bad.”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

Gindi said, “We got quite a few Jewish cops in Brooklyn. I think more in Brooklyn than in the city. Course we got a high concentration of Jews in Brooklyn. Not so many where you are, Mick.”

“No, not so many, although all the West Side Jews keep on pushing the limits farther north. Then you go all the way north, you got the ones in Wash Heights. That’s why I was there this morning.”

“What happened this morning?” Gindi asked.

“Some discount jewelry store in my area was hit. The owner was a Chasid-took some lead in the ass of all places. Guy lives in Wash Heights. He won’t be making it to minyan tonight, but it coulda been lots worse.”

They were standing in front of a six-story flat-faced brick building that had been overlaid with soot. The sky’s cloud cover had thinned, but the air was still cold and acrid. The side street that Ephraim had called home was narrow and filled with potholes. The sidewalks were cracked with a red, gritty slush leaking from the crevices. Next to the building was a small dirt lot containing lots of garbage and several bare-branched saplings.

“What kind of area is this?” Decker asked. “Working class?”

“This particular area, yeah. Very Jewish, very religious. Not where his people live.” Novack cocked a finger in Gindi’s direction. “This guy here is Syrian. Flatbush has lots of Syrian Jews. They all got these strange names-Zolta, Dweck, Pardo, Bada, Adjini.”

“Flatbush has all sorts of Jews.”

“Yeah, but the Syrians… they know how to live, right?”

“You said it, Micky!”

Novack looked at his watch. “Jeez. Twelve-thirty. Where’s the super?”

“I have a key,” Jonathan announced.

“You’ve got a key?” Novack repeated.

“Yes, I have a key.”

“You mind opening up?” Gindi asked.

“Is that okay?” he asked Decker.

Decker said, “He has all the paperwork, Jon. You’re just speeding things along.”

“Then I’ll open up.”

Jonathan brought them to the building’s elevator, which barely contained the body mass let alone the weight. It moved in jerks and jumps, as slow as a slug. Ephraim lived down a dimly lit hallway, wafting with the faint odor of garbage and urine. His unit was number four, and the doorjamb had the requisite mezuzah. As the detectives pulled out their gloves, so did Decker, his still in the protective wrapping with the official LAPD seal.

“Whaddaya doing?” Novack asked. “Lieutenant or no lieutenant, you’re still a guest here. That means you and the rabbi watch.”

“I had no intention of touching anything,” Decker lied. “I’m just a careful man. Last thing we want to do is screw something up accidentally. Let’s go.”

“I sure hope you mean that,” Novack said.

“Detective, you’re being nice to me,” Decker said. “I appreciate it.”

Novack hesitated, then took the key from Jonathan and opened the door. As Jonathan walked across the threshold, he started to bring his fingers toward the mezuzah. Decker stopped him, and Novack caught it, nodding his thanks. Score a couple of brownie points for the greener from L.A.

Ephraim lived in a tiny one-bedroom, almost devoid of furniture. The living room area had a five-foot shopworn sofa, upholstered in faded green chenille. There was a small coffee table, its top made of plastic laminate designed to look like wood. It was peeling from age. On the table was a stack of magazines: Time on top, the others obscured. A mug sat to one side, the remaining coffee inside congealed and cold. Underneath the table was a shelf. There Decker saw a Jewish prayer book, a Jewish bible, and several works by Rav Menachem Kaplan. One was entitled The Jewish Soul, and the other was Saving the Jewish Soul. Across from the couch were two mismatched chairs pushed against the back wall, a pole lamp between them.

The dining area contained a square table with the top fashioned in ruby-colored linoleum that was meant to approximate marble; the legs were made from tubular steel. Four matching tubular steel chairs were placed around the table, the seats done in oxblood Naugahyde. It was probably an original 1950s table, and probably worth more than its original sale price.