“Nobody’s gonna admit to having a fifteen-year-old. The jail time for that kind of shit is very bad. The young ones need someone with real clout who can hide them from the cops and protect them from the johns. Not a lot of pimps want to be bothered with the hassle with so many eighteen-year-olds willing to do the job. Plus, you add that the kid may be running from a murder… who wants that kinda heat?”

Decker nodded.

“It must be the same in L.A.”

“Yeah, although I’m not a Vice cop. Never have been. Did Juvenile for six years. Lots of sad cases.”

“Then you probably know more about it than me. Where’d you find the kids?”

“The patrol officers were the ones who usually found them. Lots of times the kids were starving and diseased. Sometimes they came into the police station on their own, asking for protection or asking us to act as an agent between their parents and them. You know, help them get rid of the abusive boyfriend or stepfather.”

“Yeah, it’s the same all over.”

“I know some spots in L.A. And if I don’t know the spots directly, I have people I can talk to. Here, in Manhattan, I’m in the dark.”

It was close to eleven with the mercury dropping by the moment. Still, the sidewalks held hives of people marching at a clipped pace, the mist of warm breath producing as much cloud cover as the skies. About half the shops were still open, and those that were closed stood locked but not caged in by metal bars and grates-a change from the last time Decker was here. In the street, headlights and taillights were haloed circles of red and white.

Novack said, “I don’t know much about the pimp scene here. But I do know someone who does. If you really think that maybe Shayndie went that route, lemme call him up.”

“I don’t know what route she took,” Decker said. “I’m grasping at straws because I’m running out of time.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Monday… or maybe even Tuesday.” Rina was going to make fun of him. He could hear her in his head. Should I change the tickets now, Peter? “But only if we’re getting somewhere.”

“We’re getting somewhere?”

Decker smiled. “Only if I think I might be able to help you, Detective Novack.”

“Ah, much better.” Novack smiled. “All right. Since you’re under a time crunch, I’ll see if we can meet with him tomorrow morning.”

“That would be great. Because otherwise…” Decker threw up his hands. “It could be she left the city… that she’s in Quinton. Cops over there said they’d look again, but the chief of the Quinton Police didn’t sound too hopeful. Actually, he wasn’t at all helpful.”

“Who’d you talk to?”

“Virgil Merrin.”

Novack shrugged. “Don’t know him. We’re our own country out here.”

“I’m beginning to realize that. Do you think we can meet with your guy early tomorrow morning?”

“Early? Like how early?”

“Eight, nine.”

“Now, that I don’t know. He’s Irish. Saturday night is pub night.”

“Tell him if he meets me at eight, I’ll buy him a case of his favorite beer.”

Novack nodded. “Lieutenant Decker, that just may be the right incentive.”

Ephraim Lieber had met his end just blocks away from the 28th hub precinct, in a blighted tenement to the west of Harlem. It was a neighborhood of elevated train tracks and chain-link fences that surrounded weed-choked lots, a vicinity with enough space to hold auto-repair shops, car washes, and a slew of one-story fast-food joints that could have easily been transplanted into Decker’s native L.A. turf. Exterior fire escapes hugged grime-coated brick buildings like scaffolding. Still, as Decker drove through the streets, he saw the possibilities. Old, wonderful-albeit graffitied-brownstones with great bone structure. And there was Riverside Park, a stretch of trees, foliage, and gardens that snuggled against the Hudson, an oasis replete with benches and jogging pathways. It began around 72nd and continued uptown until about 120th, ending several blocks away from the two-eight. The park, developed in the 1940s and 1950s atop railroad tracks, served as a botanical reminder of what had probably flourished before Manhattan became the isle of asphalt and skyscrapers.

The precinct was two stories of raw concrete that must have been raked with combs while the cement was drying. Entrance inside was through steel double doors that looked not only solid but also bulletproof. Decker took three steps down, and stood in front of a bright blue horseshoe-shaped desk manned by a black woman in uniform. To Decker’s right was a glass case filled with the precinct’s sports trophies; to his left were a couple of offices and a row of bolted lime green plastic chairs, the sole occupant being a sleeping homeless person of indeterminate gender curled up as tightly as a potato bug.

As Decker approached the desk, Novack was bounding down a set of steps.

“Hey. Right on time. Up here.”

Decker followed Novack upstairs.

“How you doin’?” Micky asked.

“Fine.”

“Good. I got him to come, but it wasn’t easy.”

“I owe you.”

“Yeah. Right.” Novack led him past a cubby used as the squad-room secretary’s office. “Welcome to the two-eight. It ain’t an architectural showpiece, but we do have a nice view of the gas station.”

Except for one other man, the place was empty-one of the advantages of working Sunday morning. The area given over to the gold shields was cramped, a maze of waist-high cubicles stuffed with standard-issue metal desks, functional chairs, and basic computers. The walls were whitewashed cinder block, the water-streaked ceiling held dim fluorescent lighting, and the flooring was composed of white crushed-rock tile scuffed dirt gray. There were a few stabs of humanity, courtesy of several desktops holding wilting potted plants or an occasional child’s homemade ceramic mug or paperweight, some scattered personal pictures. The majority of the domain, of course, was given over to business.

Papers abounded.

Loose-leaf sheaves were piled high on any flat surface that would hold them, or posted chockablock on bulletin boards. They spilled out of file cabinets and from plastic bins that also contained thick wads of forms and reports. Street maps were taped to the wall, dotted with crimes that had been coded by different-colored pins. There were two interview rooms and between their peacock blue doors was a bulletin board overlaid with police sketches of felons at large.

One particular printed poster caught Decker’s eye. It showed the American flag, the caption reading: THESE COLORS DON’T RUN. Below the poster was another bulletin board filled with snapshots of bleeding, ash-covered officers from September 11.

Novack caught him staring. “You know, being in the Job, you think you’ve seen it all.”

Decker let out a wry laugh. “Guess what?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Novack pointed to the room’s other occupant. “That’s Brian Cork from Vice standing over my desk. Hey, Bri, say hello to Lieutenant Decker.”

Cork looked up. “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’.”

They gathered at Novack’s desk. Cork appeared to be in his forties, around five-ten, with big shoulders and a growing beer gut. Around the chest and arms, he was a mound of muscle. If the precinct had a football team, these guys would have been perfect ends. Cork had a round, ruddy face, with thin, almost bloodless lips and pug features. He also had a broken nose perched on his face like a pattypan squash. He was scanning through the postmortem pictures of Ephraim.

He said, “So you’re a lieutenant in L.A?”

“Yep.”

“What are you doing out here, messing with this trash?”

“I was wangled into coming out here to be the translator for the cops. The vic was a brother-in-law to my brother. I told him I’d poke around. I was just telling Micky that I think I’ve outlived my usefulness. Even the family is sick of my face. Pretty good trick since I’ve only been here for two days.”