“Thanks, Justin, but this one’s mine.” Donatti gave the girl his camera, then turned to Decker. “The position?”

Without protest, Decker faced the wall, leaning forward on his arms. It was natural for Donatti to assume that Decker was wearing a wire or carrying a gun-something for defense. As it was, Decker was putty, nothing but his brain for protection. Donatti was thorough with the frisk-front and back, up and down, inside and out. He went through Decker’s pockets, sorted through his credit cards and personal identification. From his wallet, the kid pulled out the one lone photograph Decker was carrying-the recent snapshot of Jacob.

Donatti showed him the photo. “This is the only picture you carry?”

“My son gave it to me a couple of days ago. Normally, I don’t carry any pictures of my family.”

“Protective?”

“A lot of people resent me.” Decker smiled.

Donatti’s face was flat. He stared at the snapshot. “He’s the image of your wife.”

Decker’s stomach did a little dance. He didn’t respond and tried to look unimpressed.

“Am I wrong?” Donatti said.

“No, not at all.”

Donatti returned the picture to Decker’s wallet, placed it back into the jacket pocket. He rummaged through the rest of Decker’s jacket, fishing out the envelope that held the crime-scene photos.

It gave him pause.

Carefully, he scrutinized them, studying them one by one. Again he stopped when he got to the photo of Ephraim with Shaynda. Though his eyes were fixed on the faces, his expression was completely blank. Abruptly, he placed the snapshots back in the envelope and slipped the whole package back into Decker’s pocket. Then he stepped away from the door. “Okay. You can come in.”

The loft was enormous, with vaulted ceilings, and large, dusty windows letting in filtered light. Each window had a shade on it-some were rolled up, some drawn. The floor was made from old planks of cherry wood, scuffed but still intact. Most of the studio was empty space, except for a bank of built-in cabinets underneath the windows, a weight rack, a cello case next to a backless chair, and the actual shooting area. Here was the place of action: a jumble of prop boxes, numerous hanging backdrops, several differently colored carpets, chairs, tables, and lighting accessories. There were umbrellas, tripods, reflectors, and spots-all of them positioned around the main stage.

There was music in the background-something classical but atonal and avant-garde which Decker didn’t recognize. It was very low-pitched like whispered conversation. Two young boys-probably teenagers-were rearranging props and photographic equipment, pulling things in and out of boxes and bags. They were flitting around the center stage and its main occupant-a naked girl wearing spiked heels on her feet and a boa around her neck. Her blond hair was pinned, but in disarray. She wore little makeup-lipstick, a spot of blush. Big blue eyes were taking him in.

Decker averted his gaze, electing to look at his shoes.

All his girls are legit.

She was probably eighteen, but she was made up to look around fourteen.

Wordlessly, Donatti started fiddling with the background tripod that held an electronic flash. “Go on.”

“Are you talking to me?” Decker asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you mind if we talk in private?”

“Getting distracted, Lieutenant?”

“Distracted is a good word.”

“Hey, you said it was important. I figured we can talk while I work.” He regarded Decker’s eyes, his face cold and expressionless. “But if you want to talk to me alone, you’ll have to wait.”

“How long?”

“Beats me. But you can sit if you want. You can even take a cup of coffee.”

Decker’s eyes swept across the room. There was a coffeepot resting on top of one of the cabinets. He walked over, poured himself a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, and looked around for a chair.

Donatti said, “Matt, get the lieutenant a box to sit on.”

One of the young boys snapped to it, bringing Decker a wooden crate. Decker thanked him, then watched Donatti pose the girl while trying not to stare too hard. Donatti positioned her, head back and legs apart. Then he nudged a reflector upward with his toe. “Up… up. Like this, okay?”

Matt nodded, gripping the silver surface.

Donatti took a lens out of his pants pocket and switched it with the one in his camera. “Keep the damn thing up!” Again he kicked the reflector. “Like that! Jesus! Reading?”

The other young boy held up an exposure meter. A flash went off and the boy gave Donatti some numbers.

The two assistants appeared almost prepubescent-narrow-hipped and narrow-shouldered, without any signs of facial hair. One was of dark skin-Latino or Puerto Rican-the other was Anglo. Both had long, silken hair-perfect chicken-hawk material. Decker wondered if Chris was swinging both ways, or at the very least pimping both ways. The boys were all work and showed no interest in the young girl, who was the center of attention-licking her lips provocatively as she parted her legs, her eyes on Decker.

Again Decker looked at his feet. “Nice place,” he said absently.

“Like it? I own the building.”

“Very entrepreneurial, Chris.”

“I like business. It suits me.” Donatti did a slow turn and faced Decker with lightless eyes. “By the way, I called you Lieutenant. That means you call me Mr. Donatti.”

“I stand corrected.”

Donatti went over to the center and peered through the camera. “Matt, you got to lift up the reflector around an inch… yeah, there. Richie, you want to kick up that back light, I’m getting a nasty shadow… to the left. That’s good. Hold out the meter.”

A flash went off.

“Reading?”

Richie gave him the numbers. Donatti was not happy. He played with the lights, the umbrella, and the reflectors. As his frustration increased, Donatti’s assistants seemed to grow more and more anxious, exhibiting nervous twitches. There was no attempt at camaraderie. It was Mr. Donatti this, and Mr. Donatti that. Finally, the conditions met with Chris’s approval, and Donatti started snapping, talking the girl through it as he worked. He was fast and furious, dripping with sweat under the hot lights. The model was also sweating profusely. He worked continually for about five minutes; then without warning, Donatti stopped, swore, picked up a spray bottle of ice water, and blasted it over the young girl’s chest and vagina.

The model shrieked. “God-”

“I know it’s cold,” Donatti told her. “It can’t be helped.” He tossed her a cold pack. “Put it over your hot spot.”

“Huh?”

Donatti marched over to her and slapped the cold pack on her vagina. “Hold it. And stop looking angry. You’re supposed to be a fantasy, and fantasies don’t look like they sucked on lemons. If the men I sell to wanted that expression, they’d fuck their wives.”

“It’s freezing,” she whined.

“Just hold it and stop bitching.” He turned to Decker. “Ice shrinks the membranes down. It makes for a prettier picture. I gotta get air-conditioning in this place. Not only would I be more comfortable, but it would also keep the nipples erect.”

“It’s cold outside,” Decker commented.

“The windows don’t open. Security.” He turned back to the model. “Okay, you can take it away… good. Now give it to me, Tina. C’mon, baby, make your moves.”

She began to pose in a provocative manner while Donatti snapped away, then stopped again. He growled, “You keep sweating.”

“I can’t help it!”

He sighed. “If you can’t beat ’em…” He went over to one of the cardboard boxes and started pulling out props. He chose a sweatband, a pair of sneakers, socks with pom-poms, and a calculator. He tossed her the accessories. “Put those on. We’ll go for the fucked cheerleader look, all right?”

She took off the black spiked heels, put on the socks, then tried to put on the sneakers. “They’re too small.”