Real voyeurs. A damned exhibition. Wbere the hell was the mother?

Malkovsky started praying, something familiar-Avi had heard it before but couldn't place it.

The girl sobbed. He put his hand on her shoulder and she jerked away.

He told Malkovsky to stay put, kept his eye on Sheindel, and went to the door of the Malkovsky apartment. The wife opened the door before he'd finished the first knock; she'd been waiting behind it all the time.

She just stood there, staring at him. Her hair was long and blond-first time he'd ever seen it uncovered. 'Come outside," Avi told her.

She walked out slowly, as if sleepwalking. Looked at her husband and began cursing him in Yiddish.

Well, listen to that, thought Avi-piece of shit, whore-master-he wouldn't have thought a religious one knew words like that.

"Bayla, please," said Malkovsky. "Help me."

His wife walked over to him, smiled at Avi, then began kicking the fat man violently in the ribs.

Malkovsky bellowed with pain, squirmed helplessly, like a steer trussed for slaughter.

Sheindel was biting her knuckles to keep from hyperventilating.

Avi pulled the wife away, told her: "Cut it out, take care of your daughter."

Mrs. Malkovsky curled her hands into claws, looked down at her husband, and spat on him.

"Momzer! Meeskeit! Shoyn opgetrent?"

Sheindel let go of her knuckles and started to wail.

"Oy," moaned Malkovsky, praying as his wife cursed him. Avi recognized the prayer, now. The El Molei Rakhamim, the prayer for the dead.

"Shtikdreck! Yentzer!" screamed Batla Malkovsky. "Shoyn opgetrent? Shoyn opgetrent-gai in drerd arein.r She lunged at Malkovsky. Avi restrained her and she twisted in his grasp, spitting and cursing, then began clawing at him, going for his eyes.

Avi slapped her across the face. She stared at him, stupidly. A pretty woman, actually, when you looked past the grimness and the hysteria and the baggy dress. She started crying, clenched her jaws shut to stem the tears. Meanwhile the kid was sobbing her heart out.

"Cut it out," he told the mother. "Do your job, for God's sake."

Mrs.Malkovsky went limp and started to weep, joining her daughter in a sobbing duet.

Great. Yom Kippur.

"Oy," she said, tearing at her hair. "Riboynoy sheloylam!"

"Oy, nothing," said Avi. "God helps those who help themselves. If you'd done your job in the first place, this wouldn't have happened."

The woman stopped mid-sob, frozen with shame. She yanked out a healthy clump of hair and nodded her head violently. Up and down, up and down, bobbing like some kind of robot whose controls had short-circuited.

"Take care of your daughter," said Avi, losing patience. 'Go inside."

Still bobbing, the woman capitulated, walking over to Sheindel and touching her lightly on the shoulder. The girl looked up, wet-faced. Her mother stretched out arms that had been forced into steadiness, uttered vague maternal comfort.

Avi watched the kid's reaction, the gun still trained on Malkovsky's broad back.

"Sheindeleh," said Mrs. Malkovsky. "Bubbeleh." She knelt. put her arm around the girl. Sheindel allowed herself to be embraced but made no move to reciprocate.

Well, thought Avi, at least she hadn't pushed her away, so maybe there was something still there. Still, to let it go this far

Mrs. Malkovsky stood and raised Sheindel to her feet.

"Get inside," said Avi, surprised by how gruff he sounded.

The two of them walked into the apartment.

"Now, as for you," Avi told Malkovsky. The fat man groaned.

"What's the matter?" said a new voice. "What's going on?'

A little bald man with a gray bandage of a mustache had come out into the courtyard. He was wearing a sport coat over pajamas, looked ridiculous. Greenberg, the building manager. Avi had seen him nosing around. "You," said Greenberg, staring at the Beretta. "The one who uses the tennis court and swimming pool all the time."

"I'm Detective Cohen, on special assignment from police headquarters and I need you to make a call for me."

"What has he done?"

"Broken the laws of God and man. Go back to your flat, phone 100, and tell the operator that Detective Avraham

Cohen needs a police wagon dispatched to this address." Malkovsky started praying again. A symphony of window-squeaks and whispers played in counterpoint to his entreaties. "This is a nice place, very tidy," said Greenberg, still trying to absorb the reality of the moment.

"Then let's keep it that way. Make that call before everyone finds out you rent to dangerous criminals."

"Criminals? Never-"

"Call 100," said Avi. "Run. Or I'll shoot him right here, leave the mess for you to clean up."

Malkovsky moaned.

Greenberg ran.

Laufer's secretary liked Pakad Sharavi, had always thought of him as kind of cute, one of the nicer ones. So when he entered the waiting room she smiled at him, ready for small talk. But the smile he offered in return was brittle, a poor excuse for cordiality, and when he brushed past her instead of sitting down, she was caught off guard.

"Pakad-you can't do that! He's in a conference!"

He ignored her, opened the door.

The deputy commander was conferring with his soda water bottle, polishing the metal, peering up the spout. When he saw Daniel he put it down quickly and said, "What is this, Sharavi!"

"I need to know where he is."

"I have no time for your nonsense, Sharavi. Leave at once."

"Not until you tell me where he is, Tat Nitzav."

The deputy commander bounded out of his chair, came speeding around the desk, and marched up to Daniel, stopping just short of collision.

"Get the hell out."