LITMIR.BIZ

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grandmother, trying very hard to keep a tight rein on her emotions. An expression he’d witnessed countless times as a detective in Juvey Division. Time to put the past aside. He gave her a shrug that said the situation was no big deal. She shrugged back.

      Their first real communication: a series of noncommittal shrugs.

      Ezra, on the other hand, was losing ground to his anxiety. He continued to bite his nails. His posture was stiff, his feet frozen in place as if he couldn’t quite figure out how to move.

      Not that Decker thought he was overreacting. Although the kid had been gone for only a few hours, the circumstances were unusual. The cop in him didn’t like it. He was experienced enough to know that most of the time, the panic did turn out to be much ado about nothing. But he couldn’t help thinking about the flip side—those ice-cold, barely pubescent bodies lying on steel slabs in the morgue …

      He needed to prod them into action. He put his arm around Ezra and gently propelled him to the door. “Let me come with you, Ezra. I can use the exercise. How many houses are we talking about?”

      “Where should I go, Breina?” Ezra asked of his wife. His voice cracked.

      Breina rattled off a list of ten names.

      “Piece of cake,” Decker said. “You know all of the houses?”

      Ezra nodded.

      “Okay,” Decker said. “Let’s get it over with.” He patted Ezra on the back. “You lead.”

      He noticed Breina Levine had her hand to her chest. She seemed to be breathing rapidly. As he crossed the threshold of the door, Decker whispered to Jonathan to keep an eye on his sister-in-law.

      The food was served and the groups broke down into two categories: those who ate because they were nervous and those whose stomachs were shut down by anxiety. The wait seemed interminable. In fact, it took only an hour for Decker and Ezra to return. Breina Levine took one look at her husband’s face and collapsed into a chair. Frieda rushed into the kitchen to get a glass of water for her.

      Decker said to Jonathan and Shimon, “Send everyone except family home.” He paused, thinking about that.

      He was friggin family.

      “You think it’s bad?” Jonathan asked.

      It wasn’t good, Decker thought. But there was no point in offering a worried uncle his professional opinion.

      “We don’t know where the boy is. That’s all we know right now. We don’t know where he is. One step at a time. First, you clear the place. Send the guests home. Have the kids—the brothers, sisters, and cousins—wait in the back room. I’ll talk to them in a moment.”

      It took fifteen minutes for everyone to find coats and jackets. People patted hands, reassured the distraught parents and grandparents. Nobody believed a word they were saying.

      When everyone was gone, Decker sat down at the dining-room table and tried to clear his mind of morbid thoughts. Perversely, all he could think about were the tragedies. The overwhelming grief on the parents’ faces as he broke the bad news. It made his stomach churn.

      The table was still piled with food. But the salad had wilted under the weight of the dressing, the cooked vegetables had wrinkled, the edges of the roast beef had begun to curl. It was past four and Decker hadn’t eaten all day. He needed nutrition if he was going to think clearly. He picked up a chicken leg and bit into it.

      “Sorry, but I’ve got to get something in my stomach,” he said.

      Shimon gave him a clean plate. “Of course. Of course. You need to eat. Can I get you anything else?”

      “No, this is just fine,” Decker said.

      Absently, Ezra said, “Mincha’s in twenty minutes.”

      No one said anything.

      “Tephila!” Ezra said. “I need to pray.” His eyes flooded with tears. “Tephila! Tzedakah! Tshuvah!” He buried his head in his hands and held back tears. “It’s my fault … I don’t learn with him anymore … I’m not patient enough—”

      “Ezra, stop it,” Shimon said. “You’re a fine father.”

      With moist eyes, Ezra looked at Decker. “I’m sorry.”

      “Don’t apologize,” Decker said. “It’s tough. But there’s still a lot we can do. Ezra, did you specifically ask your children if they knew where he might be?”

      “Yes. Yes, I did.”

      “And they don’t know?” Decker said.

      Ezra shook his head.

      “Has Noam ever run away before?”

      “Not like this,” Ezra said.

      “But he’s run away?” Decker asked.

      “No!” Ezra said. “He wanders off sometimes but he always comes back. And he wouldn’t wander off on Rosh Hashanah. There’s no place for him to go.”

      No place in Boro Park, Decker thought. He turned to Jonathan and said, “Whose Ford Matador is parked out front?”

      “It’s mine,” Jonathan said.

      “Give me the keys,” Decker said. “A car can cover ground we can’t do on foot. I’ll start as soon as I finish with the kids.”

      No one said the obvious. Decker’s willingness to drive on Rosh Hashanah—violating the holiday—indicated a serious situation. Decker broke the moment of silence and asked Ezra for a picture of his son. Ezra said he didn’t carry one with him, but his mother must have a couple of recent pictures somewhere. He’d dig some up.

      After Ezra left, Decker said, “The best thing to do in situations like these is a door-to-door search. You people know most of your neighbors, which is a big plus. Ask if anyone’s seen Noam today, and if so, when was the last time they saw him. Ask the teenage boys—see if any of them look nervous and scared—”

      Decker stopped himself, regarded his two half brothers. Scared witless, shaken to the core. They stared at him as if he were speaking gibberish.

      Shimon said, “Maybe we should phone the police?”

      Decker made a conscious effort to slow himself down. He explained that if NYPD was anything like LAPD, they wouldn’t do anything for children over ten or eleven. It would be at least a twenty-four-hour wait before a missing-persons report would be filed.

      “But he’s only a boy,” Shimon protested.

      “He’s fourteen, considered a runaway rather than a kidnap victim—”

      “Chas vachalelah,” Shimon blurted out. “My God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

      How many times had Decker heard those words. The sense of unreality. But it was real and they needed a game plan. Decker told himself to speak simply. “Look. Maybe he’ll show in an hour, or maybe he’ll show up tonight—”

      “But maybe not,” Jonathan said.

      “Don’t say that!” Shimon scolded him.

      “Jonathan’s right,” Decker said. “It’s possible that Noam won’t show up tonight.” Or ever. But he knew his negative thinking was an occupational hazard—an igniter to drive him to action. “Time is important, people. I know you two aren’t used to this like I am. But you can do a whole lot more with your neighbors than I can.”

      “We go door to door,” Jonathan said. “We ask if anyone has seen Noam. That’s all?”

      Decker said, “Use your eyes. If anyone suddenly turns red, buries his face, stutters, shakes, looks like he’s hiding something—remember it and report back to me. There were a couple of kids that looked hinky to me when Ezra and I were out the first time. I’ll go back and question them. But first

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