“Police,” Decker said.
A momentary delay, and then a loud buzz, one that allowed him to come into the building. He took the stairs up five flights and stepped out into the corridor. There was a single door to the left, marked with the number 13. He pushed another button, and again was buzzed in. He immediately stepped through a metal detector. Of course he set it off.
In front of him was a girl who couldn’t have been over fifteen.
“There’s a bucket for your keys and wallet and anything else you might have that would cause it to go off. Could you please step back and try it again?”
Decker followed her instructions, picking up his personal effects on the other side. There was a lad sitting by the girl’s side, reading a magazine. He was of slight build, but maybe he only appeared that way because he was wearing an oversize Hawaiian shirt. Decker couldn’t see the outline of a gun, but he was sure it was there. The boy/man’s eyes traveled to Decker’s.
The girl said, “Can I help you, Officer?”
She was dressed for efficiency-a black suit, with her hair tied back in a ponytail. No makeup. Her hands were as smooth as a baby’s, nails clipped short and no polish.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Donatti, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Her eyes never wavered from his.
“No, but it’s important.” He showed her his gold shield and ID.
The guard put down the magazine and gave Decker a hard stare. Decker answered him back with a smile. The girl exchanged glances with the guard. He nodded.
She said, “Hold on a moment, sir.” She picked up a phone and punched in several numbers.
“Mr. Donatti, I’m very sorry to disturb you, but there’s a policeman here.”
She stopped talking. Decker couldn’t hear Donatti’s response.
The girl said, “May I see your identification and badge again?”
“Certainly.”
“It’s Lieutenant Peter Deck-”
“Son of a bitch!”
That, Decker heard. He staved off a smile. The girl hung up the phone, with a slightly bemused look on her face. “He’s in the middle of a shoot. You must really rate.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Decker smiled, realizing that there wasn’t as much as a stool for him to sit on. Not much space for excess furniture anyway. It was a nondescript area with cream-colored blank walls and barely enough room for the receptionist and guard. Chris probably didn’t get much company.
With Donatti, a few minutes actually meant a few minutes. The interior door opened, and there he was. No longer the lanky heartthrob of a teen, Christopher Whitman Donatti, at twenty-six, now cut a big swath. He was broad across the chest, with massive arms and developed biceps. His left hand gripped a Hasselblad that looked like a toy in his fingers. He was clean shaven, his abundant blond locks shorn just a step away from a buzz cut. A lean, long face contained high cheekbones and a wide forehead, with ruddy skin that wasn’t weathered but did hold some seams. He had a strong jawline, not chiseled but more manly than boyish. Generous lips that protected straight white teeth. Noticeable large blue eyes: ice-colored with no reflective quality whatsoever. What was the opposite of luminous?
Decker and his six-foot-four frame had always faced Chris eye-to-eye. For the first time, he sensed his line of vision moving upward.
“You grew.”
“I always was a late bloomer.” Donatti wore loose clothing-a black T-shirt over khaki cargo pants, the pockets bulging-probably filled with photographic paraphernalia and, no doubt, a state-of-the-art piece. His feet were housed in black suede running shoes. He was still blocking the door, staring at Decker. “I need to pat you down.”
“I made it through security.”
“I need to pat you down,” Donatti repeated.
The child/guard was on his feet, his right hand on his hip. His face may have looked young, but his eyes reflected pure business. “Can I be of assistance, Mr. Donatti?”
“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?”