Day of Atonement. Faye Kellerman

didn’t answer. Instead, he told Jonathan that he could look around by himself. He instructed the two brothers to go together. One should do the talking, the other should study the faces.

      “And look at the adults, too,” Decker said. “Hate to say this but you can’t rule out molestation—”

      “Not here,” Shimon said.

      “It’s everywhere,” Decker said.

      “No, you don’t know Boro Park,” Shimon insisted.

      Decker put his big hand on Shimon’s shoulder. “Okay. Have it your way. And I hope you’re right. Just do me the favor and take a look at the adults.”

      “I’ll keep my eyes open,” Jonathan said.

      “Do it that way,” Decker said. “Shimon, you do the talking—you’re more a part of the community. Jonathan, you observe.” He paused to catch his breath. “Also, I’m very concerned about your mother, brother, and sister-in-law. Shimon, have your wife and sisters stay with Breina. Best thing to do with Ezra might be to send him to shul—keep his mind off of what’s going on and make him feel like he’s doing something—”

      “Tephila is doing something,” Shimon interrupted. “Praying to Hashem is the single most important thing he could do right now!”

      No one spoke for a moment.

      “You know what he means—Shimmy,” Jonathan said.

      Shimon let out a deep breath. He said, “Yes, I know, I know … I’m sorry. Go on.”

      Decker threw his arm around his shoulder. “That’s it. Hey, things like this do happen all the time. Kids stay away for a day, drive their parents completely nuts. Then they come sneaking in at two in the morning and wonder why everyone’s so upset. Your brother and sister-in-law are the ones who’ll need support until this thing is resolved.”

      “These kind of things get resolved?” Jonathan asked.

      “All the time,” Decker said.

      “Eem yirtzah Hashem,” Shimon said.

      “God willing,” Jonathan repeated.

      Eyes swollen and red, Ezra came back clutching a photo, then handed it reluctantly to Decker, as if parting with it was tantamount to the loss of his son. As he did with all missing-persons photographs, Decker studied it as if it were text.

      Noam Levine was a mature-looking boy, posed with a very cocky smile. He had a lean face, square chin made nappy by peach fuzz, strong cheekbones, a petulant mouth with thick lips. He had his father’s dark complexion, his mother’s bright blue eyes. There was something off about his expression. Decker stared at the photo until it hit him. Noam’s mouth was smiling, but his eyes were troubled.

      “How tall is he?” Decker asked Ezra.

      “Big for his age,” Ezra said. “Five seven or eight. Part of the problem. He always thinks he knows more than anyone else—” He stopped himself. “What am I saying?”

      Decker weighed the possibilities, leaning toward the theory that Noam’s disappearance was a voluntary decision. Big, burly boys usually don’t get snatched—too strong, too much struggle. A child molester is an opportunistic beast. Steal the ones that go the quietest. The plus was that runaways were easier to find than kidnapped children. And there was the teenager’s arrogant smirk. Boy seemed like a survivor.

      But he was still a child—a sheltered one at that. The streets of New York City could easily turn an impulsive adventure trip into a horror story.

      Decker pocketed the picture. To Ezra, he said, “I want to talk to your children first.”

      “Why?” Ezra said. “I told you they don’t know anything.”

      “I’m sure you’re right,” Decker said. “It’s just the way I was trained—”

      “If they say they don’t know anything, they don’t know anything.”

      “Ezra,” Shimon said, “let him talk to the kids. What could it hurt?”

      “And I’d also like to look at Noam’s room,” Decker said.

      “Look at his room?” Ezra said. His voice was full of suspicion. “Why? What do you think you’re going to find?”

      “Ezra,” Shimon said, “just let him do it.” To Decker, he said, “Aaron, my oldest nephew, has a key. He’ll take you to the house.”

      “I can take him to the house,” Ezra protested.

      Jonathan put his arm around his brother. “Let’s go to shul, Ezra. We’ll walk you there. Afterward, we can learn a little.”

      “Learn with you?” Ezra said.

      “Learn with me,” Jonathan said. “What are you doing now? Masechet Sukkot? It’s a masechet I know pretty well.”

      “We’ll all learn together,” Shimon said. “Come, Ezra.” He put his arm around Ezra’s waist. “Come.”

      Decker watched as Shimon and Jonathan gently guided Ezra out the door.

      Three of the same blood.

      Three brothers.

       9

      The children had segregated themselves—the boys in one room, the girls in another. Eleven boys, eight girls—the Levines were a fecund bunch.

      Decker started with the girls. Ranging in age from three to fourteen, they sat in little groups, whispering and giggling. Because the preschoolers were so young and shy, many having just a rudimentary grasp of English, he decided to concentrate on the older ones—three cousins aged seven, eight, and fourteen, and Noam’s eleven-year-old sister, Tamar. They were still dressed in their holiday clothing, full of lace and velvet and ornamented with jewelry—pearl earrings, gold chains, thin bracelets or watches. The oldest, Shimon’s daughter, wore a string of pearls. She also had on heeled shoes and a touch of lipstick.

      They knew what was going on—their cousin or brother was missing. It was their job to help Decker find him. They seemed nervous and excited, but not unduly scared. It was as if Noam’s disappearance was viewed as a tricky math problem waiting to be solved.

      As they talked further, Decker realized that to them, Noam was an enigma—a loner, a strange boy with creepy eyes. Even Noam’s sister viewed him with trepidation. A very strange reaction. Most sisters might view a brother as an object of hatred or jealousy. But a brother was not usually feared.

      It was clear that the girls had kept their distance from Noam. But that didn’t stop them from throwing out suggestions as to where he might be. Most of the proposals were exotic and off the wall—akin to Noam’s running off and joining the circus.

      Their offerings might have been wonderful projective tests, but Decker didn’t feel they gave a clue to the boy’s location. He thanked the young ladies for their time.

      The boys were holed up in a guest bedroom that was hot and stuffy from sweat and hormones. The younger kids were running around, crashing into the twin beds and the walls. Five older ones had taken out a Talmud and were learning in the corner. All wore black hats and had their hair cut Marine short, which drew Decker’s attention to their ears. Some were big, some flat, some had banjo lobes, some stuck out like Alfred E. Newman’s. As he approached the group, one of the older boys put down the volume of Talmud and looked up. He had blue eyes, soft skin, also with a hint of peach fuzz. His features were those of Noam Levine, but softer, more rounded. He appeared to be around fifteen.

      “Hi,” Decker said. “Aaron Levine?”

      The teenager nodded.

      “Your uncle Jonathan said you have a key to your house,” Decker said.