“The hell it is,” Chris said, simmering.

The Rabbi turned to Alek. “Let him see it through. We owe him that, don’t we? After Eleventh Street?”

Alek kept frowning, but said nothing.

Chris thought back to the Eleventh Street Operation, in which he’d gone undercover as a Kyle Rogan, a low-level cocaine dealer, infiltrating a gang of violent dealers near Wilmington, Delaware, believed to have connections to the Sinaloa cartel. Chris had been about to make a “buy-bust” in a run-down house on Eleventh Street, but the moment of truth had come when the drug dealers had insisted that Chris sample the product, which was one of the few things that the movies actually got correct—undercover ATF and FBI agents were typically asked to sample the product to prove they weren’t cops. In theory, it was otherwise illegal activity, or OIA, since the government had an acronym for everything. But refusing could endanger their lives. Chris had thought of another way out.

No can do, Chris/Kyle had said to the three thugs sitting opposite him, behind the black duffel bag of bricks wrapped in plastic, which the bearded drug dealer had split open with a key.

You won’t try some? Why?

I can’t. No liquor, no drugs. I’m a Muslim.

Who are you kidding? You’re white as a sheet. A Ku Klux Klan sheet. The bearded dude had burst into coarse laughter, and so had his cohorts.

So? Chris/Kyle had-shrugged. I’m a Muslim. Muslims can be white.

I don’t believe for one minute you’re a Muslim, said a skinny black man on the end, the only African-American in the room.

So Chris/Kyle had launched into a recital of the most important passages of the Koran, which he had memorized in anticipation of being quizzed. It had convinced the thugs of his bona fides, and they made the buy. Afterwards, they’d left the house, where ATF agents had arrested them all, including Chris, to preserve his cover.

The Rabbi was saying, “Alek, look at it this way. If Curt is right, you come out looking like a rose because you gave him the approval. If he’s wrong, everybody will understand why you gave him a freebie. It’s win-win, for you.”

Alek sighed heavily, then turned to Chris. “Three days. That’s it.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Chris walked next to the Rabbi past the well-maintained stone row houses, reflexively keeping his head down through Fairmount, an artsy city neighborhood with indie coffeehouses, historic pubs, and used bookstores, as well as the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Barnes Foundation, and Free Library. The Rabbi and his Portuguese wife, Flavia, were always nagging him to go to author lectures at the Free Library or folk dancing at the Art Museum, which would never, ever happen.

Chris was going to the Rabbi’s for dinner only because he wouldn’t take no for an answer, but Chris felt out of sorts. He was angry at Alek’s attempt to shut down the operation, and Abe’s death was beginning to haunt him. Heather was at the back of his mind, too, but he pressed her away as they reached the Rabbi’s house, which was different from the others, since Flavia was an artist and had wanted their window trim to be purple, pink, and green.

“Flavia is so excited you’re here,” the Rabbi said, unlocking the front door.

“Me, too.” They went inside, and Chris found himself surrounded by chatter, music, and delicious aromas of broiled fish. Soft bossa nova music played on an old-fashioned stereo system, and the sound of laughter and women talking floated from the kitchen.

“And the girls are home,” the Rabbi said, meaning his twin daughters, Leah and Lina, who shared an apartment in Center City.

“Terrific.” Chris looked up as their chubby brown mutt, Fred, ran barking toward them, his long ears and pink tongue flying.

“We’re home, honey!” the Rabbi called, bending down as the dog jumped up on his shins and got a scratch behind the ear.

“In the kitchen!” Flavia called back, and the Rabbi headed toward the back of the house with Chris and Fred on his heels. They walked through the large, funky living room, with its green tufted couch and hot pink chairs grouped around a glass coffee table covered with books, drawing pads, and colored pencils. The walls were a soft turquoise, and vivid oil paintings covered every square inch with abstract scenes of flowers, fruits, and pottery.

“Curt!” Flavia appeared at the threshold of her aromatic kitchen, threw open her arms, and hugged Chris, barely coming up to his chest because she was as short as the Rabbi.

“Hello, Flavia,” Chris said, hugging her back. She felt warm and soft, and he breathed her spicy perfume and garlic smells from cooking. Inwardly, he struggled to cross the Chris/Curt divide to her, the family, and the house. It was an occupational hazard of an undercover cop to always be inside himself, but Flavia and the Rabbi reached into his heart and yanked until he gave it to them, so Chris surrendered as best as he could. At least he knew he wanted to, even though he was The Untouchable.

“How have you been, Curt? Long time, no see!”

“Wonderful, you?”

“Terrific. I’m so glad you could come. You know we love when you hang with us.”

“I love to hang with you.”

“Yet you won’t come dancing with us? David told me he asks you.”

“I can’t right now—”

“You always say that!” Flavia pouted, pretending to be offended, her dark eyes flashing. Her features were beautiful in an exotic way, with a large curved nose, full lips, and striking cheekbones. Her figure was part of the same package, voluptuous in a flowing peasant dress. Black curls trailed freely to her shoulders, framing her lovely face.

“Curt!” the twins said in unison, looking up as they set the table. They were a matching mixture of Flavia and the Rabbi, with their mother’s round brown eyes, the same dark curls, and a ready smile from their dad.

“Ladies!” Chris couldn’t tell them apart for a minute, though he had known them a long time. He felt a pride in them as if they were his own daughters, which he knew was a ridiculous thought, even as he had it.

They laughed, coming over and giving him a quick hug. “I’m Leah, she’s Lina,” Leah said, smiling up at him.

“Wow! When did you two grow up?”

“When you got old!” Leah shot back, laughing.

“Curt, meet our friend Melissa Babcek.” Lina gestured behind her, and a slim blonde came out of the pantry with some cans.