Then, nearly two years ago, they had suddenly announced that they wanted to go through the bar mitzvah ceremony that celebrated a Jewish boy’s passage into manhood. As that meant studying Hebrew, as well as the Torah, Karp suspected that they’d heard about the monetary gains common to bar mitzvah graduates. When he’d leveled that charge, they’d howled their protests and sulked in aggrieved innocence. When they’d actually signed up for classes, he’d had to admit that maybe they were serious. Marlene had suggested that Lucy’s continuing quest for spiritual growth and the twins’ new interest could be a reaction to having been individually, and as a family, subjected to a host of violent attacks—bombings, kidnappings, shootings, stabbings, and run-ins with a variety of sociopaths and terrorists—some attributable to their father’s employment as the chief law-enforcement official in Manhattan. The family seemed to attract trouble like bread crumbs attract ants, with a regularity that made Karp’s head hurt when he considered the implausibilities.

When the rabbi responsible for teenage education had asked Karp if he’d take part in the “role model” classes that were part of the bar mitzvah instruction, Karp had protested that his own bar mitzvah was only a hazy memory, and his knowledge of Hebrew abysmal. But Rabbi Greg Romberg had laughed and said, “Leave the Hebrew and Torah to me. The purpose of these classes is to talk to them about what it means to be productive, responsible, and thinking members of the community.”

Karp had felt his involvement would give him more time with the boys in a setting where they could discuss moral choices without the discomfort typical of arranged father-son talks. However, he had found that he enjoyed teaching the classes and the challenge of coming up with lessons that would make the boys in the class—as well as the girls who were studying for their bat mitzvah—think in terms of how decisions made by the individual affect society.

It was a good thing he enjoyed it, because the twins’ bar mitzvah preparation was taking longer than anticipated. The boys had started behind their classmates, most of whom came from more traditional Jewish families and therefore had at least some background. And then there had been the interruptions in life’s usual pattern that were par for the course with the Karp-Ciampi clan. If they weren’t being shot at by murderous hillbillies—in fact, Giancarlo had only recently recovered from surgery to restore his eyesight after being struck by a shotgun pellet—then it was nearly being incinerated along with the rest of the New Year’s Eve crowd at Times Square, or being targeted for execution by the sociopath Andrew Kane. So Isaac, better known as Zak, and Giancarlo were now repeating the classes with a new group, most of them a year younger, and the boys and girls they’d started with were now officially Jewish men and women. It was Karp’s second time through as a teacher as well.

“It feels like we’re dummies who got held back in school,” Zak had complained. Larger, stronger, plenty smart, and streetwise, he’d been the bigger surprise when the boys announced that they wanted to take the classes in the first place. Even now, in with the “little kids,” he stayed with it.

Allowed free rein by Rabbi Romberg, Karp had led the class through a wide range of discussions, including the historical implications of Jesus as a rabbi and whether Jews at the time had conspired to murder him. Such topics had shocked the more orthodox children and engendered a few alarmed telephone calls from their parents to the rabbi, though to Romberg’s credit he’d insisted that exposing the kids to different viewpoints on controversial subjects was important to their growth.

Karp often drew his lessons from modern ethical and legal dilemmas he saw in his role as the district attorney. Such as this evening’s topic, which stemmed from a recent murder trial he’d prosecuted, as well as a terrorist attack months earlier on that very synagogue.

When he had their attention, Karp took a moment to look over the faces of these sons and daughters of some of New York City’s most influential Jewish families. He wondered how this generation would meet the challenges of the future. “I’m sure we all know the story about God commanding Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac,” he began.

“I do. I do. I was named after the dude,” shouted Zak, who had a tendency to get loud when excited.

“Actually, you were named after a relative who was named after a relative who was named after a few hundred generations of relatives who were named after this particular Isaac.”

“Same difference,” Zak shrugged.