The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

O pen House

“Open House” is another new story penned for this anthology. Real estate in Southern California took a major price jump in 2005, and there were quite a few houses for sale. As I looked at one of the empty homes, my warped mind thought, What a convenient place to dump a body! I wondered if finding a corpse during a house showing would cool off an overheated market. Probably not in a city that had an attraction called Graveline Tours. It used to take tourists in a hearse to some of L.A. ’s most notable crime scenes!

Georgina thought she was clever, coming twenty minutes earlier than the start time. Unfortunately, there were others who’d had the same idea. Two couples, plus what looked like a mother-daughter combo, were waiting on the sidewalk, sizing up the competition. This was the second and last showing of a new listing, and the Realtors were going to take offers tomorrow night. There were no lookie-loos here: All those present were out for blood.

This meant that Georgina would have to form a plan. Hers was typically blow and go. Sign in and grab a tear sheet, doing mental calculations about house size versus lot size while giving the place a quick once-over. The living room and dining room were public space, ergo usually in decent shape. If a house had a bad living room, it was probably one step ahead of the wrecking ball. Single-family homes showed their true colors in the kitchen and bathrooms; that and the size of the bedroom closets. She and Derek had lots of junk, so closet space would be a priority. If the place flunked any one of the above, there were still three other houses on her list.

This newest one would go fast because it was priced reasonably and in a good neighborhood. In a hot market, Georgina knew, she’d have to move if she wanted a chance at elusive home ownership. She and Derek had already lost two chances through indecision. The next time, Georgina swore, if the place was right, passing the kitchen/bathroom/closet test, she wouldn’t hesitate.

Finally, a black Mercedes pulled up in the driveway. The listing agent was Adele Michaels, and the ad in the paper said she had sold more than twelve million dollars’ worth of real estate this year… which translated to three houses in the flats of Beverly Hills. Of course, Canoga Park wasn’t Beverly Hills, but some areas in the West Hills boasted multimillion-dollar estates complete with swimming pool, tennis court, and home theater. The two-story English-cottage-style house Georgina was looking at wasn’t anywhere close to magnificent, but it wasn’t a shack, either. It had three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and sat on a good-size lot with fruit trees and a two-car garage.

The driver’s door opened, and out came a pipsqueak of a kid. She looked nothing like Adele Michaels, whose picture showed a forty-plus big-haired blonde with large white teeth. Georgina doubted if this girl was even old enough to vote. The agent had spiky black hair, wore the requisite black suit, and balanced on black spike heels. She rested her sunglasses on the top of her head, then swung a large purse over her shoulder as if she owned the world. To the ten of them anxiously waiting to be let inside, she did.

Obviously, Adele had handed off the listing to one of her flunky neophytes, a house under a million bucks just not worth her time and energy. Georgina rolled her eyes. The flunky fiddled with a ring of keys and then opened the lockbox to the house. Once she’d freed up the front door, she opened it and stepped inside, the faithful gathering of hopefuls dogging her heels in single file. The agent headed straight into the kitchen. From her leather sack-either a Marc Jacobs or a knockoff-she took out a stack of tear sheets and a clipboard that held a pen and a sign-in sheet. She plunked them down on the kitchen counter.

“Everyone sign in, please-name, phone number, and agent, if you have one. This is the last showing, we’ve already got offers. All offers will be entertained tonight, so if you’re interested, you’d better act fast.”

First to reach the pen was the mother-daughter combo.

Georgina waited her turn to sign in, noting that the living and dining rooms had hardwood floors. The kitchen countertops were tiled. She had hoped for granite, but in this case, she’d make an exception because she loved the design of the kitchen. It had been done Tuscan-style, filled with warm golds, and there was a copper hood over the stove. Newer appliances: a side-by-side fridge and a dishwasher.

Things were looking way up.

Georgina finally picked up a tear sheet and signed in. Scanning the paper quickly, she saw that the house had twenty-two hundred square feet on a ten-thousand-square-foot lot. This was getting better by the millisecond. The house wasn’t going to last through the showing. Immediately, she put in a call to Derek. He picked up on the third ring.

“You have to come now! I haven’t even checked out the bathrooms, and already I want it.”

“Remember that we agreed not to get swept away in mass hysteria.”

“Okay.” Calm, she told herself. “All right, I’m in the master bedroom. Not so big. We can fit our bed in it. But one of the dressers may have to go.” She slid back a mirrored door. “Good-size closet. That’ll help… Oh, Derek! The master bathroom is marble, with a huge Jacuzzi tub!”

“I’ll be right over.”

“It’s going to go above asking, I just know it! The agent already said they have offers from the Sunday showing-”

“Don’t panic, Georgie, we’ll deal. And don’t do anything until we call up Orit.”

“What if we don’t get hold of her?”

“I’m sure they’re not going to consider offers right on the spot.”

“No, that’s true.” Georgina went back into the kitchen. Oh, how she loved the kitchen. “Derek, the kitchen is just perfect. It’s got good appliances and plenty of cabinet space.” She opened a drawer. “The cabinets are all on sliders. And it’s got a pantry and… what’s this door? Looks like a broom closet.” She yanked on it. “I think it’s stuck.”

“ Georgina, I’m going to hang up now. I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye.” She stowed the phone in her purse and turned to the Realtor. “Excuse me. I think this door is stuck.”

The agent ambled over and gave the door a hard tug. “It may be locked.” Without another word, she walked away and began to chitchat up a promising-looking young couple.

Little snot, Georgina thought. And I bet those two don’t even qualify. With determination, she pulled on the handle with all her strength, and the door finally gave way. A large blue plastic garbage bag tumbled out and spilled onto the floor. The tie to the top broke open, and something popped out. It took about a toe tap of time for Georgina to realize what it was.

Then she screamed.

“How long before the coroner’s investigators get here?” Decker checked his watch and didn’t wait for an answer. “You want to give them a call, Sergeant Dunn? Find out if they’ll be here in this century?”

Marge smiled. She had been promoted over a month ago and her new title was a kick to her ears. “I just called the office, Loo. Soon.”

They’d been waiting almost an hour. Normally, that would be a good thing. Although they couldn’t deal with the body until the coroner released it, Decker and his detectives utilized the time by going over the crime scene. In this case, one thing was immediately clear: The house wasn’t the crime scene. The place was spotless. For his effort, Decker found only a couple of fibers that could have been dragged in by someone’s shoe and an empty can of soda in the garbage can under the sink. It was possible that they’d lift something off the items or from the body itself.

Marge hung up her cell and rocked on her feet, her five-foot-ten frame swaying from side to side. “Techs should be here soon, Pete.”

“ To do what?” Decker snarled. “Sweep the floor?”

“They can dust. Check out the drains-”

“Crime wasn’t committed here.”

Marge shrugged. “An empty house is a good place to lure a victim.”

“No spatter anywhere, no wet spots on the floor… it’s not the crime scene.” Decker raked his fingers through his hair, a combination of copper and silver. “I mean, I’m not positive, but I’d bet a winning lottery ticket on it.”

That was Decker’s experience talking: thirty years as a cop, most of them with Homicide, and the last ten as a detective lieutenant.

She said, “Hardly any bloat on the face.”

“She’s fresh, probably dumped last night. There’s no heating inside, and the cool night air probably helped to preserve her.”

“The face looks Hispanic, maybe Mideastern.”

“Yeah, she’s out of her element in this solidly middle-to-upper-class area. The residents are by and large white. She also has a front tooth rimmed in gold. That’s not white American dentistry.”

“A housekeeper?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. It would have been nice if there had been clothes on her. You can tell a lot by a person’s clothes.” Decker smoothed his ginger mustache. “This isn’t some gang-banger’s crime. A group of Latinos carrying a body and entering a house would stick out in this neighborhood. This feels like a white man’s crime. Some guy screwing the maid, and when she threatened to tell the wife, he panicked. I bet the perp lives nearby and knew the house was empty.”

“There’s no forced entry,” Marge added.

Decker thought a moment. “Maybe it was someone in real estate who had a key to the place. Who’s out canvassing the neighborhood?”

“Wanda Beautemps and Lee Wang,” Marge said. “Scott Oliver is talking to the people who were in the house when the body was discovered. We got an angry mob out there, Loo. They’re furious that the open house was canceled.”

Decker smiled. “Go tell the agent that I want a list of everyone who has a key to the place and a list of every Realtor who has shown the house.”

“I think it’s a brand-new listing.”

“Good. That’ll make our jobs easier.”

“Petechiae in the eyes, deep bruises around the neck that look like finger impressions… no overt ligature marks.” The investigator was a woman in her fifties named Sherelle Holland. She and her partner wore black uniforms covered by black jackets with CORONER’S INVESTIGATOR in yellow lettering on the back. Sherelle had slid the body out of the blue plastic bag and onto the coroner’s white plastic sheeting while the police photographer snapped pictures. “There’s a contusion on the right side of her head.”

“Blunt-force trauma?” Decker asked.

“No, more like she just hit her head. It’s certainly not deep enough to cause her death. There aren’t any bullet or stab wounds. Manual strangulation would be the logical guess. There’s lividity… rigor is just starting to set. Ordinarily, I’d say less than twenty-four hours, but it’s cool outside.”

“Anything under the nails?”

“At a quick glance, it looks like she fought back. Or maybe the blood is hers.” Sherelle started bagging the hands. “We’ll clip them. Once we get her onto the table, the doc can tell you more. Any idea who she is?”

“No.”

Sherelle shrugged. “Maybe she’s a real estate agent. People are getting pretty angry about the housing situation.”

“That’s a thought.”

“Good luck, Lieutenant. You’ll need it.”

Decker called over a tech from the CSI unit. “You can evidence the garbage bag. Turn it inside out and see if you can’t find something. This is desperation time.” He signaled to Oliver, who was checking himself out in a full-length door mirror. He was over fifty, with mostly dark hair and a gut that hadn’t gone to fat, but he was as vain as a schoolgirl. Decker didn’t like Oliver because his own daughter once had. That was way in the past, and Cindy was now happily married to a more age-appropriate guy, but some things remained stuck in one’s craw. “What’s going on, Scottie?”

Oliver tore himself away from the mirror and walked over to Decker. “Not much. Just calming down a bunch of freaked-out people.”

“Did the agent recognize the corpse?”

“Never saw her nor any other corpse in her life. Her name is Sarah, and I offered to take her out for coffee to calm her down after this is all over.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart,” Decker said.

“I’m just that kind of sensitive guy.”

“She’s not only young enough to be your daughter, she’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”

Oliver smiled. “What can I say? Some people can’t adjust.”

Decker wasn’t sure if Oliver was referring to Decker or himself. “Did Margie or you get a list of brokers from her?”

“Not much of a list, Loo. She told me this was only the second time the house has been shown.”

“When was the first showing?”

“Two days ago… last Sunday.” It was Marge Dunn who responded. She checked her notes. “From two to five. Sarah Atacaro, that’s the agent for this showing, told us that the only ones with keys were her, her boss, and the owners, who are now in Denver.”

Oliver added, “This was Sarah’s first time inside the house. She was just helping out her boss, Adele Michaels, who was in San Diego for a wedding.”

“Get Michaels on the phone. We need to talk to her.”

“I already did,” Oliver told him. “She’s en route, and the cell reception was iffy. For what it’s worth, she told me she’d checked out the house yesterday afternoon in anticipation of today’s showing, and she was adamant that there were no dead bodies anywhere. I think it would have been something she’d remember.”

“Did she specifically remember checking out the broom closet?”

“She said she checked out everything.”

“All right. Then, assuming her information is correct, that would mean the body was placed no more than a day ago. Did any of the neighbors see or hear anything?”

“Nothing that would point us in the direction of the murderer.”

“I doubt the killer just stumbled on the house. He must have known that the house was going to be empty between Sunday and today.”

“Someone in real estate.”

“That’s what Marge and I have been thinking. We have pictures of our vic now. Why don’t you show them around? Maybe someone’s housekeeper didn’t show up for work. And if the two agents were the only ones with a key, let’s recheck the doors and windows for pry marks. Maybe we missed something because this wasn’t the crime scene, and as sure as hell, the body didn’t walk in on its own accord.”

The cigarette smoke didn’t bother Decker, but Marge was less tolerant and kept fanning her face. Eventually, Adele Michaels got the hint and stubbed out the butt with her foot. They were in the house’s backyard outside the kitchen door. The body was gone, but a pall remained.

“I don’t know what more I can tell you guys. The body wasn’t here yesterday afternoon.” Adele’s voice was deep and hoarse. A face-lift had stretched her leathery skin over cheekbone implants. “I checked every closet and cabinet. I turned on and off every tap, flushed every toilet, and opened and closed every window. The house was in tip-top shape.”

“And you have no idea who she is?” Marge asked again.

“No, for the tenth time. I don’t know who she is. Why would you think I’m holding back on you?”

“Just trying to prod your memory,” Decker said.

“There’s nothing to remember!”

“And you’re sure that no one besides Sarah Atacaro, the owners, and you has a copy of the key?”

“Positive.”

Marge said, “What if someone made a copy from your key and you didn’t know about it?”

“Two sets of keys besides the owners in Denver, guys: Sarah and me. And both sets are accounted for. You think I’d allow someone access to my listing without my permission? This hasn’t gone to caravan. The house is going to be sold in a couple of days, body or not. It’s a fair price.” She paused and looked Decker up and down. “Are you in the market?”

Decker smiled and shook his head. “What about Sarah’s key? Could she have left it on a desktop or in her drawer-”

“Not a chance! She’d guard it with her life.” Adele was losing patience. “Can I go run a business now?”

“Just bear with me for a couple of minutes. You said this was the second time you’ve shown the house.”

“Yes. The first time was on Sunday. When can I start letting people see the place again?”

“Not today,” Decker said. “We’re still dusting inside. You’re probably a good judge of character after dealing with lots of different people all these years, right?” Adele looked at Decker with suspicion on her face. She was short and very thin. There was well over a foot of difference in height between the two of them. “I mean, that’s your job, to read people, correct?” Decker said.

“What are you getting at, Sergeant?”

Marge said, “I’m the sergeant, he’s the lieutenant.”

Decker said, “You can probably tell serious buyers from those who don’t belong. Maybe you remember someone from Sunday who looked like he or she didn’t belong? Take your time before answering.”

“I need a smoke,” Adele said. Before she pulled out her cigarette, Decker was there with the match. She blew out a plume of vaporized tobacco and wrinkled her brow-as best she could wrinkle her brow. Botox was doing its job. The agent sighed. “The place was a mob scene.”

“How about right before you were ready to lock up?” Decker said. “Anyone walk out of the place with you?”

The agent paused. “Now that you mention it, there were a few people hanging around. You know, trying to sweet-talk me into looking at their offers. One couple in particular… wait, wait… there was this young guy… I almost locked him in the house.”

Decker nodded. “Could you describe him to a police artist for a sketch?”

“Yes, I think I could. And I might even be able to do you one better. He might have signed my sheet. I don’t know if it’s his real name and phone number, but it’s better than what you’ve got right now.”

“What we’ve got is nothing,” Decker said.

“That’s why what I’ve got is better.”

Over the phone, Medical Examiner Dr. Charles Angelo told Decker that he had extracted scrapings from under the nails. “I’ll try to get the material into the lab sometime this week. How long the lab takes to get you a genetic profile is anyone’s guess. They’re backlogged over a year.”

“Maybe you can put a rush on it?”

“I can try, but you haven’t even ID’d the vic yet, let alone have a perp to match it to. This isn’t going to be high priority.” How right he was. Decker said, “Do the best you can.” “I do have other news for you. The vic was pregnant.” Decker cursed silently. “How many months?” “It wasn’t an embryo, but it wasn’t as far along as a fetus, either. Maybe a little over three months. Interesting to see if the genetic material under the nails matches to the father of the baby.”

As he passed out copies of the composite drawing, Decker regarded the sketch and winced. It featured a nondescript man in his thirties. Adele had told the police artist that he had a young face but a receding hairline; dark eyes, thin lips, average build. She remembered that he had a mole over his right eyebrow, and that was about the only distinguishing mark on him. Decker supposed he should stop bitching. Every little bit helped.

The detectives were sitting in the conference room in the Devonshire division of the LAPD. Five of them around the table, drinking cold coffee while comparing notes. Not much to talk about, but still the theories abounded.

Decker said, “So this is what I think happened. This guy came in on Sunday, looking the place over, acting like a prospective buyer. That way he could open and close the closet doors and look around without arousing any suspicion. He waits until the agent has locked up, then surreptitiously unlocks the back door. Then he pretends that he didn’t know she was about to leave and says something like, ‘Hey, wait for me!’ They walk out together. She’s not going to go back and check all the doors. She just assumes he was entranced by a toilet or something. So they just walk out together. Then he comes back on Monday night to dump the body.”

“But the agent came on Monday afternoon and checked out the closets,” Marge reminded him. “I’m sure she locked all the doors, Loo.”

“Maybe he came through a window?” Oliver suggested. “The agent would check the doors but not the windows.”

“I like that,” Decker said. “You’ll notice I’m using ‘he’ for the murderer. It could have been a she. It’s just a pain in the ass to say ‘he or she’ every time.”

Wanda Beautemps spoke up. She was in her fifties and the newest member of Homicide. “If he was looking for a place to dump the body, then are we thinking that the girl was already dead on Sunday?”

“Not necessarily,” Decker said. “The deputy coroner thinks that she was murdered about twenty-four hours before we found her, which would put her death sometime on Monday.”

“So he finds the dump spot before he kills the girl?”

“Perhaps,” Decker said. “That would imply premeditation. We’re checking everyone on the sign-in sheet, but so far we don’t have a hit. Adele’s description to the police artist is the best we have so far. If anyone identifies the guy, don’t go over and confront him. Don’t even talk to him. Let’s just identify him, find out who he is, where he lives, where he works. He could be a completely innocent schnook. Let’s try to avoid a lawsuit.” He looked at Lee Wang. “Are we anywhere close to identifying the vic?”

Wang checked his notes, written in a sloppy hand. He always claimed his Chinese handwriting was much better than his English penmanship, except that Lee was a born-and-bred American. “Nothing from our canvassing yesterday. I’ve been checking Missing Persons in the Valley-LAPD. That’s been a fat zero. I haven’t checked Burbank or San Fernando or Simi or the city. I’ll keep working on it.”

“Good,” Decker said. “Go out and canvass the area for this guy. And good luck.”

“Matthew Lombard,” Marge said. “He’s thirty-one and lives about four miles away, married with two kids. He works as a junior lawyer at a downtown firm.”

“You canvassed four miles from the house?”

“One of the clerks at the local 7-Eleven says Matthew comes in every day for coffee and a doughnut before he goes to work. He said it could be him. The face, he wasn’t so sure, but the mole, maybe. The guy doesn’t have any kind of a sheet.”

“All right, Margie, this is what I want you to do. Go get a black-and-white snapshot of him, put it in a six-pack, and see if Adele can pick him out. You can probably pull something off Google-yearbook graduation picture, something like that.”

“Not a problem. Some of the search engines have a ‘show me an image’ feature. No privacy anymore. Not that anyone wants privacy, judging from the moronic reality shows on TV.”

“That’s for certain. You tell the grocery clerk to keep quiet?”

“I told him if he didn’t, I’d check out his green card. I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

The interview room had a table and four chairs. Adele Michaels sat on one side, Detective Scott Oliver across from her. She was playing with her pack of cigarettes, looking nervous. Oliver laid the photo spread-six front-face pictures, five stooges and Lombard, matched for age, race, size, and features. It took the real estate agent approximately twenty seconds.

“That’s him!” Adele hit the black-and-white of Lombard. “That’s the guy I almost locked in the house. He kept asking me questions.”

“Thank you, Ms. Michaels,” Oliver said.

“Do I get to pick him out of a lineup now?”

“No, ma’am. As far as we know, the man hasn’t done anything wrong except stay too late at your open house. If you see him again, don’t mention anything about this, okay?”

“Why would I see him again?”

“Maybe he was a legitimate buyer.” Oliver shrugged. “Or… not accusing anyone, but sometimes people who do nasty things enjoy returning to the scene of the crime.”

“No chance of that,” Adele said. “Body or no body, the house sold.”

“After going through the recent Missing Persons files in the Valley, San Fernando, Burbank, and Glendale, I came up with a dozen possibilities,” Wang told Decker. They were sitting in the Loo’s office. Decker was in his chair, Wang standing over the desk. “Unfortunately-or happily, for the families-nothing panned out.”

Decker said, “Sure it wasn’t denial?”

“They showed me pictures of their daughters. They didn’t appear to be our vic, but if you want, I could bring them in and show them the body.”

Decker thought a moment. “Why put them through something that awful when you’re pretty sure it’s not their loved ones? Besides, you still have the city MP to check out.”

“I’ll start on those this afternoon.”

Wang was about to leave when Marge walked into the room, dusting a speck of dirt off her black jacket lapel. She wore beige pants and had on flat shoes with rubber soles. “That’s what I love about dark colors. They never show dirt. Lord only knows why I put on light pants. I’m just asking for trouble. Do I smell coffee?”

“I just made a fresh pot,” Decker said. “Help yourself.”

Marge walked over to the table and poured coffee into a paper cup. Decker always provided fresh coffee for anyone who walked into his office. It made him popular with the rank and file. “ Lombard works at a large firm, one of those chichi downtown places that have a million names, like Cratchet, Hatchet, and Patchet.” She checked her notes. “The actual name is Frisk, Taylor, Pollin, Berman, and Pope. They have almost fifty partners. Lombard isn’t one of them.”

“How long has he worked there?” Decker asked.

Marge put down her coffee and flipped through her notepad. “I don’t know if I have that… Oh, here we go. Five years. Stable guy.”

Decker raised his eyebrows. “Way back, I was a lawyer for about six months.”

“I didn’t know that,” Wang said.

“It’s something he doesn’t advertise,” Marge said, “but it makes him handy around the PDs.”

Decker smiled. “The point is, when I started out in law, it was well known that ambitious people don’t stick around in big firms if they don’t make junior partner by year two or three.”

Wang said, “Maybe Lombard’s just not that ambitious.”

“Or maybe the firm offered other benefits, like a certain lady,” Decker said. “Did you talk to anyone in the firm to see if our vic worked there?”

“That was my next step,” Margie said.

Wang said, “If we start showing a postmortem picture of our victim, we’re going to arouse interest at the firm. Are you worried about Lombard bolting?”

“It’s always a possibility.” Decker thought a moment. “Body’s still in the crypt?”

“Unless corpses can walk, I would say yes,” Wang answered.

“Wise guy,” Decker muttered. “Okay, let’s do this. Put a little makeup on her, fix her hair, and dress her. Then have someone take another picture of her gussied up. Do you think we could convince someone in Human Resources at Cratchet, Hatchet, et cetera, that she’s still alive?”

“Pshaw, Loo, nothing’s impossible,” Marge said. “This is Hollywood!”

The young clerk’s brown eyes first squinted, then widened with surprise. The HR office of Frisk, Taylor, and friends was tucked into a corner of the fifteenth floor in a twenty-three-story chrome and glass building. The firm took up not only floor fifteen but sixteen and seventeen as well, anonymous corridors of Berber carpeting and white walls. Sitting in his little cubicle, the clerk studied the picture, his eyes traveling from the picture to Marge’s face. “Is that Solana?”

Marge played along. “Yes, of course.”

“She doesn’t look so healthy.”

The clerk’s comment gave Marge a better ruse than the one she had originally invented. “That’s why I need to see her. She’s a diabetic.”

“I didn’t know that. It wasn’t on her medical form when she applied for the job.” The clerk suddenly looked suspicious. “Why are you talking to me instead of Solana?”

A logical question: Luckily, Marge was good at thinking on her feet. “Our pharmaceutical company has come out with some very important new drugs, and she was one of our subjects. But she hasn’t shown up for the last couple of days. I tried calling her at home, but no one answers. She put this place down as her employment. I hoped I might catch her here, but I don’t know what department she works in.”

The clerk gave Marge a strange look. Then he reluctantly checked his files, jotted down some numbers, and picked up the phone. Marge could hear the voice mail kicking in-Solana’s voice.

The victim had a voice.

The clerk said, “Hi, Solana, it’s Jack from HR. Can you give me a call when you get in?” He hung up. “She’s not at her desk.”

“Can you call someone else to find out if she’s even at work? We’re a little concerned.”

He sighed heavily but cooperated. This time he actually spoke to a human on the other end of the line. “Hi, Terry, it’s Jack.” He smiled and dropped his voice. “Yes, I’m in, what do you think? Do you want me to bring the wine?”

At this point Marge cleared her throat. Jack looked miffed and held up a finger. “Okay, I’ll do the reds, let Randy do the whites… Right, right, right. Okay, it’s a deal. Terry, before you hang up, I’ve got someone from…” He looked at Marge.

“Taykell and Company Pharmaceuticals.”

“Someone from a drug company looking for Solana Perez. Do you know where she is?… I did call, and all I got was voice mail. Do you know if she’s in today?… Of course I’ll hold.” He glanced at Marge. “Someone’s hunting her down.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. I can’t believe she actually let someone take her picture when she looked so awful. The poor thing is as white as chalk.”

“She wasn’t feeling very well.”

“You know, she should have listed her illness on the application. Our health insurance has to know- Hi… oh? For how long? Okay. Okay. Okay, I’ll see you Thursday. Bye.” The clerk exhaled. “She hasn’t been at work for three days.” He frowned. “Do you think something’s happened to her?”

“Yes, I think something’s happened to her,” Marge said. “I’d like to see her personnel records.”

Again Jack frowned. “Those are confidential.”

Marge drew out her shield. “Don’t make me get a subpoena.”

The clerk’s mouth dropped open. “You’re police? Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”

“Because if Solana was here, I could just talk to her, clear up this mess, and you’d be none the wiser. But she isn’t here and hasn’t been here for three days. That’s why I’m asking for her records.”

“What did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything, Jack. It’s what was done to her.”

Jack whitened several shades. “Oh my God! That picture! Is it… Is she…”

“I’m afraid so.”

Jack quickly excused himself and made a mad dash down the hallway. Marge heard some retching and hoped he had made it to the bathroom in time.

The Homicide group was stuffed into Decker’s office. Lee Wang, Wanda Beautemps, Marge Dunn, and Scott Oliver were devouring several takeout pizzas. Decker was wolfing down one of his wife’s famous roast beef sandwiches. It was past seven, and they all had appetites worthy of a pack of hyenas. “First thing we’ve got to do is positively ID our victim as Solana Perez. What do we know about her?”

Marge said, “No husband, according to her application. She’s from a border town in Texas. Her parents are Ana and Jorge Perez, but contacting them has been hard. There’s no address or phone number. Nothing in Texas directory information. Scott and I are thinking that she’s from immigrant parents.”

“That’s not good,” Decker said. “We’ve got to get the body ID’d. Let’s bring someone from her office down to the morgue.”

“Not Lombard,” Oliver said. “He’ll deny knowing her, if he’s smart.”

“No, not Lombard, or any other lawyer, for that matter. I don’t want anyone charging the department three hundred and fifty an hour. Round up a secretary.” Decker looked at Beautemps and Wang. “Lee, set something up at the crypt, say around ten tomorrow. Wanda, you go to the firm and find someone who knew Solana and can identify her. The two places aren’t too far apart. You should be in and out in an hour, especially if Lee sets up the body for camera viewing beforehand.”

Wang said, “I was going to work on the city’s Missing Person files. I only got through a quarter of them this afternoon.”

“You can do that afterward. Besides, it won’t be necessary if we get a positive ID.” Decker turned to Wanda. “If you don’t get a positive ID, you help go through the MP files in the city.”

“No problem,” Wanda answered.

“Great,” Decker said. “Now, if our body is Solana, it’s really tempting to jump to conclusions about Lombard, but let’s keep an open mind. We know Solana is missing. And we know that Lombard was in the house where the body was dumped. We know that Solana and Lombard worked in the same department.”

“You forgot to mention that our vic was three months pregnant and he’s a married guy,” Oliver put in. “Ask the guy for a blood test. We can see if he’s the father.”

“Even if Lombard is the father, it doesn’t mean he killed her,” Decker said.

Marge said, “Everything’s circumstantial except him showing up at the house two days before some poor devil finds our body stuffed in a closet. With that, Lombard ’s painting a nice picture for the DA.”

“Sure would be nice to find where the vic was killed,” Oliver said.

“Funny you should think of that, Scottie,” Decker said. “I just got off the phone with Solana’s landlord. He’s meeting me at her apartment in forty minutes.”

Marge asked, “Where did she live?”

“Reseda. Who wants to join me?”

There was resounding silence.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. Who’s on call?”

“I think that would be Oliver and me,” Marge said.

Wang stood up. “Thanks for dinner, Loo.” He looked at Wanda. “See you tomorrow at ten.”

“Wait, I’ll walk you out.” Wanda threw away her paper plate and picked up her purse. “See you tomorrow.”

After they left, Decker spoke to Oliver. “You look like you swallowed quinine.”

Oliver sighed heavily. “I was planning to meet someone for drinks. She’s gorgeous and in her forties. You’d approve.”

“Don’t start, Oliver. I outrank you.”

“I’m serious, Pete. I’m trying to act somewhat age-appropriate.”

Marge added, “Especially because forty now seems young to him.”

Decker smiled. “All right, Oliver, go on your date. Margie and I can handle this. If the apartment turns out to be the crime scene, I’ll page you.”

“I’m suspicious when you’re too nice.”

“Nah, don’t be fooled. It’s part of my persona as the benevolent dictator.”

Decker and Marge accompanied Irv Fletcher up a flight of outdoor steps. The apartment building was an anonymous white box with sparkles in the stucco. The landlord was in his late seventies, short, slight, and bald, but with a spring in his step. “Her rent wasn’t due for another week, so I had no reason to contact her.”

“Good tenant?” Decker asked.

“The best kind: the one who pays her rent on time.”

Decker had a thought. He still had Solana’s postmortem picture in his pocket. “Did you know her well?”

“Never met her. Everything was done through an agent.”

So much for the quick ID. At the top of the stairs, Fletcher fished out a ring of keys. “You think something happened to her?”

“Maybe,” Marge said. “She hasn’t been at work for the last couple of days.”

As they got closer to the apartment, a faint stale smell wafted through the chilly air. “Here we go… number eight.”

“Do you mind if I open the door?” Decker asked. “Fingerprints, you know.”

“Sure, sure.” Fletcher handed him the master key. Decker put on a pair of latex gloves, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the door. He groped around the wall until he found the light switch. It turned on two floor lamps, bathing the tiny living room in soft light.

A couch decorated with lacy pillows, and a coffee table, a chair and an end table, a set of bookshelves that held more DVDs than paperbacks, discount furniture, cheap but serviceable. The same space also held a dinette service for four and moribund flowers in a vase set in the middle of the table, dropping dead petals. The water stank of rotten eggs.

Marge and Decker exchanged looks. Marge said, “Mr. Fletcher, would you mind waiting outside?”

“Sure, sure. You mind if I sit in my car? It’s a little warmer in there.”

“No, sir, not at all. We’ll be down in a bit.” Decker walked around and peered into the kitchen, an out-pouching of the living area. It appeared clean and tidy. He went back into the living room and studied the floor, slowly walking toward the lone bedroom. Before he opened the shut door, he crouched down and stared at the joint where the jamb met the floor. “Looks like some blood here, mixed with hair. Our victim had a contusion on the side of her head.”

Marge said, “He was dragging her out and bumped her head on the doorjamb.”

Decker nodded. “I don’t see any smear tracks from the wound. He came back and cleaned up pretty good. But not all that good, if he left this. I’ll have the techs luminol the area tonight.” He got up from his squat and opened the door.

The room was orderly. The bed had been made; the night-stand held a lamp and a book. Framed photographs lined the dresser. Decker pointed to a pretty young woman with long flowing hair and full red lips. A glint twinkled in her brown eyes. She appeared around twenty. Decker took out the postmortem photograph. It was the same woman, but the two snapshots couldn’t have looked any more different.

Marge sighed. “Well, it looks like we’ve ID’d our victim.”

“And most likely found the crime scene.” Decker pointed to a corner of the room, at a blotch of something rusty brown. He bent down, sniffed it, and made a face.

“Blood?”

“More like excrement.” He stood back up. “Since she was choked, we wouldn’t expect to see a lot of blood. But victims piss and shit as they die. We’ll have the techs dust for fingerprints and take a look at this splotch under the scope.”

Marge said, “What should we do with Lombard?”

“We’ve got a witness who tells us he was in the open house that Sunday. And we know he worked with Solana. That doesn’t mean there was a relationship.”

“We could probably find that out easy enough. Should we bring him in?”

“Not yet. First let’s see if the techs can put him in her apartment by finding his fingerprints. In the meantime, Margie, he gets his cup of coffee from the same convenience store every day. Tell the store clerk to pour Lombard a cup from the dregs. Then, after he takes a sip, the clerk should offer him a fresh cup. When Lombard throws his cup away, you move in. Let’s get his DNA. If he’s the father of the kid, he can’t very well deny a relationship.”

It took little time for Decker to learn about Lombard ’s affair with Solana from several of her coworkers. Office gossip was rampant, though no one had anything damning to say about Solana other than she was having an affair with a married man. Lombard ’s fingerprints were on file, a requirement of his state license, and they matched dozens of prints found in Solana’s apartment. Though the DNA profile hadn’t come back, Decker decided it was time to bring in the young lawyer for questioning.

Dunn and Oliver caught up with Lombard during his lunch break-two hours at the Marquis Club, a posh private organization that catered to the downtown white-shoe firms and the multimillion-dollar corporations they represented. The young lawyer was accompanying the bosses. His job was to take notes and say nothing. The detectives waited until Lombard was done with his official business and discreetly moved in. The young lawyer reacted without dramatics. Wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and an ice-blue tie, Lombard was an average man in all respects, the only distinguishing mark being the mole over his right eye. The nevus was a dark, round spot, serrated at the edges and flush with his skin. At a quick glance, it resembled a bullet hole. After he made excuses to his bosses-an emergency at home-he willingly came down to the station house without a peep of protest.

Once in the interview room, Decker expected Lombard to lawyer up. Instead, the man sat stoically in his chair, waiting for the cops to make the first move. Oliver and Marge were behind the one-way mirror.

Decker said, “You know why you’re here?”

“You tell me.”

“We’re investigating the murder of a woman named Solana Perez.”

Lombard nodded. A moment later, a single tear leaked from his right eye. He quickly blinked it away.

“How long were you two involved with each other?”

Without a moment of hesitation, Lombard answered, “A while.”

Decker tried to hide his surprise at the admission. “Could you be more specific?”

Lombard rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t kill her.”

“That’s not what I asked you, Matt. I asked how long you two were involved with each other.”

“Two, three years.”

“A long time.”

Lombard didn’t answer.

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

There was a pause. Then the lawyer nodded. “She told me.”

Again he had talked freely. Decker gave himself a microsecond to collect his thoughts. “Solana told you she was pregnant with your child?”

“Yes, she told me.”

“How’d you feel about that?”

“Surprised.”

“Just surprised?”

“It wasn’t planned.”

“Since you’re married with two kids, I could imagine it wasn’t planned.”

Lombard said nothing, exhibiting none of the usual bodily reactions that most suspects had. No sweating, blushing, random movements, or fidgeting. It was as if his nervous system had shut down.

Decker said, “How’d you feel about her condition after the surprise wore off?”

“Maybe a little nervous… maybe excited.”

“Excited?”

Lombard shrugged.

“Did you tell your wife?”

“No.”

“Did you intend to tell your wife?”

Again Lombard shrugged. “I don’t know what I intended to do. I was thinking long and hard about it. I was at a crossroads. Then Solana…” He paused. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Am I under arrest?”

“So, here’s the story, Matt, and it isn’t looking very good for you. Your mistress is dead, and you, by your own admission, know that you’re the father of her unborn child. We’ve got forensic evidence that puts you in her apartment. We’ve got an eyewitness who puts you in the house where we found the body.”

For the first time, Lombard reacted. “Where did you find the body?”

“You dumped her there. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t dump her anywhere. I have no idea where you found the body. For all I know, you could be lying. I know that’s what you people do. And I know it’s legal.”

“I’m not lying.”

Lombard became still. Then he slumped in his chair, a defeated man.

Decker said, “Matt, you’re a married man with two kids. Now you’ve got a love child on the way. That could cause all sorts of problems-with your work, with your wife, with your life. You wanted Solana to have an abortion. You offered to pay for it and her medical expenses and even a little extra cash to boot. But she refused-”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“You didn’t kill her?”

“No.”

“You’re the father of her unborn child, you were at the crime scene, you were in the house where the body was found, but you didn’t kill her.”

“I don’t know anything about a crime scene, and I don’t know where the body was found. I loved Solana. I would never hurt her. I would never force her to get an abortion.”

“She was killed at her apartment, Matt. We’ve got your fingerprints all over the place.”

“Or course you do. I was at her apartment dozens of times.” A pause. “She was murdered in her apartment?”

“You tell me.”

“I can’t tell you, because I didn’t murder her. I certainly wasn’t at any crime scene, unless you count me going over to her place to look for her when she didn’t show up at work.”

“Yes, Matt, I’ll count that.”

“I didn’t know it was the crime scene. Everything looked pretty much in order when I was there. But I knew something was wrong. She wouldn’t just disappear without telling me.”

“So if you suspected something was wrong, why didn’t you go to the police?”

“I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe I was scared because I was afraid that something had happened to her. Maybe I was confused. I loved Solana, but I also have a wife and two kids. You can think what you want, but I didn’t kill her.”

“You didn’t kill her.”

“No.”

“If you didn’t kill her, do you have any idea who might have killed her?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

“So what’s going to happen when you’re asked the question on the witness stand?”

“I’ll plead the Fifth.”

“That’s going to look bad for you, Matt.”

“I suppose it will. I think I should call a lawyer now.”

“That’s up to you.”

“I know that. The interview is over.”

And that was that. Still, Lombard had admitted the affair. He also had admitted being the father of Solana’s baby. Adele had put him at the open house, but there was nothing specific to tie him to the actual murder. Since DNA banding charts took months to get back, Decker had yet to receive a profile for Lombard. But even if they found trace amounts of Lombard ’s blood at the apartment, that would be meaningless, since he had acknowledged being there many times. He could always say he nicked himself shaving or cut himself…

Nicks and cuts.

Decker mentally slapped himself on the forehead. There had been material found underneath Solana’s fingernails, and Lombard ’s face was free of scratches. Decker wondered about other areas of the man’s body and decided to try the most obvious first. “Now, I’m not going to ask you any more questions-”

“You can’t ask me any more questions,” Lombard said. “I already asked for a lawyer.”

“You know, it would be really good for you if you rolled up your sleeves.”

“What?”

“I’m not asking you to do it, but if you happen to do it, I’d like to take a look at your arms.”

“What are you doing? You’re not taking my blood, are you?”

“Of course not,” Decker answered. “All I’m saying is that if you roll up your sleeves of your own volition, I would like to take a look at your arms.” Lombard was silent, his eyes locked with Decker’s. “You don’t have to do it. Completely up to you. But an innocent man has no reason not to cooperate.”

“Innocent men have no reason to be charged with crimes they didn’t commit. Still, it happens all the time.”

“Your cooperation would be duly noted,” Decker said.

“You shouldn’t be asking me anything after I asked for a lawyer.”

“I haven’t asked you a thing. I’ve just said that if you did it, it would be convenient for me to look at your arms.”

Lombard shook his head. “You’re out of line.” Still, he rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were covered in dark stiff hair; the undersides were pale, with prominent pulsing veins.

“Thank you,” Decker said. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“I have a cell phone. I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.” Decker closed the door to the interview room and went into the chamber where Oliver and Marge had been watching. From the one-way mirror, Decker saw Lombard picking up his cell only to stow it in his pocket. He sagged in the chair, his hands in his lap, his chin almost touching his chest. Then he closed his eyes. Lombard was on automatic pilot. It was clear to Decker that he was involved, but in what way? The lawyer hadn’t exhibited any agitation that Decker would expect from a guilty man.

“What now?” Dunn asked.

“We have a strong circumstantial case, but not beyond a reasonable doubt. Certainly we can get a warrant to search his house. Maybe we can turn up some bloody clothes or something that puts her DNA on his clothes, or…” Decker thought a moment. “Or even better would be something that put his DNA on her body.”

“The body was nude, Loo,” Oliver reminded him. “Someone had cleaned her up.”

“Well, she had a full head of hair. Someone at Mission Road must have combed through it by now.”

“They did,” Marge said. “We checked. The loose hairs that they pulled were consistent with her own hair.”

“There was matter under her fingernails. Lombard ’s arms were clear, but I couldn’t check his back or his legs. We need a DNA profile from the scrapings.”

“The labs are backlogged.”

Decker frowned. “Anyone on good terms with a DNA geneticist who does private testing?”

“I know someone who works for Biodon,” Oliver said.

“Him or her?”

Oliver smiled.

“Good terms with her, Scottie?”

“She never complained.”

“Take her out to dinner on the department. Impress upon her the need for speed.”

Oliver grinned. “I know a great bistro with a dynamite pinot noir. Quiet, dark, a good place to conduct business.”

“What place is that?”

“Geraldo’s.”

Marge said, “That place is around seventy-five a person, Scott.”

“I know. I take my job very seriously.”

The woman who answered Decker’s knock was around five foot eight, with a full bosom and curves. Her hair was strawberry blond, and a sprinkling of freckles dotted her nose. She wore faded denim jeans, a long-sleeved cotton blouse, and a red bandana around her neck. Her eyes went wide when Decker showed her his badge.

“Police?”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you Laurie Lombard?”

“Yes. What do you want with me?”

“Who said I wanted anything with you, ma’am?”

The woman went silent. Decker produced the search warrant. “This says we’re allowed to come inside your house and search it. We also have separate documents for your car and your husband’s car.”

“You can’t come in here now. My husband’s at work.”

“He doesn’t have to be home for us to execute the warrant. But you can call him if you want.”

Laurie said, “I’m calling my lawyer, that’s what I’m doing.”

“It’s up to you, Mrs. Lombard. But we don’t have to wait around for either one of them to get here.” Decker turned to his detectives. “Let’s go.” He gently grazed Laurie’s shoulder as he sidestepped around her.

Laurie stared as a stream of official interlopers invaded her private space. “I was just about to go out.”

“You can’t use your car, ma’am,” Marge Dunn told her. “We have to search it. It may be impounded.”

“But I have to pick up my children at school!”

“Not at ten-thirty in the morning.”

“But what if you’re not done?”

“Call a taxi.”

Decker said, “Oliver, go over her car first. First of all, the body had to get from the apartment to the house-”

“Body?” Laurie interrupted. There was panic in her eyes. They darted from person to person. “What body are you talking about?”

Decker didn’t answer her and went on with his instructions. “If her car interior is clean, you might as well let her have access to it. I’ll do the bedrooms, Lee and Wanda can do the rest of the house.”

He marched down a small foyer that led to a series of bedrooms. The first belonged to her sons, two beds separated by a nightstand. The bookshelves were repositories of trophies from Little League, toys, CDs, DVDs, and an iPod.

The next room was Matt’s office. His bookshelves actually held books. It was neat, clean, and dusty, as if it hadn’t been used in many months. Decker suspected that Matt had been doing some of his take-home work at Solana’s apartment.

The master bedroom was in the back and was about twice as large as the other two. It had an enormous walk-in closet. Laurie’s clothing took up three-fourths of the space, relegating Matthew’s portion to one shoe rack and a couple of poles for suits. It would have been easiest to start on Lombard ’s side, but that wasn’t the focus of Decker’s attention. Instead, he began by looking at Laurie’s sneakers. Solana had been strangled, meaning there probably wouldn’t be big puddles of blood to step in. But Solana did have a big scrape on her head that had bled, and Decker remembered the rusty blob in the corner of the room. The murderer might have stepped in something.

Laurie had decided that Decker was in charge, so she addressed her pleas to him. “Please, Detective, I’ve got a house to run. I have to get groceries for dinner.”

“You might think about doing takeout tonight… with delivery.” There was a pair of athletic shoes hidden in the back recesses of the closet. Hands encased in latex gloves, Decker pulled out the shoes and studied them. Suede and leather top, with dirty gray laces that had once been white. He sniffed the tops: They smelled of dishwashing soap. The bottoms gave off a slight foul odor. Lucky for him that today’s athletic shoes were made with a topographical map’s worth of grooves and ruts. Decker could see specks of brown crud lodged inside one of the furrows. It could have been dirt, it could have been dog turd, or it could have been human waste. He turned to Laurie.

“The police have chemicals that can pick up tiny, tiny droplets of human matter-blood, waste, urine, skin. And there are scientists who can get an entire DNA profile from these tiny droplets. What do you think about that?”

Laurie opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Would you mind taking off your scarf for me, please, Mrs. Lombard?”

Her hands flew to her neck. Then her mouth tightened and her chin jutted out in an expression of defiance. “I don’t have to do anything for you.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come to the station house with us.”

“I’m not going to talk to you.”

“That’s your choice. But before I do the tests on this material that’s stuck inside the treads of your shoes, you might want to tell me your side of the story. You see, we’re already doing tests on the human skin that was found under Solana’s fingernails. And I suspect that you have scratches underneath your scarf. You might think about cooperating now, while there’s still a question mark. Because once this shoe is tied to Solana’s DNA, and the human material under Solana’s nails is tied to you, there won’t be room for negotiating anything.”

Laurie’s bottom lip began to quiver.

“But sure, call up your lawyer, if you want.” Decker shrugged. “Did you call your lawyer?”

Slowly, Laurie shook her head.

“Well, if you want your lawyer, now’s the time to call him or her.”

“Him,” she whispered.

“You can’t tell me anything, if you want your lawyer. You know that. So I guess the powers that be won’t hear your side until your lawyer wants us to hear it.”

“And if I don’t want a lawyer?”

“Well, you’ve watched enough TV to know the drill, Laurie. You’ve got to sign a card saying that you were offered a lawyer and you didn’t want one. Then you can talk to me.”

There was no reaction from the woman. For a brief moment, Decker thought that she might lunge at him and try to wrest the shoes from his grip. Then her mood turned as gray as her skin tone.

“Bitch!”

“I’m sure she was… carrying on with a married man with two children.”

“You don’t know the half of it!”

Her nostrils flared with anger. It was easy to see how this big-boned woman could choke the life out of Solana, drag her into a car, and stuff her into a closet.

“I’d like to hear it all, Laurie. So let’s go down to the station house. We’ll sit and have a cup of coffee together, and you can tell me all about it.”

“Do you have French-press coffee?”

“Uh, no, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“How’d you know it was she and not he who did the choking?” Oliver asked Decker. “Matt was acting pretty guilty, if you ask me.”

“Guilty because of what had happened, not because of what he’d done. Initially, it was nothing more than a gut feeling. When the preliminary DNA of Solana’s nail scrapings came up female, I had no doubt in my mind what had happened.” Decker took a sip of his coffee. “She killed his mistress, then set him up to take the blame.”

“How did she get inside the open house unless he left a door open for her?” Marge said.

“They originally had gone to the open house together, just as it was closing, and they had a long list of questions to ask the agent. Then Laurie suddenly claimed that she had a headache and had her husband handle it. But not before she’d unlocked a window so she could come back in. In the meantime, Matt had bombarded the agent with enough questions that Adele would be sure to remember him.”

“And Laurie knew that her husband’s fingerprints would be all over Solana’s apartment,” Oliver said.

“Right.”

“Do you think Matt knew that his wife had done it before she confessed?” Marge asked.

“Definitely,” Decker said. “All his talk about taking the Fifth-not to protect himself but to protect his wife.”

“She kills his girlfriend and tries to set up her husband. But he still takes the Fifth,” Oliver said. “What an idiot.”

“He felt guilty, Scott,” Marge said.

“I repeat: What an idiot.”

“Solana’s parents are coming in tomorrow from Texas by bus,” Decker said. “They want to take their daughter back to Mexico and bury her there, but they don’t have a lot of money.”

“We’re taking up a collection,” Marge said.

Oliver grimaced, then took out his wallet and opened it. “I’ve got a five.”

“You’ve also got a twenty.” Marge plucked it out of his wallet. “We’re trying to raise two hundred to give her a good church burial in a decent coffin. Pete and I offered to drive them to their town in Mexico.”

Decker said, “I figured I could use a little practice with my Spanish.”

“That’s how you two want to spend your days off?” Oliver was incredulous.

Marge said, “We’ve been thinking that maybe afterward we’d go to Acapulco.”

Oliver’s ears perked up. “Now you’re talking my language. Do you know Spanish, Margie?”

“Not really. What about you?”

“Sí, no, and Usted cuesta mucho dinero.”

Decker smiled. “Coming with us, Scottie?”

“Us?” Again Oliver was surprised. “You’re going to Acapulco with us and without your wife?”

“Rina’s going to meet me there. We’ve decided to turn it into a mini-vacation. You two will be on your own.”

Marge winked at Oliver. “You come and help split the driving, I’ll be your wingman when we hit the bars.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

“But don’t go too far, Pete,” Marge said. “We’ll need someone Spanish-speaking to plead his case after he’s been arrested for a drunk-and-disorderly.”

“You wound me,” Oliver said.

“Not as much as you wound yourself,” Marge said.

“And not as much as Solana Perez was wounded.” Decker shook his head in disgust. “The capacity of human beings to inflict pain on one another is just astonishing.”

“At least we got her a modicum of justice,” Marge said. “Until the next one.” She gave her words some thought. “And there always is a next one.”

“Speaking of which…” Decker handed them a detail sheet. “Lee and Bontemps just caught this case. They could use some help.”

Marge and Oliver let out a collective moan.

“Aw, quit your bitchin’,” Decker said. “Crime may make us cynical and ugly, but it’s how we earn our paychecks. It’s a nasty job, but someone has to do it.”