“How does he get away with it?”

“When people complain, he says sue me. Some do, but most don’t.”

“Where does Rudy get the money for legal work?”

“The son of a bitch is smart. Ten years ago, right after the group broke up, Rudy went to law school. One of those nighttime rip-off deals where none of the students ever pass the bar. Guess what?”

“He passed the bar.”

“He specialized in intellectual property. He knows the ins and outs. Let me tell you something, Lieutenant, it’s hard to get a judge to even listen to your case. Ninety-nine percent of these cases get thrown out on the first round. Primo let Rudy have a free ride for years just because it wasn’t worth it.”

“So what changed his mind?”

“Rudy put out a retrospective CD of the Doodoo Sluts without giving Primo, Liam, and Ryan-the other guys in the band-any money whatsoever. The three of them got together and sued. It stopped the release of the CD-at least temporarily-and so far, no one has made a penny except Rudy.”

“So what would happen if all three members died? Would Rudy get all the profits, or would it go to the estates of the members?”

“I have no idea.” She paused and smoked her cigarette. “Rudy is always suing someone or someone is suing him. It’s a way of life for him. Still, I don’t see him as having anything to do with Primo’s death.”

Another pause.

“Although I’m not quite sure that I buy the carjacking gone wrong thing.” She shook her head and regarded Decker’s eyes. “You don’t buy it, either. That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m just gathering information. Why don’t you buy it?”

“The death seemed calculated. I saw the interview tape of the punk…I guess he’s one of the punks. The kid sounded as if he couldn’t plan a fart after eating beans.”

“Do you remember the name of the interviewee you saw?”

“No. He was black.”

“Travis Martel.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Marilyn finished her cigarette and lit another. “But what do I know? In the meantime, I’m careful. If it wasn’t those jackasses, then maybe it was something more personal. So then maybe I should be looking over my shoulder.”

“Anyone specifically in mind?”

“No, and that’s why I’m nervous. The recording business attracts a whole lot of psychos. Some even have talent. It’s all marketing these days. What you sound like is irrelevant. It’s how you present.”

“I’m sure that’s true. How did Rudy meet Primo?”

“I don’t really know. I came into Primo’s life long after the split of the Doodoo Sluts. We met at AA. I’ve been sober for over five years. Primo, so far as I know, had been sober for a little longer, but who knows?”

“You think that Primo might have slipped up?”

She blew out smoke. “When I heard that this punk carjacked the Mercedes from Jonas Park, my first thought was: what the hell was Primo doing in a park in southeast L.A. alone at night. Almost immediately I answered my own question. He was probably sucking on a bottle or getting high.”

“Did you ask the coroner if he had alcohol or drugs in his blood?”

“Why would I bother doing that?” She stared at him. “It wasn’t what killed him…directly.”

“It would be interesting to know.”

“Yeah, it would explain why he gave up without a fight. If he was drunk or stoned, he probably didn’t know what was flying. As a sober guy, he could take care of himself.”

Decker wondered if a comprehensive toxic screen had been ordered at autopsy. He made a note to check it out.

“He was a really good producer. Not that anyone cared. The entire industry is in the throes of a shake-up. The CD is a dinosaur. Everything is downloaded from song-sharing sites. And lots of new groups are bypassing traditional producers and selling their own shit on the Internet. Primo’s jobs were fewer and fewer. If he had succumbed to drinking, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“And you said he would have probably resisted if he wasn’t drunk?”

“I didn’t know Primo when he drank. I don’t know if he was a mean drunk or not. As a man, I can tell you he was a good guy.” She blinked back tears. “If you find anything new, let me know.”

“I will. And I’d appreciate your keeping the conversation quiet. The detectives assigned to Primo’s murder wouldn’t like me butting my nose into their business.” He paused. “You wouldn’t happen to have Rudy Banks’s phone number.”

“Do I have it?” She laughed derisively. “I must have called it a thousand times. Sometimes he even answers.”

“Thanks. That would save me some work. And just so I don’t over-focus on Rudy Banks, is there anyone else who might have had a stake in hurting Primo?”

She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Who knows? In this business, you make enemies without even knowing it.”

THE MESSAGE POPPED onto the machine after ten rings, giving the caller adequate time to hang up. If the male voice was that of Rudy Banks, his tonal quality was raspy, as if he had a chronic case of laryngitis. Decker left his name, rank, and phone number. From past history, intuition, and experience, he was going to have to chase the sucker down. He hung up and began to sort through a falling tower of pink message slips when Oliver came into the office and sat down.

Decker barely glanced up, but his eyes had enough time to take in Scott’s jaunty outfit, a glen plaid jacket over olive pants. “You’re looking very English today.”

“Fifty bucks for the jacket.” Oliver smoothed the lapel. “Brand new. I found out about Ben and Melinda Little’s finances. They were in good shape.”

The way Oliver spoke made Decker wonder. “Do you mean good shape or very good shape?”

“I mean outstanding shape.”

“As in way too good for a teacher?”

“As in skirting the boundaries of what would be logical,” Oliver told him. “And that got me thinking. How did a guy on a teacher’s salary without a working wife afford such a nice house and an expensive car?”

“I thought he was also a vice principal…which probably meant he had a little more lunch money.”

“At the time, he was making forty-one thou a year plus health and benefits, which was pretty good back then, but it doesn’t explain how he amassed personal savings and the Mercedes and the kids’ college funds, and, I found out, he was also making payments on a motorboat. Not a big one, but still. And he also had a trailer and a camper to tow it.”

“Nice stash. Did you ask Melinda Little about it?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Melinda told me that Ben loved to camp and spend weekends at Lake Mead. She stopped paying for the boat after he died, and the company repossessed it. The trailer she sold for a discount-they’re worth next to nothing on the resale market-and basically broke even. If I was looking for an infusion of cash from the sales of the vehicles to fund her burgeoning gambling habit, I didn’t find it.”

Decker nodded. “But the question you asked is a good one. Where did he get all the money?”

“Melinda claimed that Ben took care of the finances, and she never questioned where the money came from. She was provided for, the kids were provided for, and that was good enough for her.”

“Do we know if Ben had other jobs?”

“Like what?”

“My kids go to religious day school. Their Hebrew studies are in the morning and the English studies are in the afternoon. A few of their secular studies teachers are public school instructors who moonlight for a little extra spending cash.”

“That might explain the car or the boat or the camper, but not the car and the boat and the camper.”

“What did his bank deposits look like?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Most of the money was direct deposit from work.”

“If he owned the camper and the trailer, how did he pay for them?”

“My next step.”

“And what about the Mercedes? Was he making payments on that as well?”