“Surely you’re investigating more avenues that just Banks.”

“Of course. I have a guy named Darnell Arlington. He was Bennett Little’s charity case, but eventually Little kicked him out of school when Arlington was caught drug dealing. The problem with Darnell is that he was over fifteen hundred miles away when Little’s murder went down. We’re checking out the possibility of murder for hire because Arlington had some thuggish friends.”

“How’s that going?”

“Just found out the names. Unlike TV, we just don’t cut to the next scene. Locating people takes a while. Also, I had a retired cop who might have helped me with the Little case, only now he’s dead-like on-purpose dead. Suicide.”

Cindy stopped working. “Who’s that?”

“An LAPD detective named Calvin Vitton. He originally worked the Little case. I had an appointment to talk to him and when I showed up at his house, he appeared to have killed himself. Empty pill vials, then a gunshot to the head.”

“So why do you say he appeared to have killed himself?”

“Because I haven’t gotten the final path report. I got the feeling that if Cal were going to kill himself, he’d do it like a man. Just aim and shoot-no pills for him to soften the act. So I’m thinking cause and effect. I bring up Ben Little to Cal Vitton, and the next thing I know is that he’s dead. It’s not inconceivable that Cal called someone who came over, knocked him out with pills, shot him, and then staged the scene.”

“Did Cal have residue on his hands?”

“Yes, but someone could have wrapped the gun around his own hand and pulled the trigger for him. And if he did kill himself to hide something, what’s the secret?”

“More important for Hollywood Homicide and me: What do Vitton’s suicide and Little’s murder have to do with Primo Ekerling?”

“That’s legitimate. I don’t know that they have anything to do with it.”

Cindy cocked her hip. “I understand why you think Vitton’s suicide is related to the Little homicide. It’s not just a coincidence. But I don’t see what Vitton or Little have to do with Ekerling’s murder.”

Decker began to wipe down the counter, busying his hands while his brain fired-or misfired-ideas. Maybe he should stop trying to shove the two cases under the same umbrella. “The connection is Banks, and it’s tenuous. In the back of my mind I’m thinking that if I find out who really killed Ekerling, it might shed some light on Ben Little’s murder. I need to find out more about Banks, especially because Marge thinks that there may be a connection between Banks and Darnell Arlington.”

“The suspect that was over fifteen hundred miles away when Little was murdered with the thuggie friends that you’re looking for.”

“Exactly. Marge flew to Ohio to interview Arlington about Little.”

“And?”

Decker stopped cleaning the tile and sat down on a kitchen chair. “And when Margie asked about Rudy Banks, Arlington acted edgy. Darnell remembered Banks as an upperclassman and being in choir with him except the two boys weren’t in North Valley at the same time.”

“Maybe Darnell knew Banks from just hanging around.”

“If that’s the case, why not just say, ‘Hey, I knew him from hanging around.’”

“Because people get nervous and are afraid to say things because they don’t know how their words will be twisted around.”

“I take offense. I do not twist people’s words.”

“Okay, not twist. Misunderstood.”

Decker gave her a sour look. “All I’m saying is that there’s a definite connection between Arlington and Little, and a possible connection between Banks and Arlington. Furthermore, there’s a connection between Arlington and Cal Vitton.”

Cindy perked up. “Really?”

“Vitton interviewed Arlington over the phone. That’s right there in the charts. But Darnell claims he doesn’t remember the interview or the cop who talked to him.”

“That’s a bunch of bullsh…malarkey. You don’t forget those kinds of incidences or names.”

“Do you have any thoughts?”

“I still think there’s a good chance that Ekerling and Little are unrelated, unless…” Abruptly, Cindy flushed with excitement. “What about Banks and Vitton, Daddy? Cal Vitton was still an active detective when Banks was in high school, right? Rudy didn’t become a bad boy overnight. I bet he had run-ins with the police when he was in his teens. Maybe even with Vitton.”

Mentally, Decker hit his forehead. He leaned over and kissed his daughter’s cheek. “Good call, Cin; hold that thought. I may need you to retrieve it for me as soon as Shabbos is over.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t it be great if you found out that Vitton arrested Banks for possession or-” Cindy stopped abruptly. “If Banks was arrested in high school, wouldn’t his juvenile records be sealed?”

“Not always. Sometimes they’re not.”

“Or maybe he got arrested as an adult.”

“That I have checked out. Banks was hauled in for disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly, and a DUI when he was in the Doodoo Sluts. The incidents took place in West Hollywood and out of town. Nothing he did went down in our district, so Vitton wouldn’t have dealt with Banks on those charges.”

“Too bad.”

“I’m still thinking about what Banks could have done as a teenager…” Decker drummed his fingers on the kitchen table. “It’s true that Banks’s juvenile records might be sealed. But even if the records are sealed, memories aren’t. Vitton’s partner, Arnie Lamar, is still alive-at least for the time being.”

Cindy made a face.

“I meant it as a joke, but maybe I’m a little worried about him. Anyway, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to pay Lamar a visit on Sunday and tell him my concerns. And while I’m there, I’ll ask if a guy named Rudy Banks ever showed up on their radar.”

THE SHELL OF a 240Z took up valuable driveway space. It had no tires, no seats, and no interior to speak of except for the dash and steering wheel-both original and in surprisingly good shape. The chassis had been lifted upward and was resting on a set of bricks. The Datsun had several generous dents, and the silver paint job was faded and pocked with orange rust stains. But even so, it was a good-looking car-streamlined and way ahead of its time. There was a tool-box nearby, but no feet were sticking out from underneath the car’s carriage. The doors to the four-car garage were closed.

Decker scanned the yard for signs of Arnie Lamar, but came up empty. The ground had been baked from the recent heat wave, turning stone hard with sizable cracks. Red ants were scampering in and out of the fissures. The metal scrap strewn and spangled across the front area reflected blinding sunlight.

Walking up to the front door, Decker got a hinky twinge when he saw that it was wide open, although the screen was closed and locked. He knocked on the doorjamb, gently at first, then louder when he didn’t get a response.

This was not promising.

Looking through the mesh, Decker could make out Arnie’s tidy but dimly lit living room. He could hear a whirring fan and feel a tepid draft blowing out the door.

What to do?

The day was hot enough to burn away the smog, leaving behind a languid blue sky shimmering in the heavens. The ground was smoking, waves undulating off the black asphalt. Dark funnels of gnats swirled around a vortex in hurricane fashion. Flies dive-bombed his face. Sweat had darkened circles under Decker’s armpits and had drenched his back. He had the complexion of a typical redhead and couldn’t walk for more than a hundred feet in full sunlight without his skin beginning to burn. The whine of a mosquito pierced his ear and he slapped at his cheek.

Torpor began to set in, a sodden blanket draping over his shoulders. His head began to pound and his eyes felt itchy.

He checked his watch: 2:10.

The appointment had been set for two. He longed to slide back into his Porsche, crank up the AC, and drive away. He was hot and grumpy, but maybe it was because of his reticence to stumble upon another body. He swore to himself, glanced longingly at his car, but pressed on.