BANKS’S CELL HAD gone immediately to voice mail. It was probably a waste of time and police resources to trek over the hill for the appointment, but Decker made the plunge, sitting in wall-to-wall traffic for over an hour. It didn’t surprise him that his peevish knock went unanswered. This time Banks didn’t bother to leave a note, so Decker left a note of his own.

He was about to leave when he saw the door to the stairwell open. A neatly dressed man in his twenties emerged. He had a trimmed goatee, and his dark hair was buzzed short. He wore a white T-shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and sandals and carried a bag from L.A. Art Supplies. He was attempting to act disinterested in Decker’s six-foot-four, 220-pounds-of-muscle frame, but his eyes flitted like a hummingbird. He stopped across from Banks’s door and when he took out a set of keys, Decker saw his hand tremble.

“Excuse me, sir.” The man looked up. “I’m Lieutenant Decker from Los Angeles Police. Can I talk to you for a second?”

The man paused. “What about?”

“Your neighbor, Rudolph Banks.” Decker took out his badge.

The man said nothing, but his eyes fell upon the open billfold. Decker said, “I had an appointment with Mr. Banks this afternoon. He doesn’t seem to be home now and from my dealings with him, he isn’t home a lot.”

“I didn’t have much to do with him. He wasn’t very friendly.”

“I’ve heard he’s a bastard.”

“Yeah…I’d agree with that.” The man put down the bag of art supplies. “He moved out over the weekend.”

Decker felt his jaw clench. “When?”

“On Saturday.”

Decker exhaled. “I don’t suppose you’d know his forwarding address.”

The man shook his head. “You’re right. He wasn’t home a lot. But you could always tell when he was home. This is an old building with old, thick walls, but even with the insulation, I could always hear him screaming and swearing. No one on the floor liked him.”

“Did you see Mr. Banks on Saturday?”

The young man pressed his thin lips together. “Actually, I didn’t. But I talked to the movers.” He gave a fleeting smile. “I remember telling one of them that I hoped Rudy was moving far away.”

“What did he say to that?”

“That he was only hired help. But now that you mention it, it was odd that Rudy wasn’t around directing things.”

Decker smoothed his mustache. “Could he have been around when you weren’t home?”

“I was home most of Saturday. I did go out for brunch for a few hours. It’s possible I missed him.”

The notebook came out of Decker’s pocket. “Do you remember the name of the moving company?”

The man faltered. “No…no, I don’t remember.”

“Were the movers dressed in any kind of a uniform?”

“Pardon?”

“You know, usually movers wear shirts with the name of the company embroidered over the pockets.”

He thought about the question. “I don’t remember the name of the company, but they were dressed in a single color-matching shirts and pants in dark gray. Three of them. One big guy with tattoos, another was a little guy with like…geez, sort of a mullet, Hispanic or Italian looking; the third was also darker complexioned…buzz cut. Tough-looking dudes.”

“Do you recall any names?”

“Sorry, no. I’m good with images, not words.”

“You’re helping me a great deal. Do you remember what time it was when you spoke to Mr. Banks’s mover?”

“About one in the afternoon…what’s going on?”

“Mr. Banks and I arranged an appointment for this Monday. He never mentioned anything about moving, and I can’t reach him on his cell. Could I get your name, sir?”

“Baker Culbertson. Do you think something happened to Rudy?”

“I don’t know. Does the apartment complex have a manager?”

“Not in the building, no.”

“So who do you call when there’s a problem?”

“Imry Keric. If you hold on a minute, I’ll give you his number.” Culbertson opened the door just wide enough for him to fit through and closed it in Decker’s face. The gesture probably came more out of suspiciousness than rudeness. Decker was filling in his notes when Baker returned with a slip of paper. “This is his work number and this is his cell.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Culbertson. I’d also like to get your phone number if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Why do you need my number?”

“In case I think of additional questions for you.”

He paused a long time, but in the end he recited a string of digits. “I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me again. I told you everything I know.”

“Just in case something comes to mind.” Decker flipped the cover of his notepad and tucked it into his pocket. He handed Culbertson a card. “And here’s my number if you feel the need to call.”

“I don’t know why I would. I barely knew the man.”

“You knew him enough not to like him.”

Another hint of a smile. “True. It was hate at first sight.”

THE BARTENDER POURED another shot, and Oliver pushed it in front of Nick Little. They were drinking at a bar-not some gussied-up, pussied-up travesty of a saloon that peddled apple martinis and frozen strawberry daiquiris, but a bar’s bar. Dark inside with an old-fashioned box TV playing sports. Sawdust on the floor, barstools with red Naugahyde seats, and a polished wood bar top that had heard secrets as old as the Bible.

The neon in the window called the establishment Jackson’s Hole, and Nick Little was a well-known patron. He was slugging back booze almost as fast as the barkeep could pour. It loosened his tongue. Within fifteen minutes, Oliver found out that Nick had been married and divorced twice, one kid with the first and one with the second. His ex-wives were bitches and whores and marriage was a cruel joke perpetrated on men by conniving women in order to screw their husbands out of their paychecks.

It didn’t take much acting for Oliver to agree with him, although he and his ex could now be in the same room without fireworks discharging. He didn’t actively hate his ex, but she did bring out the dyspeptic side of his personality.

Nick Little had manly features-a roman nose veined from alcohol and a big chin with a heavy shadow of stubble that darkened his face. His eyes were Christmas colored-kelly green and red-rimmed. Metal studs pierced his earlobes and climbed all the way up to the cartilage. He was big across the shoulders but thin at the hips. His arms were muscled and festooned with ink. By trade, he worked in a pit crew. When he wasn’t servicing cars, he was racing them. He liked who he was and how he lived, and if anyone had a problem with that, they could eat his shit. He had packed a lot of living into his thirty years and intended to stuff even more life into his next thirty big ones if the guy upstairs permitted.

Oliver was trying to persuade him to talk about his mother, but Nick was too busy ragging on his exes to make the switch. He’d just have to wait Mr. Macho out. Eventually-and probably when Nick was drunk enough-he’d get around to talking about Melinda.

That happened about an hour later, although the man could sure hold his liquor. When he talked, he made eye contact and his hands were steady. “She tried the best she could.” He licked his lips. “It sucked all the way around.”

“How much do you remember?”

“I was fifteen, I remember everything. I liked my dad. He was a good guy. He might not have approved of how I live, but he would have supported my decisions. I’m financially independent and he would have liked that.”

“And your mother?”

“Yes, there’s Mom.” His blinked several times. “Mom fell apart. When her world crashed, she couldn’t handle her own shit, let alone ours.”

“She was absent a lot?”

“A lot-as in all the time. I hated her for it, but now I understand it. Sometimes life turns you into this person that you don’t want to be.”