“Not much. Didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“With all that racket going on I don’t think anyone would notice.” Wenderhole smiled. “What’d you think about what you saw?”

“I think that you’re doing very well with limited resources.”

The man nodded. “Very limited resources.”

“My daughter goes to Cal Tech. She belongs to a group that reconditions old computers and gives them away to worthy organizations. Most of the time, we’ve been the recipients. LAPD is pretty bare-bones. But I can pass the word to her if you want.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, but it won’t do us much good. Anything we can’t affix to the wall or floor winds up getting stolen. However, I wouldn’t mind a laptop.”

Marge smiled. “I’ll let her know.”

“Cal Tech…” Wenderhole shook his head. “She must be a genius.”

“She is, but not thanks to me. She’s adopted.”

“Is she Asian?”

Marge paused before answering. “You assumed she’s Asian because she goes to Cal Tech?”

Wenderhole smiled. “Racist, isn’t it. Well?”

“Chinese. She was orphaned while a teen and I got lucky.”

“Stereotypes come from somewhere.” Wenderhole leaned back, his shoulders folding into his body. “Geographically, I haven’t strayed too far from home. I was born about a half mile south of here. When I was a teen, the Los Angeles United School District had optional busing. The lottery put me at North Valley with Darnell Arlington and Leroy Josephson. We were a trio in misery-misplaced, mismanaged, and mistreated. After Darnell was relocated, Leroy and I didn’t last too long. We both dropped out in tenth grade, but neither of us told our mothers because we knew a good deal when we saw one. Working in that white area, it was a whole lot easier to sell shit. We were the only show in town for a while.”

“You sold drugs. So who was the supplier?”

“Darnell handled almost everything. Once he got caught-and moved away-Leroy and me were shipped back to the ’hood. Then Leroy was gunned down, and I was shot and paralyzed. I probably would have kept going if a bullet hadn’t stopped me. I probably would have ended up like Leroy.”

“How long did it take for you to make the transformation?”

“You mean from gangsta to solid citizen?” He thought a moment. “I’ve been doing this for seven years. Psychologically, it’s taken me longer to adjust, and that’s because I see myself in so many of the kids here.”

Marge took out her notepad. “You said you were misplaced, mistreated, and…”

“Mismanaged.”

“Yeah, mismanaged. No one tried to help you?”

“No one.”

“What about Bennett Little? He seemed to have an outstretched hand.”

Wenderhole stared at her. “Dr. Ben’s project was Darnell, not me. I suppose I was hopeless in his eyes. Or…maybe he did try to help, but I didn’t hear him-really hear him. His words were white noise.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I was pissed off and on drugs. I didn’t listen to my nana, my mother, my minister, my coach. I certainly wasn’t gonna listen to no pissy-ass white boy.” He smiled. “What a stupid jerk I was. Even with missing almost all of school, I scored almost 1100 on the SAT. If I’d been born a different color in a different area, I would have been a lawyer or a psychologist.”

“There’s still time,” Marge said.

Wenderhole was taken aback. “Yes, you’re right about that. I’m still making excuses. Patterns die hard.”

“So you didn’t have much to do with Dr. Ben?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with anyone in North Valley. I only stepped inside a classroom when it rained because it was too wet and cold to hang. You know how often it rains in L.A., so you now know how often I was physically in school.”

“What do you remember about Dr. Ben’s death?”

“I was wondering when I’d have this conversation. I thought he might come up as soon as I heard about Primo Ekerling.”

Stunned, Marge tried not to stare. “You know Primo Ekerling?”

Wenderhole scratched his stubble. “Close the door. I got a story to tell you.”

DRESSED IN WHITE pants, a yellow polo shirt, and a brimmed cap, Phil Shriner had just finished with his power walk around the grounds of his retirement home when he found Oliver waiting for him in front of bungalow 58. Inside, the space was still claustrophobic with furniture, although some of the hardwood floor was peeking through. Shriner took a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator and poured two glasses’ worth. He opened the patio door, went outside, and leaned over the railing. Oliver stood next to him and Shriner handed him a glass. The retired detective’s backyard overlooked the number 6 fairway. He checked his watch. “I’m due to tee off in a half hour.”

Oliver sipped the lemonade. “But I told you this might take some time.”

“I don’t have anything to add beyond our first encounter. I don’t know why you bothered coming out at all.”

“Then I’ll make it quick,” Oliver said. “I think you’re lying to me about Melinda Little.”

Shriner’s head snapped back. “Well, that was blunt. So I’ll be blunt back. Frankly, I don’t care what you think.”

“C’mon, Phil. You know how it works. You don’t want to make it hard on yourself. Just be straight and I’ll leave you alone.”

He stared at Oliver. “What’s your problem? You’re getting nowhere, so you’re bugging people to see what drops?”

“Okay. Let me get this out. I think that Melinda Little’s gambling problem predated her husband’s death. She was flushing money down the toilet way before the murder. We suspect that you knew that, too.”

“Maybe I suspected it, but I didn’t know it. And why would that matter?”

“Because, Phil, if she was heavily in debt before the murder, she might have viewed Bennett Little’s insurance policy as a ticket out.”

“I wouldn’t know. I told you I met her after her husband died.”

“We have witnesses that put you two together before Little was murdered,” Oliver fibbed.

“Then your witnesses are lying. I met her after her husband was already dead.” Shriner gave him a steely glare. “She had been gambling heavily, and I gave her a shoulder to cry on. She was desperate and I was rock bottom. I joined Gamblers Anonymous first and convinced her to come to a meeting. That’s the extent of our relationship. One forged in misery.”

“So tell me again about this scheme you cooked up because she spent the insurance money.”

“We’re mining old territory.”

“Indulge me.”

Shriner finished the lemonade and put the glass on a patio table. “Melinda had blown most of the insurance money from her husband at the casinos.”

“What was her choice of poison?”

“The card tables. She resisted joining GA because, like most addicts, she was convinced that she had it under control. It took a lot of prodding on my part, but she agreed to accompany me to a meeting. Then she went to another…and another. Soon she realized the extent of her problem. The money was almost gone and if she didn’t get it together, she’d be destitute. She needed to borrow money to tide her over until some bond interest came due, and her parents were the only ones who wouldn’t do a credit check.”

“But they knew she had the insurance money.”

“Exactly the point. She couldn’t tell them the truth about her gambling. She felt they wouldn’t understand her psychological state.”

“Or maybe they were tired of giving her their hard-earned money.”

“That’s why she was petrified to face them. She told me that if she admitted her gambling to her parents, they’d try to take away the kids. So she asked me if I could think of something to help her out.”

“So you lied for her.”

“Not completely. I said she could tell her parents that she spent the insurance money on a private detective. I’d back up her story.”

“Did they call?”

“Of course. I could tell that they liked Ben. Money spent for the case would be acceptable.”