“Phil Shriner implied it.”

Marge stared at him. “What do you mean, implied it?”

Oliver shrunk back a tad. “He couldn’t actually tell me yes, because it was said to him in confidence, but-”

“So you don’t know if it’s true?”

“It’s true, Marge, he just won’t admit it because Melinda confessed her sins at one of those GA meetings where everything is confidential.”

“So how did you get it out of him?” Decker asked.

“I just made the leap and he didn’t tell me no.”

Decker said, “Scott, go over to Melinda Little and lie to her. Tell her that Shriner told you about the affair and what does she have to say for herself.”

Oliver shrank back again. “Uh, I’d like to get some independent corroboration first. Shriner told me that if I approached Melinda Little and told her that he blabbed the affair, he’d sue me and the department. I can pump Melinda on it and try to get her to admit it, but we need to leave Shriner out of it.”

“Back it up for a second,” Decker said. “Oliver, did Phil Shriner find out about the affair before or after the Little murder?”

“Melinda was in GA after Little died, so he must have found out about it afterward.”

Marge said, “If he’s to be believed.”

Abruptly Oliver hit his forehead with his hand. “I’m going senile. Shriner told me that he passed Rudy Banks’s name to Cal Vitton as a possible suspect for the murder.”

“He passed Banks’s name to Cal Vitton?” Decker was taken aback. “I didn’t see anything in Vitton’s note indicating that he interviewed Rudy.”

Oliver said, “So maybe Cal checked Rudy out and he couldn’t hold him.”

“Or maybe he didn’t even try to hold him,” Marge said. “I’m still thinking back to Pete’s conversation with Freddie Vitton, about Cal Senior not coming to his son’s rescue when he was being bullied.”

“Maybe he didn’t know.”

“I don’t believe that. Now Oliver says that Shriner passed Rudy’s name to Cal Vitton, giving Cal an opportunity to haul in Rudy’s ass. But he doesn’t do it.”

Oliver said, “Rudy had something on Cal.”

“I still think it had something to do with Cal J’s homosexuality,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “Freddie V said that just about everyone knew that Cal J was gay.”

Marge said, “But that doesn’t mean that Cal Senior would want it advertised. Maybe Cal didn’t have anything concrete on Rudy, so he decided not to look too hard if Rudy kept his mouth shut about Cal J’s sexuality.”

“He might let some things slide,” Oliver said. “But not murder.”

Marge looked at him. “But maybe Cal didn’t know that Rudy was a murderer. All I’m saying is that we’re familiar with a certain breed of cop who’d rather have their own sons conveniently disappear than to admit to the world that their offspring are homosexuals. They think it reflects on their machismo.”

“Not just cops,” Decker said. “It’s a certain breed of man.”

Oliver said, “Can we get back to Melinda Little for a moment? We have several reasons why she would want Little dead. The insurance money and maybe she was in love with Rudy and wanted to go off with him.”

“There’s divorce for that,” Marge said.

“But then she might lose her trust fund money.”

Marge said, “Or maybe Rudy wanted Melinda and ordered a hit out on Little.”

Decker said, “First we need a way to verify an affair between Rudy and Melinda. Scott, you need to lean on either Shriner or Melinda Little.”

“Shriner’s an immovable object,” Oliver said. “He’s out for now. I could go to Melinda Little, but I’d like more ammo before I shoot.”

A thought hit Decker’s brain. “Maybe we don’t need Shriner to verify the affair. Give me a few minutes and I might even have an idea.”

VENICE BEACH SPANNED the socioeconomic spectrum in a ten-block radius: from the multimillion-dollar architectural homes on the canals to the gang-riddled roads of the Oakwood area. In between were a number of California ranches, Pasadena-style Greene and Greene houses with wraparound porches and wood-sided shingles, and old Victorians, some restored, some not.

The beach part in Venice usually referred to the “walk streets”-little alleyways that connected Ocean Park Boulevard to the sand and grit deposited by the blue Pacific. These lanes were lined with the gamut-from shacks to three-story statements-with the main draw being the proximity to the ocean. Decker didn’t know if O’Dell owned or leased, but if he had been bright enough to purchase, the ex-Slut was living the good life in an appreciating asset.

The address corresponded with a one-story, side-by-side Cape Cod duplex painted bright blue with white trim. O’Dell’s unit was the left side and the door was open, the smell of grease wafting clear down to the sidewalk. Decker knocked on the screen door frame, then stepped inside a stuffy, dark room with worn, planked floors and cracked plaster walls. The ceiling beams were half-painted, half-exposed wood and sported a mounted fan on full blast. The artwork consisted of Doodoo Slut posters, lots of framed pictures with babes in bikinis, and a gold record in a shadow box. The furniture was mismatched and looked to be secondhand stuff. The window curtains had been drawn, blocking out most of the natural light.

Decker was sweating under his jacket. He loosened his tie and called out to O’Dell. When he didn’t get a response, he drew back the curtains and the beams streamed in, highlighting the dust and the must. “Liam, are you home?”

“In a minute. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Decker took off his jacket and draped it over the sofa. He opened one of the windows and a saline breeze sifted through the screen. O’Dell emerged as a surfer dude in a Hawaiian shirt, cutoff shorts, and sandals. An apron fell down to his knees. His eyes were squinting.

“Did you find Rudy?”

“Not yet.”

“Balls. What the hell is taking so long?”

“I don’t know where he is. Do you?”

“No, but it’s not my job to look for the bastard. That’s what I’m paying me taxes for.” He was still squinting when he noticed the open window. “Who the hell pulled the curtains?”

“Mea culpa,” Decker said. “Is it a problem?”

“Bloody hell, yes, it’s a problem. What time is it?”

“Around twelve.” Decker started to close the curtains, but O’Dell stopped him. “S’right. Just leave it. I’m frying clams. Want some breakfast?”

“No thanks, I’m good.” A pause. “I thought you were a vegan.”

“Clams don’t count.”

Decker could hear a sizzling pan in the background. “Why don’t you finish up your cooking and then we can talk.”

“That’ll work. Want a beer?”

“No thanks.”

“Something stronger?”

“How about a bottle of water?”

“I’ve got tap or a diet 7UP.”

“Diet 7UP is fine. I can drink it out of the can.”

“That’s good because the glasses aren’t clean. You can take off your tie. It’s like a bloody sauna in here.”

“Might cool things off if we opened all the windows.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

After getting some decent ventilation, Decker sat down on the sofa. O’Dell came in with a plate of clams drenched in malt vinegar and tartar sauce. He tossed Decker a can of 7UP and then took a swig from a bottle of Heineken. He ate sans utensils, popping clams into his mouth and licking his fingers afterward. “Delicious. Sure you’re not interested?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

Another healthy gulp of beer. “So you haven’t found Rudy. You think he might be dead?”

“Don’t know,” Decker said. “I’m interested in the time you got along with him.”

“That would be never.”

“You were in a band with him for years. You must have gotten along a little bit.”

“Nope, never.” He ate another clam. “If we didn’t break into fistfights, it’s only because we were too blasted to care. Whenever I was sober, which wasn’t too often, I never liked the son of a bitch.”