“And you believe him? Martel?”

“I believe that he was involved, and I believe that Rudy was involved.”

“Nice to have Rudy’s neck in a noose, but right now I’m thinking about Mudd. If the police crap out, we’re thinking about a private eye. Know anyone?”

Certainly not Phil Shriner, Decker thought. “I know some Valley people…not so many city people.” A beat. “I’ve heard good things about a West L.A. PI named Aaron Fox. He used to be with LAPD but we never crossed paths. I’ll get you a number. Again, let me know if you hear from Ryan.”

“Ditto.” Liam cut the line.

“Everything okay?” Rina asked.

“One step at a time,” Decker opened his chicken salad sandwich. “Wow, this is just terrific. Thanks again.”

Rina opened another box. “Hannah baked cookies for the squad room. You can have one. They’re pareve.”

“Tell her thank you. To what do we owe such benevolence?”

“She was baking cookies for her friends, and I said as long as she had the bowls and cookie sheets out, she should bake for you guys.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She said okay, but clearly wasn’t keen on the idea. Then I told her you’d write her a note and the school would probably give her credit for community service. That brightened her outlook considerably. It means she won’t have to do her after-school hours this week.”

Decker popped a cookie in his mouth. “Delicious. I should be offended by my own daughter’s tepid response to baking for me and the crew, but I’m not.” He took another and made short work of it. “Let’s face it. No one works for free.”

THE MORNING WAS clear and bright, the sunlight tumbling out from the cloudless, blue ether. The drive to the Palisades was free moving. Decker was behind the wheel with Marge sitting shotgun drinking a mocha latte and Oliver in the back mocking her coffee choice, railing on about suckers who paid three dollars for something that probably cost twenty-five cents to make.

Marge broke into his rant. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to pour this over your head.”

“Let me just ask you a question,” Oliver said. “Does Will drink any of that shit?”

“Will’s a coffee drinker.”

“I’m a coffee drinker, but that’s not what I asked you. I want to know if Will drinks any of that mocha, chocolate, whipped, foamed, soy, nonfat-”

“Occasionally he does, for your information. Now if you’d kindly save your obnoxious aggressive streak for Melinda Little, I’d be much obliged.”

“I bet she drinks mocha, whipped, foamed-”

“Can I kill him?” Marge asked Decker. She turned around to the back. “You know, if you would have ordered a plain coffee and gotten some caffeine in your system, you wouldn’t be bitching at me.”

“I don’t pay two bucks for something I can make for ten cents.”

“Scott, you don’t own a coffeemaker. You don’t even own a jar of instant. That’s your problem. You show up in the morning and wait for someone in the squad room to make coffee, then you mooch off the common pot. This morning, no one bothered to make coffee. Now you have a friggin’ headache and we have to put up with your chemical withdrawal. It’s not fair.” She rummaged around in her purse. “Here. Take a Motrin. Maybe it’ll take the snarl off your face.”

Oliver wanted to sneer, but the pain got the better of him. “Do you have something to wash it down with?” Marge handed him the last of her mocha latte. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She looked out the window, at the billows of white foam barreling across the cobalt marine expanse. “Sure is pretty around here…especially without the excess noise.”

Oliver held his head and grumbled from the backseat.

Decker said, “How the other half lives.”

Marge said, “I wonder how Melinda-with two kids and probably a lot of debt-managed to snag a multirich guy like Michael Warren.”

“She’s a beautiful woman,” Decker said.

Marge said, “There are lots of beautiful women in L.A. ”

“My guess is that she’s hot in the sack,” Oliver said.

“There are a lot of women who are also hot in the sack,” Marge said.

“But probably not many who’ll do whatever the guy wants.”

“What makes you say that Melinda’s that kind of gal?”

“She had a gambling problem. She fucked the Doodoo Sluts for money. When you whore, you do whatever the client desires, and in the punk scene, I bet they desired some pretty strange stuff.”

THE WOMAN LOOKED as if she had just stepped off a yacht. The reality was that Melinda Little Warren was just about to step onto one. She wore a blue-and-white-striped top, white capri pants, and white wedge sandals. Gold bangles along with a diamond watch encircled her wrists, and pearl drops hung from her earlobes. Her blond tresses were loose and wild.

She made a point of looking at her watch. “I don’t have time for this. I have to be at the marina in an hour or else I hold everyone up. What do you want from me?”

“I want to find out why you lied,” Decker said.

She blinked her eyes several times. “I’ve already told you. I lied about Phil Shriner because I was embarrassed about my gambling problem. I didn’t see the point of bringing up my past issues when I don’t have them anymore.”

“Not that lie,” Decker said. “I’m talking about the lie about not knowing Primo Ekerling. The record producer who was murdered in a manner similar to your husband. I asked you if you knew him. You told me the name didn’t sound at all familiar.”

Melinda was silent.

“Mrs. Warren, you’re a very bright woman. You knew that we were assigned to investigate and we were going to investigate. You should have known that the lie was going to come back on you-”

“Shriner told you!” Her face was purple with outrage. “That bastard broke confidence. I’m going to sue-”

“It wasn’t Shriner, it was Liam O’Dell.” Melinda’s mouth opened and closed. “You should have known we’d speak to all of them because Ekerling’s murder was similar to Ben’s. Didn’t you think that there might be a connection?”

“When I read about it in the papers, I thought it was odd, but…” She stopped and tears pooled in her dark eyes. “Am I going to need a lawyer?”

Oliver said, “Why don’t we ask you a few questions and then you can decide that for yourself.”

“I shouldn’t need a lawyer.” Her cheeks reddened with anger. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Decker said, “All we’re trying to do is get the truth. Maybe we should all sit down and start from the beginning.”

Melinda glanced at her watch. A big dramatic sigh. “I guess a relaxing day on the ocean is not going to happen for me.” Another hostile glare. “I need to call up my husband and tell the group to go without me. You have to give me a moment to compose myself. If he hears tension in my voice, he’s going to come home and I don’t want him knowing about any of this.”

“Fair enough.”

After taking several deep breaths, she made the phone call. Her voice was smooth and her lies were silken. Something about meeting an old friend who’s in L.A. for only a day. When she hung up, her eyes were wet. “Happy?”

“Your misery doesn’t make us happy, Mrs. Warren,” Decker said.

“You could have fooled me.”

SHE CHANGED FROM the sailor’s getup into jeans and a T-shirt. The bracelets had come off as well as the diamond watch. She had scrubbed down her face, and without any makeup, she looked like the fifties-plus woman she was. She made a pot of coffee and served it with some nuts and candy. She sat in an oversized chair with her legs tucked under her body, sipping coffee and letting the steam tickle her face.

Oliver put his mug down on the coffee table and took out a small notepad. “When you read about Primo Ekerling’s death-and its similarity to your husband’s murder-what did you think?”