“Take my newest one. What are you? Medium?”

“Large.”

Priscilla fished out a sweatshirt and gave it to Marge. Oliver picked up a CD in the 1998 section. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this.”

“It was my first foray into jazz. Gimme. I’ll autograph it for you.”

“That would be great! I really like jazz.”

She signed it and handed it over to him. “This was my first solo album in over a decade. It brought me out of retirement. It also got great reviews.”

Oliver noticed that it had been produced nine years ago. Good reviews but no doubt lousy sales. Marge was already comparing sweatshirts to the photographs that they had taken at the Crypt.

Priscilla said, “Let me see those pictures again, Sergeant.”

Marge looked up from a rack of clothing dated 1968. She gave her the snapshots along with a piece of paper with tour-city names that might correspond to the fabric’s abbreviated letters. “We were thinking it’s a tour jacket and these cities might have been on the tour.”

Priscilla looked at the list of the cities and then sorted through the photographs, this time studying them with a determined gaze. “Hmm…this narrows it down a little. We did play Galveston. Start at around 1973.”

SITTING AT HIS desk, Decker looked at the jacket from Priscilla and the Major’s America the Beautiful tour, comparing it to the forensic photographs taken off the piece of fabric. He specifically liked the way the configuration of cities had been handled, how the s in Galveston was over the p in Indianapolis, but was just slightly to the left of the p. If he had an overlay of the fabric-the next step-he was sure the letters would have lined up perfectly.

“So if we’re correct, the body is no older than 1974. But that doesn’t mean the murder was committed in 1974. Our victim could have been wearing the jacket long after the tour.”

Marge said, “It still shaves a couple of years off the front end. The building was put up in 1971. As far as the back end, I give it maybe five years to own a jacket like this.”

“Let’s get a list of all women in the area who went missing since 1974. Our next step is to find out which ones are still missing. Of those verified as still missing, first concentrate on the women who lived near the apartment or had a boyfriend, friend, or relative who lived near the apartment. It’s going to mean calling families and opening up wounds. Sorry, but it has to be done. Also, we need that list of all the tenants who have ever lived in the apartment. Did we do that yet?”

“Bontemps is working on it,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “It sure would help if we could put a face on the body. Are you sure there’s no way we can use the facial bones to create soft tissue?”

“You heard the pathologist,” Decker said. “The facial bones are way too delicate. We’re working on a computerized model, but that’s going to take time also because we need measurements. All we can do is be patient.”

Oliver said, “On to the other missing person in our lives.”

“Roseanne Dresden,” Marge said. “Did her stepfather call today?”

“Like clockwork. I’ve got to say that his theories are sounding a lot less loony now than they did a few months ago.” Decker began to tick specific incidents off his fingers. “WestAir has not helped us substantiate that Roseanne was on flight 1324. Also, the first victims list that the paper received did not include Roseanne’s name on it, and no one at the paper remembers who called in Roseanne’s name as a victim. Furthermore, according to you, Margie, the desk attendant at WestAir…what’s her name?”

“Erika Lessing.”

“Right. She swears that Roseanne did not board the flight from Burbank. Now, Roseanne could have come on board from an earlier flight from San Jose, but so far no one’s verified that. Then, when we add to the mix a cheating husband as well as a cheating wife who had an ex-boyfriend in San Jose, we come up with a lot of unanswered questions. We need to start retracing Roseanne’s last steps. It’s time to pull a warrant for her phone records and her credit cards, her ATM accounts…any paper that might give us ideas about her last days on the planet.”

“Any specific judge in mind, Loo?”

“Try Elgin Keuletsky.” Decker spelled it out loud. “Present what we have and I think he’ll be simpatico.”

“What about Ivan Dresden?” Oliver asked. “I thought we were going to interview him and ask for his help in locating Roseanne.”

Decker said, “We will, but later. Right now let’s stay clear of him. Don’t even let him know we’ve got suspicions. After we get a better handle on Roseanne’s final days, maybe we’ll be lucky and something will point to Ivan as the bad guy.”

“We’ve interviewed some of Roseanne’s friends,” Oliver said. “How about if I talk to a few people who know Ivan…discreetly, of course.”

“Discreetly?” Decker answered. “Do you have someone in mind, Scott?”

“Well, we can’t talk to any of his friends or coworkers without him getting wind of our poking around. But as I recall…there was a lap dancer that Ivan put the make on.”

“You have a name?”

“No name, but I have a club-Leather and Lace.”

Decker smiled. “And you’re familiar with the establishment?”

“I’ve been there a couple of times.”

“And you want to go down to the club and find this elusive lap dancer?”

“I think it would be negligent not to.”

Marge said, “I might have a name. Try Melissa or Miranda.”

“Where’d you get that from?” Oliver asked her.

“Erika Lessing. Apparently he was two-timing Erika and his wife with someone with a name like that.”

“I’ll check it out.” He looked at Decker. “What do you say, Loo?”

“Okay, Scott, you win. I’m assigning you a trip down to Leather and Lace.”

“So I can put in for charges like drinks and the cover?”

“As long as they’re reasonable and part of the assignment.”

Marge said, “You must be in hog heaven…or in your case pig heaven.”

Oliver tried to look wounded, but in actuality he was feeling no pain. A lap dancer paid for by the LAPD. If that wasn’t paradise, what was?

D ECKER COULD SMELL the aroma from the driveway, the undeniable scent of garlic, onion, and herbs: a sure indication that something good was going on in the kitchen. Involuntarily his mouth started to water. Although he wondered why Rina was cooking midweek, he didn’t question her decision. He was famished and tired and delighted that dinner or some facsimile was minutes away. When he came through the door, the background noise of conversation abruptly stopped and he found that there were several sets of eyes focused in on him-Rina, Cindy and Koby, and their elusive teenage daughter of late, Hannah Rosie.

His wife looked put together, her long black hair in a ponytail and covered with a bandanna, although there was moisture on her brow, meaning the kitchen was probably hot. Cindy and Koby had on jeans and T-shirts. Hannah was dressed in a jean skirt over leggings, a scoop-neck T-shirt, and combat boots. She had beads around her neck, her earlobes jeweled in big white hoops, and her wrists were bedecked in multiple bangles. No piercings or tattoos, but only because tattoos were forbidden by Jewish law and Hannah had a fear of needles. Thank God for small favors.

“Hi, kids,” Decker began cheerfully. He kissed his wife and his daughters, and hugged his son-in-law. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’ve finalized the plans, Dad. I thought that maybe you could take a look at them tonight…if you have a moment.”

“I think we can work that out. How do they look?”

“The plans are beautiful,” Koby said. “The cost is not.”

Decker poured his son-in-law a scotch. “Don’t worry about it.”

“He means that and so do I.” Rina had inherited some paintings from an old lady whom she had befriended. A half-dozen of them turned out to be valuable, one of them extremely valuable. That one constituted their retirement, giving the Deckers a lot of emotional freedom and flexibility.