“I’m sure that’s a part of it, but not the entire picture. Don’t fret. I have a good feeling about the case. You’ve identified Beth Hernandez and that’s the first step in bringing a killer to justice. And don’t think just because he hasn’t been incarcerated all these years that he’s gotten off scot-free. Maybe he’s had to deal with remorse. But even if he is a stone-cold psycho, as you call them, he’s had to live, looking over his shoulder, for the last thirty years. Even psychos have a sense of preservation.”

Decker smiled. “All right. You did it. You put me in a better mood.”

“Good. Now do you think you can fall asleep?”

“I don’t know.” Peter stretched in bed. “I’m still a little wired. Maybe you can talk about gardening. That always puts me to sleep.”

She gave him a gentle slug.

He closed his eyes, but instead of sleep, he was looking at Beth Hernandez in his head. The silence was immediately filled by Farley Lodestone’s voice. Whenever he got this way, he tried to conjure up a relaxing image…riding horses, taking a long hike in the woods during autumn, making love…

He felt a stirring down below.

Maybe he could do more than just imagine making love.

His eyes swept over the clock. It was late and he wasn’t in the best of moods and Rina was probably too tired, but he reached out for her anyway. She curled up in the fold of his arm, snuggling into his chest. Her eyes were closed and she showed no indication of arousal. Decker closed his eyes and felt his heartbeat slow. His limbs unfurled and his head got fuzzy. No sex, but all was good.

MARGE WAS WAITING outside the Loo’s office when Decker arrived. She handed him a cup of coffee, took the keys in his hand, and opened the locked door. She said, “Did you make an appointment with Lauren, the forensic artist?”

“Yes, I did, and it’s not just with Lauren.” Decker turned on the lights and sat down at his desk. “We’re meeting with someone who specializes in computerized age progression. I’ve set it for two in the afternoon at the Crypt. And thanks for the coffee.”

“Someone brought in bran muffins today from Coffee Bean. Are you interested?”

Coffee Bean was equivalent to the bigger, more ubiquitous Star$s, only it was a California chain. More important, it was kosher. Even Rina bought bakery goods from the local franchise. “A muffin sounds good.”

“I’ll get them.” Marge placed a manila envelope on his desktop. “Jails and schools open early. Look at the pictures and tell me what you think. Be right back.”

Sipping coffee, Decker took a moment to settle in. Then he unwound the string that secured the flap to the envelope. There were three pictures. The first was a mug shot-front and two sides-of a man looking anywhere from twenty to forty. Stubble studded a lean face that held wild eyes and a sneering upper lip. He had thick black hair and a keloid scar that zigzagged across a protruding forehead. Not a lot of loose skin there; stitching that mother up must have hurt. The vitals put Martin Hernandez at five six and a weight of around 140 pounds. He was thirty-seven at the time of his arrest. Decker placed the picture faceup on his desk.

There were other facsimiles from the prison: Martin but at a much older age judging by the amount of white hair, scar marks, and wrinkles. There was a particular group that must have been taken on a day when Hernandez had been attacked. The camera had captured a bruised face with two swollen eyes and a split lip. His arms, shown in separate photographs, had been slashed with a knife.

The last series of photocopies highlighted a stooped elderly man in several poses with a golden retriever. With a little bit of shuffling, Decker found a newspaper article that went along with the images. Martin Hernandez and several other prisoners had been involved in a dog-training program called Last Chance. Lifers or near lifers, chosen for good behavior, had been given pound dogs, unclaimed and about to be euthanized. Local rescue agencies had picked up the best of the pups and had worked out a special program with the prison. The selected inmates had trained the dogs in very specific behaviors that would benefit those who were wheelchair bound. Included were jobs such as stopping and starting on command, fetching objects, turning lights off and on, and emergency rescue. Hernandez’s pooch had been rated the top of the top, and Hernandez had been voted the number one prison dog trainer.

The old man was beaming with pride. His completely round face had swallowed up his eyes, and his lower jaw was sunken in, the usual by-product of lack of dentition. Still, gumming his way through meals hadn’t seemed to depress Martin’s appetite. He’d put on a lot of weight since his first mug shot.

Marge came back with bran muffins. “They’re vicious out there. It was near-riot conditions. I had to use all my wiles to grab the last two muffins, and in the process, one of them lost its top, which is, of course, the best part.”

“You take the one with the top. I’ll take the beheaded guy.”

“No, I’ll take the beheaded guy. I’m on a diet anyway.”

“You look great. Why do you need to diet?”

“Dieting is a chronic condition, Pete. Some days are better than others, but you’re always living with it.” She took a nibble of her muffin. “Ah, now that’s good eats. What did you think of the pictures?”

“Manny doesn’t resemble his father very much. The mug shots that show Martin at thirty-seven depict a lean, thin, short guy. The wedding picture of Manny Hernandez at twenty presents a stockier, taller man with more rounded features. I don’t know how helpful these photographs will be when the computer tech ages Manny.”

“I agree,” Marge said. “Still, there’s something familiar about Martin. I think Manny has his eyes.”

Oliver knocked on the doorjamb, then came into the room. He was looking natty in a navy suit, yellow shirt, and white tie. “Sometimes life bites you in the ass, sometimes you take a chunk out of life. I looked up Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe in the phone book. The woman was listed. Then, when I called up the number, she answered. When I told her why I was calling, she was cooperative. More than cooperative. She was anxious to help. I set us up an interview at ten.”

“I’m in,” Marge said.

Oliver looked at Decker, who said, “You two go. In my two-day absence, paperwork has multiplied tenfold and has threatened to take over my desk. Not to mention that I do have other detectives who have other cases. I’ll see you both at two down at the Crypt.”

“What’s going on at the Crypt?” Oliver asked.

“We’re doing a computerized age progression on Manny Hernandez.” Marge brought Oliver up-to-date and showed him the facsimiles of Martin Hernandez. “It would be nice to have a bead on the brother, Belize Hernandez. He’s about the same age as Manny and the two brothers might look alike.”

Oliver said, “Does that even matter? I thought computerized age progression was done by a canned software program.”

“It starts with the canned program, then the forensic artist steps it,” Decker said. “There’s still a lot of intuition involved.”

“That’s good to hear,” Marge said. “A computer is a wonderful thing. It can render, it can reproduce, but last I heard, it can’t create.”

DECKER TOOK A deep breath in and out and punched the blinking light. “Hello, Farley, how are you doing?”

“I’m the same, Lieutenant. Just making my daily call to remind you that I’m still around and Roseanne ain’t.”

“And I’m still working on the case. Right now we’re going door-to-door at the condo complex for a third time, trying, once again, to ferret out any possible witnesses who saw or even heard anything coming from your daughter’s condo. The complex is a big place, Farley. People mind their own business. Still, one can hope.”