“I don’t know why you’re bothering with witnesses,” Farley said. “Just bring in the bastard and beat a confession out of him.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way.”

“Then coax a confession from the sumbitch.”

“I wish it were that simple. But we both know it isn’t.” Farley grumbled. In the recesses of his mind, Decker again wished he could introduce Farley to Peter Devargas. Let the two of them curse the world together. “Farley, the official flight 1324 recovery effort is scheduled to conclude in about a week. If Roseanne’s remains don’t turn up-”

“You know they’re not going to turn up.”

“The point is, Farley, once the effort is concluded, we can then make a plea to the public for help. Maybe someone will come forward and tell us something we don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, Farley. Sometimes people who commit murder confess it to a friend or a lover. Sometimes they even brag about it.”

“Let me ask you this, then, Lieutenant. Who would Ivan confess to?”

“We’re speaking theoretically, because we have no proof of Ivan’s involvement. But I could see him perhaps telling a close friend or relative. Maybe even his girlfriend.”

“You mean the stripper? So bring in the wench and see if she knows anything.”

“Farley, we’ve already talked to her. She’s not saying much, and she isn’t at all anxious to get involved.”

“So maybe she knows something.”

“Maybe she does, but right now I can’t squeeze it out of her. Besides, I don’t want her to go running to Ivan, saying that we’re still suspicious of him.”

“He knows that already.”

“Yes, he does, but we haven’t bothered him in a while. If we get something on him, it would be nice to have the element of surprise.”

“Yeah, I agree with you there. I’m still surprised that the weasel hasn’t taken off.”

“I’m sure he will just as soon as he gets the insurance money. Right now that’s the one hold we have over him. I’m hoping that after the recovery is concluded, a televised plea will spur someone to do the right thing.”

“I doubt it, Lieutenant.”

“You can never tell, Farley. A conscience is an unpredictable thing.”

“The bastard doesn’t have a conscience,” Farley said. “God’s an ironic bastard. He only gives a conscience to the good people who don’t need ’em.”

T HE HOUSE SAT on the edge of the Venice Canals-Abbot Kinney’s dream to bring a bit of the Old World into the subtropics of Southern California. The area was six blocks of interlocking waterways that emptied into the Pacific Ocean. Once the channels had cut through land tracts that held small bungalows and shacks. Thirty years ago, the custom-built houses started to replace the sheds and cabins, and current lot value was well over a million dollars.

From the dream of owning a communal organic farm to a three-story, architectural statement: Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe had done a sharp U-turn somewhere. Yet, if the woman still harbored any utopian ideals, Venice, California, was the place to live. The area still hosted scores of socialists, communists, iconoclasts, vagrants, and lots of original hippies.

Marge parked in a driveway off an alley, and she and Oliver walked around to the front side. The place was a modern stack of cubes, with oversize picture windows that faced the water. Before they knocked, they stood on a porch containing two rocking chairs with a set of table and chairs, and looked outward. Beyond was a dock that secured two rowboats. Sitting under gray skies, the waters were calm, the surface split by gliding ducks shaking tail feathers, their paddling feet leaving behind a silvery wake. The air was misty and tasted of brine.

Oliver rapped on the door and the woman who answered introduced herself as Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe. She was slim bordering on scrawny, and in her fifties, with shoulder-length gray hair, a wrinkled face adorned by a tinge of makeup-blush and lip gloss. She was dressed in jeans that emphasized her bowed legs, and a soft, cashmere pink sweater. Her feet were set into running shoes. Alyssa invited the detectives in.

The interior was as contemporary as the exterior, the floor plan essentially loft space filled with chrome and glass. The house had been built to show off the views of the Pacific. Public quarters made up the first level, with ceilings that soared upward of twenty feet, the upper levels reached by climbing a steel spiral staircase. The off-white furniture was simple in design and spare in quantity and contrasted dramatically with black ebony floors.

“Please have a seat and be comfortable,” Alyssa told them. “Can I get either one of you anything to drink? How about some water?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She walked to the kitchen section, took out three handblown-glass tumblers, filled them with ice, and returned with several bottles of springwater and lemon slices. “I’m always thirsty. I’ve been checked out for both kinds of diabetes and the tests always come back normal. I guess I’m just one of those people who dehydrate easily.”

She distributed the glasses, downed her portion, and poured herself another round.

“I was in shock when you called this morning, Detective Oliver.” Her eyes became shiny with tears. “This interview is long overdue.”

“We appreciate you meeting with us,” Oliver answered. “I also talked to the original lead detective on the Manny and Beth Hernandez case last night. George Kasabian. He’s now retired, but he remembered that the church members did a good job avoiding the police.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It was the times. After our shock at Beth and Manny’s disappearance, we were faced with the conclusion that they fled with the money. As angry as we were, no one ever suggested calling the police. The ‘fuzz’ was the enemy.”

“Especially when the members were heavily involved in drugs,” Marge suggested.

“It definitely tilted our decision not to cooperate. At the time it never dawned on me or anyone else that something bad happened to Manny and Beth until Beth’s mother called a week or two later. She was distraught. She wanted my help in hunting them down. I told Mrs. Devargas to go to the police. She told me that she and her husband had been to the police and no one from the church was giving them any help.”

A big sigh.

“I told her I’d look into it for her. When she called a second time, I got scared. I packed my bags and said good-bye to California without leaving any forwarding number or address. The group could tolerate the possibility that Manny and Beth stole from us. But if something bad had happened to them, we didn’t want any part of it. We broke apart. We went separate ways.”

“Where’d you go?” Marge asked.

“Back home to Boston…to college actually. I threw myself into my studies and didn’t participate in any more protests, love-ins, or sit-ins. And definitely no more drugs. That side of me just died. I became an architect, got married, had a daughter, lived a quiet suburban life until my daughter grew up, the empty nest set in, and my ex and I discovered we had nothing in common. The divorce was ten years ago. He stayed in the East, I moved back to California. I had had enough of eastern winters.” She took a paper napkin and dabbed her eyes. “I suppose I realized I was coming back to face my demons. My sudden split from L.A. and no forwarding information was so cowardly. It must have been so hurtful to the Devargases. They must hate me.”

“Mrs. Devargas spoke very highly of you,” Marge told her.

“Ill-deserved.” Alyssa spoke through a cracked voice. “Not that I could have told her anything. I have no idea what had happened to them.”

“We think we found Beth’s body,” Oliver said. “Confirmation is being done today using dental records. We’re almost certain that Beth was murdered.”