“They walked out to the parking lot together. Now Decameron said he smoothed things over. But what if he didn’t. Maybe Sparks threatened to fire him. Then one thing led to another-”

“Then Sparks would have been offed in the hospital parking lot,” Martinez said.

Marge continued. “So listen to this. Maybe Decameron offered to make amends by taking Sparks out to Tracadero’s. The ride started out okay, but something went awry and Decameron went for the jugular.”

“More like the heart,” Webster said. “That was a nasty chest wound. Your scenario precludes premeditation.”

“So it wasn’t premeditated,” she said.

“I’ve never seen Decameron,” Decker said. “Does he look like the kind of guy who could take Sparks down?”

“Loo, the scene was full of blood spatter,” Oliver said. “Knife wounds, gunshot wounds. You should see how Decameron dresses. He’s a fop. He’d never do something that sloppy.”

“So he hired out,” Marge suggested.

“Then that negates the fight as the precipitating event to the murder,” Decker said. “If Decameron hired out, it had to be premeditated.”

Webster said, “Maybe Decameron picked a fight on purpose, did something he knew would piss his boss off. Then lured him to the spot where a waiting gang jumped him.” He paused. “I’m not saying it happened like that. I’m just following through the scenario that y’all are talking about.”

“What do you think, Farrell?” Decker asked.

Gaynor said, “Dr. Azor Sparks had an alter ego-leather boy Ace Sparks. Maybe bikers did him in.”

“Bikers?” Martinez asked.

Decker filled them in on the card with the Harley logo-Sparks’s weekend entertainment.

“I like bikers as the bad guys,” Marge said.

“But why would they do that?” Decker said.

“’Cause they’re bikers,” Oliver said. “They’re assholes.”

“Now I know this is far-fetched,” Gaynor said, pointing as he talked. “But suppose Sparks was operating a crank lab-”

The other detectives groaned. Gaynor said, “Can you hear me out?”

“Shoot, Farrell,” Decker said.

“Maybe he decided to shut it down,” Gaynor said. “His crank lab, that is. And maybe the bikers didn’t like it.”

No one spoke.

“It’s not likely, granted. But we’re just throwing out ideas. Why not that?”

“Sparks as a crank supplier?” Webster shook his head.

Oliver smiled. “A world-famous surgeon, a renowned researcher and chemist, a deeply religious man, and a meth pusher. Which one doesn’t belong?”

“We all like bikers as bad guys because they fit our notions of villains,” Decker said. “But that takes our concentration away from other possibilities.”

“So who do you see as the bad guy, Pete?” Marge asked.

“Like I said before, a couple of the kids have money problems. As a matter of fact, son Paul called Daddy up during the research meeting, specifically asking to borrow money. According to Paul, his dad agreed to help. But what if he was lying. What if this time, Sparks refused to come through with the money.”

“In-surance!” Oliver stated, sounding like a blackjack dealer.

“You got it!” Decker said.

“What about his will?” Marge added.

“Good,” Decker said. “We’re back to basics now. Who has the most to gain from Sparks’s death?”

“More paperwork for me to do tomorrow,” Gaynor said. “Bank accounts, insurance policies, wills and codicils. I’m in heaven.”

“Sparks’s estate lawyer is a man named William Waterson. He belongs to Sparks ’s church.” Decker felt his stomach grumble. Hungry but too queasy to eat. “Farrell, give him a call. Not that he’ll tell you anything. But sound him out anyway.” To Marge, he said, “You tell me Sparks had a lot to gain with the production of this drug he developed.”

“Curedon,” Oliver said.

“I’m wondering what happens to Curedon now that Sparks is gone.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “Ever find out where Fisher/Tyne is located?”

“The corporate office is in Delaware, some of the labs are in Virginia. But there’s a regional office with labs here, too…in an industrial park in Irvine.” Marge turned to Oliver. “It ain’t Florida, Scotty. But then again, there’re no gators in the waters.”

“There’s nothing in their waters,” Oliver groused. “I hate those spanking new corporate developments with their pseudo-Hawaiian palm tree landscaping and their oh-so-clean manmade waterfalls. Everything’s so theme-park plastic. Makes me want to puke.”

“I’d rather work there than a dump in the inner city,” Gaynor said.

“Ah God, bury me if I ever feel that way-”

“Scotty,” Marge chided.

“No, it’s okay,” Gaynor said. “I understand what Scott’s saying. And once, I even felt like that, too. But then you age and your perspective changes-”

“No, no!” Oliver made a cross with his two index fingers, held it up to Gaynor. “Shoo! I ate garlic! Go away!”

Decker said, “Be on the road by ten.”

“Will do,” Marge said.

Decker said, “Bert and Tom, tomorrow you do alibi check. I want a timetable for all the major players. Where they were before, during, and after Sparks’s murder.”

“Got it.”

“And I get the paperwork, right?” Gaynor said.

“It’s all yours, Farrell.”

“Can I use the computer in your office?”

“Farrell, we’ve got six computers sitting idle in the squad room.”

Gaynor replied, “Yours is hooked up to more information data banks.”

Decker said, “Okay, Gaynor, when I leave, you can use the computer in my office.”

“What are you going to do, Loo?”

“I’ve got an interview scheduled with Myron Berger in an hour. Maybe I’ll snag a few hours between Berger, my paperwork, and Azor Sparks’s memorial service.”

“They’re doing a memorial service before the viewing, the rosary, and funeral?” Martinez questioned.

“It’s not a Catholic service, Bert. It’s a Fundamentalist service. The doctor’s church.”

Martinez said, “Still, they didn’t want to wait until the body was released and do a funeral?”

“Apparently not.”

“When’s the memorial service?”

“Three P.M.”

“That should be interesting,” Marge said. “Everyone crammed together in one spot. See how they all react with one another.”

Decker said, “That’s why I’m going.”

At first, he thought the noise was his brain bouncing against his cranium. Then he realized that someone was at the door. Bram lifted his head from his folded arms, blinked back nausea. He had fallen asleep at his desk.

His mouth felt like sandpaper, his limbs ached, his body a plexus of raw synapses. Fingers crawling like spider legs, he felt around the desktop for his glasses. Found them and slipped them on. Immediately, everything came too clearly into focus. He stood on unstable legs, went to open the door.

Luke. Still had on the same sloppy sweater and jeans. By now, he smelled pretty rank. They both did.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

Bram looked at his watch. “I had to get up for six o’clock Mass anyway. I need a shower something awful. I can’t believe I fell asleep. You want some tea, bro?”

“Sure, bro.” Luke skipped around a floor covered with books and papers as Bram trudged over to the water machine. The priest took out a couple of tea bags, dropped them into plastic cups and doused them with hot water. “Sit. What’s going on at home?”

Luke parked himself on a folding chair. “Eva left around two, Mag and Mike went to sleep about a half hour later. Me? I’ve just been driving around and around and around and around…”

After handing his brother his tea, Bram sat at his desk. “You might try going home.”

“I’ve got a great idea, Abram. Why don’t I put on your collar and conduct Mass. And you go home to Dana-”

“Lucas-”

“What did she say when you called her?”

“What do you think? She’s worried sick about you-”

“Betcha she invited you over-”