DECKER HAD BEEN operating on casino time—protracted periods under artificial lighting without any sense of the passage of hours. He had arrived at County Jail at nine in the morning. By the time he was back in the West Valley, it was almost six, the sun still in the sky but the shadows long. His cell’s voice-mail box was full, and there was a stack of telephone pink message slips in his in-box.
After parking in the lot at the station house, he had entered through the back door, winding his way through the halls to get to his private space. The door to his office was open, the light was on, and a wonderful aroma was wafting into the squad room. His desk had been covered with a red-checkered tablecloth and set with paper plates and plastic utensils. Rina was sitting in his chair, absorbed in a novel.
“Good book?” he said.
She looked up. “Very good.” She stood up and kissed his cheek. “I was in the mood for a picnic.”
“We’re indoors.”
“We can open a window and pretend.”
Decker smiled and drew his wife into his arms. “You don’t know how wonderful this is. I’m starved.”
“Then shall we dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business?”
“Absolutely.” Decker drew up a chair on the opposite side of the desk. “What have we?”
Rina opened a picnic basket. “Corned beef on rye or chicken salad on whole grain?”
“One of each.”
She handed him two wrapped sandwiches. “I have cucumber salad, Waldorf salad—”
“Just set them on the desk and stick a fork in it.”
“Will do.”
Decker wolfed down the corned beef, then helped himself to the salads. “Where’s Hannah?”
“In a study group. She told me that she spoke to you last night.”
“I did.”
“She said you two had a nice discussion.”
“Interesting. It’s hard to tell if she enjoys my company or finds me annoying.” He looked up from his sandwich. “I feel like I’m a litmus test. Depending what kind of mood she’s in, I’m either way too acidic or way too basic.”
Rina laughed. “How was your day?”
“Really long but very profitable.” He gave her a brief recap of his eight hours in a cell with Travis Martel. “So now that Banks seems to be involved, Hollywood can justify even more manpower to hunt him down.”
“Even more manpower? They were looking for him previously?”
“Yes, they were, but not with this newfound intensity.” He explained to her about the blood splotches he had discovered behind the newly painted baseboard in Rudy’s apartment. “The blood’s not Primo Ekerling’s.”
“So whose blood is it?”
“A very good question. We got the DNA back. We know it was a woman. Once we locate Banks, maybe we can even get an answer. The good part is that with Hollywood looking for him, I don’t have to concentrate my efforts toward finding him. Plus, I got them to post a couple of guys to look for Ryan Goldberg.”
“The missing Doodoo Slut.”
“Exactly.” He put down his sandwich and picked up a pile of message slips. “Sorry. I just want to see if any of my messages are from Liam O’Dell.”
“Take your time. I’ll just eat my sandwich and read my book.”
“What are you reading?” he asked absently.
“A biography of Eric Clapton.”
“I didn’t know you like that kind of thing.”
“It has its moments. All celebrities are a might off, but rock stars are uniquely nuts.”
“You’re telling me?” Decker continued to sort through the messages. “Just the little acquaintances I’ve made with D-list people have made me realize that. And yet the wannabes keep on coming like locusts during the dry season. Doesn’t matter who steps on them, who squashes them and mashes them under their heels, there’s always more. Travis Martel was willing to sit in jail and risk a life sentence in prison for a crime he probably didn’t commit, just on the off chance that if he ever came out of the pen, Rudy Banks would get him a recording contract. Now how crazy is that…ah, here we go.” Decker picked up the phone and dialed Liam’s cell. “This shouldn’t take long.”
O’Dell answered on the third ring.
“It’s Lieutenant Decker. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” His voice was tense.
“I’ve managed to secure a couple of Hollywood police officers to look for Ryan.”
“Bully for you.”
Decker ignored his anger, knowing where it was coming from. “I spent the entire day at County Jail talking to Travis Martel. He had some interesting things to say.” He summarized eight hours of master interrogation for Mad Irish. “It seems Rudy promised Martel a record contract if he’d either murder Primo or just get rid of the car.”
“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.”