Another big one. She put him at six four, minimum. He extended a huge, freckled hand to her, then to Will.

“Pete Decker,” he said. “Welcome. Have a seat.” He offered them two plastic chairs. “You two want anything to drink?”

“Coffee would be nice,” Barnes said.

“Times two,” Amanda said.

“Pot’s low, I’ll make a fresh one,” Marge Dunn said. “You want some, Loo?”

“Absolutely, thanks,” Decker answered. “And while you’re out there, ask dispatch to send another cruiser by Bledsoe’s house to see if the truck’s back in the driveway.”

Barnes said, “Bledsoe’s gone?”

“Probably out with Mom. I don’t see him leaving town before Thanksgiving.” Decker looked Barnes and Amanda over without making too much of a show of the scrutiny. Crossing long legs, he leaned back in his chair. “I wanted to keep a low profile so we don’t spook him. All the bozo has to do is take out a checkbook, pay his fines and he’s out. We’re hoping he isn’t savvy enough to know that, although if he murdered a state representative, he’s not naïve. What evidence do you have on him?”

“Nothing,” Barnes answered.

Decker smiled. “Well, that’s not good. We need some excuse beyond unpaid parking tickets to bring him in for questioning.”

“Bledsoe’s head of the White Tower Radicals,” Amanda said. “Two days before Davida Grayson’s murder, two White boys egged her on the steps of the state capitol. We think Bledsoe gave that order and maybe more.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” said Decker. “Those two are locked up, right? Have they implicated Bledsoe?”

“No, but Bledsoe doesn’t need to know that,” Barnes said. “Maybe if we scare him enough, we can pry something out of him.”

Marge Dunn came back in with the coffees. “No truck in the driveway.”

Decker said, “Anything else besides Bledsoe on your agenda?”

“One other interview,” Barnes said. “Some bigot named Harry Modell, heads a group called Families Under God. We found three very nasty letters that he wrote to Grayson.”

Amanda said, “If you want us to wait for Bledsoe first before we interview Modell, we can do that. We’ll work around you.”

Decker said, “Someone from West Valley should make the arrest, and if I’m going to give up a detective, you might as well interview Modell and make good use of your time.” He turned to Marge. “How’s your schedule looking?”

“Holiday light,” Marge answered. “I can wait around until he shows. Just need my thermos and my iPod.”

Harry Modell’s address was a trailer park nestled in the oaks of the foothills among miles of unspoiled landscape. Not a hint of a dug-in structure could be seen anywhere. “Happy Wandering Mobile Community” consisted of fifty slots, all occupied, with generators going full blast.

Modell’s slice of LA real estate was Space 34. His TravelRancher was sided in yellow vinyl with white trim. Perched on a flat roof, a dish aimed south. As Barnes and Amanda climbed a makeshift plywood ramp to the front door, they saw TV images blinking through a stingy front window. Barnes knocked on the door, waited an appropriate amount of time, got no answer and knocked again.

A voice from inside told him to go away.

“Police,” Barnes yelled. “We need to speak with you, Mr. Modell.”

The voice, louder, creaky, told him to fuck himself.

Barnes blew out air and looked at his partner. “We can’t force our way inside.”

“The guy sounds old,” Amanda said. “We’re worried for his safety.”

“That’s not going to- ” Abruptly the door swung open. The man in the wheelchair was ancient with a cue-ball head, sunken, jaundiced eyes and ill-fitting dentures that clacked as he rotated his mandible. Small-jawed face once round, now sagging in the middle like a bell pepper. Grainy complexion, more wrinkles than smooth flesh. Stick legs, but his arms were surprisingly muscled. Probably from wheeling around.

“Mr. Modell?”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“To talk to you.”

“What the fuck about?”

“May we come inside?” Amanda asked.

Modell eyed Amanda. “You can, he can’t.”

“We’re a team, sir.”

“Then go play a fucking game.” But Modell didn’t wheel back into the trailer and Amanda saw something in his eyes other than hostility.

A faint longing.

She smiled.

Modell said, “Ahh, why the fuck not, I’m bored.” He propelled the chair to the side so they could enter.

They walked into a hothouse. The temperature must have been hovering in the nineties. Three humidifiers filled the cramped, dim space with mist. The upside of the oppressive micro-climate was tables of flora- bromeliads, African violets, wild beautiful blooms Amanda didn’t recognize.

She began to sweat and glanced at Will. He took off his jacket. His shirt was sodden.

Modell ignored them and wheeled to the only surface devoid of plant life- a rickety card table that hosted bottles of pills, an ancient-looking burrito and the TV remote. Modell muted the sound but left the picture on. Some old movie in black and white.

Amanda said, “We have a few questions for you if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Modell said, clacking his teeth. “But can I stop the minions of HAG?”

“HAG?”

“Heathen Atheistic Government.”

Modell reached over to pinch off a papery old African violet bloom.

Barnes got right down to business. “Could you tell me where you were two nights ago?”

Modell squinted at the detective. “I’m always here. Does it look like I can go anywhere?”

“You moved to this trailer park recently,” Amanda said.

“You got that right, lady. I sold my house in Orange County, pocketed an absurd profit and decided to spend my days doing what I do best- communicating with atheists, reprobates and perverts. God knows there are enough of them to fill my time.”

“Communicating with letters,” said Barnes.

“Lost art,” said Modell. “All that e-mail buggery. When I was at my peak, I sent out thirty, forty a day. Now I’m down to five. The hands.” Waving gnarled digits. “Damn shame, the perverts seem to be multiplying faster than ever.”

“Which perverts have you written to lately?”

Again, Modell squinted. “What the fuck do the police care about an old man writing letters?”

Amanda said, “An old man who heads Families Under God.”

“Not anymore. I gave that up two years ago. Don’t you police people keep abreast of the times?”

“Why’d you resign?” Amanda asked.

“I started the ministry thirty years ago all by my lonesome. Built it up big.” He shook his head. “Too big. The members decided they needed a board. To do what, I don’t know, but the assholes started telling me how to run my organization. So I told them to fuck off and I quit. Damn shame, at our heyday we were a powerful force against the perverts. What they’re doing now, don’t know, don’t care. I write five letters to perverts, God’s happy. Now if you don’t tell me what you want, you can just leave. At least, you can leave. I don’t mind if the lady stays…unless you’re one of those lesbos. Then you can be the first out the door.”

“You don’t like lesbians?” Amanda asked.

“What’s to like? They’re homos and they’re perverted.”

“Did you ever write a letter to State Representative Davida Grayson?” Amanda asked.

“Aha!” Modell jabbed a finger upward. “Now I see what this is about. The lesbo representative.” Big smile. “But that happened up north.”

“We’re from up north,” Amanda told him. “ Berkeley PD.”

“You came all the way down just to see little ol’ me? Lady, I’m flattered!”

“You did write to her,” Barnes said.

“Fuck yeah I wrote to her. I wrote to her many times. The pervert was not only a lesbo, she was trying to cut up unborn babies for her own selfish purposes.”

Amanda said, “Stem-cell research.”