“Long range of operation?”

“Miles.”

“Which means the button could have been pushed from almost anywhere.”

“Yep.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“Now what?” Marge asked.

“Bomb was set off by a long-range remote-control unit,” Decker said. “The person could have been anywhere when he pulled the trigger.”

“I don’t think the person was just anywhere, Pete.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “Someone was watching the place and didn’t want us to get hurt.” He thought a moment. “The whole thing’s ridiculous, Marge. If you want to destroy evidence you don’t do it in broad daylight. Besides, nothing incriminating was left. If you want to scare off a cop you don’t do it by nearly blowing his head off. Way too unpredictable and way too messy. And it attracts too much attention.”

“Maybe Dustin blew it up for insurance?”

“Cecil rented the place. There wasn’t more than a couple grands’ worth of photographic equipment in there. You don’t blow up buildings to collect two g’s.”

“But someone was trying to prove a point.”

“Right. Someone was struttin’ his stuff.”

Sitting in the registrar’s office of Mar Vista High, Decker tried not to stare at the dowdy, graying lady with thin, cotton candy hair. But she was so full of nervous energy, he couldn’t help sneaking in sidelong glances.

“Can I get you some coffee in the meantime, Sergent?” she said, jumping out of her seat.

“No, thank you,” he answered. She sounded like Aunt Bea in the old Andy Griffith show. “While I’m waiting, I’d like to look through some yearbooks. Where do you keep them?”

“Last year’s is right on my desk,” she said, pulling out a drawer.

“I need the ones from 1969 through 1978.”

“Oh dear,” the woman said, touching her cheek. She coughed, scratched her head, and rose from her seat. “Just a moment and I’ll see what I can do.”

Ten minutes later, she returned and said sweetly, “They haven’t forgotten about you, Sergeant. It takes a long time to find old records, especially health records. If you had asked for transcripts, it would have been easier. We have almost immediate access to transcripts, but you don’t need those, do you?”

“Not right now.”

She put an armful of annuals down in front of him. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

He went through Dustin’s first. The caption under the graduation picture stated that he was a member of the student council, the Spanish club, the honors club, the scholastic achievement organization, and the B-string football team. The portrait was stiff and unsmiling, but the handsome features shone through the somber pose.

He looked through the ’78 album-the year of Earl’s graduation-but not a trace of the younger brother could be found. Probably dropped out. He tried the ’77 yearbook. Nothing. But he was listed in the ’76 album, and much to his surprise, the picture of Earl was almost a duplicate of his older brother’s.

For starts, the physical resemblance was remarkable. Earl’s features were a little softer and less brooding, but the faces could have been Xeroxes. What was even more noteworthy were the activities that the younger brother had chosen-student council, the scholastic achievement organization, Spanish club, and the B-string football team. The group picture showed him squatting in the front row, padded heavily and looking absurdly beefy under a thin face.

The brothers seemed to have followed the identical trail to a point. What had happened?

Nineteen seventy-seven was the year of the fire, the year of their mother’s death. And in ’77 Earl’d dropped out of school.

Decker stared at the team picture. Some of the boys had tried to look scary and menacing, often ending up looking tentative and scared.

And one looked unusually familiar.

Quickly Decker flipped the pages back to the eleventh-grade class roster.

Baby-faced Cameron Smithson.

The detective looked at the ’78 album. Smithson had graduated, but no honors were listed under his name. His only distinction was his position as a tailback, second string on the B football team. Closing the book, Decker frowned.

The hyperactive woman had come back smiling, with sheets of paper in her hand.

“Here are the records, Sergeant,” she said, rocking on her toes. “I told you we’d find them.”

He scanned through the health charts noting their illnesses-lots of flu, infections, colds, broken bones from falls. He knew some of those falls were manufactured-the results of abuse rather than accidents. Then he found what he was looking for. In fourth grade Dustin had lost a front tooth in a fight during recess. Next to the entry was the name of a dentist. Using the school phone, he made a call and arranged to see the man.

Onward and upward…

An hour later Decker left the office of David Bachman, DDS. The dentist, an elderly blue-eyed leprechaun of a man, remembered both boys as being polite and slightly troubled. (“I’m no headshrinker, but I’ve seen an awful lot of people and have gotten to know human nature pretty damned well.”) Bachman said it would take a couple of days to dig up the records, but when he did, he’d send a copy over to Anne Hennon, whom he knew. (“A great-looking gal with a fine pair of gams.”)

As Decker got into his car his beeper went off. He called in from his car radio, and a moment later Marge’s voice was patched through the line.

“I’m over at Cecil Pode’s home,” she said. “The place was torched this morning.”

“I’ll be right down.”

“You can come down, Pete, but there’s nothing left except ashes. Mike and I are sifting through the rubble.”

“Arson?”

“Yeah. Incendiary material all over the place-rags and newspapers soaked with gasoline.”

“Have they determined the hot spots?”

“Three. In the bedroom, the kitchen-stove blew up-and the living room.”

“Anyone talk to Dustin Pode?”

“Someone from Culver City PD. Seems he was at work all morning. Security guard at his office says he checked in about six, around the same time as the fire.”

“Was the place insured?” he asked.

“Underinsured, Pete. Fact of the matter is Dustin had the place up for sale and had a prospective buyer. Guy who talked to Dustin said he sounded real pissed. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Check around and see if any fire starters have been spending a lot of cash lately.”

“Will do,” she said. “Are you going back to the station?”

“Probably,” said Decker. “Marge, when Mike’s done with Pode’s house, have him call Arnold Meisner and ask him to find Earl Pode’s medical records. Tell Mike to impress upon the doc that this is a homicide investigation and we need the chart ASAP.”

“What do you think you’re gonna find besides more evidence of child abuse.”

“I want to see if Earl was a bed wetter.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“I’m a close theorist. We all have our weaknesses.”

“Okay,” she said. “Check in with you later.”

He placed the mike back on the receiver, gripped the wheel, and pondered his dilemma. Dammit, he needed something more-a break! If he wanted to do right by Lindsey-maybe even by Kiki-it was time to put his butt on the line.

The executive offices of Arlington Steel were on the fifteenth floor of a downtown building that looked like a monolith carved from Swiss cheese. Odd holes and balconies robbed the structure of any smoothness of line. Decker took the elevator up. The receiving office was manned by a receptionist who had her nose buried in a donut and coffee. She was chunky, with big knockers and a permanently confused look branded on her face. He approached the desk.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

The woman looked up.

“I’d like to see Mr. Arlington.”

She started flipping through the appointment calendar.

“He’s not expecting me, but this…” He leaned in close. “This is a personal matter. I think he’d like to talk to me.”