“Threatening Banks isn’t going to do you any good.”

“I don’t threaten, mate.”

“Liam, think about it. If something happens to Banks, guess who I’ll be going after?”

“If something happens to Banks, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, mate. Rudy only has enemies, and over the years, he’s made hundreds of them.”

THE HOLLYWOOD TERRACE sat on a side street about a mile from the Hollywood Police station, around three miles from where Primo Ekerling sat moldering in the trunk of his car. The building was a bunker, run-down and a step away from the wrecking ball. No plants in front to soften the gray stucco, just a few occupied parking spaces in a chunky asphalt lot. The glass door to the lobby was locked, the individual apartments listed on the wall with a button after each name. Ryan Goldberg lived in unit E.

Decker pushed the buzzer, and a moment later, the door clicked open. The lobby was the size of a jail cell with yellowed linoleum floors and a cottage-cheese-sprayed ceiling. There was one long, dimly lit hallway, and when Decker found unit E, he knocked on the door. He could hear the electronic noise in the background. When a heavyset man opened the door, the television volume boomed in Decker’s ears.

“Mr. Goldberg?”

The man had wilting brown eyes that blinked constantly. His facial features seemed small and piggish, but his skin was baby smooth. He wore sagging pants without a belt and a flannel shirt. Slippers on his feet. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Lieutenant Detective Peter Decker of LAPD, but I’m also a friend of Liam O’Dell’s. He gave me your address. I’d like to talk to you if that’s okay.”

Goldberg just stared. Decker knew immediately that he’d given him too much information at one time. He started over. “I’m a friend of Liam’s.”

“Oh…” Blink, blink, blink. “Okay.”

“Can I come in?”

“Okay.”

But Goldberg didn’t move aside. Decker had to skirt around him. “Mind if I lower the volume on the TV?”

“Okay.”

Decker noticed that the man’s hands shook, and he wondered why he had come to see him. Just what was he hoping to find out? He looked around, surprised that the studio was free of trash and dirt. There was a flat-screen television on a scarred chest of drawers opposite a deflated sofa. Several TV trays were folded and leaning against the wall. The place had a fridge and a hot plate. It didn’t smell great, but nothing reeked. He told Goldberg that he could sit down if he wanted.

Mudd said, “My brother’s a doctor.”

Decker nodded. “Really.”

“A lung doctor.”

“That’s impressive.”

“I used to smoke. I don’t anymore.”

“That’s good.”

“My brother helped me quit smoking. He’s a lung doctor.”

“He sounds like a nice man.”

“He’s a good brother. He’s a doctor.”

Decker nodded. “Does your friend Liam O’Dell ever visit you?”

“Call me Mudd. Everyone calls me Mudd. Even my brother. He’s a doctor.”

“Okay, Mudd, does your friend Liam O’Dell ever visit you?”

“Yes, he does. Liam’s a good friend. He buys me things.”

“What kind of things?”

“He bought me that…” Mudd pointed to the flat screen. “My old TV was a piece of shit, that’s what Liam said. It was a piece of shit.”

“So Liam bought you the new television?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mudd was still standing. Decker said, “You can sit if you want, Mudd.”

The request momentarily stumped him. Mudd kept blinking until he shook his head no. “I’m okay. It’s good to stand up and walk around. Otherwise you can get blood clots in the leg. That’s what my brother told me. He’s a doctor.”

“He’s right about that.” Decker held back a sigh. “Do you still play guitar, Mudd?”

“Oh yes, I do.” He smiled. “I still play guitar. But I can’t play loud. It disturbs my neighbors. I can’t disturb my neighbors.”

“Do you have an acoustic guitar?”

“I have a Martin. Want to see it?”

“Please.”

Mudd went to a kitchen cabinet and took out something wrapped in a blanket. Carefully, he took off the wrapping and presented him with a Martin Dreadnought. Decker wasn’t an expert on guitars but his son, Jake, had a passion for them. This one was in pristine condition. “Can I see it for a moment?”

Without any hesitation, he gave it to Decker, who looked at the label and memorized the serial number. Decker handed it back. “Can you play for me?”

A smile went on the big man’s face. “Yes, I can.” He sat down on the sagging couch and began to finger a few rifts. Within minutes, he was playing like the professional that Liam claimed he was. The transformation was otherworldly. Tension melted off his face, his tic had all but disappeared. Decker listened to him for the better part of an hour without saying a word. Finally he knew he had to leave.

“That was beautiful, Mudd.”

“Want me to play more?”

“Uh, you can, but I have to leave. I have to go back to work.” With effort, Mudd stood up, gingerly wrapped the guitar back in the blanket and stowed it back in the kitchen. “Thanks for visiting.”

“You’re welcome. Your guitar is very expensive-”

“It’s a Martin.”

“I know that. Don’t tell anyone you own it, okay? Some not nice people might try to steal it.”

“That’s what my brother says.”

“Your brother is right.”

“All right. I won’t tell anyone else except my brother.”

“Good. Take care of yourself, Mudd.”

“Oh, I will take care of myself.” The big man nodded. “I promised my brother I will take care. He’s a doctor.”

CHAPTER 16

MARGE LANDED WITH a half hour to spare, just about enough time to rent a car, check the maps, and arrive at Darnell Arlington’s house on time if traffic wasn’t a problem. And from the looks of the town, it appeared that traffic was never a problem. An empty highway passed through a commercial area that was gone in a heartbeat, and then it split through a residential neighborhood of modest houses composed of brick and stone.

In the dark, Marge could see that Arlington ’s two-story home was set on a patch of lawn, the lane shrouded in the shadows of lacy elms. Street lighting was minimal. Perhaps crime was so low that L.A.-style klieg lights weren’t necessary. She parked in front of the address, walked up a cement pathway, and rang the bell. The woman who answered the door had a baby on her right hip and a toddler on her left clutching the hem of the woman’s skirt. Both children appeared to be girls. “Sergeant Dunn?”

“Yes, that’s me.” She showed the woman her badge. “Mrs. Arlington?”

“Yes. Call me Tish. Please come in.”

“Thank you, Tish.”

She nudged the toddler. “ Crystal, get out of the way.” The little girl didn’t move. Tish then scooped the girl up until both babies were in her arms. She managed to hold the load with an erect spine. “Come in.”

The house was tidy and furnished conservatively: flowered sofa with a matching chair, coffee and end tables with lamps and magazines, a fireplace with family photos. There was also a large playpen filled with toys. Tish lowered both girls inside the cage. “Y’all be good, you hear?” She turned to Marge. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

She disappeared into the kitchen but continued to talk. “How long have you been in town?”

“About twenty-five minutes,” Marge answered while looking at the framed snapshots. Arlington was almost a foot taller than his wife, and Tish seemed around five four. His complexion was also much darker than that of his wife. Tish’s hair was tied in a ponytail, and her eyes were light brown. Her face was long, and she had a slender figure. “Can I help with anything?”

“If you could keep an eye on the babies. Crystal ’s a good girl, but she’s only nineteen months. She loves Moisha, but sometimes she loves her too much.”

“They’re doing fine,” Marge told her.