The garage had sealed off the backyard from the front yard on the left side, but there was a gate adjacent to the right of the house. It was six feet high and secured with a padlock. Since he cleared the height by four inches, he peered over and looked around. The backyard was just as brown and vegetation free as the front, but there was no sign of Arnie anywhere.

“Lamar?” He jumped up to get a better view. “Arnie, are you there? It’s Pete Decker.”

Nothing.

A distant dog was barking so hard, it wheezed. Birds chattered from a neighboring fifty-foot magnolia studded with white flowers as big as dinner plates. He went back to the front and knocked his knuckles sore. He mashed his nose to the screen and yelled out, “Yo, Arnie, it’s Pete Decker.” He checked his watch. “It’s a quarter after two…” A hard knock. “Lamar, are you there?”

He exhaled forcibly and yelled out, “I don’t like the looks of this, Lamar, especially after Cal. I’m coming in.”

It didn’t take more than a single pop with a credit card to open the screen. The living room validated his first impression; it seemed unbothered by its lack of occupants and there was nothing to suggest nefarious activities. An industrial-sized fan blasted g-force wind onto his face, a bit annoying with his hair blowing around, but it felt good.

The living room led into a dining area and then the kitchen-around ten feet by ten feet and as dark as a bunker with the blinds drawn. Scratched laminate cabinets lined the walls and the old linoleum flooring had buckled in several spots. The fridge was newer, as was the stove. There were no dishes in the sink. On impulse, he opened the refrigerator. There wasn’t anything rotten inside-several six-packs of beer and a fresh salad. A steak was defrosting on the countertop.

“Lamar?” Decker called out.

He went on to check the bedrooms. In the master-if you could call it that-the bed had been made. Lamar had used redwood burl tree stumps for nightstands. Opposite the bed was a homemade pine armoire with an old-fashioned TV on the top shelf. No cable box or DVD player in sight. Then Decker remembered that there was an antenna on the roof.

Free TV: now there was an old-fashioned concept.

“Arnie?”

Silence.

Down the hallway was the spare bedroom, its door shut tight. Decker became aware of his racing heart and his overactive sweat glands. No bad odor coming from the room, no telltale blackflies buzzing around the door. There was that one obnoxious horsefly relentlessly attacking his face, but that pesky critter had followed him from the outside. He swatted the air and pressed his ear to the door and heard electronic noise…a radio or a television that was suffering from lots of interference.

He gripped the knob and rotated it slowly. The door swung open, revealing a room that was dark and sweltering, without an ounce of circulation.

Decker choked back a cough, his eyes focused on Arnie Lamar slumped in a recliner chair, his bare feet propped up and crossed at the ankles. His head tilted back, his mouth wide open, drool was dripping down from the corners of his cracked lips. His face was bathed in moisture, his eyes shut tightly, and his arms drooped lifelessly at his sides.

He was snoring logs.

There was an empty can of beer on the table next to the chair, and a radio was playing fifties music over the constant crackle of static.

Decker went over to the retired detective and laid a solid hand squarely on his shoulder, a gesture that didn’t register in Lamar’s consciousness. An earthquake wouldn’t have aroused the man.

“Hey, Arnie.” Decker shook him forcefully and did it several times. Lamar began to stir. “Wake up!”

One eye popped open and immediately Lamar recognized the face. He bolted out of the chair, wiping his wet mouth on his forearm. “Lordy Lord, what time is it?”

“Twenty-five after two.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry.” He made a grab for the beer can and brought it to his mouth. When nothing came out, he crumpled it in his hand. “Man, it’s hot in here.”

“No shit.”

“You want a beer?”

“You bet. Frankly, I’d rather pour it over my head, but if you insist on manners, I’ll drink it instead.”

“Come into the living room. I’ve got the fan going in there.”

“Sounds good.” Decker sat on the couch, in the indirect path of the turbo engine wind that was rustling the blinds. Lamar brought out two cold Buds and Decker downed half in an intake of breath and forced himself not to chug the other. “Cold…good.”

Lamar took a sip from the bottle. “I’ve got plenty in the fridge.”

“I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“I checked out the fridge before I went looking for you in the bedrooms. Just to see if the stuff in there was fresh.”

“Thought I might be missing?”

“Missing or moldering in some hidden spot. After my experience with your partner, I was a little nervous.”

“Well, I’m not missing or moldering, just plain hot and sweaty. I was working on the Z out there in the heat. All of a sudden, summer’s here and I’m sweating and heaving and I just wanted to do one last little repair. I think I pushed myself.”

“Not a good idea.”

“No, but after thirty years of being a detective, you learn to do that. Just try one more thing, just check out that one last lead. I started feeling a little faint and decided to take a break. I guess I was way more tired than I thought.”

Decker smiled. “Well, Arnie, it’s good to see you alive.”

Lamar smiled back, took another swig, and leaned back in the chair. “ Cal ’s gonna have a memorial next week. Did anyone call you?”

“No, but give me the time and place. I’ll be there.”

“I’m not telling you this to make you feel obligated. But Cal ’s sons…you mentioned something about wanting an interview. They’ll both be there.”

“And willing to speak with me?”

“I think so.”

“How are they doing?”

“Well, they’re both a bit shook up. I think it’s harder on Cal. Maybe he thinks it’s his fault that Big Cal ate his gun.”

“And that’s the official ruling?” Decker asked him. “That Cal ate his gun?”

“I just assumed…” Lamar leaned forward. “It isn’t?”

“I don’t know. Last I heard, the toxicologist report hadn’t come in, so the pathologist hadn’t come back with an official ruling. Let me ask you something, Arnie. Was Cal suffering from major pain-like back pain or neck pain or…”

“He was old like I am. I’m sure he had some kind of pain somewhere.”

“He had an open bottle of oxycodone at his bedside. It was his name on the prescription, but it had expired over a year ago. Any reason why he’d have it in the first place?”

He thought for a while. “When we were partners, Cal had kidney stones. Maybe he had one recently.”

“Oh, okay. That explains the oxycodone. But you don’t know if Cal took pain medication regularly?”

“I suppose if the bottle was over a year old, it wouldn’t look like he did. What are you driving at, Decker?”

“I don’t know, Arnie.” He tried to organize his thoughts. “The medicine was over a year old and the bottle was almost full. I would think that Cal might have forgotten about it. I just don’t see him medicating himself before he took the gun. But you would know better than I would. What do you think?”

Lamar stared but didn’t speak.

Decker said, “You know what I’m getting at. I want to make sure that Cal didn’t get help in killing himself.”

Lamar nodded. “And who might have helped him?”

“I was going to ask you that.”

“I don’t have a clue. I don’t think Cal had much in the way of friends. But I don’t think he had anything in the way of enemies. He kept to himself.”

Decker took out a notepad. “When the Little murder happened, was it a particularly hard time in Cal ’s life? Is there something associated with the case that would have set Cal off?”

Lamar thought about it. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. A lot of water under the bridge.”