“I’m sure she’s right.”

“It’s uncanny, you know. The bastard took my dad away, but his genes live on.”

MARGE KNOCKED ON Decker’s door frame and without waiting for a response, stepped into the office. “You wouldn’t think a guy with the name of Jervis Wenderhole would be that hard to track down.”

Decker pointed to a chair. “Remind me again…who is Jervis Wenderhole?”

“One of Darnell’s ex-peeps.”

“Right. A-Tack the rapper.”

“Wenderhole holds a unique spot on Arlington ’s list,” Marge said. “He’s the only person who isn’t in jail or isn’t dead.”

“But since you can’t locate him, that’s still an open question.”

“I’ve run him through NCIC. He’s got a record but hasn’t been naughty for a long time. No death certificate found, so there’s hope.”

“He’s not in the phone book?”

“Not in L.A. I’ve got a reverse directory for the Valley, but I’m looking for one in South Central. I found out that although Arlington went to North Valley, Darnell, Josephson, and Wenderhole were bused in from L.A. -a twenty-five-mile trip one way. I though mandatory busing was declared unconstitutional.”

“Fifteen years ago, the program was voluntary. Lots of parents chose it because they thought their kids would get a better education at a whiter school.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Any other ideas on how you might track him down?”

“Didn’t you say Wenderhole was a rapper?”

“Yes, I did. However, I haven’t found any actual CD.”

“So where’d you hear that from?”

“From one of the old buddies who is now in prison. Maybe Banks was his producer. Wouldn’t that be convenient?”

“Banks’s whereabouts would be convenient.”

“He didn’t leave any forwarding address?”

“No, but he did leave human blood behind in his apartment. We’ve got a positive on that.”

“Oh my…” Marge sat down. “A lot of it?”

Decker said, “I found blood behind the shoe molding that dripped down to the baseboard and floor.”

“Do we have any way to match it to Rudy Banks?”

“We’re working on it, but I don’t see how it could belong to Rudy. The paint job is new, but not that new. I talked to Rudy on Friday.”

“It could be someone claiming to be Rudy,” Marge said.

“I thought about that,” Decker said. “Rudy mentioned to me over the phone that he’d been on jury duty. I checked it out and it was true. Banks had been impaneled at the L.A. courthouse as recently as Friday.”

“So the question is, whose blood?” Marge said. “Primo Ekerling?”

“It’s a thought.”

Oliver popped his face through the open door. “I’m off to La Jolla.” He looked at Marge. “You’re here. Wanna come?”

“What’s in La Jolla?”

“Jared Little and, as an added bonus, I’m interviewing Melinda Little’s parents-Delia and Mark Defoe, who by the way are estranged from their daughter.”

“That should be interesting.” Marge stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder. “A lot more interesting than what I had planned. Sure I’ll come.”

“What did you have planned, Margie?” Decker asked.

“Absolutely nothing. Will’s on night shift, Vega’s doing community service, tutoring inner-city kids on computers, and I’m a blank slate. Do you need me to follow up on the forensics at Banks’s apartment?”

“No, I’ll do it,” Decker told her. “But thanks.”

“What forensics?” Oliver asked.

“I’ll fill you in while we’re driving. I’m starving. Let’s grab some sushi to go. We’ll eat in the car.”

Oliver shot her an incredulous look. “How am I going to eat sushi if I’m behind the wheel?”

“I’ll feed you, Scotty.” Marge shook her head. “I’ll even wipe the soy sauce off your chin.”

“You make me sound like a drooling, senile old fart.”

She pinched his cheek. “Not at all. I’m just trying to help you…do you a service. Think of me as a geisha with a gun.”

CHAPTER 24

THE SUNSET WAS on the right, a fiery ball spewing golden rays on a smooth slate surface. They were about ten miles from their destination, and while the traffic had been gnarly, the view had been pretty and the sushi had gone down smoothly except for the thirst factor. Oliver was on his second Diet Coke when he saw the off-ramp for La Jolla Village Drive.

“You turn right here,” Marge told him. “Melinda’s parents are Mark and Delia Defoe, correct?”

“Correct. As in Treasure Island.”

“That was Robert Louis Stevenson,” Marge said. “Defoe is Robinson Crusoe.”

“Stop showing off.”

“I’m not showing off, I’m just saying…never mind.”

“Aren’t you impressed that I even knew that Defoe wrote some South Sea shipwreck book?”

“Very impressed. Your literary Q has gone up a notch. Can we talk about the case?”

“Sure. Melinda’s parents are babysitting their great-grandson. They’re in their late seventies. Jared asked us to be gentle with them. What’s the name of the development?”

“ La Jolla Pines.”

Oliver slowed the car. “What does that sign say?”

“That’s La Jolla Woods.”

He crept another mile. “How about that sign?”

“ La Jolla Hills. Your directions say to go straight for three miles. It hasn’t been three miles.”

“What’s that?”

“ La Jolla Shores.”

“They’re not very original over here.”

“Keep going…” They rode a minute in silence. Marge squinted in the dusk. “There’s the turnoff to La Jolla Pines.”

Oliver hung a left, which put them into a forested development of stucco and wood, two-story town houses, more or less Cape Cod in style. The homes were constructed almost identically but individualized by finishing material, plants, garden statues, fences, and gates. They drove through winding streets that gently rose and fell, the asphalt roads shadowed by mature eucalyptus and pines. Green lawns, lots of blooms, and a plethora of citrus trees. The air was wet and briny, the temperature around sixty-five degrees.

They parked in front of a white and brick house that was bedecked with multicolored impatiens. As soon as they got out of the car, the front yard lights came on and the door opened. An elderly woman stepped out onto the front porch. She was meticulously coiffed and dressed: white slacks, a white shirt, and a red blazer. Her teased salon-style hair was blond, her nails were long and painted pearlescent white, and large diamond rings adorned her knobby fingers.

Marge had her badge out as she introduced herself. “Mrs. Defoe?”

“Delia…” She walked a couple of steps and put her finger to her lips. “The old man fell asleep right on the living room couch. We can talk in the den.”

The entrance hall was dark, but the living room had the lights on. The ceiling soared upward of fourteen feet, and a picture window provided a sparkling view of the illuminated hills of La Jolla. Beyond the lights was the afterglow of sun shimmering on the surface of the sea.

“This way,” Delia whispered.

The den was dominated by a sixty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall. There were shelves of DVDs, CDs, and a few paperback books. The furniture was straight lines but comfortable and beige in color-as was the carpet. A corner chest was open and overflowed with toys.

“Sit anywhere you’d like. May I get you something to drink from the bar?”

Oliver looked around and saw a small closet with a half door. “I’d love a beer.”

“Soda water for me, if you have it,” Marge said.

“Coming right up!” She went into the closet/bar and opened a small refrigerator. She worked quickly and efficiently. The beer had frosted the glass, and the soda water bubbled in a crystal tumbler. “Here we go.”

“Thanks so much,” Marge said.

Oliver took a sip and sighed. Man, it was good. “So your grandson wore out your husband.”

“Great-grandson,” Delia corrected. “He’s such a love. Most of the time we’re here, he’s asleep. Today Nelson got the wild notion to play hide-and-seek right before bedtime. It hyped up the little one and pooped out the big one. I had to read the little guy four books. The big guy didn’t need any coaxing to sleep.”