Oliver said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Marge said, “What about Phil Shriner, Scott?”

Decker said, “I thought he told you that he didn’t know her until after the murder.”

“That’s what he said,” Marge told him. “Neither one of us saw him as entirely truthful.”

Oliver said. “I still think they were boffing.”

Marge shook her head. “That’s the one thing I don’t see. Melinda is just too…I don’t know. He’s so old for her.”

“If you’re desperate for money, Marge, your taste goes out the window.” She conceded the point. “I’ll try to set up an appointment with Shriner some time this week.” He turned to Marge. “How busy are you?”

“I have a couple of court appearances, plus, I’m still hunting down Jervis Wenderhole. If I can’t make it, go without me. It might even be better, talking to him man to man.”

“All right. If necessary, I’ll fly solo,” Oliver told her. “Who’s Jervis Wenderhole?”

“ Arlington ’s bud,” Decker said.

Marge said, “Actually, I think I found him. There was a gang counselor at the Lynnwood Youth Center by that name, but he doesn’t work there anymore. The secretary has no idea where he went. I’m checking out youth centers.”

“And you want to talk to him because…” Oliver said.

“Because I think Darnell Arlington is hiding things. If I can trip him up…find a link between him and Rudy Banks or Primo Ekerling, then maybe I can wrest the truth from the dude.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Decker checked his watch. “I’m off to Cal Vitton’s memorial in Simi Valley. Arnie Lamar gave me the rundown. He said he’s coming along with some of the old-timers. Also, Shirley Redkin, the primary on Cal ’s suicide, will be there. Maybe she can fill me in on the latest coroner’s report.”

“Any relatives?” Marge asked.

“ Cal ’s ex-wife is also coming, even though I heard from Lamar that their divorce was nasty. When Arnie spoke to her, he said that she sounded genuinely broken up.”

Oliver thought about that for a moment. “I suppose my ex might even cry if I ate my gun.”

“God forbid,” Marge said.

Decker said, “ Cal ’s sons are coming. The oldest, Freddie, is bringing in his family from Nashville. Cal Junior and his partner, Brady, are also going to make an appearance.”

“Where’s the shindig taking place?” Oliver asked.

“Church of the Good Shepherd, wherever that is.” Decker checked his watch again. “I might need a few extra minutes to find the place. And who knows what the parking situation might be. It might be a bit of a crowd.”

“Sounds like a full house,” Marge said.

“I certainly hope so. It would be sad to hold a memorial and have no one show up.”

THE PLACE WAS immense, built at a time when land was cheap and so were construction costs: hand-hewn stone façade, majestic ceilings, stained-glass windows, a pipe organ worthy of Bach. Cal Vitton couldn’t have asked for better surroundings to make a final stand. Good Shepherd was nestled in the foothills surrounded by oak, sycamores, and eucalyptus. The wildflowers-poppies, lupines, daisies-were in bloom but withering fast as the days grew longer and the sun shone hotter.

About fifty people had shown up, huddled together at the front of the altar, leaving behind a sea of walnut pews. It was immediately clear to Decker, who had been to hundreds of funerals and memorials, that the minister hadn’t known Cal. The eulogy seemed canned and impersonal-something from a clergymen’s cheat book-but it was delivered with a stentorian voice. Afterward was open mike. Anyone who wanted to speak about Vitton could do so.

Freddie was first at bat. Slim and tan, he had dark curly hair, a round face, and soft features. His emotion seemed genuine, as he stopped several times to compose himself. He spoke about his father’s work ethic, touched on his dad’s sense of justice, and talked about his father’s loyalty to his fellow officers.

Cal J went next: dry-eyed and stoic. He reiterated many of his brother’s themes, calling his father a great investigator, a tireless worker, and a constant pursuer of justice. The ex didn’t speak, but several of his fellow cops did. Perhaps Arnie Lamar had the most to say and even that wasn’t too much. All of Vitton’s accolades dealt with Cal the cop and not much about Cal the family man.

The service lasted a little over an hour. Afterward there was a reception in the church’s social hall. Plenty of room to disperse but the group was centered on the food-several tables of pastries, cookies, fruit, and finger sandwiches. The beverages included coffee and tea, but no booze, which almost guaranteed a short-lived gathering.

Since the Vitton brothers were busy accepting condolences, Decker figured it was a good time to buttonhole Detective Shirley Redkin, catching her just as she popped a piece of pineapple into her mouth. Her dark eyes widened and she held up a finger.

Decker said, “I hate when that happens. There isn’t a graceful way to chew when you know someone’s waiting to talk to you.”

Chew, chew, swallow, swallow. “Exactly. I’ve been meaning to call you about the autopsy.” She looked around for a less-populated space to talk. They decided on a corner spot. “The coroner ruled it inconclusive, but his real feeling was that it was a suicide.”

“What swayed him away from ruling it a suicide?” Decker asked.

“Nothing at the death scene. Vitton’s hand was tattooed with blood spatter and gun powder and the right amount of stippling for someone who had just pulled the trigger at closeish range. The pills were old, but they still retained enough active ingredients to put him under. There wasn’t anything suspicious in his blood-other than booze and oxycodone.”

“So I repeat. Why inconclusive?”

“The circumstances surrounding the death. You had just talked to Vitton about an old cold case, and twelve hours later he was dead. I think the ME wants some wiggle room if other evidence surfaces and we need to reopen the case.”

“Have you told the family about the ruling?”

“I did, and they seemed okay with it.”

Decker said, “Did he leave behind anything of value?”

“His house and around ten grand in savings split between the sons.”

“I’m not familiar with Simi Valley. What’s his house worth?”

“I’d say around four hundred grand. By the time you’re done with commission and taxes and this and that, the boys will only clear around a hundred grand each.”

Decker raised his eyebrow.

“I know,” Shirley told him. “People have been killed for shoelaces, but I did a little preliminary investigation on the brothers. Freddie clears six figures, and Cal J has steady work as a set designer.”

“Do either of the brothers have any vices?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but I hadn’t really pushed the money motive. From everyone’s standpoint, Cal Vitton was bitter and very depressed. Suicide still is everyone’s number one choice. But I’ll keep my ears open for contrary evidence.”

Decker said, “Maybe I should start thinking about what drove Cal Vitton to suicide rather than if it was a suicide or not. Thanks for your help, Detective Redkin. And if you do hear anything, please let me know.”

“Not a problem.” Shirley checked her watch. “As fun as it was, all good things must end.” A smile. “See you later, Lieutenant. Or maybe not.”

Decker watched her go, then stopped by the food table. He was grabbed by Arnie Lamar, who offered to introduce him to his group of retired detectives. In rapid succession, Decker met Chuck Breem, Allan Klays, Tim Tucker, and Marvin Oldenberg-men, like Arnie, with veined hands, liver spots, and varying degrees of baldness. Their eyes were still sharp, though, taking in everything, forever wary.

The first five minutes were spent listening to “the way it was back then.” The next ten minutes consisted of war stories with the usual suspects-dealers, thugs, bums, pimps, and hookers. Decker had heard it all before and didn’t make much of a pretense of being interested. He blatantly checked his watch, his eyes shifting between Freddie Vitton and younger brother, Cal J. Lamar took the hint.