“I’m…the field. Hold on. I’ll walk…my car. I’ll…you back.”

She disconnected the line. While waiting for the call, Decker sorted through his phone messages. He had spent most of the morning talking to what was left of the hotel employees. It was hard doing interviews over the phone and a few of them might have to be visited in person. He had also had a brief conversation with the pathologist. Adrianna Blanc’s autopsy report showed her death to have been caused by asphyxiation from the hanging. There were also bruises and marks on her skin consistent with dragging the body.

The phone rang and Decker picked it up.

Eliza said, “Is this better?”

“Much. What’s up?”

“Show-and-tell time. I’ve spent most of today checking local garages, chop shops, and junkyards. Since garages and storage bins need keys and owners’ permissions to open them up, I started with what was accessible—the junkyards. No one seems to mind if you sift through the piles of junked cars. I’m on number three. They’re all in the Valley.”

“East and north Valley. I used to work in Foothill.”

“The one I’m at is in your district. Are you familiar with Tully’s Scrap Metal?”

“It’s off Rinaldi.”

“You should come down. Something caught my eye.”

“Something like a 2009 Mercedes E550.”

“That’s what I’m thinking, although it’s hard to tell the make and model when the vehicle’s stripped and gutted. It is silver.”

“When did it come in?”

“The kid who’s here now isn’t sure. He thinks a couple of days ago. Right now, we’re trying to locate the owner of the lot. He has the records.”

“I’m about a half hour away.”

“See you then.” Eliza waited a beat. “Terry went to school in the west Valley, right?”

“Correct.”

“So it’s possible that she might be familiar with the place.”

“Anything’s possible.”

“You have your doubts.”

“I don’t know, Eliza. I think the bigger issue is that Chris Donatti—Chris Whitman back then—went to school in the Valley. And he drove a cool muscle car when he was a teen. Terry, on the other hand, walked or took the bus.”

CAPPUCCINOS HAD A soothing effect on Oliver. Maybe it was something in the milk, because Scott was sipping it with almost orgasmic delight. He had not only learned how to use the coffee machine but had finally mastered the art of foaming. The two of them were on their way to St. Tim’s: Marge was driving and Scott sat shotgun.

Oliver said, “I’m turning into a girly man.”

“Drinking lattes doesn’t make you a girly man. Italian men drink cappuccinos and lattes all the time.” Marge smiled. “Of course, they don’t drink them in the afternoon. They drink espresso because milk coffees are breakfast drinks.”

“Are we in Italy, Marge?”

“I’m just saying—”