“Not at all. I just want to tell you my schedule if you need me. Your dad’s due in around three hours from now. I’ve still got a little work left to do. I’ll be back here around eleven. I want to be here when he comes to pick you up. I’ve got to talk to him anyway. If you need to reach me earlier, give me a call on my cell, okay?”

“Thanks. I’ll be okay.”

“You’re all packed up?”

“I will be. Not much to pack.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” The teen paused. “Thanks for everything.”

“Gabe, if you want a few days to think about things, I can make that happen. You don’t have to go with him right away.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Just so you know, all right?”

He nodded.

Decker said, “I haven’t heard anything bad about your mom or her car. Maybe she just needed a few days to think by herself.”

Gabe swallowed hard as he nodded.

Decker put his hand on his shoulder. “You’re a tough kid. But even tough kids need help every now and then. Don’t be shy about calling.”

“Okay.”

“See you later.”

“Sure. Bye.” The door closed gently.

The music that followed was soft and melancholy.

THE PORT HOLE was a waterfront restaurant/grill/sports bar boasting free hors d’oeuvres during happy hour, weekday specials, and local sports games broadcast on a ten-foot flat screen. True to their ad, the ginormous TV was airing the Lakers-Nuggets game with Kobe Bryant at the line, his magnified sweaty face revealing every open pore. There was such a thing, Marge thought, as too much high resolution.

Sela Graydon’s description of Crystal Larabee was as follows: blond, blue-eyed, good body, probably garbed in sexy clothes, and she drinks cosmopolitans. There were three candidates, all of them at the bar: a blonde in the sequined tank top and jeans, another blonde in the red tee and lamé miniskirt, and lastly, a blonde wearing a strapless black tube and low-rise jeans whose thong was visible.

“My gut says number three,” Oliver said.

“I’m with you, partner.”

The two of them snaked their way into the three-deep crowd at the bar until Marge was looking over Crystal’s shoulder on the right and Oliver was on her left. She was practically falling out of her tube top and her mascara was as thick as tar. She was talking animatedly to a bullnecked block of man who had his hand on her lower back, a finger slipped under her thong. He looked a good ten years older than his prey.

“Crystal?” Oliver said.

“Hey…” She slowly turned to face him. “Who’re you?”

Her voice was slurred. A dollop of drool sat at the corner of her mouth.

Oliver took out his badge. “Police. I’d like to talk to you.”