“Thanks, but I’d better keep the ones I have,” Decker said to Hollander. “I don’t want any of the victims to think I’m abandoning them. If you could field my new calls, that would help.”

Hollander said no problem and slurped coffee from his boob mug. Decker carried his java back to his desk and began Katie Darcy’s paperwork. Stuffing a quadruplicate release form into his typewriter, he pecked away at the keyboard until he was interrupted by his phone. Marge again.

“John Doe’s clothes,” she said. “Or what was left of them. Half of a red bandanna—we probably didn’t notice it because it mixed so nicely with the blood. Shreds of a leather vest, Levi 501 jeans. His boots were made by Wellington—heels coated with blood and grease. But get this. One arm was blown away, the other arm, once they got the blood off, had a tattoo—a babe wearing nothing but a helmet. J.D.’s ass was inked with the name Gretchen. Betcha anything John Doe owned a motorcycle.”

“Any riding-club insignia anywhere?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Marge said.

“Christ, Marge, the guy had a driver’s license. Why would someone take away his ID? We’re eventually going to find out who he is.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Marge said. “Sounds to me like it’s amateur time. Who knows? Maybe he’s the key. Maybe he shot Luke, then someone else shot the others.”

“Anything’s possible,” Decker said. “Margie, how’d you like to join me for lunch?”

“What do you have in mind, big guy?”

“I was thinking about pizza and a beer at Hell’s Heaven.”

“You bring the car, I’ll bring the Polaroids—a real appetite enhancer.” Marge paused, then said, “I don’t know how readily the motorcycle boys will talk to us.”

“Well, we’ve got one thing in our favor.”

Marge said, “What’s that?”

Decker said, “We’re white.”

Quarter to eleven in the morning, and the outside temperature had already passed the 95-degree mercury mark. Decker stared out the window at the grassy fields of clover and grain. No breeze today, just stagnant air. The Plymouth’s air-conditioning had frizzed out, and was sucking up the outside heat and blowing it inside. Decker flipped off the knob and opened the window. Marge followed suit, floored the pedal, and sped through the canyon. When the biker joint came into view, she slowed suddenly, then turned into the gravel lot, the tires kicking up dust. Forty full-sized choppers occupied the lot, chrome bouncing off dazzling rays of sun. Marge parked next to a customized cherry-red Harley, its winged logo painted Day-Glo purple and orange. The license plate was stamped HOG CHOW. Automatically, Decker felt for his service revolver.

He raised his eyes to Marge. “The hogs meet the pigs.”

Marge laughed, but her eyes were wary.