He decided to buy a carton of orange juice and read the paper in Van Nuys Park—his usual pit stop when he was tied up at court. He drove the unmarked out of the court complex, and hooked a left onto Van Nuys Boulevard. A minute later, he passed a block-long western-wear store, a string of iron-gated hock shops, several adult bookstores and a couple of dark, smoky taverns. As he headed south, the stores were replaced by acres of car lots displaying both new and used autos, their rock-bottom prices written in red on white placards placed inside the windshields

Van Nuys Boulevard. On a warm Wednesday night, it was mecca for cruisers. The street was clogged with bumper-to-bumper cars containing youngsters, oldsters, anyone wanting to make that hormone connection. After his divorce, Decker had often traveled to the Boulevard, observed the pickup rituals and the souped-up cars. His biweekly treks had lasted about three years. He’d stood alone, hands in his pocket, people steering clear of him because he made no effort to disguise his cop demeanor. Once in a blue moon, a woman approached him. And once in a blue moon, he accepted her invitation, bought her a drink at one of the local bars.

Those days were long gone, and Decker felt no nostalgia for the lonely nights, some drunken cop groupie crying in her beer while groping him under the table. The very thought of it made him cringe.

Life do get bettah.

The car lots disappeared, replaced by high-rise medical and office buildings. A block before the Ventura Freeway, the name on one of the skyscrapers caught Decker’s eye. Quickly, he jerked the unmarked into the right lane, and turned just as the light became red. Someone honked his car.

Decker smiled. He was honked at a lot and deserved every metallic blare he got. He drove like a jerk. But not when Rina was in the car.

He parked in an underground lot, and entered the Manfred Building from the back. The directory put the corporate offices on the top floor—the fourteenth, which was really the thirteenth, but the unlucky number had been eliminated from the list of elevator buttons. He shared the lift with a pin-striped suit with a runny nose and darting eyes. The suit got out on the seventh floor.

The elevator doors to number fourteen opened, and Decker found himself staring into the yawning portals of a paneled reception room. It was as big as a tennis court, as hushed as a library.

Badge in hand, he approached the receptionist—a plump young woman who wore her hair in a tight bun—and flashed her his ID. Her eyes reacted with surprise.

“Homicide investigation. I need to speak to the CEO.”

The woman didn’t answer.

“The chief executive officer,” Decker explained.

“Who’s in charge here?” Decker demanded. But his voice was soft.