“Maybe her apartment was the same as the victim’s,” Decker said.

“I gotta look at my notes,” Hoersch said. “I don’t want to tell you anything wrong.”

“But you’d be able to ID this Leandra?”

“Think so.”

“What about Torres?”

“Yeah, he probably could, too. Or Andrick.”

“Andrick is dead,” Decker said. “Heart attack.”

“No shit?” Hoersch whistled, shook his head. “Jesus. You see a guy…I’ve been off for three days. Went to Catalina to do a little diving…Shit, that’s lousy.”

“Can I look at your notes?”

Hoersch didn’t answer. Decker repeated the question.

“Uh, guess that’d be okay.” He paused a moment, then said, “How old you think Andrick was?”

“Mid-fifties.”

“He was overweight, too.” Hoersch patted his hard abdomen. “Man, when I’m that age, I’m gonna be fit. Body is only as good as the way you treat it.”

Decker said, “When can I look at your notes?”

“I go on shift at three,” Hoersch said. “Meet me at the station a half hour early.”

“Thanks,” Decker said. “I’ll remember this, Hoersch.”

Hoersch shifted on his feet again. “Don’t worry about it, Sergeant.” He smiled. “If you forget, I’ll remind you.”

Abel’s motorcycle was lying in front of the garage door. Rina parked the Porsche in the driveway and entered the house, hearing steady banging out back as she closed the side door. As usual, Peter hadn’t come home yet. As usual, she was left to her own devices.

She paced the living-room floor, deciding in a matter of minutes that she was not going to spend another afternoon with him working inside the barn and her imprisoned in the house. She’d have to approach him, tell him to leave. The idea made her jittery, but she was less afraid of Abel, having spent an afternoon watching him and Peter play basketball, seeing the friendship between them.

Still…

Anxiously, she felt at the bottom of her purse for the gun, checked it to make sure it was loaded.

It was.

She slung her purse over her shoulder and went outside. The barn door was wide open. Abel was working in the back, sifting through a pile of fresh lumber stacked against the hay bales. He wore a blue tank top and a pair of faded brown corduroy shorts. His hair was tied back into a ponytail, a red sweatband encircled his forehead. His natural foot and his prosthesis were housed in running shoes. Rina stood outside the door, called his name. Abel turned around, a smile spread across his face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Rina said.

Abel’s smile disappeared. “I’ll go if you want.”

“You know how Peter is…”

“Don’t have to explain, ma’am.”