“I?” Marge replied. “Bite your tongue. But you know how these hick lawmen are. We go in and do their dirty work, they get all pissed off at us big-time dicks.”

“True, true.”

“So we’ll let the bikers go this time.”

“Just this once,” Decker said.

“Of course,” Marge said. “Next week, that shed’s still standing, I’m going in and busting some chops.”

Copses of eucalyptus lined the road, darkening the asphalt. The air-conditioning sucked in the scent of menthol. Riding another mile, the trees disappeared and they came upon open fields once more—acres and acres of purple alfalfa bloom filled with grazing livestock. In the middle of the area, a green signpost pointed to a dirt road. It read, TO L.A., ORANGE BLOSSOM DEVELOPMENTS.

“That’s the official name of the Manfred tract,” Decker said. “Someone wants to dump Sally, he takes a quick ride over the mountain and he’s in civilization—somewhat.”

“Well, it’s better than leaving the kid at the biker bar. Did you catch its name?”

“Hell’s Heaven,” Decker said, turning the air-conditioning fan down a notch. “Cute.”

They rode another mile. Marge nudged Decker in the ribs.

“Look up ahead,” she said.

A burnt-wood sign read: HOWARD’S HONEY FARM—ROAD TO OFFICE ONE MILE DOWN. The turnoff was a loose gravel lane that wreaked havoc on the unmarked’s tires, the office a greenpainted lean-to. Marge parked in front of the shack, and they both got out and stretched. The shed was surrounded by acres of sweet-smelling clover. In the distance was a two-story redwood farmhouse.

Decker knocked on the door to the office. When no one answered, he took out a glove, slipped it on his right hand, and turned the unlocked handle. Inside were a metal desk piled high with graph paper, a swivel chair, and a file cabinet. On the wall behind the desk were pinups—a blonde with her rear in the air and a brunette with the finger of her right hand in her mouth, the fingers on her left pulling up the lips of her vagina. Other wall decor included an out-of-date calendar from an auto-parts store, and a battery clock that said five after five. Decker checked his own watch. It was around eleven-thirty. A half-eaten pizza was falling out of a garbage can, flies covering the cheese like a topping of raisins. The air smelled rancid—garlicky and hot.

“Phhhew,” Marge said.

Decker closed the door. “I have a bad feeling about this, Margie.”

“If that pizza’s any indication of what’s to come, I don’t like it either. Think we should check in with our khaki counterparts?”

“Not yet,” Decker said. “Let’s take a hike up to the farmhouse.”