‘Yes, I do, but all of our vehicles – including the one you speak of – are locked up by me every afternoon from five until we open the next morning at seven. And Sunday we close, so it’s impossible that my staff would be out on a Saturday night or Sunday.’

Jo paused, looking down at her notes.

His anger sounded real, virtuous.

‘Anyone else have keys to the garage?’

‘No, just me.’

‘And you weren’t in West Hollywood on the weekend?’

‘West Hollywood? I live in Fontana.’

He meant it was a sixty-mile, ninety-minute drive away from his house, so what the hell would he be doing at the Star Inn? Jo looked down at her notes, thinking, any charge of electricity gone. ‘How many employees do you have over there, Paolo?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Okay. I’m going to need you to send me over a list of them.’

Jo got home just after eight.

Ethan was already asleep, his bedroom warm and dark, the fan on its fastest setting. He was only wearing a diaper and he’d long since discarded his blanket, kicked off to the side of the crib. She watched him for a while, thinking about the motel, about the body in the tub, and then – feeling as if she were, in some way, contaminating the purity of her son’s room – she left again, ghosting along the hallway to the living room. Ira was on one of the couches watching the Angels, a bottle of beer held in place on his stomach. It was so hot in the living room – so shut in, the door to the yard closed, the windows locked – she was only wearing a vest and panties. Ira was in even less – just his boxers.

‘Your dinner’s in the oven,’ he said.

‘Thanks. I’m starving.’

‘How was your day?’

She shrugged.

Ira shifted on the couch as Jo removed a plate of quesadillas from the oven, the tortillas stuffed with refried beans, avocado and tomatoes. She got a beer for herself.

‘Jo? You all right?’

She collapsed on to the sofa next to him, and he put an arm around her. ‘These taste great,’ she said finally, wolfing down the quesadillas, and when Ira saw that she didn’t want to talk about her day he gave her another squeeze and they sat watching the ball game in silence.

‘I’ve had such a headache today,’ Ira said eventually.

‘Aw, sorry, honey. There’s some Excedrin in the bathroom.’

‘Yeah, I grabbed some earlier.’

‘Is it any better?’

‘Well, luckily I’m a big, strong boy,’ he said, ‘so I’ve just about pulled through,’ and then he squeezed her again. ‘Although they say massages are good.’

‘Do they?’

‘Good for the head, apparently.’

‘And which head are we talking about here?’