“So let’s assume that Paul hired out.” Gaynor coughed into a well-worn handkerchief. “The next question is who?”

Decker smoothed his mustache, sat back in his chair. “I don’t know. From my brief observations, Paul and William Waterson seem to be making chitchat. And just what was Waterson doing in a remote area of the mountains, meeting a lowlife like Manny Sanchez?”

“Right.” Gaynor shifted his weight again. “Now it could be that Waterson was giving Sanchez money that Azor Sparks had left him for this Environment Freedoms Act cause. But if that was the case, why didn’t Waterson meet Sanchez at his dealership in town? Why the clandestine spot?”

Decker said, “Waterson paid the bikers to be triggermen for Paul. And what Webster and Martinez saw was the payoff for Azor’s hit. Good logic. No evidence.”

“Things take time.”

Decker said, “Why would Waterson get involved in something like that? Was he in debt?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check into his accounts. See if any big checks were coming in or going out.”

Decker’s phone rang. He picked it up, listened for a few moments, then shut his eyes. A silent stream of curse words escaped his lips. He looked at Gaynor, shook his head.

“Who?” the old man asked.

“Decameron.”

It was an isolated contemporary thing nestled into the Santa Susana Mountains, with a view of the valley below. Decameron’s lot was hillside, overlaid with blooms of purple ice plants, the house semiobscured by giant banana plants and frothy green palms. The building was a square barrack of white stucco veined with brilliant red bougainvillea, almost void of windows. Instead, a dozen elongated glass-covered furrows had been cut into the walls. From the inside, the grooves had widened into wedges, becoming windows that allowed a great deal of light to enter. A clever design, like arrow slits found in the old fortress castles.

The house held high ceilings and slate floors. Footsteps echoed as Decker walked through. Lots of open space, the furnishings were spare. Everything was orderly except for the crime scene.

Someone had gone crazy with a bat, smashing windows, showering everything with shards of glass. Made it hard to gather evidence without slicing tender flesh. Decameron was spread out on his tomato-red leather couch, his mouth and eyes open. A second gaping mouth had been carved across his throat. Blood had oozed downward, across his body. There were holes in his chest and in his forehead. He was fully dressed in a gray suit, his red paisley tie and white shirt browned with blood. His face was turned upward at the skylights, his feet dangled off the edge of the cushions.

Under his toes lay another head, another body. A blond man, in a conservative blue suit. His throat had also been cut, he had also sustained shots in his head and chest.