Marge said, “He told us that as of right now, he is the liaison between Fisher/Tyne, the FDA, and Sparks’s lab.” She paused. “I know this may sound corny. But I get the feeling that Decameron takes his job seriously, has a great deal of pride in his work. He had a personal stake in Curedon’s success if not a financial one.”

“Hmmmm,” Decker said.

“You know differently?” Oliver asked.

“Nah, just my normal suspicious nature,” Decker said. “Someone should go talk to people at Fisher/Tyne ASAP. Find out if the company did pay Sparks a hefty sum for the right to manufacture the drug. Because where there’s money, there’s motive for murder.”

Oliver said, “We don’t even know where Fisher/Tyne is located, Loo.”

“Ask Decameron,” Decker said.

Marge said, “What if they’re out of state?”

“If necessary, we’ll send you there.”

Oliver smiled. “Let’s hope for Florida.”

“There’re gators in Florida,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “There’re gators everywhere, Margie. Most of them are just two-legged.”

Decker took a final sip of coffee, hung up the mike, then heaved his body out of the Volare. He lurched forward into the cold mist, checked his watch again.

Midnight.

Most normal people were retiring for bed.

Bed was a very nice thought.

Bert Martinez walked over to him. Decker offered the detective some coffee from his thermos.

“No thanks,” Martinez answered. “Wife packed me a jug full of Mexican coffee. Strong stuff. Spicy. Want a cup?”

“Where were you ten minutes ago…before I tanked up on this swill?”

Martinez smiled.

Decker stuck his hands in his pockets. Rocked on his feet to give them circulation. Man, it was cold out here, fog attacking the skin with tiny, icy needles. Standing in a back alley perfumed by rotting food, cold asphalt seeping into the soles of his shoes.

He said, “Take it there’s nothing to report. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about coffee.”

Martinez closed the zipper on his windbreaker, streaks of silvered-black hair plastered to his sweaty brow. He blew on his hands, then stuck them in his pockets. He was more squat than tall, but his muscles could pack a wallop.

“The problem is that the restaurant’s dishwashing area faces the back alley.”

Even with the kitchen door closed, Decker could hear the hum of machinery combined with the rhythmic blare of trumpets. Someone had the radio on.

“You think the noise is bad out here,” Martinez said, “nothing like it is inside. Dishwashers running full tilt, the help have cranked up the music to earsplitting level. Besides, there’s lots of noise coming from the front portion of the kitchen. Appliances running, pots and pans clattering, and the chef screaming at everyone.”

“No one heard anything?” Decker asked.