“I do know.” Berger glanced at the clock on his wall and stood. “I really must tend to my business. We have very sick people here who have just lost their doctor…a person they view as saving their lives. They’re distressed. They need care. They need comfort. Please?”

“Of course.” Decker got up. “Some other time, maybe we can talk about Curedon.”

“I’d be happy to except…” He tapped his watch. “I’m swamped at the moment.”

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Berger.”

“I can’t say that I enjoyed it. But I have been completely honest with you. I shouldn’t have to say this, but I’ll say it anyway. I expect complete confidentiality with my thirty-year-old secret. It’s nobody’s business but mine.”

Decker nodded. His secret wasn’t anyone’s business.

Unless it became a reason for murder.

12

Oliver tightened his grip on the wheel of an unmarked Matador. “If I see one more shopping mall, I’m gonna throw up.”

Marge sipped coffee from a thermos, stared out the window at an endless stretch of freeway. The asphalt bisected hillocks covered with untrimmed crabgrass, California orange poppies, mustard wildflowers, and royal purple statice. “Not much to do here. Shop, eat, sleep. Maybe have an affair.”

“Last option sounds like a winner, especially if I was female. Doesn’t cost anything and it burns off calories.”

Marge glanced at him, then returned her eyes to the front windshield. Oliver drummed his fingers on the wheel. “What’s the contact’s name again?”

“Gordon Shockley.”

“Dr. Shockley, right?”

“Right.”

Silence except for the staccatoed communications between the radio dispatchers and the patrol officers. Oliver started to whistle—tuneless, formless. Marge was about to say something, but changed her mind. The tweetie noises were annoying, but so was the quiet.

Forty-five minutes into the ride, and Marge was going nuts. Probably, Scott wasn’t doing much better. The first twenty minutes had been passable because they had talked shop, gossiped a little. Now they had run out of small talk. Desperation time, because neither wanted to open the door marked personal.

Oliver said, “Mind-numbing out here.” He paused. “Not that I do so much at home…”

“But you have the option,” Marge filled in.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

A long pause.

“Any more coffee?” Oliver asked.

“Sure.” Marge handed him the thermos. “You want me to take a shift, Scott?”

“Nah, I’m fine.” He swigged some java. “I’m not looking forward to this.”

“Why?”

“I hate talking to these kinds of guys. Especially because we have to ask technical questions. Which means we’ll get technical answers. Makes me feel like I should have stayed longer in college.”

“You and me both.”

“How many years did you go?”

“BA in sociology.” Marge laughed. “Like that’s really going to help.”

“You finished, then.”

Marge looked at him, smiled. “Are you impressed?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“It’s only State.”