“All right. Let’s take it slow. What time did Cameron take off?”

“The call came at about ten tonight. He left right afterwards.”

After banking hours, Decker thought. If Cameron was going to hole up somewhere, he’d have to get hold of some money.

“Did Cameron have cash on hand?”

“You kidding? The son of a bitch was always in the hole.”

“Did he have any kind of nest egg?”

Dustin looked sick.

“We had a…”

“Slush fund?” Decker tried.

“More like an emergency fund. At the Security Pacific here in Century City.”

“How much is in there?”

“About twenty thousand.”

“Can he withdraw from it without your consent?”

“He needs all three signatures, and he can only withdraw the money at this branch.”

“How is Cameron at forging signatures?”

Pode’s face turned a bilious green.

“God!” He bowed his head in utter defeat. “I know what you’re thinking. That he’ll probably come by tomorrow morning and try to pick it up.” He buried his face in his hands and began to cry again. “Oh Jesus Christ, what happened to my life?”

It was close to five by the time Decker finished all the paperwork. His back and shoulders ached and his head was exploding. Popping a couple of aspirins in his mouth, he swallowed them dry, stretched, and walked over to the coffee urn. Some kind soul had had the decency to brew up a fresh batch.

He poured himself a cup of black coffee and went back to his desk, troubled. Dustin Pode had burned his house down because he hated his mother. But he didn’t harbor overt animosity toward his father. So why would he blow up Cecil’s studio? And why the sudden switch from arson to detonators? Dustin insisted he hadn’t done it. Maybe he was telling the truth.

He walked over to Marge. She was catnapping at her desk and he shook her shoulders gently. She awoke abruptly and confused.

“What time is it?” She bolted upward.

“About five.”

“Why the hell did you wake me up?” she asked, irritatedly. “We’ve still got three hours before we have to be at the bank.”

“Take a ride with me,” Decker said.

“Where?”

“To the beach.”

“What?” she said, laughing. But she was already reaching for her coat.

“Let’s go visit another angry young man,” he said. “I’ll explain on the way over.”

Truscott opened the door, rubbed his eyes, and broke into a vacant grin.

“I was expecting you,” he giggled. “I was. I was. I was.”

The kid had changed, The depression was gone. He was dancing around in a tiny circle, clapping his hands and stomping his feet as if doing a hora.