“No one’s picking up the phone,” Marge said. “I’ve got Gold’s home number. Should I try him there?”

Decker said, “How far are we from his condo?”

“About fifteen minutes away.”

“I vote for spontaneity. It’s in Encino, right?”

“Off Ventura Boulevard.” Marge gave him the exact address.

The numbers corresponded to several new, Mediterranean-style security buildings, all of them three stories, plastered in pink and framed with apricot cornerstones. The condos stretched a block and were fronted by a green lawn. Specimen trees and big bushes had been brought in to give the neophyte development some maturity. But it was a weak cosmetic job, like putting lipstick on a baby. The place seemed to be built on a large chunk of land judging by the number of tennis-court lights in the background.

Decker wasn’t sure which building housed Gold, so he parked in the middle lot in a visitor’s space. He and Marge got out of the Plymouth and started walking on meandering brick pathways toward the building on the right.

Marge said, “Gold and Yalom are…were partners. But Gold lives here and Yalom lives in a mansion.”

“Arik was the senior partner,” Decker said. “Gold told me that. And you’re forgetting Dalia’s independent money.”

“Still, there’s quite a discrepancy.”

Decker said, “This seems like a nifty place for a bachelor. Betcha there’re lots of hot tubs and exercise rooms—a good setup for meeting women.”

Marge thought about that. She could afford a small house, but chose to keep her apartment. Although she was private, she liked the idea of having people close at hand. She turned to Decker. “So why didn’t you move to a condo after your divorce?”

“I had Cindy. When she came to visit me, I wanted her to have a home.” Decker consulted the paper. “I think Gold lives on the third floor. It’s a security building. We’ll have to be buzzed in. You want to do the talking?”

“You met him before, you do the talking.”

Decker found the directory and pressed the red button corresponding to Gold’s name. A few moments later, a deep voice spoke slurred, incoherent words over the squawk box.

Decker said, “Police, Mr. Gold. Can we come in and talk to you for a moment?”

A pause, then a loud buzzer rang in Decker’s ears. They pushed in the double glass doors and stepped inside an atrium filled with potted ficus and ferns. Against the back wall were the elevators. They took one to the third floor. Gold was standing in the hallway, blocking his front door. As they approached, both noticed he was unkempt—unshaven, with his shirttail hanging out of baggy pants. He was holding a half-filled glass and reeked of strong whiskey.

“Was he like this before?” Marge whispered.

“Nope. He knows what happened.”