Over the hill, it was fifteen degrees cooler, and being as the condo sat atop the sand, Decker felt a pleasant ocean breeze riffle through his suit jacket as soon as he got out of the car. He had squeezed the unmarked into the last spot on the gravel lot, which was already filled with two Mercedes, two Beemers, one Porsche, one Range Rover, one Ford Explorer, one Jeep, one Honda (Bert’s), three squad cars, and a half-dozen scantily dressed people—dazed and confused—milling in the open spaces. At five in the afternoon, daylight was still strong, but the sun had begun its westerly descent. Decker hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps before Martinez pulled him between the Beemer and the Explorer, a place for temporary privacy.

“I put in the call to the Malibu sheriff’s.”

Decker nodded. “It’s their jurisdiction, even if it is our case.”

“The guys they sent over seem nice, but not too familiar with the rigors of homicide investigation. They probably don’t get a lot of opportunity out here.”

“I don’t know, Bert. Murder of the rich and famous isn’t an alien concept. When did you call it in?”

“About an hour ago.”

Decker wagged his finger. “But you called me almost two hours ago.”

“Well, you know…” Martinez’s smile was sheepish. “I wanted to look around and make my own notes first.” He flipped the cover off his notepad. “First, a little background. I checked with the assessor’s office: no record of the Baldwins’ owning anything around here. So I started going from realtor to realtor, figuring like you said that they rented. I struck oil. The Baldwins seemed to be creatures of habit, renting the same beach condo every summer. Except that this summer they rented for the entire year.”

“They were remodeling their house in Beverly Hills. I suppose they needed somewhere to live.” Decker raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised the rental agents were cooperative. Aren’t they supposed to be protective of their clients?”

“Not the ones I interviewed,” Martinez answered. “They love to name-drop. Besides, they had a personal interest in making things easy for me. It doesn’t look good to have bodies moldering in your rental units. From the initial glance, it points to suicide.”

“Because…”

“Single shot to the head. No defense marks—cuts or scratches on the arms or the palms of her hands. No ligature marks around her wrists. Superficially, nothing to indicate force or a struggle.”

“Any note?”

“I didn’t find anything. But if she did whack hubby and the kid, it’s easy to find a motive. Ernesto was bare-chested. She might have interrupted something.”

“It was a hot night,” Decker said.

“Now you’re making excuses.”