“I’m just about done, so you can get the meat wagon ready.” Liu looked at his bloodied gloves and shirt. “I’m not exactly dressed for prime time.” He snapped his gloves off and threw them in a “contaminated materials” bag. “I’d appreciate it if someone could distract the cameras so I can get out of here with minimum effort.”

Baum said, “We’ll handle the press.”

“I can tell you more once I’ve got her laid out on the slab. When do you want the autopsy done? Yesterday?”

“That would be nice,” Decker said.

“Typical,” Liu said. “I’ll do my best. It’s too late to hit the waves anyway.”

“You’re a surfer?” Martinez asked.

Liu’s look was wistful. “Nothing like drowning out the ugliness of the world in one magnificent seven-foot curl.”

Athena Eaton was fifty and anorexic, with jet-black hair and a face slathered with makeup. By the time Decker was ready to interview her, she had popped three pills, and her behavior alternated between woozy incoherent and hysterical incoherent. In the end, Decker had the cops take her home with a promise to come back and check in on her tomorrow. Since Baum had his people canvassing the area, there were no pressing reasons for Decker to stay on the scene.

Crammed with information overload, he needed a good hour of solitude to sort everything out. The amount of paperwork was staggering, and he wouldn’t finish it up until sunrise. But before he went any further, he had to put in an appearance at home. His stepson Sammy was coming back after a full year away in Israel, and if he didn’t show up, he’d live to regret it. Not to mention the fact that he actually missed his stepson terribly and wanted to see him.

And they talk about women balancing work and personal obligations.

When he pulled up into his driveway, he felt a stab of apprehension. Rina’s car was still gone. Even allowing for bad traffic, by Decker’s calculations, Sammy should have been home a couple of hours ago. Maybe she took the family out for dinner at one of the kosher restaurants in town. He certainly hoped that was the case.

When he opened the front door, he immediately heard noises—the distorted, high-pitched squeals that could only belong to toons getting smashed, squashed, electrocuted, or fried. He went into his daughter’s bedroom.

“Hi there.”

Hannah looked up. “Dadddeeee!”

“Hannah Rosieeeee!”

She jumped up, and he spun her in his arms. Then he kissed her cheek and set her down.

“I’m hungry,” she complained.

“Where’s Eema?”

“At the airport.” She sat back down in front of the TV. “Can you get me a snack?”

“Who’s taking care of you?”

“Yonkie.”

“Where’s Yonkie?”

The little girl shrugged. “Chocolate milk and chips?”

“Have you had dinner yet?”