“Erin Kershan,” Wanda answered. “The address I pulled off her driver’s license doesn’t exist. I’m thinking that maybe she lived with Holt and was a runaway. I’m in the process of checking the data banks.”

“So you think she’s in on it?” Oliver asked.

“She’s awfully mousy…seemed pretty harmless when Webster, Martinez, and I interviewed them months ago.” Wanda shrugged. “But you know young girls. They get swept away. Maybe that’s what happened…she got swept away with Holt and the entire PEI movement. So yes, I’m hoping that she’s involved. Because if she isn’t involved—and Holt is—that’s not good. We don’t want her turning up as victim number four—”

“Five,” Decker corrected. “There’s Ernesto.”

“God, this is terrible!” Marge was upset. “How many dead bodies are going to turn up before we solve this thing?”

Oliver said, “We’re not helping L.A.’s crime statistics, that’s for sure.”

Decker didn’t bother to chastise him. Being cavalier was how Scott dealt with the atrocities. Suddenly, his tiny office started to drop in temperature.

Oliver dabbed his brow with a Kleenex. “Feels cooler.”

Decker said, “I think the air conditioner kicked in.”

Marge was glum. “Nice to know that something’s being productive.”

Decker said, “You two better get going over the hill. Until we hit on something, I want you to go through every single file.”

Another all-nighter. Oliver said, “Can we break for dinner?”

“You can order takeout and bill it to the department,” Decker answered. “As soon as Webster and Martinez are done with Tarpin’s crime scene, they’ll come over and join you. Wanda, you keep searching for Holt and Kershan. Also, keep going through the Baldwins’ phone records and bank accounts. Maybe something will turn up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tom said that the meat wagon picked up Tarpin’s body about twenty minutes ago. I’m pushing the pathologist to do the autopsy…at least to get the bullet out and send it over to ballistics.” Decker stood up and straightened his spine until he was all of his six-foot-four-inch, 220-pound frame. “I’ve got to clean myself up. Don’t want to go to a funeral smelling like a hamster.” He shook his head. “Although I suppose no one will notice.”

27

Pulling out of the parking lot, Marge went east until she hit the 405 South, the ultimate destination being the Baldwins’ main offices in Beverly Hills. A quick solve was drifting out of reach, and though she never expected a cakewalk, a suspect to lean on would have been nice. She dealt with the disappointment by concentrating on her driving. Oliver, unusually quiet, busied himself by reading the reported incidents that flashed across the cruiser’s monitor.

Twenty minutes later Oliver spoke, a bit startled by the sound of his voice after riding in a protracted silence. “There’s a hot domestic in Brentwood.”