Decker laughed again, then gave her a final wave and returned to his car. Before he started the engine, he tried the Goldings’ home phone number. When no one picked up, he left another message. He had almost made it to the precinct’s parking lot when impulse overtook reason. He did a safe but illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, backtracking until he hit the Goldings’ neighborhood—a ritzy area containing blocks of spacious homes on acre lots. The development had its own tennis courts, swimming pools, saunas, Jacuzzis, workout gymnasiums, and recreation rooms as well as its own private patrol. As Decker groped around for the specific address, a white-and-blue rent-a-cop slowed his cruiser to check him out. Decker flashed his badge. The private cop nodded, then parked in the middle of the street and got out. He showed Decker the route to the Golding abode.

Ernesto lived in a house that was an amorphous blob, resembling a mound of melting chocolate ice cream. It was constructed out of adobe and probably would have looked great in Santa Fe, but since it sat in a lane of traditional Tudor, colonial, and Mediterranean houses, the place looked unfinished. More than unfinished, it looked like a project that someone forgot to start. The front landscaping was an assemblage of rocks and stones, sitting in beds of sand, and drought-resistant plants, mostly varieties of cacti, but there were also ice plants for ground cover and other flowering mint-colored foliage. A couple of stunted pines framed an old, carved door—the front entrance.

Decker knocked but didn’t expect anything. To his surprise, Carter Golding answered with Jill peeking over his shoulder. Even more surprising, they acted as if they wanted to see him.

As a matter of fact, we were just about to call you.

He was invited inside.

The house was sumptuous and airy, utilizing an open floor plan. Furniture and screens were arranged to define rooms with different purposes. The staircase to the upper levels was also free-form and made of brown adobe. The mud-colored walls were textured and lumpy, holding tiny windows that let in large amounts of light. Lots of muted colors, probably because the sofas and chairs were covered with faded and worn upholstery. Nothing was formal or structured, as if every piece of furniture, every knickknack, every painting and wall hanging had been someone’s castoffs. Not that the interior looked junky, more like designer funky.

Jill caught him staring. “Everything here has been recycled. All the upholstery is either the original coverings or we re-covered it with discarded material. The glass windows, for instance, are all recycled.”

“All the architectural features came from demolition projects,” Carter stated. “It’s a point of pride with us. Even the wood used for framing up the house was recycled from other estates.”

“You’ve certainly held a consistent stance,” Decker said.

“We do our share,” Jill stated.