“I’ll clear you both,” Decker said. “Or better yet, you two should just go over the hill to the Tolerance Center. I’m sure they have everything you need.” He thought for a moment. “Rina knows some people who work there. I’ll have her make a few phone calls.”

“Good,” Webster said. “So where are we now?”

Decker said, “I’ve got one more lead—a possible girlfriend of Ernesto Golding. From what I’ve been told, she’s into some very scary stuff. But we’ve got a problem with her. She’s over twenty-one, so we can’t scare her parents into allowing us to interview her.”

“Maybe we can scare her,” Wanda suggested.

“This one doesn’t sound like she scares easily.” Decker shrugged. “But since we don’t have much else, we’ll give it the old college try.” He checked his notes, then wrote the vitals on a piece of paper. “Here you go.”

Martinez took the paper. “Ruby Ranger?”

“She sounds like a porn star,” Webster said.

“Maybe she is,” Decker said.

Webster brightened. “Want me to check out the adult tapes at the local Blockbuster?”

“There are better ways to use your time, Tom,” Decker answered.

“My wife has been preoccupied with our daughter for the last six weeks. If you can think of a better use for my time, I’m all ears.”

“It’s just that his hand is getting tired,” Martinez said.

“Do I have to hear this?” Wanda covered her ears.

Decker smiled. “Do me a favor, Wanda. You drive. At the moment, you’re the least likely to get distracted by fantasies.”

13

The brass plate on the gate named it Hacienda del Ranger. The villa was several levels of pink plaster, green shutters, and red-tile roofs, with a round two-story turret that contained the front entrance. To get in, Webster rang a bell that connected to an intercom. Once buzzed in, he, Martinez, and Bontemps stepped through a shaded courtyard lushly filled with potted plants, the floor tiled with Mexican pavers. The centerpiece was a three-tiered, scallop-shell fountain that dribbled rather than spouted.

The woman who answered the intercom was of average height and terminally thin, with a weathered face made even older by her big bleached-blond hair. Her hands were snaked with veins and knobs and sprouted long red nails. She was dressed in black knit, which gave her a spectral look. The three detectives showed her proper ID, but she didn’t bother to read any of the information. “What do you want?”

“Mrs. Ranger?” Martinez asked.

“Yes, what do you want?”

Wanda said, “If you don’t mind, we’d like a word with your daughter, Ruby—”

“She’s not in.”

“Alice, stow the bullshit!” a female voice broke in. A moment later the thin woman was unceremoniously shoved out of the way. She teetered on black spiked heels.