The entrance hall was dark, but the living room had the lights on. The ceiling soared upward of fourteen feet, and a picture window provided a sparkling view of the illuminated hills of La Jolla. Beyond the lights was the afterglow of sun shimmering on the surface of the sea.

“This way,” Delia whispered.

The den was dominated by a sixty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall. There were shelves of DVDs, CDs, and a few paperback books. The furniture was straight lines but comfortable and beige in color—as was the carpet. A corner chest was open and overflowed with toys.

“Sit anywhere you’d like. May I get you something to drink from the bar?”

Oliver looked around and saw a small closet with a half door. “I’d love a beer.”

“Soda water for me, if you have it,” Marge said.

“Coming right up!” She went into the closet/bar and opened a small refrigerator. She worked quickly and efficiently. The beer had frosted the glass, and the soda water bubbled in a crystal tumbler. “Here we go.”

“Thanks so much,” Marge said.

Oliver took a sip and sighed. Man, it was good. “So your grandson wore out your husband.”

“Great-grandson,” Delia corrected. “He’s such a love. Most of the time we’re here, he’s asleep. Today Nelson got the wild notion to play hide-and-seek right before bedtime. It hyped up the little one and pooped out the big one. I had to read the little guy four books. The big guy didn’t need any coaxing to sleep.”

“Babysitting is fine as long as it’s not your full-time job,” Oliver said. “That’s what I love about my grandchildren. Kiss them, spoil them, and then when they’re all hyped up, you go home and sleep.”

“How many grandchildren do you have, Detective Oliver?”

“Five…four boys and a little newborn girl. She’s an oddball. I have three sons. We’re overloaded in the Y chromosome department.”

“That’s not too bad. I think boys are much easier than girls. At least that’s been my experience. And you, Sergeant?”

“A daughter. She’s in college.”

Delia nodded and turned back to Oliver. “How old are your grandsons?”

“The oldest is going into high school. I don’t know where the time has gone.”

“It only gets worse the older you get. Time doesn’t march, it does a steeplechase. I look in the mirror and I hardly recognize the face staring back at me.”

It was a pleasant face, Marge thought. Kind brown eyes surrounded by skin that was a little smoother than it should have been. The plastic surgeon hadn’t overdone it. “Thanks again for talking to us,” Marge iterated. “We’re trying to jump-start your late son-in-law’s case.”