“All right. If necessary, I’ll fly solo,” Oliver told her. “Who’s Jervis Wenderhole?”

“Arlington’s bud,” Decker said.

Marge said, “Actually, I think I found him. There was a gang counselor at the Lynnwood Youth Center by that name, but he doesn’t work there anymore. The secretary has no idea where he went. I’m checking out youth centers.”

“And you want to talk to him because…” Oliver said.

“Because I think Darnell Arlington is hiding things. If I can trip him up…find a link between him and Rudy Banks or Primo Ekerling, then maybe I can wrest the truth from the dude.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Decker checked his watch. “I’m off to Cal Vitton’s memorial in Simi Valley. Arnie Lamar gave me the rundown. He said he’s coming along with some of the old-timers. Also, Shirley Redkin, the primary on Cal’s suicide, will be there. Maybe she can fill me in on the latest coroner’s report.”

“Any relatives?” Marge asked.

“Cal’s ex-wife is also coming, even though I heard from Lamar that their divorce was nasty. When Arnie spoke to her, he said that she sounded genuinely broken up.”

Oliver thought about that for a moment. “I suppose my ex might even cry if I ate my gun.”

“God forbid,” Marge said.

Decker said, “Cal’s sons are coming. The oldest, Freddie, is bringing in his family from Nashville. Cal Junior and his partner, Brady, are also going to make an appearance.”

“Where’s the shindig taking place?” Oliver asked.

“Church of the Good Shepherd, wherever that is.” Decker checked his watch again. “I might need a few extra minutes to find the place. And who knows what the parking situation might be. It might be a bit of a crowd.”

“Sounds like a full house,” Marge said.

“I certainly hope so. It would be sad to hold a memorial and have no one show up.”

THE PLACE WAS immense, built at a time when land was cheap and so were construction costs: hand-hewn stone façade, majestic ceilings, stained-glass windows, a pipe organ worthy of Bach. Cal Vitton couldn’t have asked for better surroundings to make a final stand. Good Shepherd was nestled in the foothills surrounded by oak, sycamores, and eucalyptus. The wildflowers—poppies, lupines, daisies—were in bloom but withering fast as the days grew longer and the sun shone hotter.

About fifty people had shown up, huddled together at the front of the altar, leaving behind a sea of walnut pews. It was immediately clear to Decker, who had been to hundreds of funerals and memorials, that the minister hadn’t known Cal. The eulogy seemed canned and impersonal—something from a clergymen’s cheat book—but it was delivered with a stentorian voice. Afterward was open mike. Anyone who wanted to speak about Vitton could do so.