“I’d say around four hundred grand. By the time you’re done with commission and taxes and this and that, the boys will only clear around a hundred grand each.”

Decker raised his eyebrow.

“I know,” Shirley told him. “People have been killed for shoelaces, but I did a little preliminary investigation on the brothers. Freddie clears six figures, and Cal J has steady work as a set designer.”

“Do either of the brothers have any vices?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but I hadn’t really pushed the money motive. From everyone’s standpoint, Cal Vitton was bitter and very depressed. Suicide still is everyone’s number one choice. But I’ll keep my ears open for contrary evidence.”

Decker said, “Maybe I should start thinking about what drove Cal Vitton to suicide rather than if it was a suicide or not. Thanks for your help, Detective Redkin. And if you do hear anything, please let me know.”

“Not a problem.” Shirley checked her watch. “As fun as it was, all good things must end.” A smile. “See you later, Lieutenant. Or maybe not.”

Decker watched her go, then stopped by the food table. He was grabbed by Arnie Lamar, who offered to introduce him to his group of retired detectives. In rapid succession, Decker met Chuck Breem, Allan Klays, Tim Tucker, and Marvin Oldenberg—men, like Arnie, with veined hands, liver spots, and varying degrees of baldness. Their eyes were still sharp, though, taking in everything, forever wary.

The first five minutes were spent listening to “the way it was back then.” The next ten minutes consisted of war stories with the usual suspects—dealers, thugs, bums, pimps, and hookers. Decker had heard it all before and didn’t make much of a pretense of being interested. He blatantly checked his watch, his eyes shifting between Freddie Vitton and younger brother, Cal J. Lamar took the hint.

“Hey, guys, I’m gonna introduce the big man to the boys,” Lamar said. “Keep the meter running. I’ll be back.” He steered Decker toward Freddie and when the time was right made the introduction. Vitton’s eyes sized him up. “You were a friend of his?”

“No, I came to his house to talk about one of your father’s old cases.”

“Bennett Little,” Lamar chimed in.

Vitton’s eyes drifted. “Bennett Little. We all knew him as Dr. Ben. The one that got away. That’s what Dad used to say.”

“Did your father talk about the case a lot?”

“No, he didn’t. He didn’t talk much, period. It’s not that I was estranged from my father, but we respected each other’s privacy. We saw each other maybe once or twice a year for holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays. Overall, and Arnie can back me up on this, Dad wasn’t a chatty guy.”

“One hundred percent,” Lamar said.

“I gathered that from your eulogy,” Decker said. “You spoke very well.”