THE BOTTOM OF his morning coffee mug had just touched his desk when the intercom squawked. “Good morning, Lieutenant; a man named Liam O’Dell is here to see you.”

A stroke of luck. He’d been meaning to call him, anyway.

“Thanks. You can send him in.”

A minute later, the Mad Irishman was standing at his door. Over his shoulder stood a well-built Hispanic uniformed officer whose eyes were pinned on the back of O’Dell’s neck. He said, “He didn’t make it through the metal detector, obviously. I patted him down for weapons, but didn’t do a strip search. It’s your call.”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.” After the officer left, Decker said, “You’re up early.”

“I didn’t go to sleep.”

That could explain why he looked so bad—droopy red eyes, blotchy skin, in dire need of a shave and ripe to the nose.

“Banks is gone.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

O’Dell became agitated. “Did you hear me?” he yelled. “Banks is fuckin’ gone!”

Decker got up and closed the door. “Yes, I heard you and you better lower your voice or any second you’ll be on the ground, spread-eagled, with your arms cuffed behind your back. Now sit down!”

O’Dell turned quiet and plunked his rear end on a chair.

“I repeat,” Decker said. “Do you want some coffee?”

Liam nodded. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Decker buzzed for another cup of coffee. “Banks moved out Saturday. I don’t know where he went. We’re looking for him. I was going to call you anyway, so I’m glad you dropped by. What are you so pissed about?”

“He owes me money. How am I ever going to get what rightfully belongs to me? Primo’s gone. Ryan’s as good as gone. I’m all alone in this now, and I can’t even find the bastard. I’m screwed!”

“The voice, O’Dell.”

“Sorry.”

The coffee arrived. The caffeine paradoxically seemed to have a soothing effect. Decker said, “Why don’t you just put out your own ‘best of’ album. If for no other reason, it might flush Banks out of the woodwork.”

“Where the fuck am I going to get money for that? To do anything in this bloody business, you need a backer.”

“I’m sure there are some Doodoo Sluts fans who might give you support. From what I understand, you had quite a crowd of admirers—male and female.”

“That was a century ago, mate. Rudy took them all. He probably fucked them over.” He took another gulp of the hot liquid. “I was really counting on the lawsuit. Not for me, but for Ryan. The guy lives like a junkyard dog.”

“I know. I went to visit him. His brother’s a doctor.”

“He told you that?”

“About ten times.”

“That sounds like Ryan.”

“Does his brother help out?”