“I wish we had another body,” Decker said. “All we have is blood drips. I have no idea who the blood belongs to or how old it is. When are you going to meet with Wenderhole?”

“This afternoon.”

Oliver said, “If Darnell hired Wenderhole to ice Little, he’s going to lawyer up. You’re not going to get anything out of him.”

Marge said, “I left messages that I wanted to talk to him about the Little case. If he was going to lawyer up, he had his chance. He agreed to meet with me. So I think our theory about Darnell hiring out his peeps is crap. Maybe it was Melinda Little who hired out. That insurance policy keeps tickling the back of my mind.”

“You think Melinda hired Rudy to kill her husband?” Oliver said.

“Why are you so obsessed with Rudy?” Marge asked.

“Because he keeps lingering around like a bad fart.”

“But we keep blaming everything on him. It’s like the Democrats in ’08. Every ill that had befallen the country—from terrorism to global warming—was George Bush’s fault.”

Oliver smiled. “Ooooh, she’s getting all political!”

“I’m just saying Banks right now is easy dumping ground. We need to consider other alternatives. And by the way, you should hear Will if you think I’m a fascist.”

“But he’s from Berkeley.”

“Precisely why he’s so right-wing.”

“We’ll know more once you’ve spoken to Wenderhole,” Decker said. “Arlington had a known beef against Little. Let’s see if we can explore that a little further. When you interview Wenderhole, make sure he doesn’t feel threatened. Put the blame on Arlington if you have to.”

“Agreed.” She turned to Oliver. “Want to come with me?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you if you wanted to come with me this afternoon to interview Phil Shriner.”

“Can’t do it. We’ll meet up later and exchange notes.”

“Good idea,” Decker added. “Maybe by that time I will have talked to Cal J.”

Marge sighed. “So many suspects, so little time.”

PEOPLE NEVER FAIL to surprise. Once there had been three teenaged thugs. Although it was true that Leroy Josephson had died from gunshot fire, the two remaining boys had turned the corner from back alley to upright. Darnell Arlington was a high school athletic coach, and Jervis Wenderhole was now on the government payroll as a gang counselor at a youth center in South Central. When Bennett Little was murdered, Wenderhole would have been around seventeen. That meant Wenderhole should be about thirty-two—a young man at the height of his strength.

If someone had told Marge that Jervis Wenderhole was fifty, she would have had no trouble believing it.