“That was it. You want me to make a statement about that, I will. That is part of recovery. I lied to the police. I fully admit it.”

“When you heard about Ekerling’s death—his car being jacked, the body being stuffed into a trunk and shot execution style—did you make a connection between his murder and Bennett Little’s murder?”

“I thought about it only after I read about the two moronic dick brains that the police hauled in for the crime—that one of them was an aspiring rapper. That set off bells. That was me and Leroy fifteen years ago.”

Marge was writing furiously. “Why would someone have wanted to shoot Bennett Little?”

“I don’t know, Sergeant; I barely even knew the man.”

“How do you think Leroy got involved with his murder?”

“I don’t know if he was.”

Marge said, “From what you’ve told me, there had to be other players in Little’s murder besides Leroy. Any ideas who might have set the thing up?”

“No.”

“What about Darnell? Could he have called the shots? He had a reason to hate Little.”

Wenderhole was circumspect. “Darnell was angry, but I can’t see him being angry enough to arrange a hit. And where would he get that kind of money?”

“He might have saved up something from running drugs.”

Wenderhole smiled bitterly. “You’ve never been a runner. All you get is pocket change. Everything you make goes in your mouth, up your nose, or into your lungs. Darnell didn’t have money to pay Leroy.”

“And you have no idea who paid Leroy to murder Little?”

Wenderhole hedged. “I don’t know if Leroy killed Little or not.”

Marge tried a different tactic. “When you worked with Ekerling, did you meet any of his former bandmates?”

Wenderhole thought for a minute without speaking. Then he went into his file, pulled out a folder, and began to rummage through it. “Here is my former life as A-Tack: old clippings, PR pieces, and the few reviews that I got. I saved them all.”

“Can I see them? They might be helpful to the investigation.”

“In a minute…” He pulled out a yellowed piece of newspaper print. “Here…” He handed it to Marge. “Once I opened for Primo’s group—the Doodoo Sluts. I think it was their last concert together. It was at a club in Hollywood. The place was packed, but not because of me. It was a bunch of white punkasses. I got through two numbers before they started throwing shit at me.”

Marge read the review. The critic had good things to say about A-Tack but called the Sluts sell-out hacks. “Your two numbers must have been impressive.”

“Sergeant, all I remember is trying to escape without being lynched. I was pissed off at Primo for setting me up like that.”

“Do you think he did it on purpose?”