The beach part in Venice usually referred to the “walk streets”—little alleyways that connected Ocean Park Boulevard to the sand and grit deposited by the blue Pacific. These lanes were lined with the gamut—from shacks to three-story statements—with the main draw being the proximity to the ocean. Decker didn’t know if O’Dell owned or leased, but if he had been bright enough to purchase, the ex-Slut was living the good life in an appreciating asset.

The address corresponded with a one-story, side-by-side Cape Cod duplex painted bright blue with white trim. O’Dell’s unit was the left side and the door was open, the smell of grease wafting clear down to the sidewalk. Decker knocked on the screen door frame, then stepped inside a stuffy, dark room with worn, planked floors and cracked plaster walls. The ceiling beams were half-painted, half-exposed wood and sported a mounted fan on full blast. The artwork consisted of Doodoo Slut posters, lots of framed pictures with babes in bikinis, and a gold record in a shadow box. The furniture was mismatched and looked to be secondhand stuff. The window curtains had been drawn, blocking out most of the natural light.

Decker was sweating under his jacket. He loosened his tie and called out to O’Dell. When he didn’t get a response, he drew back the curtains and the beams streamed in, highlighting the dust and the must. “Liam, are you home?”

“In a minute. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Decker took off his jacket and draped it over the sofa. He opened one of the windows and a saline breeze sifted through the screen. O’Dell emerged as a surfer dude in a Hawaiian shirt, cutoff shorts, and sandals. An apron fell down to his knees. His eyes were squinting.

“Did you find Rudy?”

“Not yet.”

“Balls. What the hell is taking so long?”

“I don’t know where he is. Do you?”

“No, but it’s not my job to look for the bastard. That’s what I’m paying me taxes for.” He was still squinting when he noticed the open window. “Who the hell pulled the curtains?”

“Mea culpa,” Decker said. “Is it a problem?”

“Bloody hell, yes, it’s a problem. What time is it?”

“Around twelve.” Decker started to close the curtains, but O’Dell stopped him. “S’right. Just leave it. I’m frying clams. Want some breakfast?”

“No thanks, I’m good.” A pause. “I thought you were a vegan.”

“Clams don’t count.”

Decker could hear a sizzling pan in the background. “Why don’t you finish up your cooking and then we can talk.”

“That’ll work. Want a beer?”

“No thanks.”

“Something stronger?”

“How about a bottle of water?”

“I’ve got tap or a diet 7UP.”

“Diet 7UP is fine. I can drink it out of the can.”