O’Dell scratched his cheek. “Yeah, I could see Rudy doing that. But not killing someone. He didn’t like blood.”

“Could he have hired someone to kill Primo?”

“Kill Primo or kill this Little guy?”

“Either.”

O’Dell threw up his hands. “I dunno.”

“And if Banks didn’t like blood, why is there unexplained blood around the baseboard in his apartment?”

“Dunno.” A shrug.

Decker said. “What about Mudd? Could you see him murdering Bennett Little, hoping to snag his wife?”

The suggestion made O’Dell laugh. “Mudd? No way, no how. Not Mudd. He was as soft as soapsuds.”

“You guys were flying most of the time. Your judgment gets whacked.”

“Yeah, but not whacked enough for Mudd to kill someone.”

“Lots of bad things can happen on drugs, Liam.”

“You know, you tell me that you think Rudy’s a killer, now you think Mudd’s a killer. Make up your mind.”

“I’m handling an investigation, O’Dell. That means I’m investigating. Like you said, it’s your tax dollars at work.”

“And you still can’t find Rudy. The only thing you do is ask a lot of questions.” He pointed to his chest. “Am I next in your line of killers?”

“Why would I think that, Liam?”

“You seem to be thinking a lot of strange things. Like Mudd doing murder. He would never kill someone. Rudy yes, maybe even Primo. Maybe even me. Not Mudd.”

“So let’s do him a favor,” Decker said. “Why don’t we both go over to his place and ask him about Melinda Little?”

“He’s not gonna remember her.”

“Indulge me.”

O’Dell looked as if he’d swallowed vinegar. “I need another beer.”

“Take a whole keg, if you want,” Decker said. “I’ll drive.”

THE DRIVE TO Goldberg’s place was an hour of crosstown hell. First it was a bumper-to-bumper freeway crawl because some semi had jackknifed, blocking three lanes of the 405 West. Decker got off at Bundy and tried Olympic, which was moving but at a tortoise’s pace. By the time he weaved over to Sunset, the air had turned filmy, the temperature had risen, and the sun was piercing his windshield like a bullet. It was almost one-thirty and Decker was sporting an ogre headache.

The Hollywood Terrace was still ugly and depressing and maybe it was Decker’s mood, but the entire day seemed to have dissolved into a muck pile of smog and heat. Decker parked and they both got out of the car without speaking. O’Dell pushed the button to Goldberg’s apartment, and when he didn’t get a response, he pushed it again.

“Does he go out a lot?” Decker asked.

“No!” O’Dell spit at the ground. “Fuck!”