“Nice to have Rudy’s neck in a noose, but right now I’m thinking about Mudd. If the police crap out, we’re thinking about a private eye. Know anyone?”

Certainly not Phil Shriner, Decker thought. “I know some Valley people…not so many city people.” A beat. “I’ve heard good things about a West L.A. PI named Aaron Fox. He used to be with LAPD but we never crossed paths. I’ll get you a number. Again, let me know if you hear from Ryan.”

“Ditto.” Liam cut the line.

“Everything okay?” Rina asked.

“One step at a time,” Decker opened his chicken salad sandwich. “Wow, this is just terrific. Thanks again.”

Rina opened another box. “Hannah baked cookies for the squad room. You can have one. They’re pareve.”

“Tell her thank you. To what do we owe such benevolence?”

“She was baking cookies for her friends, and I said as long as she had the bowls and cookie sheets out, she should bake for you guys.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She said okay, but clearly wasn’t keen on the idea. Then I told her you’d write her a note and the school would probably give her credit for community service. That brightened her outlook considerably. It means she won’t have to do her after-school hours this week.”

Decker popped a cookie in his mouth. “Delicious. I should be offended by my own daughter’s tepid response to baking for me and the crew, but I’m not.” He took another and made short work of it. “Let’s face it. No one works for free.”

THE MORNING WAS clear and bright, the sunlight tumbling out from the cloudless, blue ether. The drive to the Palisades was free moving. Decker was behind the wheel with Marge sitting shotgun drinking a mocha latte and Oliver in the back mocking her coffee choice, railing on about suckers who paid three dollars for something that probably cost twenty-five cents to make.

Marge broke into his rant. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to pour this over your head.”

“Let me just ask you a question,” Oliver said. “Does Will drink any of that shit?”

“Will’s a coffee drinker.”

“I’m a coffee drinker, but that’s not what I asked you. I want to know if Will drinks any of that mocha, chocolate, whipped, foamed, soy, nonfat—”

“Occasionally he does, for your information. Now if you’d kindly save your obnoxious aggressive streak for Melinda Little, I’d be much obliged.”

“I bet she drinks mocha, whipped, foamed—”

“Can I kill him?” Marge asked Decker. She turned around to the back. “You know, if you would have ordered a plain coffee and gotten some caffeine in your system, you wouldn’t be bitching at me.”

“I don’t pay two bucks for something I can make for ten cents.”