“Scott, you don’t own a coffeemaker. You don’t even own a jar of instant. That’s your problem. You show up in the morning and wait for someone in the squad room to make coffee, then you mooch off the common pot. This morning, no one bothered to make coffee. Now you have a friggin’ headache and we have to put up with your chemical withdrawal. It’s not fair.” She rummaged around in her purse. “Here. Take a Motrin. Maybe it’ll take the snarl off your face.”

Oliver wanted to sneer, but the pain got the better of him. “Do you have something to wash it down with?” Marge handed him the last of her mocha latte. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She looked out the window, at the billows of white foam barreling across the cobalt marine expanse. “Sure is pretty around here…especially without the excess noise.”

Oliver held his head and grumbled from the backseat.

Decker said, “How the other half lives.”

Marge said, “I wonder how Melinda—with two kids and probably a lot of debt—managed to snag a multirich guy like Michael Warren.”

“She’s a beautiful woman,” Decker said.

Marge said, “There are lots of beautiful women in L.A.”

“My guess is that she’s hot in the sack,” Oliver said.

“There are a lot of women who are also hot in the sack,” Marge said.

“But probably not many who’ll do whatever the guy wants.”

“What makes you say that Melinda’s that kind of gal?”

“She had a gambling problem. She fucked the Doodoo Sluts for money. When you whore, you do whatever the client desires, and in the punk scene, I bet they desired some pretty strange stuff.”

CHAPTER 37

THE WOMAN LOOKED as if she had just stepped off a yacht. The reality was that Melinda Little Warren was just about to step onto one. She wore a blue-and-white-striped top, white capri pants, and white wedge sandals. Gold bangles along with a diamond watch encircled her wrists, and pearl drops hung from her earlobes. Her blond tresses were loose and wild.

She made a point of looking at her watch. “I don’t have time for this. I have to be at the marina in an hour or else I hold everyone up. What do you want from me?”

“I want to find out why you lied,” Decker said.

She blinked her eyes several times. “I’ve already told you. I lied about Phil Shriner because I was embarrassed about my gambling problem. I didn’t see the point of bringing up my past issues when I don’t have them anymore.”

“Not that lie,” Decker said. “I’m talking about the lie about not knowing Primo Ekerling. The record producer who was murdered in a manner similar to your husband. I asked you if you knew him. You told me the name didn’t sound at all familiar.”

Melinda was silent.