The lieutenant used the downtime to look around. Lamar seemed to have a nice-sized spread, similar to Decker’s old homestead except there weren’t any stables. The front yard was bereft of green, a brown square of hardscrabble dirt spotted with shreds of rubber, discarded chrome, and rusting steel. The house was one story and wood sided and if it had any style, Decker would call it California ranch. It wasn’t exactly dilapidated, but upkeep wasn’t Lamar’s forte.

The body slid out from underneath the red hunk of metal. Lamar was on his back, resting on a block of oak on wheels. He had on oil-stained overalls and a gray T-shirt. His feet were housed in sneakers. He rolled over to his side and hoisted his frame up until he was erect. Lamar was a short man and slight in build, bald with a white mustache, dark coffee eyes, and knobby fingers that clutched a wrench. “Three o’clock already?”

“By my watch, it is.”

“Sheez, I get under there, I forget about everything.” His face was streaked with dirt and grease. He wiped his hands on an oil-stained rag. “I’d like to clean up. It won’t take longer than ten minutes. You want something to drink. It’s hot today.”

“Water would be nice.”

“How ’bout a beer?”

“I’m working.”

Lamar smiled with yellowed teeth. “I won’t tell.”

Decker smiled. “Water is fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” The retired detective opened the door and led Decker inside.

The interior was surprisingly clean: floors swept, shelves dusted, and the furnishings simple and old. The dining table and chairs looked handmade, the work good but not professional. Pictures adorned the walls and tabletops: one special woman and children at various ages until they were grown with children of their own. At present, there was no sign of the special woman anywhere.

The house was on the dark side even with the blinds open. Decker sat down on a faded floral sofa. The only other seating was a cracked leather lounge chair that had a bird’s-eye view of the television—no doubt Lamar’s special seat. His makom hakevuah, Rina would have called it, using the Hebrew term for an honored place. At home, Decker had a blue leather armchair and ottoman.

Ten minutes later, Lamar made his appearance, pink cheeked and wearing clean denims and a black T-shirt. He was carrying a plastic cup of water and a can of Coors Light. After giving the cup to Decker, he pop-topped the beer and took a long swig.

“That’s good drinks.” Lamar plopped down in his chair. “I used to hate diet beer. Now I’ve gotten so used to the light taste that the dark brew seems way too strong.”

“It’s amazing how we adjust our attitudes to rationalize things.”

Lamar said, “So who decided to reopen the Ben Little homicide?”