“We see each other every now and then. For all that we went through together, once that whole thing ended, we found out that we didn’t have too much in common. I’m a doer, Cal’s a brooder. Sometimes it worries me, but I’m tired of mothering the man. Eventually he needs to figure it out on his own.”

“I’ve left a message. I trust he’ll call me back.”

“Oh yeah, he’ll do that. Little bothered him as much as the case bothered me. Let me know if you make any headway. Be nice to see someone in custody before I die. That’s not too much to ask of the Good Lord, right?”

Decker agreed that it wasn’t too much to ask. But when it came to results, the GL always seemed to have other ideas.

CHAPTER 7

BY SIX IN the evening, most of the detectives had checked out on the whiteboard, leaving the squad room hauntingly quiet. When Decker listened hard enough—carefully enough—he could hear wounded voices speaking to him through the blue-covered murder books. He often got his best insights by being receptive. Focused and wired on coffee, he cleared about half his desk when the knock on the door frame broke his concentration.

Marge Dunn and Scott Oliver looked as if the day had dragged on too long. Marge’s hair was wilting, and Oliver’s royal blue tie was askew. His formerly starched white shirt was limp, and he was carrying his suit jacket.

Marge said, “Ben Little should be nominated for sainthood.”

Oliver kicked out a chair with his foot and sat down, stretching his legs in front of him. “He’d give Mother Teresa a run for her money. Not a speck of dirt to dig up, but I’m still not convinced. No one can be that good.”

“I agree with Oliver,” Marge said. “How can a guy that dynamic and active not have at least one skeleton in his closet?”

Oliver said, “I remember the cops being frustrated about that. I think we all would have been more comfortable dealing with the whack if the vic had some bad habits.”

“Interesting that you say that,” Decker said. “Arnie Lamar remarked that the Little homicide was particularly sad because he was such a nice guy.” His eyes drifted to Oliver’s. “What did you think of Homicide’s handling of the case?”

“They worked it pretty hard for about six months. Then it just froze. I recall that Arnie and Cal kept at it from time to time, but this wasn’t a case with a lot of forensics. There was some ballistic evidence, a couple of prints that Arnie would run from time to time. And DNA? Pshaw, my friend, pshaw.” Oliver waved his hand in the air and chanted, “Ice, ice, baby.”

“What did you think of Cal and Arnie?” Decker asked.