He looked at the gray cement driveway. Although it wasn’t pristine, it wasn’t spotted with oil stains or fluid leaks.

Again he glanced around, biding his time while his brain fired ideas.

Someone could have come by and picked up the old man.

Cal could have gone out for a walk.

But Decker was bothered. Cal was first and foremost a cop. Career detectives didn’t miss appointments without explanations. If Vitton hadn’t wanted him to come, he would have phoned Decker and told him so. And if there had been an emergency, Cal would have left a note or a message on Decker’s cell. No-shows were irresponsible. More than that, they were cowardly, and Calvin Vitton didn’t impress Decker as a coward.

There was a six-foot wooden gate that separated the front and back yards. Decker peered over the top and noticed that the gate was secured by a bolt lock. He called out and when nothing answered him back, Decker decided to jump the fence. He found a purchase for his foot on a low cinder-block wall, but his hands still had to do the majority of hoisting up his big frame.

Up and over.

He landed awkwardly on his right foot, but shook it off with a couple of steps.

Vitton’s backyard was small and dry and backed up against a spill-way that was fenced off by cyclone wires. As Decker peered through the metal, he noticed a few shallow pools of stagnant water basking in the heat of the spring. They were green with algae and white with mosquito larvae. He made a note to himself to call County Pest Control or the area was going to have an infestation.

The back door to the house was also locked. Decker knocked hard, but the noise elicited no response. He checked the windows. The shades were down. Nothing seemed awry: no broken glass, no locks that seemed jimmied, and no signs of forced entry.

He gave himself a moment to think.

The sun was climbing higher. Decker could feel the heat on the back of his neck. Competing with the ravens’ calls was the buzzing of insects: the hum of dozens of gnats, the drone of bees foraging for pollen, the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes. And the flies…lots of flies.

He swatted the pests away from his face and regarded his surroundings. A splintered chaise longue with a faded cushion sat on a patch of crabgrass. A few small trees languished around the fence of Vitton’s property. There was a Weber barbecue that looked in pretty good shape. A white plastic table and chairs were off to one side. The top of the table was thick with dirt and bird droppings.

When Decker returned his attention to the house, he noticed that a heavy funnel of flies had congregated near one of the back windows.