“Meaningless and out-of-date textbooks that you and Eema paid a fortune for.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself carrying all this weight.”

Hannah hugged her father’s arm. “That’s why I need a big, strong abba.”

THE BUILDING WAS four stories of chrome and glass, a stone’s throw away from where Suge Knight had set up offices for the notorious Death Row Records, the premier label of L.A. gangsta rap. While investigating a case years ago, Decker used to pass some of Suge’s billboards perched atop the office building: people sitting on toilets and other offensive images. Now Tupac was dead and Suge was in jail. Ah, the fleeting phantom of fame.

Ekerling’s office was on the second floor, sandwiched between an insurance agent and a guru named Om Chacra who sported a degree in Far Eastern and holistic medicine. The door was locked and there was no bell, so Decker knocked. The door opened but only a crack because it was bolted by a chain.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant Decker of LAPD. I’m looking for Marilyn Eustis?”

“You found her. ID, please?”

Decker slipped his badge into the allotted space and waited. A moment later, the door opened and a slim, leggy blonde with a cigarette was giving him a quick once-over. She returned his billfold. “Can’t be too sure nowadays. Come in. The place is a mess, so watch your step.”

She turned her back, and Decker followed her swaying hair and rear until she pointed to an empty folding chair. “Have a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Decker complied and studied Marilyn. She was dressed in black, and although she was attractive, she emitted nothing but nervous energy. Her blue eyes quivered as if they were bathing in adrenaline.

He looked around. It was a small room in utter chaos: papers and boxes everywhere with lots of shelves of CDs, most of which were jewel-box demos. A single pot of coffee sat by itself in a corner, looking forlorn. He saw her dragging over a chair and got up to help. “Are you in the process of moving?”

“Just cleaning out Primo’s shit.” She plopped down. “Seeing if there was any money due. He seemed to be current. He was a lousy housekeeper, but pretty good with the bills.” She rubbed her neck. “So why are you here? I thought the police had the punks in custody.”

“They do.”

“So I repeat, why are you here?”