She blew out smoke. “When I heard that this punk carjacked the Mercedes from Jonas Park, my first thought was: what the hell was Primo doing in a park in southeast L.A. alone at night. Almost immediately I answered my own question. He was probably sucking on a bottle or getting high.”

“Did you ask the coroner if he had alcohol or drugs in his blood?”

“Why would I bother doing that?” She stared at him. “It wasn’t what killed him…directly.”

“It would be interesting to know.”

“Yeah, it would explain why he gave up without a fight. If he was drunk or stoned, he probably didn’t know what was flying. As a sober guy, he could take care of himself.”

Decker wondered if a comprehensive toxic screen had been ordered at autopsy. He made a note to check it out.

“He was a really good producer. Not that anyone cared. The entire industry is in the throes of a shake-up. The CD is a dinosaur. Everything is downloaded from song-sharing sites. And lots of new groups are bypassing traditional producers and selling their own shit on the Internet. Primo’s jobs were fewer and fewer. If he had succumbed to drinking, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“And you said he would have probably resisted if he wasn’t drunk?”

“I didn’t know Primo when he drank. I don’t know if he was a mean drunk or not. As a man, I can tell you he was a good guy.” She blinked back tears. “If you find anything new, let me know.”

“I will. And I’d appreciate your keeping the conversation quiet. The detectives assigned to Primo’s murder wouldn’t like me butting my nose into their business.” He paused. “You wouldn’t happen to have Rudy Banks’s phone number.”

“Do I have it?” She laughed derisively. “I must have called it a thousand times. Sometimes he even answers.”

“Thanks. That would save me some work. And just so I don’t over-focus on Rudy Banks, is there anyone else who might have had a stake in hurting Primo?”

She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Who knows? In this business, you make enemies without even knowing it.”

CHAPTER 14

THE MESSAGE POPPED onto the machine after ten rings, giving the caller adequate time to hang up. If the male voice was that of Rudy Banks, his tonal quality was raspy, as if he had a chronic case of laryngitis. Decker left his name, rank, and phone number. From past history, intuition, and experience, he was going to have to chase the sucker down. He hung up and began to sort through a falling tower of pink message slips when Oliver came into the office and sat down.

Decker barely glanced up, but his eyes had enough time to take in Scott’s jaunty outfit, a glen plaid jacket over olive pants. “You’re looking very English today.”