Decker was tiring of his persnickety attitude. “And how long have you worked Homicide?” When Garrett didn’t answer, he glared at the young man. “You agreed to meet with me because (a) I outrank you and you don’t say no to a detective lieutenant with over thirty years of experience because someday you may be working under me, (b) you’re curious to see what the hell I’m up to, and (c) if you’ve got a modicum of intuition about homicide cases, deep down inside those arrests don’t sit right with you; two stupid punks jacking and offing Ekerling, stuffing him in the trunk, then joyriding around in a flashy Mercedes.”

“Stupid is the operative word,” Garrett shot back.

“It’s bullshit. Something’s off but you don’t know what it is. Right now you know you’ve got a sure solve with the two lowlifes holed up in the cage, each of them with sheets longer than a roll of toilet paper. Even if they didn’t do Ekerling, you’re not too concerned with a miscarriage of justice. Sooner or later, both of them would have ended up doing hard time.”

Garrett started to speak but thought better of it.

Decker pulled back. “Normally, I’m not such a rude motherfucker, but I’m getting a lot of pressure from the brass. In the end, Garrett, I’ll do you way more good than harm. I have a very long memory, and that works both ways.”

The waitress appeared at the table, serving Garrett a club and placing a cottage cheese and fruit plate in front of Decker. The watermelon was fresh, but the rest had come from a fruit cocktail can. Decker stabbed a wedge of pineapple but didn’t put it in his mouth. “It’s more than just a cold case now. I’ve got a dead cop on my conscience. I pressed Cal Vitton for an interview about Little and Vitton balked. Flash-forward twelve hours, the man is dead.”

“You still haven’t told me what Cal Vitton has to do with Primo Ekerling?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“And what’s the connection between Ben Little and Primo Ekerling other than a similar MO?”

For the first time since meeting him, Decker saw true curiosity in Garrett’s eyes. “I don’t know that, either.” He made a swirl in his cottage cheese. “What do you know about Martel and Perry?”

“Long sheets—DUIs, drug possession, shoplifting, illegal possession of firearms, burglary, car theft—”

“Assaults?”

“Don’t recall right away.”

“Batteries?”

“Don’t recall that, either.”

“So you don’t remember anything violent.”

“You carry a firearm, you’ve got the potential for violence.”

“No argument there.” Decker put down his fork and leaned over the table. “I am looking into a guy who knew Ekerling very well and might have known Little. He’s a music producer with a Hollywood address. His name is Rudy Banks.”