“Let me see.” Thackrey walked across the room and peered at the laptop photo of Mahler. “Guy’s wound tighter than shit. Do we know anything about their success rate with homicide investigations?”

“Website doesn’t have any data on clearance rates.” Russell worked the keyboard. “But they average about five homicides a year. Mostly gangs or domestic violence. Pretty straightforward stuff. In-house forensic techs and a county coroner. Basically, they clear most of what shows up. Except for the occasional anomaly.”

“Anomaly?” Thackrey walked back across the room and sat next to Victor again.

“A couple years ago, two girls were found strangled in the same park where we left your friend. An arrest was made, but no charges filed. The cases are still open. And here’s the thing. According to the online press reports, this VCI team is trying to figure out if our little business is related to the earlier cases.”

“How confusing for them.” Thackrey winked at Victor. Provoking him was always good sport.

Victor kicked the coffee table. “Christ, I hate it when you do that, Ben.”

“Do what, Vic-tor?”

“Assume everyone else is an idiot. And stop saying my name like that.”

Thackrey sighed. “Russ tells me you’re named after a famous Indian actor—Victor Banerjee. How did I not know this until now? Would I have seen him in anything?”

“A Passage to India. 1984. Directed by David Lean.”

“Oh, I saw that one. So did he play Dr. Aziz or Mrs. Moore?”

Victor shook his head. “For chrissakes, you’re like a child. You could have left her. You could have left both of them, like a normal person. You didn’t have to kill them.”

Thackrey watched Victor’s eyes while he spoke. At some point he was going to have to shoot Victor. He turned to Russell. “What do we think the cops are working on?”

“The blanket. It may have something they can trace.”

“Fucking dog hair,” Victor said.

Thackrey shrugged. “We’ll deal with it.”

“Blood in your living room.”

“At this point I don’t see the cops making it to my living room. But we can take care of the blood, too.”

“The KelTec.”

“My gun?” Thackrey feigned surprise. “What about it?”

“You might not want to have it with you if they arrest you.”

“You have yours?”

“Yeah, but mine hasn’t been used.”

Thackrey looked at Victor and wondered if his earlier thought about shooting him had somehow been telegraphed to the other man. “I think it’s best to keep the gun. Discourages the riffraff.”

“Couple hours ago,” Russell said, “I figured out my scarf must have fallen off in the park when we were carrying the body. But I doubt it can be traced back to me.”

Thackrey smirked. “Can’t be too many other men with your taste in Northern California.”