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“I think it does.”

As I made my way west I haggled with six different representatives of Gourmet Services. I was Pete Coster, the executive assistant of Paulie Antonucci at Star Shield, making sure that a delivery that one of our secretaries ordered yesterday was sent to the right address. I had just enough information that the number two manager for the delivery service finally surrendered the address. He even gave me the code that was to be used on the front gate of the residence.

36.

THE HOUSE WAS much smaller than the lot it occupied. The tall wire fences that surrounded it were dense with passionfruit vines. The footpath beyond the code-locked gate was cobblestone, but I didn’t stay on it very long. I went off the path, hidden by the trunks of more trees than I could count in the night.

It was the size of a small one-family home, with a high, shingled roof and large front windows. It was painted some light color, yellow or white, maybe even pink. The only light came from a window to the right of the front door. The yellowish glow emanated from a dim lamp. I remember thinking that maybe the inhabitants had fallen asleep.

So I went around to the back of the home. Once there, I stalled.

The Welrod assassination pistol in hand, I worried that I was on a fool’s mission. Both Rouche and Lamming were in trouble. The police were aware of them. The proof of their guilt lay in a thirty-five-year-old gravesite in Sheepshead Bay and a crime scene at a two-story duplex on Carnegie Lane in Redondo Beach. Those crimes and the fact that both men, Rouche and Lamming, were in breach of their bail agreements was enough to see them back behind bars.

All I had to do was call Van Arc and wait for the cops to come.

That was all I had to do. But that wasn’t the feeling in my gut. Not at all. These were dangerous men who knew how to avoid consequences, who wouldn’t hesitate to kill anybody who stood in their way. How would I feel if they went after Twyla, her mother, or even her dad? What would I say if they came after me or my daughter? Could Van Arc promise their safety?

I had just decided to go ahead and make my way into the secluded cottage when I felt the cold steel of another gun pressed against the back of my neck.

“You’re a damn good detective,” a familiar voice rasped.

“Arman?”

He chuckled but did not remove his weapon.

“You’re supposed to be getting all new blood,” I complained.

“More like refurbished blood.”

It was only then that I put up my hands.

The muzzle slipped away, and I realized that I’d been holding my breath.

“Turn around,” my client commanded.

I did so. The gun was leveled at my middle. Beyond that, he wore a dark suit, a lighter gray shirt, and a tie that was probably blue. He still wore tennis shoes.

“You gonna kill me for what?” I asked.

“I’m not gonna kill ya, Joe.” He let the revolver hang down at his side. “Brenda would curse me to hell if I did that.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Come on in and I’ll show ya.”

We walked up to the back door of the house. Arman Babylon grabbed the metal knob and turned it, showing me that the door was unlocked. There was a huge sink in the back entrance to the house. Beyond that, we passed through a kitchen and then into what had once been a living room, but now its purpose was more sinister.

This was the room that had the dim lamp aglow.

Stretched out on the floor, side by side, were Melton Lamming and Kenneth Rouche. Dead and stiffening, both men had been shot multiple times.

There was no question I dared to ask.

He answered anyway.

“I killed Paulie Jr. too,” he said.

“Why?”