Cold Case. Faye Kellerman

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      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.”

      “Fifty bucks for the jacket.” Oliver smoothed the lapel. “Brand new. I found out about Ben and Melinda Little's finances. They were in good shape.”

      The way Oliver spoke made Decker wonder. “Do you mean good shape or very good shape?”

      “I mean outstanding shape.”

      “As in way too good for a teacher?”

      “As in skirting the boundaries of what would be logical,” Oliver told him. “And that got me thinking. How did a guy on a teacher's salary without a working wife afford such a nice house and an expensive car?”

      “I thought he was also a vice principal … which probably meant he had a little more lunch money.”

      “At the time, he was making forty-one thou a year plus health and benefits, which was pretty good back then, but it doesn't explain how he amassed personal savings and