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college kid who ate like Gwyneth Paltrow?
    Holding the refrigerator door open, he glanced over his shoulder at Tarian. ‘You did something right anyway. At this age, I was living on a diet of ramen noodles and Twinkies.’
    Tarian stared at the contents and shook her head. ‘That’s new. I’ve never seen Marcus so much as eat a banana without me having to nag him.’
    ‘Well,’ said Lock, ‘at least you know he’s been looking after himself.’
    Her face fell. Lock immediately felt bad about saying it. It had come out glib and uncaring when he’d intended to sound positive. If one of the worries was that Tarian’s son was a suicide risk, Lock had wanted to highlight the fact that people contemplating ending their lives tended not to take care of their diet and nutrition.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
    She shook her head again, a little too quickly, like she had bees buzzing about inside that she was trying to dislodge. ‘It’s okay. I know what you mean.’ She raised her head a little, and the sun from the small kitchen window caught the side of her face. ‘He started working out a few months ago. Running. Cycling. I think he may even have started going to a gym somewhere down near Sunset.’
    Across the table from her, Lock noticed Ty perk up. ‘You know what it was called?’ Ty asked.
    ‘I don’t,’ said Tarian. ‘He mentioned it in passing.’
    ‘Maybe if we got a list you’d be able to pick it out,’ Lock pressed.
    ‘Maybe,’ said Tarian, as they heard a knock at the apartment door. Ty rose from his seat. Lock closed the refrigerator and raised his hand to indicate to Ty that he would get it. Perhaps the prodigal son had finally returned. Or maybe it was the gunman, come back to finish the job now that the LA County Sheriff’s Department were no longer on the scene.
    Drawing his SIG Sauer 226, Lock stepped out of the kitchen into the corridor. His back flat to the wall on the hinge side of the door, he said quietly, ‘It’s open. Come on in.’
    He raised his SIG as the handle turned slowly, the door opened, and a man walked in. His face drained of blood as he stared at Lock.
    ‘Who the fuck are you, and where’s my wife?’ said Teddy Griffiths.
     

17
     
    As far as Lock was concerned, Teddy Griffiths had arrived with a question mark hanging over his head. After the attempted shooting and attendant mayhem, Tarian had finally thought to contact him. The delay itself was telling in terms of family dynamics, but that wasn’t what had troubled Lock.
    What niggled at him was the trouble they’d had contacting Teddy, who had told his wife he was playing golf at the Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades. The manager in the pro shop had informed Tarian that Mr Griffiths was out on the course and that they would try to get a message to him, but that it might take some time. So far, so ho-hum. A lot of married men played golf. Not always for the love of trying to propel a small white ball around a park with tiny holes, but precisely because it allowed them time away from their domestic duties. Being uncontactable was the point. So Tarian being unable to get in touch with him meant nothing.
    But then, about a half-hour later, he had called Tarian’s cell phone. Lock could hear him bellowing at her and caught almost every word of the conversation. Teddy had told his wife he had just finished up and was walking off the eighteenth hole. He was coming straight there.
    Again, all very normal. The part that was hard to explain came about fifteen minutes later when Teddy had knocked at the apartment door.
    Even with light traffic, which was almost unheard of in Los Angeles, where the freeways ran close to capacity during daylight, the drive from Riviera to this part of the Marina would take a minimum of a half-hour.
    The man either had a time machine, a very fast helicopter or hadn’t actually been on the golf course at Riviera when his wife had called. And even if he had been able to get there that