A team of detectives went to UCLA Medical Center and interviewed the man who owned the house where Barry was dumped. He was a prominent Lebanese cardiologist and not, as Sauer had suggested, an Arab terrorist. His wife was in Denver on business. According to his statement, he took the garbage out the night before, left for work before the truck arrived, and never noticed the extra can. "Did he know the victim?" Terry asked when I filled him in. "No. Never even heard of him." "I'd rule him out as a suspect, but it should at least be a misdemeanor to live in L.A. and not know all your major movie producers." By one o'clock we had wrapped up at the scene, stopped at a Taco Bell for a couple of Gordita Supremes, which I'm convinced kill more cops than bullets, and were back in the car on the way to see Barry Gerber's widow. "Take a look at this," Terry said, handing me the eight-by-ten glossy Otis Hairston had given him. "Melissa Little, the garbage man's wife." "She's white," I said. "And blond. And beautiful. And just look at her résumé. Besides the soap, she's done commercials for Budweiser, Honda, and Tampax. I actually remember her from the Budweiser ad." "You mean you don't watch Tampax commercials?" "Mike, my whole life is a Tampax commercial. I live with Marilyn and three teenage girls on the corner of Estrogen Avenue and Drama Queen Boulevard. Rebecca spent the entire month of April crying because some boy told her that her nose was too big. If the fucking house were burning down, Sarah would have to change her shoes at least five times before she could make a run for it. Emily is only fifteen and she wants to have a huge hunk of shrapnel installed in her belly button and a tattoo of the solar system on her butt. And Al Gore called to say that it has been confirmed by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration that Marilyn's hot flashes are the real cause of global warming." I was laughing hard now, but he didn't let up. "And I swear to God, Mike...I swear to God in heaven, that if I ever come home and find the toilet seat up, I will break down and weep. And then I'll take my gun and start firing into the closets, because you gotta know that one of those crazy hormonal women has to be hiding a man in there." I applauded. "That's good stuff. You should really do one of those open mic nights at a comedy club and try it out." "No. I'm still working on my material. I'm not ready to do stand-up in public. Even with just you and me in the car, I did it sitting down." Excerpted from Blood Thirsty by Marshall Karp All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.