The Somnolent Express.

Before being wakened, his dreams had been pleasant. Something featuring Detective Connor.

Petra.

Had he been in it? He wasn’t sure.

She had. Lithe and graceful, that efficient helmet of black hair.

The crisp features. Ivory skin, blue vein tracings at the periphery…

She wasn’t anywhere close to the contemporary female ideal: blond, busty, bubbly. She was the antithesis of all that, and Isaac respected her doubly for being herself, not giving in to crass social pressures.

A serious person. There seemed to be very little that amused her.

She always dressed in black. Her eyes were dark brown, but in a certain light, they appeared black as well. Searching eyes- working eyes- not vehicles for flirtation.

The overall impression was a young Morticia Addams, and Isaac had heard other detectives refer to her as Morticia. But also as “Barbie.” That he didn’t get.

There was plenty about Hollywood Division, about police work in general, that continued to elude him. His professors thought academia was complex, but now, after time spent with cops, it was all he could do not to burst out in laughter at departmental meetings.

Petra was no Barbie.

Just the opposite. Focused, intense.

He’d lain awake in bed more than once, imagining what her breasts looked like, only to shake himself out of that, appalled at his vulgarity.

Small, firm breasts- stop.

Still… she was a beautiful woman.

Petra stayed at her desk until well after midnight, forgetting about Isaac and his theories and anything else that didn’t relate to the Paradiso shootings.

She talked to some Hollywood gang cops and their cohorts in Ramparts. They’d heard nothing about the killings being turf-related but promised to keep checking. Then she attempted to recontact all eighteen kids she’d interviewed in the parking lot.

Twelve were home. In five cases, scared and/or indignant parents tried to block access. Petra charmed her way past all of them but the teens reiterated complete ignorance.

Among the six she didn’t reach were her two nervous ones, Bonnie Ramirez and Sandra Leon. No answer at either number, no machines.

She got on the computer, figuring to surf her way through some more missing kid sites. Her mail tag was up so she checked that first.

Departmental garbage and an e-mail from Mac Dilbeck.

p: luc and i were out in the field today nothing at our end, what about yours? there’s talk if we don’t make progress of giving it over to HOMSPEC wouldn’t that be fun. maybe we should pick your genius kids brain we could use a good brain to pick around here. m.

She e-mailed back:

nothing plus nothing equals you-know-what. going home. tomorrow i check out a couple of nervous w’s. planning to take the genius along. though if you want him you can have him. p.

But once she logged off and got her purse from her locker, the thought of an empty apartment repelled her. Filling herself a cup of detective-room coffee, she bought some insomnia.

Someone had left half a box of sweet rolls out by the machine. The pastries looked none too fresh- the custard ones were hardening around the edges. But the apple seemed passable so she brought it back to her desk along with the mocha-flavored Liquid Plumber.

Kaplan and Salas had left and no one had replaced them. She sat there alone, going through old messages and nonessential mail, filling out a long-overdue pension form and one for departmental health insurance.

What remained was Isaac’s summary.

June 28.

She separated the Hollywood cases from the others, copied down the vics’ names, got back on the computer, and logged on to the station’s stat file.

Just as Isaac claimed, all four remained open. Of the four primary D’s assigned to the case, she recognized two.

Neil Wahlgren had caught the most recent murder- Curtis Hoffey, the twenty-year-old male hustler. Jewell Blank, the runaway teen bludgeoned in Griffith Park had been assigned to Max Stokes.

Neil had transferred to one of the Valley divisions, wanting to cut down on drivetime. A while back- not too long after Hoffey. And Max Stokes had retired nearly a year ago.

Meaning both cases could have gotten short shrift.

Both Neil and Max were competent, by-the-books guys. Would they have taken the time to work whodunits hard knowing they were leaving soon?

Petra wanted to think so.

The cases were certain to have been transferred but the computer didn’t list the newly assigned detectives.

Onward to the next one. Coral Langdon, the woman who’d died with her dog up in the Hollywood Hills.

That one had been handled by Shirley Lenois. Seeing her name made Petra’s eyes ache.

When Petra had started at Hollywood, Shirley had been the only other female Homicide D. A short, stocky, fifty-two-year-old woman with a corona of yellow-gray hair, Shirley looked more like a substitute teacher than a detective. Married to a motorcycle vet in Traffic Division, she had five kids and treated Petra like the sixth, going out of her way to make things smooth for the Homicide virgin.

Making sure there were tampons in the ladies’ room because no one else would give a damn.

Last December, Shirley had died in a skiing accident up at Big Bear. Stupid tree, stupid goddamn tree.

Petra cried silently for a while, then wiped her eyes and moved on to the fourth Hollywood murder. First of the six, chronologically. The killing that began Isaac’s alleged series.

Marta Doebbler, the woman who’d gone to the theater with her friends. Six years ago, well before Petra’s time. Two detectives she’d never heard of, a DIII named Conrad Ballou and DII named Enrique Martinez.

Cops were leaving the department faster than they were coming in. Maybe another couple of retirees.

Maybe Ballou and Martinez had done their best, anyway.

Sometimes that didn’t matter.

When Petra showed up at ten the following morning, Isaac was at his corner desk, poring over documents, pretending not to notice her arrival.

She felt hungover and queasy, in no mood for babysitting.

By ten-twenty, she’d swallowed two cups of coffee and was ready to pretend to be human. She got up, waved Isaac toward the door, and he followed her, carrying his briefcase over. No more suit, but not the button-down and khakis. Dark blue slacks, navy shirt, a navy tie. Dressing for ride-along. That monotone thing young guys did nowadays. Cute, though on Isaac it looked a bit like a costume.

They exited the building together but didn’t talk. Petra left her Accord in its spot and took the unmarked she’d signed out from the motor pool. No-smoking regulations had been in effect for years, but the car reeked of stale cigars, and when she started the engine, it protested before kicking in.

“Bad equipment,” she told Isaac. “Talk to Councilman Reyes about that.”

“We don’t talk on a regular basis.”

She steered out onto the street. He wasn’t smiling. Had she offended him? Too bad.

“What we’re going to do today,” she said, “is recontact two witnesses. Both are sixteen-year-old girls, both seemed nervous when I interviewed them the first time. One might have a reason to be nervous that has nothing to do with the case. She’s got leukemia.”

Isaac said, “That would do it.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

“I’m asking because you seem a bit quiet.”

“I don’t have anything to say.” A beat. “As opposed to most of the time.”

“Nah,” she said, “you’re not gabby, you’re smart.”

More silence.

She steered the unmarked clunker through smoggy Hollywood streets. Isaac looked out the window.