Eric did that when she drove. Eric noticed things.

She said, “Smart people have a right to talk, Isaac. It’s the dummies who get on my nerves.”

Finally, a smile. But it faded quickly. “I’m here to observe and to learn. I appreciate your taking the time.”

“No prob.” She headed down Hollywood Boulevard to Western, then over to Los Feliz, figuring to catch the Golden State Freeway then switch to the 10 East all the way to Boyle Heights. “The first girl is named Bonnie Anne Ramirez. She lives on East 127th. You know the area?”

“Not well. It’s mostly Mexican, there.”

And he was Salvadoran.

Telling her subtly, We’re not all alike?

Petra said, “Bonnie’s sixteen but she’s got a two-year-old baby. The father’s some guy named George who doesn’t sound like a prince. They don’t live together. Bonnie dropped out of school.”

No comment for half a block, then Isaac said, “She was nervous?”

“A defiant nervousness. Which could just mean she doesn’t like the police. She has no record, but in a neighborhood like that you could get away with plenty of stuff without having your name on a file.”

“That’s the truth,” said Isaac. “The FBI estimates that for every crime an apprehended criminal commits, another six go undetected. My preliminary research shows it’s probably higher.”

“Really.”

“Most crime doesn’t even come close to being reported. The higher the crime rate in a given area, the more that’s true.”

“Makes sense,” said Petra. “The system doesn’t come through, people stop believing.”

“Poor people are dispirited in general. Take my neighborhood. In fifteen years, we’ve had our apartment broken into three times, my bike’s been stolen, my father’s been mugged and had his car ripped off, my little brother’s been held up for lunch money, and I can’t tell you how many times my mother’s been threatened by drunks or junkies when she comes home from work. We’ve been spared anything serious, but you hear gunshots at least twice a week and sirens a lot more often than that.”

Petra said nothing.

“It used to be worse,” he went on. “When I was a little kid, before the CRASH units got active. There were blocks you just didn’t walk. Wear the wrong shoes and you were dead. CRASH worked pretty well. Then, after the Ramparts scandal, antigang policing was cut back and the bad stuff started to rise again.”

His mouth set and his hands had balled.

Petra drove for a while. “I can see why you’d study crime.”

“Maybe that was a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“The more I get into it, the more it seems to be a waste of time. Most of my professors are still hung up on what they call ‘root causes.’ To them that means poverty. And race, even though they consider themselves liberal. The truth is, most poor people just want to live their lives, like anyone else. The problem isn’t poor people, it’s bad people who prey on the poor because the poor lack resources.”

Petra mumbled assent. Isaac didn’t seem to have heard. “Maybe I should’ve gone straight to med school. Get out, finish my specialty training, make some money, and move my parents to a decent neighborhood. Or at least get my mom a car so she doesn’t have to fend off the drunks and the junkies.” A beat. “Not that my mother would ever learn to drive.”

“Scared?”

“She’s kind of set in her ways.”

“Mothers can be like that,” said Petra. How would you know? “Okay, here we go. The freeway looks pretty good.”

Bonnie Ramirez lived with her mother, three older brothers, and little Rocky in a tiny, yellow clapboard bungalow that sat behind rusting chain link. Block after block of similar homes comprised the tract. Built for returning GI’s, the houses ranged from decrepit to sparkling.

Effort had been made to keep up the Ramirez home: the two-pace lawn was sunken and brown but trimmed, and impatiens in uneven beds struggled with the early, spring heat. A baby stroller sat on the wooden porch, along with a plaster pedestal spray-painted gold that served no apparent purpose.

Bonnie wasn’t home and her mother was caring for Rocky. The toddler slept in a crib set up in the nine-by-nine living room. The floors were wood and the ceilings were low. The house smelled of good food and Pine Sol and just the merest whiff of dirty diaper.

Anna Ramirez was a short, broad woman with hair dyed red, puffy cheeks, and flabby arms. The cheeks were so bountiful they pushed her eyes up and turned them to slits. It gave her a suspicious look, even though she took pains to be cordial. Her voice and speech inflections were that same Boyle Heights singsong.

She invited them to sit and brought out cans of soda and a bowl of pretzels and told them Bonnie’s dad was a Vietnam vet who’d survived the war only to die in a heavy equipment accident while excavating the foundation for a downtown office building. Removing his photo from the wall, she brandished it like a religious article. Nice-looking guy in full-dress uniform. But bad skin- unfortunate legacy for Bonnie.

Petra said, “Any idea when Bonnie’s returning?”

Anna Ramirez shook her head and frowned. “You just missed her. She comes and goes. She was out last night, slept till ten, left.”

“Out late?”

“Always.”

Rocky stirred in his crib.

Petra said, “I don’t want to wake him.”

“It’s okay,” said Anna. “He sleeps good.” She glanced at the pretzel bowl in Petra’s lap and Petra ate one.

“Can I get you something else to eat, Officer?”

“No, thanks, ma’am. Do you know why we’re here?”

“That shooting in Hollywood. Bonnie told me about it.”

“What’d she say?”

“That it happened out in the parking lot. She heard the shots but didn’t see anything. She said she talked to a lady cop. That was you?”

Petra nodded.

Anna Ramirez looked over at Isaac. Studied him. “You look like my nephew Bobby.”

Isaac smiled weakly.

Petra said, “One of the kids who was shot was a girl we still haven’t been able to identify.”

“No parents asking about her?”

“No one’s come forth, ma’am.”

“That’s sad.”

Little Rocky peeped. Shifted. Bellowed. Anna Ramirez went over and removed him from the crib. Poor kid was flushed and dyspeptic-looking. Swaddled in too many blankets for the heat.

Anna sat back down and lay her grandson across her commodious lap. Rocky burped, frowned, went back to sleep. Circular dumpling of a face, curly black hair. Very cute. Petra noticed that his nails were trimmed and the blankets were spotless.

She said, “He’s beautiful.”

Anna Ramirez sighed. “Very active. So… this girl…”

“I was wondering if Bonnie knew her,” said Petra. Realizing she’d used the singular since entering the house. Should she include Isaac? He was sitting there, upright and stiff, looking like someone waiting for a job interview.

“You didn’t ask Bonnie if she knew her?”

“I did and she said no. I’m just following up.”

Anna Ramirez frowned. “You don’t believe her.”

“It’s not that- ”

“It’s okay. Sometimes I don’t believe her.”

Petra hoped her smile was empathetic.

Anna said, “Her brothers all finished school, two of them are in J.C., but Bonnie never liked school. Down deep, she’s a good girl…” She glanced down at Rocky. “This was kind of a- So now I’m being Mama again, so okay, it’s okay. It’s hard to tell Bonnie anything, but I’m insisting she’s definitely gonna have to get at least her GED. What kind of job can you get without that?”

Petra nodded.

Anna sighed again.

“Anyway, ma’am, when she gets home, if you’d be so kind as to give me a call.”

“Sure,” said Anna. “This girl, you think she could’ve been with Bonnie?”

“I really can’t say, ma’am.”

“What did she look like?”

“Short, a little heavy. She wore pink sneakers.”

“That could be Jacqui,” said Anna Ramirez. “Jacqui Olivares. She’s short and she used to be much fatter till she lost weight. But she’s still not skinny. And she’s got problems.”