The second case was the stabbing death of a saxophonist named Wilfred Reedy, outside a Washington Boulevard jazz club, four and a half years ago, documented in the obituary column of a musician union’s magazine. The obit lauded Reedy’s gentle nature and improvisational skills and noted that, in lieu of flowers, contributions to the widow could be made care of the union.

Reedy, sixty-six, had been a friend of John Coltrane and played with many of the greats- Miles Davis, Red Norvo, Tal Farlow, Milt Jackson. I logged into the L.A. Times archives and found a back-page squib on the crime and a single follow-up paragraph one week later. No leads or arrests. Anyone with information to call Southwest Division.

Homicide number three was the three-year-old stabbing of a twenty-five-year-old ballet dancer named Angelique Bernet in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Bernet had been part of a touring New York company performing in Boston, and she’d left her hotel around 2 A.M. Friday evening and never returned. Two days later, her body was found behind an apartment on Mt. Auburn Avenue, not far from the Harvard campus. Cross-references to the Boston Herald and the Globe pulled up brief accounts of the crime but no arrests. Something else the Globe reported caught my eye: Bernet had recently been promoted to stand-in for the prima ballerina and had, in fact, performed her first solo the night of her disappearance.

The final hit took place thirteen months later- another Hollywood murder. During an all-night recording session, a punk-rock vocalist named China Maranga had unleashed a drunken tirade at her backup band over what she viewed as lackluster playing, stomped out of the studio, and vanished. Two months later, her skeletal remains were discovered by hikers, not far from the Hollywood sign, barely concealed by brush. ID had been made using dental records. A broken neck and the absence of bullet holes or stab wounds suggested cause of death as strangulation, but that was about all the coroner could come up with.

China Maranga’s teeth had been easy to identify- as a youngster, she’d undergone extensive orthodontic work. Her birth name was Jennifer Stilton, and she’d grown up in a big house in Palos Verdes, the daughter of a grocery-chain executive and an interior decorator. She’d earned good grades in prep school, where a sweet soprano earned her a starring role in the glee club. Admitted to Stanford, she majored in English Lit, got hooked on alternative music and whiskey and cocaine, amassed a collection of tattoos and piercings, and assembled a band of like-minded sophomores who joined her in dropping out. For the next several years, she and China Whiteboy toured the country, playing small clubs and garnering cult status but failing to get a record contract. During that period, China morphed her sweet soprano to a ragged, atonal scream. A tour in Germany and Holland garnered larger audiences and brought about a deal with an alternative label back in L.A. Sales of China Whiteboy’s two albums were surprisingly brisk, the band began attracting attention from people-with-clout, rumors of a deal with a major label were rife.

China’s murder ended all that.

China could barely play guitar, but she wielded one as a prop- a battered old Vox teardrop that she treated rough. I knew that because two members of the band- a pair of slouching, inarticulate wraiths named Squirt and Brancusi- were serious about their gear, and when they needed repairs, they came to Robin. When China snapped the Vox’s neck during one of her more ebullient stage tantrums, the boys passed along Robin’s number.

I remembered the day China dropped by. A particularly unpleasant July afternoon, strangled by West Coast pollution and East Coast humidity. Robin was working in back, and I was in my office when the doorbell rang. Eight times in a row. I padded to the front and opened the door on a pallid, curvaceous woman with spiked hair as black and shiny as La Brea tar. She hefted a guitar in a soft canvas gig bag and looked at me as if I was the intruder. Parked below the terrace was a big, dusty Buick the color of ballpark mustard.

She said, “Who the hell are you and am I as lost as I feel?”

“Where do you want to be?”

“In Paradise feasting on boy virgins- is this the guitar lady’s place or not?”

She tapped her foot. Rolled her shoulders. Her left eye ticced. Her features were unremarkable but might’ve been pleasant if she’d relaxed. Some of the pallor came from ashy pancake makeup, laid on thick, and set off by kohl-darkened lids. The rest implied unhealthy habits.

Black ink tats- snaky, abstract images- covered what I could see of her left arm. A blue-and-black iron cross marked the right side of her face, where the jawline met the earlobe. Both ears sagged under an assortment of rings and plugs. All that and the eyebrow pierces and the nose studs said Notice Me. Her blue, pinpoint Oxford button-down shirt implied a forage in Daddy’s Ivy League closet. The shirt was tucked into a plaid miniskirt- the kind parochial school girls are compelled to wear. Topped off by white knee socks stuffed into high, laced combat boots, the outfit said, Don’t even try to figure it out.

“The guitar lady’s out back,” I said.

“Where out back? I’m not prancing around without knowing. This place freaks me out.”

“Why?”

“There could be coyotes or some other shit.”

“Coyotes come out at night.”

“So do I- c’mon, man, my eyes hurt, show me.”

I walked her down the terrace steps, around to the side of the house, and through the garden. She had very little stamina and was breathing hard by the time we reached the pond. As we approached the water, she overtook me and raced ahead, swinging the gig bag. Stopped and stared at the koi.

“Big fish,” she said. “All you can eat sushi orgy?”

“Be an expensive meal,” I said.

A grin turned her crooked mouth straight. “Hey, Mr. Yuppie, no need to reach for the Xanax, I’m not gonna steal your little babies. I’m a voodgetarian.” She eyed the landscaping, licked her lips. “All this yummy yuppie greenery- so where is she?”

I pointed to the studio.

She said, “Okay, dollar-boy, you did your good deed for the day, go back to the stock pages,” and turned her back on me.

Hours later, when Robin came into the house, alone, I said, “Charming clientele you’ve got.”

“Oh, her,” she said. “That’s China Maranga. She shrieks in a band.”

“Which one?”

“China Whiteboy.”

“Squirt and Brancusi,” I said, remembering two skinny guys with cheap electrics.

“They’re the ones ratted me out to her. We’re going to have a little chat.”

She stretched and went into the bedroom to change. I poured myself a Chivas and brought her a glass of wine.

“Thanks, I can use that.”

We sat on the bed and drank. I said, “Does the young lady shriek well?”

“She’s got great range. From nails on chalkboard to nails on chalkboard even harder. She doesn’t play, just swings her guitar around, like she wants to hurt someone. Last night, she assaulted a mike stand, and the neck broke off. I kept telling her it wasn’t worth fixing, but she began crying.”

“Literally?”

“Real tears- stomping her feet like a spoiled little kid. I should’ve sent her to talk to you.”

“Outside my expertise.”

She put down her glass and ran her fingers through my hair. “I’m charging her my max fee to bolt on one of those Fender necks I got at the bulk sale and taking my time about it. Next week, she’ll have something even uglier to ruin, and she’d better pay cash. Now enough of this chitchat and let’s get down to business.”

“What business is that?”

“Something well within the range of your expertise.”

When China came by to pick up the guitar a week later, I was in the studio having coffee with Robin.