We drove by some used-car lots on the outskirts of Bolsa Chica, all these windshields reflecting white light like mirrors, then some strawberry fields covered with strips of plastic. When I'd passed them with Mom, she'd always say, “Strawberry fields, just like the song.” I thought about her, then made myself stop. After the fields came nothing but road and mountains.

A little while later we passed the place where Mom's parents drove off the road. I stared at it, watched it disappear through the back window. Then I fell asleep.

Stu drew Petra aside. “Cart Ramsey. If it's true.''

“She seemed sure.”

He glanced at Susan Rose, loading her tripod back in her car. “She looks like a stoner, but she does have a certain conviction.”

“My first thought seeing all that overkill was someone the vic knew.”

Stu frowned. “I'm calling Schoelkopf right now, get some guidelines. Any idea where Ramsey lives?”

“Nope. Thought you might.”

“Me? Why- oh.” His smile was thin. “No, never did his show. Have you ever seen it?”

“Never. He plays a P.I., right?”

“More like a one-man vigilante squad. Fixing stuff the cops can't.”

“Charming.”

“Bad even for TV. It started out on network, got dropped, went indie, managed to pull some syndication. I think Ramsey owns the show.” He shook his head. “Thank God I never got called for it. Can't you just see the fun some F. Lee Bombast would have with that?” His lips twisted, and he looked ready to spit as he turned his back on Petra.

“What's especially bad about the show?” she said.

He faced her. “Wooden dialogue, weak story lines, no character development, Ramsey can't act. Need more? It fills space in a late-Sunday time slot, so the station probably picks it up at budget price.”

“Meaning Ramsey's only a minor gazillionaire.”

Stu thumbed a suspender and looked over at the body, now covered. “Ramsey's ex means media carrion. While I call Schoelkopf, would you please go over to Ms. Rose and ask her to keep her mouth zipped till the bosses have weighed in?”

Before she could reply, he started for their car. A uniform began waving frantically from the far end of the parking lot and they both hurried over.

“Found this right over there.” The cop pointed to some brush near the entry gate. “Didn't touch it.”

A black ostrich purse.

A tall young tech named Alan Lau gloved up and went through it. Compact, lipstick- also MAC; that made Petra's stomach flutter. Loose change, a black ostrich wallet. Inside the wallet were credit cards, some made out to Lisa Ramsey, others to Lisa Boehlinger. California driver's license with a picture of a gorgeous blonde. Lisa Lee Ramsey. The birthdate made her twenty-seven years old. Five-five, 115; matched the corpse. Address on Doheny Drive- an apartment, Beverly Hills. No paper money.

“Emptied and tossed,” said Petra. “A robbery, or wanting to make it look like one.”

Stu didn't comment, just headed for the car again as Lau began bagging the contents. Petra returned to the body. Susan Rose was near the feet, capping her camera lens.

“Finished,” she said. “Want me to shoot something else?”

“Maybe the hills up there,” said Petra. “We're waiting for the K-9's; depends on what they find.”

Susan shrugged. “I get paid either way.” She reached under her grubby sweatshirt, drew out a necklace, and began playing with it.

Guitar picks on a steel chain. Bingo for Detective Connor's intuition!

“Play music?” said Petra.

Susan looked puzzled. “Oh, this. No. My boyfriend's in a band.”

“What kind of music?”

“Alternative. You into it?”

Petra kept her smile within bounds and shook her head. “Tone-deaf.”

Susan nodded. “I can carry a tune, but that's about it.”

“Listen,” said Petra. “Thanks again for the ID. You were right.”

“'Course I was. But no big deal- you would've found out soon enough.” The photographer turned to leave.

“One other thing, Susan. Who she is complicates things. So we'd appreciate it if you don't talk to anyone about this until we work out a plan for handling the press.”

Susan fingered the necklace. “Sure, but someone like this, everyone'll know before you can say senseless murder.”

“Exactly. We've got a narrow window of opportunity. Detective Bishop's calling the brass right now, trying to get a plan. We're also going to need to inform Cart Ramsey. Any idea where he lives?”

“Calabasas,” said Susan.

Petra stared at her.

The photographer shrugged. “It was on that tabloid show. Like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Sitting in the Jacuzzi, drinking champagne, a little putting green. Her in some beauty pageant bathing suit competition or something, then, after he beat her up, with a black eye, split lip. You know, before and after.”

“A beauty queen,” said Petra.

“Miss Something. They showed her playing the saxophone. Look where her talent got her- hey, here're the dogs.”

Two K-9 officers, one with a German shepherd, the other with a chocolate Labrador, took instructions from Stu and started up the slope above the parking lot.

Captain Schoelkopf was in a meeting at Parker Center, but Stu managed to get patched through. When Schoelkopf found out who the victim was, he let out a stream of profanity, ending with a warning not to “F-up” (Stu's cleansed translation). Doheny Drive was a jurisdictional mess, cutting through L.A., Beverly Hills, West Hollywood. A lucky break: Lisa's apartment was LAPD territory and uniforms were dispatched. A maid was working there and she was detained. With no knowledge of other relatives, Stu and Petra's immediate assignment was to notify the ex-husband.

Now they watched as the dogs circled and sniffed and made their way upward methodically, toward a wooded area, thick with cedar and sycamore and pine, fronted by outcroppings of boulders. A stone ridge, midway up the slope, some of the rocks graffitied, most worn smooth and shiny. The Labrador was ahead, but both dogs were moving fast, closing in on a particular formation.

Something up there? thought Petra. No big deal; this was Griffith Park- there had to be tons of human scent all over the place. Pulling tire marks from the parking lot was useless for the same reason. The asphalt was one giant mural of black rubber.

Soon they'd be heading out to Calabasas. Sheriff territory. That edged the whole thing up another notch on the complication scale.

Cart Ramsey. What a name- had to be a fake. His real one was probably something like Ernie Glutz, which would play havoc with the Mr. Rockjaw image.

She rarely watched TV, but she was vaguely aware Ramsey had knocked around on the tube for years. Never achieved major stardom, but the guy did seem to work pretty steadily.

A bland type, she'd always thought. Was he capable of this kind of brutality? Were all men, given the proper circumstances?

Her dad had once told her it was a lie that only people murdered. Chimpanzees and other primates did, sometimes just to dominate, sometimes for no apparent reason. So was bloody homicide aberrant behavior or just basic primate impulse taken to an extreme?

Pointless, time-filling conjecture. Head-game horseshit, her brother Bruce used to call it. Though not the oldest of the Connor boys, he was the biggest, the strongest, the most aggressive. Now an electronics engineer for NASA in Florida, he thought anything that couldn't be measured with a machine was voodoo.

When she'd finally confessed her new police status to the family, Dick, Eric, and Glenn had been stunned, muttering congratulations and telling her to be careful. Bruce had said, “Cool. Go out and kill some bad guys for me.”