I said, "I will, sir."

"I won't forget this."

"I know. I'm sorry about Karen."

Frank Garcia nodded, but I don't think he was seeing me. His eyes filled, and I think he was seeing Karen.

Krantz left before me. Pike wanted to stay with Frank, and told me that he would call later.

Montoya walked me back through the big house. "Mr. Cole, I know this isn't the kind of job that you normally take. I personally want to thank you for doing this."

"It's a favor for a friend, Mr. Montoya. Thank Joe."

"I will, but I wanted to thank you, too. Frank and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Brothers. Do you know White Fence?"

"Yes, sir. I know that Mr. Garcia was a member when he was young." The White Fence gang.

"As was I. We ran on Whittier Boulevard and Camulos Street. We fought the Hazard gang and the Garrity Lomas gang on Oregon Street, and we paid respect to the veteranos. It's a long way from the barrio to UCLA Law."

"I imagine it is, Mr. Montoya."

"I'm telling you these things because I want you to know the depth of my loyalty to Frank, and my love for him, and Karen. If the police aren't co-operative, call me and I will take care of it."

"Yes, sir. I'll call."

"You are helping my brother, Mr. Cole. If you need us, we will be there."

"Sure."

He put out his hand. We shook.

Latins.

I let myself out into the heat, and went down the drive to the street, ash from the fires still sifting down from the sky. Krantz and Stan Watts were standing by a clunky LAPD detective ride, smoking.

Krantz said, "Where's your asshole friend?"

I kept walking. I wasn't happy about going back to the lake, and I wasn't happy about spending the rest of the day with a dead girl.

"Stop it, Krantz. It'll go someplace you won't like."

Krantz flipped his cigarette into the street and followed me. "See where it gets you. You'll go to Men's County and I'll own your license."

I got into my car. Krantz stood on the street in front of me, ash collecting on his shoulders like dandruff.

"That old man might have the juice to jam you down my throat, but if you interfere with my investigation, I'll snap your license."

"That old man just lost his daughter, you turd. Try being human."

Krantz stared at me for about five centuries, then went back to Stan Watts.

I drove away.

I imagined that I could still hear Frank Garcia crying, even as I climbed the mountain to the lake.

Robbery-Homicide worked at the Karen Garcia crime scene for the next six hours. Everyone appeared professional and competent, as I knew they would. Even Krantz. A young criminalist named Chen, consulting with the detectives, photographed the area around her body in minute detail. I knew enough about homicide investigations to know that they would map the area for physical evidence, then map her life for suspects to fit that evidence. Every investigation is the same that way because most homicide victims are murdered by people they know.

I tried making conversation with the detectives, but no one answered me. I swatted at the bottle flies, all too aware of where they had been. I didn't want to be there, didn't like it, and would rather have been wrestling Lucy Chenier's couch. When the shadows down in the crook of the mountains made it hard to see, Krantz finally released the body.

The medical examiner's people zipped Karen Garcia into a blue plastic body bag, strapped the bag onto a stretcher, then worked their way up the slope. When the body was gone, Krantz called out to me. "That's all you're here for. Beat it."

He turned away without another word. An asshole to the end.

I watched them load the body into the coroner's van, then drove down to the little strip mall at the bottom of Lake Hollywood, where I phoned Lucy.

She said, "I moved the couch without you." First thing out of her mouth.

"The woman we were looking for was found murdered. Her father wanted me to be there while the crime scene people did their jobs. That's where I've been. She was thirty-two years old, and going to school so that she could work with children. Somebody shot her in the head while she was jogging at Lake Hollywood." Lucy didn't say anything, and neither did I until I realized I had dumped it out on her. Then I said, "Sorry."

"Would you like to be with us tonight?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that very much. Would you guys come for dinner?"

"Tell me what to bring."

"I'll stop. Shopping is good for the soul."

At the Lucky Market, I bought shrimp, celery, green onions, and bell peppers. I also bought one bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, two limes, and a case of Falstaff beer. I drank a can of the Falstaff while I was waiting in line, and got disapproving looks from the other shoppers. I pretended not to notice. They probably hadn't spent the day with a young woman with a hole in her head.

The cashier said, "Are we having a nice day, sir?"

"Couldn't be better." I tried not to blow beer in her face.

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the carport of the little A-frame house I have perched on the side of a mountain just off Woodrow Wilson Drive in Laurel Canyon. A fine layer of ash had blown into the carport, showing a single set of cat prints going from the side of the house to the cat hatch built into my door. People in Minnesota see things like this with snow.

The cat was waiting by his water bowl. It was empty. I put the groceries on the counter, filled the cat's bowl, then sat on the floor and listened to him drink. He's large and black, the black shot through with gray that grows from the lacework of scars on his head and shoulders. When he first came to me, he would watch me when he drank, but now he ignored me, and when I touched him, he purred. We had become a family.

When the groceries were away, I made a drink, drank most of it, then went up to my loft and took a shower. I showered twice, letting the hot run until the water was cold, but the smell of the crime scene stayed with me, and even the rush of water wasn't as loud as the buzz of the bottle flies. I pulled on a pair of loose cotton pants and went downstairs, barefoot and shirtless.

Lucy was in the kitchen, looking over the vegetables I had left in the sink.

I said, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself." She eyed my empty glass without expression. "What are we drinking?"

"Sapphire and tonic."

"Pour. What are we making?"

"I was hoping you'd teach me how to make shrimp etouffee."

She smiled then, softly and to herself. "That would be nice."

"Where's Ben?"

"Outside on the deck. We rented a tape for him to watch while you and I cook."

"Back in five."

"You take your time."

Her smile pushed the bottle flies farther away.

Ben was on the deck that juts from the back of my house, hanging over the rail to look for the blacktail deer that browse in the wild grass between the olive trees below me. Here in the middle of fourteen million people we've got deer and coyote and quail and red-tailed hawks. Once, I even saw a bobcat on my deck.

I went out, leaned over the rail beside him, and looked down the slope. I saw only shadows.

"Mom said the woman you were trying to find was murdered."

"That's right."

"I'm sorry."

His face was concerned and sorrowful. Nine years old.

"Me, too, buddy." Then I smiled at him, because nine-year-olds shouldn't have such sorrow. "Hey, when are you heading off to tennis camp?" Lucy and Ben were serious tennis players.

Ben leaned farther over the rail. "Couple of days."

"You don't look happy about it."

"They make you ride horses. It's gonna smell like poop."

Life is tough when the world smells like poop.

Inside, I got him set up with the VCR, then went back into the kitchen with Lucy. "He says tennis camp is going to smell like poop."