Bishop said, "Oh, shit."

A tall African-American reporter who had played professional football tried to press between me and one of the uniforms, but neither of us gave ground. "Mr. Garcia, do you believe a man named Eugene Dersh killed your daughter, and, if so, sir, why?"

Bishop jerked at Krantz's arm, his voice a panicked whisper. "How in hell did these bastards find out?"

Behind us, Frank Garcia said, "What is this? What are they talking about, serial killer? Who's this man, Dersh?"

Councilman Maldenado stepped forward, trying to turn the press away. "Please. His child is about to be buried."

Eugene Dersh had come to the edge of the growing crowd, too far away to hear, but curious like everyone else.

The redhead's camera operator saw Dersh and punched her in the back. He didn't tap her; he punched her. "Sonofabitch! That's Dersh"

She shoved the black reporter out of the way and ran toward Dersh. The black reporter ran after her. Dersh looked as surprised and confused as everyone else.

Frank Garcia tried to see Dersh, but since he was in the chair, people blocked his view. "Who is that?" He twisted around to Maldenado. "Henry, do they know who killed Karen? Did that man kill Karen?"

Up the hill, Dersh was afraid and embarrassed as the two reporters barked questions. The mourners around the grave heard the reporters with Dersh, and began to murmur and stare.

The final reporter was an Asian-American woman who stayed with Frank. "There were others, Mr. Garcia. Haven't the police told you? Five people have been murdered. Karen was the fifth." The reporter glanced from Frank to Maldenado, then back to Frank. "Some maniac has been hunting human beings here in Los Angeles for the past nineteen months." You could see she liked saying it because of how the words would play on the news. She pointed at Dersh. "The police suspect that man. Eugene Dersh."

Frank lurched higher in his chair, craning to see Dersh. "That man killed Karen? That sonofabitch murdered my daughter?"

Maldenado shouldered in and forced the Asian-American reporter away. "This isn't the time. I'll make a statement, but not now. Let this man bury his daughter."

Above us, Eugene Dersh pushed past the two reporters, walking fast back down the hill to his car. They dogged him, peppering him with questions as their cameras recorded it. Dersh would be able to see himself on the news again, though he probably wouldn't be as happy about it this time.

Frank's face was the color of dried blood. He bobbed in his chair, wrestling the wheels to try to chase after Dersh. "Is that him? Is that the sonofabitch?"

Dersh climbed into his car, the reporters still shouting their questions. His voice carried in the still air, high and frightened. "What are you talking about? I didn't kill anyone. I just found her body."

Frank screamed, "I'll kill you!"

He twisted so hard that he pitched forward, falling out of the chair. His family gasped and two of the women made sharp sounds. Pike, Montoya, and several of the family clustered around him, Pike lifting the old man back into the chair as if he weighed nothing.

Dersh drove away, and when he sped through the gate, the two plainclothes cars quietly fell in behind him.

The priest told Frank's brothers to get the family seated as quickly as possible. Everyone was embarrassed and uncomfortable, and Frank's housekeeper cried loudly, but the crowd settled as the pallbearers gathered at the hearse. I tried to find Dolan, but she had joined Mills, Bishop, and Krantz in a frantic conversation at the edge of the crowd. Krantz saw me, and stormed over. "You and your buddy, Pike, get your butts to Parker Center as soon as she's in the ground. We're fuckin'-A gonna figure out what happened here." He walked away fast.

The climbing sun became a hot torch in the sky as the family took their seats, and the pallbearers delivered Karen's body to its grave. Heat soaked into my shoulders and face until I could feel the delicate tickle of sweat running out of my hair. Around me, a few people cried, but most simply stared, lost in a moment that was both sad and unsettling.

The three news cameras stood in a line below us, recording Karen Garcia's burial.

They looked like a firing squad.

News vans lined Los Angeles Street outside Parker Center. Reporters and technicians milled nervously on the sidewalk, clustering around every cop who came out to grab a cigarette like piranha on bad meat. The city didn't allow smoking in its buildings, so addicted officers had to sneak butts in the stairwells and bathrooms, or come outside. These guys didn't know anything more about Dersh or the murders than anyone else, but the reporters didn't believe it. Word had spread big, and someone had to feed the networks' hunger for news.

The three skinny palms outside Parker Center seemed bent and fragile as Joe and I turned into the drive, two cars behind Dolan. Frank's limo was already at the curb, Frank's driver and Abbot Montoya helping him into the chair.

We parked between a silver Porsche Boxster and a taupe Jaguar XK8. Lawyers, here to cut deals. We got out, and for a moment Pike stared up at the squat building. The mid-morning sun bounced hard off the seven strips of blue glass and burned down on us, mirrored in Pike's glasses.

Pike surprised me by saying, "It's been a long time since I was here."

"You don't want to go in, you can wait out here."

The last time Joe Pike was here was the day that Abel Wozniak died.

Pike made his little non-smile. "Won't be as bad as the Mekong."

He pulled off the suit coat, unfastened the shoulder holster, and wound its straps around the.357 Python revolver. He put his jacket in the little storage bay behind the seats, then unbuttoned the vest, and put it with the jacket. He stripped off the tie and the shirt. He was wearing a white guinea tee beneath the shirt, and let it go with that. The guinea tee, the charcoal pants, the black leather shoes, countered by the cut muscles of his shoulders and chest and the brilliant red tattoos, made quite a fashion statement. A female detective coming out to her car stared.

We gave our names to the lobby guard, and Stan Watts came down a few minutes later.

I said, "Frank Garcia go upstairs?"

"Yeah. You're the last." Watts stood to the side of the elevator with his arms crossed, staring at Pike.

Pike stared back behind the dark glasses.

Watts said, "I knew Abel Wozniak."

Pike didn't respond.

"If I don't get another chance to say this, fuck you."

Pike cocked his head. "You want a piece, step up."

I said, "Hey, Watts. You really think Dersh is good for it?"

Watts didn't answer. Guess he was thinking about Joe.

We left the elevator on the fifth floor and followed Watts through the Robbery-Homicide squad room. Most of the detectives were working their phones, and more phones were ringing. They were busy because of the news coverage, but as we entered, a ripple of attention swept through the room. Eyes went to Joe, tracking him across the floor.

Behind us, a voice I didn't recognize spoke just loud enough to be heard.

"Cop killer."

Pike didn't turn.

Watts led us to the conference room, where Frank Garcia was saying, "I want to know why the sonofabitch is still walking around. If this man killed my daughter, how come he's not in jail?"

Councilman Maldenado stood on one side of him, arms crossed, and Abbot Montoya stood on the other, hands in his pockets. Dolan was seated as far from everybody else as she could get, just like in the briefings. Krantz and Bishop were with Frank, Krantz trying to explain. "Dersh is the suspect, Mr. Garcia, but we still have to build a case. The district attorney won't file without enough evidence to get a conviction. We don't want to leave any wiggle room here. We don't want another O.J."