“Balch lives in Rolling Hills Estates,” said Petra. “His office is in Studio City. I've got both addresses.”

“Go.”

She read off the numbers. Schoelkopf clicked off.

Ron said, “I should call in, too. Hector, and my mom. We're not getting out of here for a while.”

She returned the phone. Nifty little Ericsson. “Is this private gear or department?”

“Private.”

“I'll reimburse you.”

He smiled and punched numbers. The Lexus was being winched to a tow truck; techs were setting up tape and post perimeters near the burial site; Sergeant Grafton paced off the area, pointing and instructing.

A Santa Barbara County coroner's station wagon drove up and two men in white got out with a folding stretcher. Estrella Flores's corpse was small. Those bowed legs, the gaping throat wound exposing a corrugated flash of trachea.

Ron couldn't find De la Torre, but he connected with his mother, and Petra walked away to give him privacy, thinking about the call she'd have to make to Javier Flores. Schoelkopf had ordered her to keep the line open. To hell with him. It was Ron's phone; let the department buy her one.

The tow truck backed out, manipulating the Lexus around oaks. Moments later, the coroner's guys carried the body to the wagon and followed. The garden looked trampled, fronds and leaves bent over, broken. Petra smelled a hint of ocean, Pacific currents managing to make it this far inland. Lilies swayed. The yellow tape danced.

Ron came back and gave her the phone.

“Well,” she said, “it started out as a nice day.”

“Still is.” He moved closer to her and his fingers touched hers for a second. Taking hold of her index finger, he squeezed gently and let go. He was staring straight ahead. Drummer's hands tapped a beat on the side of his thighs, but his eyes seemed serene.

He loves this, she thought. He'll do homicide as long as they let him.

The phone beeped. “Connor.”

Schoelkopf said, “Talked to Attorney Schick. He and Ramsey are on their way up there.”

“What about Balch?”

“Ramsey said he was supposed to be in his office. We called there, got no answer.”

“Same thing happened to me the time I interviewed him,” said Petra. “He was in but didn't pick up the phone.”

“Whatever. I've got officers headed there right now, and Rolling Hills has agreed to pay a house call.”

“Why's Ramsey coming here?” she asked.

“It's his house, Barbie. He's very upset.”

57

Motor slept lousy, and now the headache was a killer. No blanket, no pillow, just his leather jacket on the warped floor of an abandoned apartment on Edgemont.

Plywood over the windows and some sign about earthquakes on the door told him it was his place for the night. He used his Buck knife to pry the board up from the back door, rolled his scoot inside, and pushed it around from room to room. They were all the same: tiny; no furniture, light fixtures, or plumbing; graffiti all over the walls; linoleum pebbled with mouse shit, cockroach carcasses, oil stains, empty bottles. The room he finally chose was in the back. The whole building smelled of mold and wet dog, insect casts, burnt matches, and the worst thing: a chemical-like stink that made his eyes water.

But it was dark and he was wiped out from riding all day, walking around Hollywood- the place seemed mostly the same- then over to Griffith Park to scope out the rug rat's territory. But the park ended up being too big to get a handle on- why the hell would a little fuck need such a goddamn big place?

He bought three hot dogs with kraut, washed it down with a chocolate malt, and cruised over to the Cave, parking his scoot with all the others in front, hoping no one would look close. Inside, he hoped for brotherhood, had to spend his last dough on beer when no one offered to buy him one. Eating three pickled eggs and stuffing some Slim Jims in his pocket before the bartender evil-eyed him.

No one gave a shit about the picture of the rat. Everyone was watching fuck films on big-screen TV. When some chick did something especially nasty up on the screen, a low growl of support rose up from the bar.

Forty, fifty crank-glazed eyes fixed on cum shots, no interest in making twenty-five big ones, except for one dude who didn't really seem that interested, either, but said he might know something. Motor arranged to meet with him at eight tomorrow- maybe he'd bother; maybe he wouldn't.

So might as well bunk down. Not exactly the Holiday Inn, but nothing he hadn't seen before. Even though the chemicals gave him a headache, the aloneness turned him on, like the time he was celling with a greaser in Perdido, a DUI rap, three days of inhaling the motherfucker's stale farts, ready to strangle him, and then the fourth day they took the guy away because it turned out he had federal warrants.

Aloneness was like someone massaging your body, only there was no one there, just the feeling.

Now it was Friday morning, ten o'clock, his eyes were swollen, and all he wanted to do was cut off this fucking head so he could replace it with one that didn't feel like it was about to explode.

Pissing on the floor of an adjoining room, he spit out morning taste, rubbed his eyes till they focused, and wheeled his scoot outside into the sun. Strong m-f sun- that didn't help either. He was hungry, had no money; time to go to work.

It took him two hours to find a Mexican chick walking all alone on a side street, no little gangbangers to protect her honor. He drove past her, stopped, got off, walked toward her, and she was scared right away. But he passed her by and she relaxed and that's when he turned around and grabbed her purse and shoved her to the ground.

Telling her, “Don't fucking move.”

She didn't understand the words, but she got the tone of voice. He kicked her in the ribs just to make sure, walked as fast as his bulk would allow to his scoot, and drove a mile away.

Twenty-three bucks in the purse, along with a tin cross and pictures of little Mex kids in some kind of costumes. He took the money, threw the rest of it down a storm drain, drove back to the Boulevard, found the same stand where he'd bought the hot dogs, and got two more, along with a fried egg on a muffin with hot sauce on the side, extra-large coffee that he drained and refilled, an apple turnover, and one of those little containers of milk like he used to get in school and jail. Now he was ready for a day's labor.

He walked the picture up and down the Boulevard again, got nothing but dirty looks, was hungry again by three, forced himself to continue for another couple of hours, till he finally couldn't stand it anymore. Figuring he'd earned a real meal, he went over to Go-Ji's and used up most of the Mex chick's money on a corned beef sandwich, fries, onion rings, double banana split, more coffee. Telling the nigger waitress to keep filling his cup till she just left him a pitcher.

Someone had left parta the paper in his booth, but it was nothin' but words. The TV over the counter was going- news, sports, weather, dead stuff. Then he saw the rat's picture again; stopped eating bananas smothered with whipped cream and paid attention. His heart was zooming away- the coffee- and he was totally awake and ready to do something, anything.

Asshole on TV saying something about the beach-“… reported to have been spotted near Ocean Front Walk in Venice.”

So fuck the dude at the Cave.

Time to putt west- after dark. If the rat saw him, it wouldn't be good.