Easing into their second hour, Flynn let Pike write two traffic citations.

After the second citation, which was to an elderly woman who was angry and resentful at having been tagged for running a red light, Flynn painted Pike with a large smile.

“Well, how do you like the job so far?”

“A little slow.”

“You did fine with that lady. Didn’t punch her out or anything.”

“Maybe next time.”

Flynn laughed, then told the dispatchers to begin pitching them calls. Over the next two hours, Pike took a stolen car report from a sobbing teenage girl (the car belonged to her brother, who was going to kill her for getting his car stolen), interviewed a pet shop owner who had made a public drunkenness complaint (a drunk had entered her store, let the dogs and cats out of their cages, then left), took a shoplifting report from the manager of a convenience store (the shoplifter was long gone), took a report from a man who had returned home from work to find his house burglarized (the burglar was long gone), took a stolen bicycle report (no suspects), took a stolen motorcycle report (also no suspects), and checked out a report from a woman who believed her elderly neighbor was dead in an upstairs apartment (the elderly neighbor had gone to her daughter’s cabin at Big Bear Lake).

At every criminal call they answered, the suspect or perpetrator was long gone or never present, though Pike dutifully and under Flynn’s direction logged the complainant’s statement, filled out the necessary form, and performed all communications.

They were proceeding east on Beverly Boulevard when the dispatcher said, “Two-adam-forty-four, domestic disturbance at 2721 Harell, woman reported crying for help. You up for that?”

Pike wanted it, but said nothing. It was up to Flynn. Flynn glanced over and seemed to read the need. He picked up the mike.

“Two-adam-forty-four inbound.”

“Roger, stand by.”

Domestic calls were the worst. Pike had heard it again and again at the academy, and Flynn had already mentioned it in the few hours they had been together. When you rolled on a domestic call, you were rolling into the jagged eye of an emotional hurricane. In those moments, the police were often seen as saviors or avengers, and were always the last resort.

Flynn said, “Evening watch is prime time for domestics. We’ll probably get three or four tonight, and more on a Friday. By Friday, they’ve been working up to it all week.”

Pike didn’t say anything. He knew about domestic violence first-hand. His father had never waited until Friday. Any night would do.

Flynn said, “When we get there, I’ll do the talking. You watch how I handle them, and learn. But keep your eyes open. You never know what’s what when you answer one of these things. You might be watching the man, and the woman will shoot you in the back. The woman might be some scared-looking dishrag, but once we get her old man cooled out, she might turn into a monster. I saw that once. We got the cuffs on this guy, and that’s when his old lady felt safe. She chopped off his foot with a meat cleaver.”

Pike said, “Okay.”

Pike wasn’t worried. He figured clearing a domestic disturbance call couldn’t be much different than clearing houses in a combat zone-you watched everything, you kept your back to a wall, and you assumed everyone wanted to kill you. Then you would be fine.

They rolled to a small apartment building south of Temple near the center of Rampart. Motionless palms towered overhead, catching the shimmer of dying light to make the building more colorful than it was. The dispatcher had filled them in: Call was placed by one Mrs. Esther Villalobos, complaining that male and female neighbors had been arguing all afternoon and had escalated into what Mrs. Villalobos described as loud crashing, whereupon the female neighbor, identified by Mrs. Villalobos as a young Caucasian female named Candace Stanik, shouted “Stop it!” several times, then screamed for help. Mrs. Villalobos had stated that an unemployed Caucasian male she knew only as Dave sometimes lived at the residence. The dispatcher reported no history of officers being dispatched to this address.

Pike and Flynn would learn more later, but these were their only available facts when they arrived at the scene.

They double-parked their patrol car, then stepped into the street. Pike scanned his surroundings automatically as he exited the car-vehicles, the deepening shadows between the buildings, the surrounding roofs-a gulp of space and color he sensed as much as saw. Clear. Good.

Flynn said, “You ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go see what’s what.”

Pike followed Flynn toward Candace Stanik’s apartment.

Mrs. Villalobos lived in the rear unit on the ground floor. Candace Stanik lived in the ground unit next door. Pike and Flynn would only contact Mrs. Villalobos in the event they could not gain access to Stanik’s unit or if no one was home.

Flynn stopped outside Stanik’s door, motioning Pike to remain silent. The windows were lit. Pike heard no voices, but hacking sobs were distinct. Flynn looked at Pike and raised his eyebrows, the look asking if Pike heard it. Pike nodded. He thought Flynn looked green in the strange evening light.

Flynn pointed to the side of the door and whispered.

“Stand here out of the way. When I go in, you come in right behind me, but take your cue from me. Maybe the guy’s already gone. Maybe they’ve made up and are in there all lovey-dovey. Understand?”

Pike nodded.

“Don’t draw your gun unless you see me draw mine. We don’t want to escalate the situation. We want to cool it. Understand?”

Pike nodded again.

Flynn rapped at the door three times and announced them.

“Police officer.”

He rapped again.

“Please open the door.”

The crying stopped and Pike heard movement. Then a young woman spoke from the other side of the door.

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything.”

Flynn rapped again.

“Open the door, miss. We can’t leave until we see you.”

Flynn raised his hand to knock as the door opened, and Candace Stanik peered through a thin crack. Even with the narrow view, Pike saw that her nose was broken and her right eye was purple with the mottled skin tight over a swelling lump. The eye would be closed in another few minutes. Pike had had plenty of eyes like that. Mostly as a kid. Mostly from his father.

Flynn placed his hand on the door.

“Step away, hon. Let me open the door and take a look.”

“He’s gone. He went to his girlfriend.”

Flynn’s voice was gentle but firm. Pike admired the way Flynn could direct so much emotion by his voice.

“Miss Stanik? That your name, Candace Stanik?”

Her voice was soft, but thin and strained. Pike wasn’t listening to her; he listened past her, searching for other occupants. A crisp medicinal smell of ether came from her apartment, telling him that someone had been freebasing.

“Yes. He went-”

“Let us in now, hon. We can’t leave until we come in, so just let us in.”

Flynn pushed gently on the door until she backed away. Pike shadowed inside, then quickly stepped to the side so they weren’t bunched together. Together, they would make a single large target; apart, two targets more difficult to kill. Pike kept his back to the wall.

Stepping into the apartment was like entering a furnace. Pike began sweating. They were in a cramped living room. As Flynn approached the girl, Pike noted an entry closet to the left and, across the living room, a tiny kitchen and dining area. A short hall branched off the dining area. The apartment appeared neat and squared away except the coffee table was turned on its side and the floor was spattered with blood. Candace Stanik was pregnant. Pike guessed seven or eight months, though he knew little about women or pregnancy. Her T-shirt was streaked with blood over the mound of her belly, and more blood spattered her legs and bare feet. Pike noted a thin kitchen towel bundled with ice that she had probably been using on her eye. Her lips were split in two places and her nose was broken, and she held her belly as if she was cramping.